Random notes from today's train ride to Norwich

On the train to Norwich. At Stratford, I wandered around, pressing my Oyster card against any Oyster presser thing, but getting no reaction, and at last wandered up to platform 10a where the train to Norwich was about to depart, but I didn’t have a ticket, nor were there any ticket machines. A lady train worker poked her head out of the last door of the train, but the second she saw me, she disappeared and when I got to the door a few seconds later, there was no trace of her. If she’d been a cat, I’d have whistled and thrown some fresh fish at her (assuming I had some in my purse).

Anyway, I gave up on that train and went back down, where a male train worker made the mistake of giving me a second glance, so I asked him where can I buy a ticket to Norwich? He said, platform 8. I went up some stairs to platform 8, where I saw my Norwich train pull away from afar, and I wandered the entire length of the platform, until I found the sole ticket machine at the very far end.

I tried to entered Norwich as my destination, but only got as far as “N” since the touch screen wouldn’t accept “O”. I kept hitting the “O”, until I gave up and then found the down arrow, which was especially smudgy, so I could tell a lot of people like me only started using it after getting really angry with the “O”.

So I scrolled through all the N options until I got to the most expensive one, Norwich — over £50 for a standard off-peak fare. I about decided to just give up on Norwich, since I wouldn’t get there until 2:30 PM — the next train was in an hour. But then, I decided, I’ve been yammering on about Norwich for ages now, so I best just go see it and then get home in time for Eurovision.

The scenery is worth — well, not £50, especially as I’m sitting backwards, but it’s very pretty. Undulating green meadows and all that. In the last town, there were nothing but brown brick houses, all identical, except for one, the top of which was painted pink. About ten houses down, another brown house had pink curtains. So, maybe it was like a mutation and the pink curtain house only got one copy of it.

No more undulating — the landscape here is flat. Whenever I used to be somewhere flat, I got depressed, because it reminded me of Illinois, but now it reminds me of the Netherlands, which makes me feel well-traveled.

Those yokels should either be quiet or at least speak in turn, so I can understand what they’re saying. Now they’re just making weird, football fan type noises and laughing.

Haha. We’re in Diss now.

The man sitting a couple rows down — I can see him through the seats when I lean to the right — looks like an actor from that Endeavour show, the one who plays Endeavour’s boss. He’s paging through a newspaper. I’ve leaned over a couple times and assumed a thoughtful expression, but he’s as interested as that lady train driver.

Now he’s picking his ear and looking at his finger, so I’m not going to lean over anymore.

I am a Lady

When I got on the elevator, there was a little girl with her parents. The little girl stared at me, then whispered, "Mommy, there's a lady."  The mother didn't respond.  I kept staring at the doors.  The little girl, thinking her mother especially stupid, whispered again, "Mommy.  There's a lady in the elevator with us."   Silence.  "Mommy! There's a ...." 

"Yes, dear. That's a lady." 

Floor 3.  Floor 2.

"Thank you for calling me a lady!"  Her parents laughed, but the little girl looked as shocked as if I were a pangolin telling David Attenborough, "You're dang right I'm a mammal!"

On the way to the airport this morning

"If I don't look at your face, and just listen to your voice, you sound Chinese," the cab driver said, glancing at me in the rear view mirror.

"My sister-in-law is Taiwanese."

"Maybe you picked it up from her, then."

"Huh."

"Just from your voice, I picture a very different face."

"Oh dear.  What kind of face?"

"A nice face. "  He paused, perhaps reflecting upon this better face.  Then, "I would never have guessed American.  Maybe you have a cold?"

"No."

Now it was his turn to "huh."

"But, I think I have allergies."

"Yes, this is a bad time for allergies."  He waved at all the concrete around us.  And that settled that.

I hadn't thought up till now that I had allergies, but then, I never thought I sounded Chinese, either.

Arivaderci, Sicily!

Waiting for the ferry back to Naples. This has been such a great trip, except for the sick kitten. I threw some cat food down at the cats in the Roman ruins here in Catania, but I feel so bad about the kitten. Yoko and I went back to the restaurant last night to see how she was, but the guy who'd helped us wasn't there, and I think the guy who was there thought I was a bit crazy, as I kept meowing, hoping he'd understand. He finally came with us outside, and we thought it was to go find the kitten, but then it seemed he just wanted us out of the restaurant. He kept saying, "Restaurante!" And then I'd meow and pretend I was sick and point over to the alley. And then he'd yell, "Restaurante!"  And I'd meow again.

But apart from that, everyone here in Sicily has been wonderful and the bus driver even gave me a free ride today (not like in Agrigento, which was something else entirely).

And, I highly recommend the Liberty Hotel in Catania!

At a cafe overlooking the sea in Sorrento

Hmmm.  Where's the waiter?  I wonder if he thought I just wanted to sit here and enjoy the breeze?

Went up to the little glass-walled room/hut (hut does not give the right impression) where the waiters were congregating.  The lead waiter snapped to attention, "What can I do for you?"  And then he offered me a seat on the forbidden balcony -- the first waiter had said only hotel guests could sit there.  But, I know my place and went back to it.  I asked for a glass of wine, and as one of his sub-waiters went off to fetch it,  I specified, "Red."  He nodded and smiled, as in 'of course'.

