“I Often Have Strange And Curious Experiences Happen To Me.”

This was one of the statements on the psychological exam I recently took during a job interview. Without hesitation, I blackened the circle next to “agree.”

As I was walking to work this morning, I was reflecting on many of the strange and curious things that have happened to me. Many of them occurred while living in foreign countries, which I’m sure the language barrier contributed to. Men asking me to be their sexual partner on the subway in Korea. Little old ladies in purple lipstick asking me to pose in pictures with them in China. Aboriginals sharing witchity grubs with me over a campfire in Australia. Receiving a marriage proposal at a baseball field in Cuba, having met the proposer only minutes before. Then the other experiences here in San Francisco, just because it’s San Francisco.

I was approaching Chinatown. The streets became narrower, the cars barely eking by each other, the sidewalks seeming to sprout people. I neared the hospital where the guard greets me each morning with “Happy Monday,” “Happy Tuesday,” the greeting changing respectively with each passing day. Sure enough, there he stood in his position, observing the people jostling pass. As I approached, just like clockwork, he said, “Happy Thursday!” but then he glanced at his watch. “You’re early this morning.” I simply smiled. Time in the morning is a mystery to me. Sometimes it seems to creep along, the minutes dragging. Other days, the minutes spin out of control, and before I realize it an hour or two has passed. The guard then looked surreptitiously to the right, and then checked the coast to the left. “Here, I have something for you.” Oh. This can’t be good. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded neatly into eighths. He shoved it into my hand, saying he had to get back to work, the boss might be watching. I took the paper and slipped it into my coat pocket. The entire exchange happened without me breaking my stride.

I was curious. What would the paper say? Did I really want to know?

I waited until I turned onto Grant Street, out of sight from the hospital. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the paper, slowly unfolding it. There, typed neatly on the page, were stanzas. A poem, with lots of Shakespearean-esque words. “e’er, o’er, soar, shining rays, heavens’ eyes, joy, eternal sweet,” all jumped off the page at me. Normally, I read very quickly. I read it once, but didn’t comprehend. I forced myself to read it slowly. I understood the words, but not the whole. I read it again. Random images came to mind, but not a coherent meaning. It still didn’t make sense.

Yet another strange and curious experience to add to my list.