He set it down: "Chianti."  And boy, it's delicious!   I usually don't like chianti, but maybe it's because I only ever drank it in places like the Cheesecake Factory and it had lots of fruit and stuff in it.

Oh yeah, so earlier today I sat down at an outdoor cafe (nowhere near the same category as this place) on the crowded little street near our hotel and ordered a latte macchiato (very careful to add the last word, after my glass of warm milk at the Hilton) -- when I added on the macchiato, I looked around to see if any Americans were around to witness my worldliness.   There are Americans all over here, but I rather like it, as they've regained their exotic status for me.

Except the one lady a few tables down, who is going on about how she's been on antibiotics since she was 25.

"Why?"  her friend asked in a rapturous sort of whisper.

"Acne."

"Acne?"

I didn't hear the rest of it.

Anyway, while waiting for my latte macchiato glass to cool off a bit, I decided the table and chair set-up was too uncomfortable, so yanked my chair a bit.  The table thumped down a couple inches and coffee spilled.  Everyone around me looked over.  I smiled and shrugged.   A few minutes later, I decided it'd be nicer to sit with my legs not crammed to one side, so I moved my chair again, and this time my whole glass tipped over and all the coffee spilled out onto the tablecloth (which I checked -- it was real cloth).  This time I bowed and said, "Thank you."  Again, everyone stared, but with no expression, like they were sheep that just happened to be looking over to see if I were some rambler they could advise the cows to trample.

Line up the refugees

I asked Stefano and Alessandro to marry me, as they passed me by in the fast (EU passport) queue.  A frizzy-haired, pink sweat-suited woman a few people behind me said, "It doesn't help."  She said it in a worldly way, which contrasted with her orange and white hair and American Midwest accent.

I said, "No, I really just want to get married."

"Whatever turns you on."  And she smirked, looking at the shoulders of the businessman in front of her, as if they were going to get her joke.

I thought, they're both good-looking guys (one especially so), well-dressed, so why did she react like I'd just admitted to some perversion?

After pondering this, I said, "You know, I actually know them.  I wasn't asking strangers to marry me."

She raised her hands and eyebrows,  and looked for more support from the shoulders.

I thought it rather much, to intrude on my private joke (ok, spoken with my own American voice) with friends and then, when I respond, act like, "I'm a complete stranger.  It's creepy you're talking to me, but if I don't look you in the eyes, maybe you'll go away."

Of course, the most I could go away was an inch or two.

Earlier, the thin woman in front of me -- expensive handbag and jumper -- had been in the queue way behind me, but marched past and I asked, "All passports?"

Without a glance, she said, "Non-EU," and kept striding like she was on parade.  Only she wasn't waving.  It was more a military parade.

I said, "That's the same thing," and fell in line.  The people in the EU passport queue looked miffed as we raced past.  I shrugged and said, "Non-EU....  Non-EU...."

An airport worker met us going the opposite way.  The other woman seemed to scare him, so he latched onto me.  "What are you doing?"

"Non-EU."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, it's on the right."

"You've been here before.  OK then."

I said, "I just feel guilty we may have passed by other, non-EU people."

"Don't worry -- your queue doesn't move at all.  Only one person working it."

He didn't catch the distinction that I only felt guilty about passing non-EU schmucks who didn't know they were in the wrong queue.

Once we piled up against the stationary Japanese ladies waiting about thirty people down from the passport desk, the handbag lady said, "Do you want to go in…."

I thought she was going to ask, did I want to resume my rightful place in front of her, but she changed it to, "Did you fill out one of these?" and waved her immigration form.

"I do this regularly."

She smiled ruefully -- not like the frizzy-haired, sweat-suited American.  Clothes do reflect one's soul.  Destroyed or not.

Oh, and every time the queue shifted an inch forward, the Canadian-Chinese* guy behind me tried to take a full step, so whenever I moved my elbows, I encountered some body part.  This didn't seem to stick in his head, though, as he kept doing it.  When he called someone to complain about the wait, I detected the presence of his head directly above mine, and so started flinging my hair back like a shampoo model.  Then I stretched my arms back.

It wasn't quite a naval action, but still, I gained and held my ground.

*I found this out when I started chatting with him later -- I figured if we were going to have so much bodily contact, we might as well know about each other.

Next stop, depression

So, I got on the subway at Dundas. I think I expected some sort of naval adventure when I rode the escalator down, but there was none.  And after getting out my Master and Commander book, I remembered Heneage Dundas is a captain — Jack's good friend — and that's why I had this expectation.

On the train itself (which was roomy and had seats going every which way, which I like, as it adds variety), the woman announcing the stops sounded depressed.   There were suicide prevention signs everywhere — Feeling suicidal? Press the blue button on the platform for a completely confidential talk! — so it went with the theme. 

"Next station is St Clair. St. Claire Station." 

Pause.  

"Arriving at St. Claire Station. Station St. Claire."  She stressed "arriving" in an angry 'I told you so' way, like she'd warned us that St. Claire was next, we didn't listen, and now look where we are. 

Then at Davisville, it was like she had nothing left to give and just couldn't work herself up for anything anymore.  Though she did seem to perk up a bit for Eglinston.

Anyway, I've just finished a veggie wrap at Le Bistro near the Schmidts*.   I'm lurking till the end of the time window they gave me for arrival.  I don't know whether we're eating immediately, so I thought a veggie wrap (no fries) would be ok — I didn't want to just order a glass of wine, as I remembered I don't seem like a foreigner here and so might seem like just a drunk.

*Turned out not to be near the Schmidts, as once again, I walked the wrong way.

On the GO again into Toronto. Dangerous and illegal.

The bullet-proof vested train ticket guy, who wore a black cap just like a policeman, said to the young Chinese (ethnically, at least) couple in the seats ahead of me, "Because you didn't touch out after you got off the bus, the card still thinks you're on the bus. The bus is completely different than the train. Technically, you haven't actually paid for being on this train. The fine is £100. You need to touch out after getting off the bus, because the system still thinks you're on the bus.  Do you understand?"

The young man nodded and looked chastened. (At least, his shoulders did, which is the only part of him I can really see, except his hair.)   

The ticket guy spoke slowly.  "The bus is different from this train.  Do you understand?   I'm going to let you off this time, but I need you to go to the ticket counter and get it straightened out, and remember for next time.   Understand?" 

Another bullet-proof vested guy swaggered up and watched them, as if he'd been signalled for back-up. The first ticket guy spoke with the calm authority of someone who's packing heat. 

After they left -- without checking my ticket, but then, I had it lying out on the seat next to me, feeling quite sanctimonious about my following the rules -- a nice-looking lady (no leggings — all taupe) sitting opposite the Chinese couple said, "Isn't it confusing, the way it is now?"  And she told a little story about how she'd also encountered, unhappily, the fact that the bus was a different system than the train. 

"We didn't realise you had to touch out," said the young Chinese man.  He's Canadian or American.  Definitely not Chinese.  

Then the young woman sitting next to the taupe woman chimed in, "My grandma just died."

We all sat wondering, how's this going to connect? 

She continued, "But, if she'd been alive, she wouldn't have known how to touch out and she'd probably owe so much money now."

The Chinese couple went back to being monolinguistic foreigners.  The taupe woman studied her a bit, in a polite, friendly way, then asked, "Are you a student?" 

"No, I'm …"

But that petered out.  Now everyone is back to being strangers. The only person talking is some woman behind me who is carrying on the most boring business call: "I will find out from her and find out what she has discovered about the system. As far as I was concerned, they were using, was it In Touch or Able?  We bought the license for that system, up to the time of conversion. They don't take it away. You just don't get support." 

Yawn.

Now, we're in beautiful Mimico. I wonder how to pronounce that?  Found out Younge Street doesn't rhyme with … well, the way I pronounced it, what could it rhyme with?  Donkey, but pronouncing the k as g. Thankfully Karen persisted in trying to understand what the heck I was saying, until she made it out and corrected me.  It does make the fact that the Schmidts live on Old Yonge street mildly amusing, as far as location names can provide amusement.

"You're looking for a good, strong person, right? Another Janet is what we need there. Do you not think Janet could do the training? Or do you have reservations about that?"

Man, business people are so boring.  "The geography doesn't help, either. She's down to supporting two clinics. Ajax is very keen on going into the competitive…. That will save them HR costs."

OK, the fact she's involved with clinics makes it somewhat interesting, as there could be tropical or sexual diseases involved, but the fact she's on the HR side of things just stomps out that little tendril of hope.

Finally, she's hung up.

"I was looking for Janet. Is she there?"  Oh geez. 

Exhibition is where we're at now. We're in the land of big, cement buildings under construction. At this stage, they could all grow up to be....

"How are you? You've had an eventful week, haven't you?  Ok. Excuse the background sound. The intercom … I wasn't aware this happened already with Evelyn. I don't know if I'm disappointed, as it's already done. But I hear you've already found interesting circumstances…."

Anyway, the buildings could all turn into parking lots. They're like at that stage of a foetus where we could still become fish, or monkeys, or whatever.  Well, the likelihood is not.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, we're now approaching Toronto Union Station." They're very good about announcing the platforms and how to get where you want to go here. It's my fault I'm not very good at listening. The bus lady did tell us to use platform 3 for Toronto, and I retained and clung to that bit of info.

"We'd like to remind passengers that crossing the tracks is both dangerous and illegal." He said that in the most cheerful manner, like the fact that it was not only dangerous, but illegal, too, was the greatest of luck.

Arrival in Frome (rhymes with broom)

When I arrived at Frome, I imagined Anthony Powell himself must’ve at some point or another been to this light, airy, Victorian-era train station, and so I was predisposed to find something intriguing about it.  At first, it was the verbosity of their signage.  In London, I’ve gotten used to authority’s childlike pictorial notices, like of the man being struck by a lightning bolt emanating from a utility box, three words above him: “Danger of Death”.    In Frome, none of the public notices had pictures and the words were almost always at least three syllables: “This unauthorized advert has been obliterated by the council.”  “£60 penalty will be charged for infringement of regulations.”   “Ground uneven as a result of graves collapsing.”  “Christ Church Frome PCC accepts no responsibility for injuries incurred if you decide to enter this graveyard.”   I concluded that the Froomies (as I later learned they were called, the term ‘Frumors’ being reserved for rumors about Froomies) were an educated lot without great expectation that any foreigners would be visiting.   


“Run away, you pikey!”  The first spoken phrase I heard in Frome somewhat changed my mind, but then, the speaker was an adolescent boy scrambling about a network of bridges with his mates.  The bridges crossed over a little wetland with reeds and ducks, and if not for the boys, I could have sat down and had a contemplative moment.  The younger boy thus addressed didn’t seem too put-out by the insult; whether he ran away or not, I couldn’t tell, as they were all running about erratically like the dogs in my local park.  Incidentally, the bridge seemed to be the only place where there was pictorial signage.


After crossing the bridge, I followed a path through beautiful greenery; I would have called it wilderness, but some bungalow style houses popped up just as I figured I’d left humanity behind.  Then the forest took over again; a little meadow lay to the left, ensconced by ancient-looking trees.   Maybe they were no older than the trees in my neighborhood, but they certainly looked more mysterious.   I could imagine a knight or a deer rambling out from behind them, whereas my local park is mostly populated by old men who shake canes at me, telling me I shouldn’t be wandering around at this time of night, and the aforementioned dogs.


After about a mile through the quasi-wilderness, the path widened into a narrow road.  Some old stone houses, very fitting and proper, appeared on the right.  On the left, in a little clearing, there was 80s ballad type music playing and a few depressed looking people sitting about; they looked like they’d run out of conversation, but had at least an hour to go before they could politely leave.  The sign at the entrance said, “Meet Ellie Watkins, Frome Teenager of the Year!  50p entrance fee."    A dread-locked man rode by on his bicycle, a cute baby strapped into the child seat behind him, and complimented me in a manner reminiscent of the slogans on the bridge.  He even told the baby about my qualities, as if instructing it in something important, but the baby merely looked confused and unappreciative.


I walked on with a gurgling brook on my left, shaded by trees, and on my right, beautiful stone buildings which looked about as old as the trees.   They had such names as “Dyers Cottage” and  “Weavers House” and so right away, I could confirm Wikipedia’s assertion that Frome had a textile history.  


The pleasant little road and brook came out at an intersection; right away church bells started dinging, as if in welcome, and they didn’t stop dinging until I began to wonder whether they operated on military time.  Narrow streets lined with handsome stone buildings led every which way.  I followed the sign pointing to the tourist information shop.   It kept pointing until it pointed me into an art gallery.  I wandered in, thinking the Fromies an artistic lot, if this were indeed their tourist information shop, where the only info you got was in the form of paintings and mineral rock formations with healing properties.  I asked the teenage girl tending the shop for some information, noting that she didn’t look as depressed as teenagers tending shops normally do, and she laughed and said, no, the tourist information office was through those doors, down the narrow hallway past the cafe, and I couldn’t miss it.  

I felt a cold premonition of horror when I heard the phrase, “You can’t miss it,” as that seems for me only to lead to trouble, but in this case, it led to two kindly old ladies manning the desk, pamphlets of every size everywhere.   They were kindly until they’d called about 12 hotels for me, none of which had rooms, and then learned that I had no car...well, the one doing the actual calling remained kindly, but the other, a tall, skinny lady, kept repeating, “Does she know you have no car?” 

“Yes.” 

“We must stop her calling and tell her you have no car.”  As soon as the kindly lady hung up on yet another full B&B, the skinny lady said to her, “She has no car!” 


“I knew that.”   She said it casually, without looking up from her B&B list, and I sensed a sort of battle for supremacy between them, and rejoiced that my lady seemed to have won.


At last, I started to think that the closest accommodation could be my apartment back in London.  The kindly lady stared at me for some moments, as if trying to decide something about my soul, then said, “We’re not supposed to do this, because they’re not on our list, which means they haven't been inspected...but you could try the Blue Boar Pub.  They’re close by.  Would you like me to call them?” 

The skinny lady, overhearing this, shook her head: "We're not allowed!"

This only seemed to increase my lady's resolve. "Let me look up their number."

Some people should never be allowed to travel

Some people should never be allowed to travel. Instead of becoming more interesting, they become more annoying -- they're still just as stupid as before, but now because they've traveled, they're all puffed up with themselves. Last night I met a woman whose every sentence had some allusion to somewhere else.

"Oh, well, if you think the bread is dry here is at Kincaid's, you should try eating bugs like I did when I was in Africa. I believe bugs are the national dish of Zimbabwe."

The other girl with us mentioned that she'd just seen Memories of a Geisha. "Really? I would be interested in seeing that, as I am in the Asian Studies program at UCLA. I've been to Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand."

I didn't yet realize she needed no encouragement to talk about herself, so I asked, "Are you working on your PhD?"

"No, but my dad has one." She said this as if a PhD were some hereditary honor that would be passed down to her, so there was no point in her wasting time earning one. Judging from her age, I couldn't help but think she'd be inheriting shortly.

She started going on about the race riots in Australia, and how the tv showed a bunch of blonde, frat-looking kids pouncing on middle-easterners. "I've been to Australia, of course, several times. What makes this so funny is that Australians like to portray themselves as so laid back and welcoming."

I was so annoyed at this point, I would have disagreed with anything she said. "That's hardly true. They're the ones who turned back a boat of Afghan refugees and sent them to live on some desolate island. And they were with us in Iraq."

"Well, so was Poland," she said, as if that fact negated my point about Australia. And then she added in an undertone: "I've been there, too. Spent a summer teaching in Warsaw." Like she wanted to resist saying it, but couldn't, so she settled on speaking in sotto voice.

When she learned I was Canadian, she said, "Oh, really? I met a group of Canadians in Indonesia. My cousin lives in the east."

I didn't care where her cousin lived, but my friend asked, "East? Do you mean the east coast of Canada?"

The well-traveled troll flipped her hair back and waved her hand, as if hoping that would suffice. "Yes, you know, over there."

I think my friend was still confused as to whether her cousin was Canadian or Indonesian.

"Do you mean Prince Edward Island?" I asked.

"Oh, no, none of my relatives live on an island." She sounded insulted at the very idea.

"Novia Scotia? New Brunswick?" I continued on, determined now to pinpoint this cousin, and making each suggestion with the same relish I'd have had pushing pins into a voodoo doll.

"No." She tried to laugh, but it wasn't quite the silky, conceited laugh of before (I got to know her laugh well, because she always laughed alone). "I can't recall the name of the place."

Joe said, "Kellas' relatives live in Vancouver."

"Oh, I know Vancouver." She chuckled as if she and Vancouver had once been lovers, and she was recalling one of its romantic foibles. She shook off the memory and said, "My family is made up of world-class track and field athletes."

"Are they shot-putters?" After all, she was built like an East-German shot-putter.

"No. They are decathletes. We have several top decathletes in my family."

I said, "I didn't know Vancouver was known for its decathletes."

"Oh yes," she said, surprised at my ignorance. "Vancouver and Washington are famous for their love of track and field."

We ended up at a dance club. On the way there, she went on about how she didn't need a man, and how she pitied women who felt they needed to be in a relationship. "I'd rather be happy and single than miserable in a relationship." The very pretty girl who made up our foursome listened to her politely and said, "That's a good saying." She couldn't withstand the encouragement and blathered on, "A man should only enhance your life."

"Like eyeshadow?" I asked. I had noted that the weary traveler was wearing bright blue eyeshadow. The pretty girl laughed. If the woman had been a cat, her fur would have poofed immediately (as it was, her bleached, permed hair was so poofed out that from the back, her head did look a bit like an angry cat). Her acolyte had betrayed her with that laugh. Thankfully, Joe broke in with a comment on the traffic, and the battle was over.

At the club, she was noticeably older and less amused than anyone else there. She plopped down on a barstool with a vodka and remained there the whole night, whispering snarky things about me to the pretty girl, who sat beside her. I danced the whole time, and her derision as she eyed me was obvious, but pretty soon, thankfully, people blocked my view of her.

Coming home, she complained about the drinks being so expensive, but Joe said, "You don't really go to those places for the drinks," and then she started going on about her high tolerance for drugs and alcohol, as if hoping we'd find it surprising and somewhat shocking -- after all, she was a well-traveled high school teacher who when she wasn't boasting about her travels boasted about her wine collection. But I was not shocked. Joe said, "I've never done any drugs, except for weed." "Oh, that's hardly a drug." When no one else volunteered any drug experiences, or comments, she said, "Not to say that I've done any real drugs, either....." She laughed nervously. The stress of fooling herself must be getting to her, I thought. I got the impression that she spent her whole time trying to make herself believe she was someone she wasn't. Because if she could just fool herself, she could fool anyone.

Anyway, this woman reminded me very much of my ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, the New Zealander who asked me if living in London were scary, after spending my life on a farm. (My ex must have told her I was from the midwest, which to her meant farm living...funny, that coming from a sheep-loving New Zealander.) But I'll go on about that some other time.

Munich restaurant review

I had the most delicious meal last night for only 8 euros (including a glass of wine). If you want to try it, it's a little "cafe bistro" next to the Theresienstraße u-bahn station. Unfortunately, I can't remember the name, other than that the words "cafe bistro" were in it, and it was next to a smoky, sad little beer room; I can't call it a pub, as it was fluorescent-lit, like a hospital waiting room, and there were only sad looking men in it…they looked like they were awaiting bad news of a loved one, too.

But, it was the only place in that neighborhood serving food at 8:30 PM. The ceiling seemed to resemble the roof of a cave, or perhaps just a generic hallucination. There was an Omar Khayam type scene painted on one wall, and slot machines lined up on the other. Except for the serving lady (who was very nice), there were only a few Persian men in it…two middle-aged guys were arguing, then suddenly, they stood up and hugged each other. I thought they were making out until I realized it was some emotional detente…maybe they finally agreed to let their son and daughter marry. Then they sat back down and one pounded his fist on his chest..they stared at each other and hugged again. I was already committed to leaving at that point, though, so I couldn't stay and watch.

Junk on my trunk

Porto Pollenca...

We parked on a main street by the port. The next morning, our car was covered in dirt and twigs and such, though there had been only a light rain. G wondered why only our car was filthy. He cleaned it up a bit, and we went for a hot chocolate. When we got back, it was even filthier. G seemed a bit bothered that he couldn’t figure it out. Anyway, we got in the car, and as I was strapping on my seatbelt, thunk! A load of dirt landed on our roof and dripped down the windshield. I looked up, and saw a little old lady with huge glasses that magnified her eyes sweeping her balcony just above us. She had potted plants all over it, and I assume her balcony also collected the junk from the balconies above her, and so it all ended up on our car. She was only a few feet away, but seemed quite oblivious as she continued to sweep junk down on us with violent strokes.

My trip to Santa Barbara

This morning I headed out for Santa Barbara, but around Santa Monica, I decided the traffic looked better going the other way, so I turned around and wound up in Oceanside. I stopped in at the tourist bureau and the old ladies manning the desk finally ran out of visitors from Missouri, so they were forced to ask me where I'm from. I was about to say the South Bay, but I could see by their frowns they expected as much, so I said, "Uhhh...Los Angeles." (It's clear why I do improv, isn't it?)

I almost got the idea, as I was trying to come up with some place like Burkina Faso, that they were rooting for me...the more I hesitated, the more hopeful they looked. When I finally ended up from Los Angeles, they shrugged and looked motherly, as if I got points for at least trying.

I asked, "Is there a beach in Oceanside?" (Thus implying that although I was from Los Angeles, at least I was from some place inland, like Korea Town.) They looked excited and got out a big map and pointed at the beach, which was about two blocks away. "It looks very big," I said. "I might actually be able to find it."

"Oh, don't worry," one old lady said, "We'll point you in the right direction."

The other lady, who apparently wasn't listening that closely, chimed in, "No, to get to the beach, she has to go left out of the parking lot, then right. On Mission. Then she comes out at the pier."

"Oh yes! The pier! If you like big, you'll love our pier. Oceanside has the longest wooden pier in all of California." (When the old ladies said 'longest wooden pier', it didn't have the connotation it has now. Or maybe it did. Who knows what lurks in the minds of beehived old ladies.)

"And at the end of the pier...." One old lady traced her pearly pink fingernail along the pier on the map, so as to build up tension. But she stopped half-way, as if she forgot the tension and was back to thinking about directions.

I asked, "What's at the end?"

"A Rubio's!"

So much for a pot of gold. I ended up skipping the pier. Then I decided to skip Oceanside. Now I'm back home.

THE END

Farm kids (in Forres, Morayshire, UK)

I couldn't tell at first whether it was an old lady or a little girl; she was running down the country road with her legs all akimbo, chasing a boy on a bicycle. As we drove closer, I saw that it was a little girl with blonde hair. She was wearing men's slippers and carrying a rifle. She looked at us wildly and then stared back at the boy pumping away on the bicycle ahead of us.

My cousin said, "That's not allowed. Kids here aren't even allowed to have plastic guns."

It was kind of odd. I've never seen a rifle that close before.

How not to deal with grief

It was Saturday morning. I was supposed to go to my second grief support group meeting, but it was so depressing the first time I went, I decided to go for a drive instead. I'd never been to San Diego, so that's where I headed. Just as I reached Irvine, though, it started raining. My Miata's plastic rear window was messed up, and the rain started coming in the car; I thought, well, I've never been to Irvine, either, and got off at the next exit.

I ended up at a huge mall. I went into a craft store and bought some poofballs and twisty pipe cleaners for my four year old nephew. When I came back out, the sun was shining.

(I should perhaps mention here that I have ADD, so I get lost a lot. I've gotten lost so many times that it no longer bothers me, unless I wind up in a neighborhood with a lot of pawn shops and gun stores.)

Since it was nice out, I decided to explore Irvine. I took one random turn and then another, hoping to happen upon the city's interesting part. But it seemed that each new street was more boring than the last. I finally wound up on a road full of business parks. There was no one else around. That is, except for the cop behind me. He turned his lights on and I pulled over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Yes, it's my expired sticker, isn't it. But, I have the paperwork here." I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out a wad of papers. I started going through them, looking for the one saying I had paid my registration and just needed my car to pass smog.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"I have no idea." I laughed. "I was hoping maybe you could help me."

"You are in Irvine."

"Well, I knew that."

"Do you know where Irvine is?"

"I have a vague idea." I was still rifling through my papers.

"Do you know what state you're in?"

"Yes." It suddenly hit me that he wasn't being too friendly.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

"You still haven't told me what state you're in."

"California."

"That is correct."

I found the paper and handed it to him. "Could you tell me the way back to the 405?"

"Not so fast. When I pulled you over, it wasn't just because of your expired sticker."

"It wasn't?"

"I saw you coming out of the shopping mall. You kept making turns and you wound up here. Can you explain that?"

"I got lost. I always get lost."

"What did you buy in the mall?"

I opened the bag so that he could see the poofballs and pipe cleaners.

"You came to Irvine to buy that?"

"Well, no. I didn't really come here for any reason."

"You realize, don't you, that your behavior is not normal."

"It is for me."

He looked at my license. "It says you live in Marina Del Rey."

"I just moved there a few months ago."

"Yet, now you are in Irvine. What I want to know is, why would someone who lives in Marina Del Rey come to Irvine...for no reason?"

I shrugged.

"Listen, I want you to recite the alphabet without singing. Do you understand?"

I recited the alphabet.

"Do you realize how fast you recited that? That was not normal. Are you on any medication?"

"I'm on Ritalin."

"OK, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

He gestured at two short, Asian cops standing a few yards away. "They're in training. Ignore them." It seemed as if nothing better would suit them, as they were both staring at the ground.

He then had me do a series of drunk driving tests. I was wearing heels, which bothered him. He asked me to take them off, but I refused. He insisted, and I kicked them off. After I successfully passed his ballet tests, he shone a flashlight up my nose.

"Did you know you have a deviated septum?"

"No. Because I don't."

"Yes, you do. I'm trained to spot them. Did you know a deviated septum is a sign of cocaine use?"

For those of you who don't know me, the idea of me doing cocaine is ridiculous. I was so angry, my heart was pounding.

"Look," he said. "I specialize in detecting drug addicts, and I'm afraid you fit all the criteria: you don't know where you are...."

"I was joking!"

"You are on Ritalin...."

"I have ADD. I've been on it for years."

"Well, in my experience, people who take Ritalin take it when they can't get cocaine. And, you live in Marina Del Rey. Yet, now you are in Irvine. For no good reason."

"I was just going for a drive. I like driving."

"No one 'just drives' to Irvine."

"Well, I know that now."

"Finally, you have a deviated septum."

"Look, my mom died a month and a half ago and I'm still a bit stressed out. I thought if I went for a drive, it would make me feel better." I despised myself for mentioning it, but I was really starting to worry I'd wind up in the slammer.

The cop studied me for a moment. Then, he said, "I'm sorry, but I know people who have lost a parent. And do you know that not one of them just out of the blue decided to drive to Irvine."

He grabbed my wrist. "I'm going to take your pulse now, if you don't mind." He looked at his watch, then announced, "Your pulse is really, really fast. Dangerously fast."

"That's because I'm really, really annoyed."

"Look, I don't think it's safe for you to drive with that pulse rate. That pulse rate indicates a bad reaction to drugs. It's no use trying to fool me -- I'm trained to recognize people like you. It'd be better if you just told me when you last took the cocaine."

"I have never done cocaine!"

"I see. Well, I'd like to know how you got that deviated septum, then. I am going to have to ask to search your car. Officer Wong and Officer Chen will take down your information."

While he rummaged through my car, I told the trainees my job and contact information. They seemed so uncomfortable with the situation, it made me feel a bit better. (My Chicago friend, Beth, yelled at me later for letting him search my car: 'Don't you know he could have planted something on you?')

After returning empty-handed, he asked, "Has whatever you've taken worn off enough for you to drive safely? I don't want to be responsible for you getting in an accident and killing an innocent person."

Once more, I said I hadn't taken drugs and that my septum was not deviated.

"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth." Then he let me go.

Later, I asked my friend who is a hospital intern to look at my septum. She said it's not deviated.

Gypsy woman vs. businesswoman

I caught a Circle Line tube around 10:30 AM. It was fairly crowded with mostly tourists, but the guy sitting next to me and the woman next to him were in business suits. At one stop, the doors opened and a fat gypsy lady got on. She clasped her hands together and said in a sing song voice, “Hello! I’m...”

“I’m sorry, but no," said the businesswoman in an even louder voice. "Not in this car, not today. Get out.”

“Good show, good show!” said my neighbor, shaking out his newspaper as if to shake the gypsy off.

The stunned looking gypsy backed away while the businesswoman continued her tirade: “Go to some other carriage. I want to enjoy a nice, quiet tube ride.”

The gypsy was now standing on the platform looking in. "F--- you," she said.

“Thank you, but I have a lovely husband at home to do that for me. That's why I have two lovely children. So f--- off yourself."

Then the tube doors closed and we were on our way. It all happened so quickly. The man went back to reading his newspaper, and hardly anyone registered a reaction. It may as well have never happened. I felt that the man wanted to express some deeper thanks to his neighbor, but by the time we hit the next stop, the newspaper seemed to have engrossed him fully, and then he got off. Another stop, and pretty much only the woman and me remained of the original passenger load. Then she got off, and it was just me.

Return to Harry's Bar (Paris)

I worked my way through some middle-aged, slick-haired folk and asked the blond barman, “Is there a spot for one person?”

He indicated a table in the far corner, blocked by people sitting on either side.

“Scuse me.” I spoke inaudibly, hoping they would sense my presence. At last I swallowed and just shoved through. As I was squeezing past, the barman arrived to ask the man on the right if he could give me room, and to take my order.

“We don’t serve wine." He didn't like my order.

“What do you have?”

The only things that sounded appealing were champagne and cognac. I chose cognac. Two fellows sat in front of me, and a couple to the right. They all stared at me, as if requiring some explanation for my presence.

“I was here once eight years ago,” I said.

The man who wouldn’t move, a thick-lipped, heavy-lidded man whose every part seemed a bit too big for the whole, replied, “The place hasn’t changed, and neither have you.”

Suppressing an inward yawn, I got out my book and started reading. The same guy said, “You look like Jody Foster.”

“Thank you.”

"We mean it.” His small friend nodded. His friend was almost the opposite of him in looks – dark-haired and sharp-featured. “You look like her in her good days. Good for you. Not for her.”

I smiled wanly. They chatted in French some more. Then the sharp-featured guy asked, “What brings you here?”

“Well, I had romanticized this place in my teens.” I was going to say because of Hemingway (whom I stopped liking right after my teens*), but before I could continue, the flaccid man shouted:

“I knew it!” He looked at his friend in victory.

“He thinks he’s very good at understanding people right away," said his friend.

“I am amazing at it. For example, today I correctly analyzed a man’s entire character, based on his screen saver.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“It’s the thing that your computer puts on when you haven’t touched it for awhile.”

“I know that. I mean, what was the screen saver?”

“A picture of a kid-kart. Like Speed Racer.” He looked extremely self-satisfied, and somewhat nostalgic for that afternoon. I neglected to ask him what his characterization had been. After he finished reminiscing about the kid-cart man, he came back to me:

“You have come back to Paris and searched out this bar, which you visited eight years ago, for romance. I knew it – why else would you be sitting here reading what is no doubt a woman’s novel....”

Now it was my turn to interrupt. “I would hardly call this a woman’s novel.” (I was reading A Dance to the Music of Time.)

“It is not all about love?”

“The author won a Nobel Prize.” (I’m not sure on that, but in any case, he should have.)

“Did he win a Booker Prize?” That seemed to matter to them more. I shook my head.

“He wrote in the '50s.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“It follows some young men from public school onwards.”

The little man whispered, “It is British English?” He spoke in a half-conspiratorial tone, as if he wanted to hide this literary side of himself from his more blustery friend. I nodded. I read some more. They spoke French again. (I should mention that their English was perfect. I almost doubted that they were French, and were just Americans pulling my leg, but somehow, their characters could be nothing but French. No amount of language lessons can do away with one’s personality.)

The big man asked, “What do you think of Paris?”

"It's wonderful."

“What do you think of French people?”

"Very nice."

“No one has been mean? I thought all Americans hated French people. They make it sound like we are all killing each other.”

I had no idea what he meant by the latter, but his friend quickly corrected him, “It is the newspapers that say that, not the people. You’ve been reading the New York Post too much.”

“Bah, the New York Post! I will never read that newspaper again!”

I almost got the idea that the paper had mounted a smear campaign against him, so violent was his reaction. Then, he asked me what I did.

“I'm a computer programmer. Were you going to guess that?”

“Oh, I didn’t get that far. I was not even close to even thinking about what you did. My friend, here, is in computers. He is a salesman. He knows all about that stuff.”

His friend demurred.

“You have to understand something to sell it," the big man argued.

“Well, maybe.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You understand it all perfectly.”

I asked him what area he was in. He said java applications for mobile phones. What company? A small one, you wouldn’t know it.

The big guy said, “A little company by the name of International Business Machines.”

The small guy shook his head, as if he were a humble rich man who didn’t want attention drawn to his wealth, so as not to make others uncomfortable. I decided to go back to my book at this point for good. Soon afterwards, they got up and said that if I came back the next night, maybe I’d see them. They also continued to bemoan my choice in drink, saying I should have had some apple-based spirit instead.

*See comments.

Remember the medlar

Another tidbit from my 2003 diary:

On the flight home, I sat next to a couple of drunken businessmen. I tried to ignore them, but eventually my neighbor lost interest in the flight attendant and leaned over into my space.

"Are you in school?"

I shook my head.

"But you're reading Adam Smith."

"Yes, but I'm not in school."

"Why are you reading it, then?"

"It's a great book."

“Oh, but he oversimplified a lot of things. I mean, that whole organic viewpoint of economics. He was just copying Darwin.” His professorial air only slightly reeked of alcohol.

"But Adam Smith published this around 1776." He didn’t seem to understand the implication, so I continued: “Darwin lived in the 1800s.”

“Oh...you had me there.” It didn't look like he cared much, though. He ordered another drink. Then, referring to the ink on my hand, he asked, "Did you go out last night?" He smiled at what he must've guessed was our common bond. “I stayed out until 4 AM myself."

"No, that's the word, medlar. I wrote it on my hand to remember it, because supposedly, the oil from the medlar nut is so tasty, goats in Morocco climb trees to eat them." It did look more like a smudge than a word, I suppose. (Note: I don't know where I got this word from. I just did a text search on 'Wealth of Nations,' and it didn't turn up.)

Silence. Then I noticed his complexion. On a healthier day, I'm sure he would have taken the medlar on (for it definitely has an organic point of view).

Now I felt like being inquisitive. "Did you make it to work today?"

"Nah, I woke up at 1 PM." He gave a sour laugh. "I slept through my own talk."

"Will that hurt you at work?"

He shrugged with the remnants of bravado left over from last night -- 1/2 hangover, 1/2 resignation.

I read my book in peace the rest of the way home.

I have a travel story, too

I was in Berlin walking through the Tiergarten park, when I saw what I thought was a fat, nude sun-bather. I had a new camera attachment for my Palm Pilot and wanted to try it out, so I surreptiously snapped a photo (I wasn't yet used to how people in Berlin love to be nude in public). I downloaded the grainy photo onto my computer and sent it to a coworker as a joke...like, look at the photo of the big fat nude guy in the park! Then I happened to look at it more carefully -- it was of two nude men having sex. It was awful...especially as I had a crush on this coworker. Thankfully, he deleted it without looking at it (upon my urgent request). I'm sure he would have wondered why I was sending him a photo of a gay couple going at it.