One of These

From afar, it almost appeared to be a military exercise in progress. A single file line, legs marching in perfect unison, arms swinging, left arm forward, right arm forward, left arm forward, perfectly bent at 90 degree angles. The participants were a motley crew led by a free-flowing, long haired, new age, middle aged woman. Behind her followed disciples of all ages from all walks of life: an elderly woman comfortable in her frayed sweatsuit, an upright business man appearing somewhat constrained in his three piece suit, a tattooed young woman toting a colorful yoga mat. All were chanting as one, jumbled words I couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t a protest, but a meditation, a declaration of love for the universe. I watched with fascination as this line passed by me, my attention snagged by the penultimate character. A balding Asian grandfather sporting practical khakis and a cardigan, hunched over his cell phone, text messaging as he marched along.

Real Letter

“Dear Customer,

Thank you for the opportunity to help plan your telecommunications service. The enclosed material confirms:

* The services you recently ordered

* The itemized monthly rates for those services

* Any service connection charges

* Your service order number

(nothing was enclosed)

Thank you for bringing your business to Pacific Bell.

Sincerely,

Big System”

Couldn’t they have at least made up a fake name?

A Few of My Favorite Things

A co-worker recently returned from a vacation in Hong Kong. She brought lots of candies and cookies back for us in the office to share. As I picked up a brightly colored hot pink foil wrapped cookie I read these words:

FRENCH COOKIES

Dreaming Paris down the river

Feeling romantic just you and me

Strawberry

Love

Only one taste you’ll see

Only Paris romance

It’s one of the things I miss most about living in Asia. Reading the absolutely ridiculous, thoroughly entertaining marketing presentations.

I tossed and turned the entire way back. My eyelids drooped; my long legs rammed into the seat in front of me. My head bobbed back and forth as sleep almost enveloped me, nothing to support me in the aisle seat I occupied. I woke with a start as the plane forcefully met the runway at SFO. I slowly coaxed myself back to consciousness as the aircraft taxied to the gate.

The man in the row behind me was excited. He was making staccato little noises, engaging his fellow rowmates. Click, click, click. “Oh, my god. No. No.” I tilted my head back to peer at him through the tiny crack between my aisle seat and the middle seat occupied by an elderly woman. He had a Blackberry in his hands, anxiously reading something on the screen. My first thought was that he shouldn’t be using a device that could possibly interfere with the navigation systems. I have an innate fear that someone will be using his cell phone or radio as we’re taxiing to the gate, a signal will be misinterpreted by the pilots, and the plane will turn around and take off for Kalamazoo. Irrational? Yes. But my fear nonetheless.

I was intrigued by this maverick. This person who had no consideration for the rules of safe air travel. This older gentleman in his pin striped shirt and bow tie with his pomaded hair. I eavesdropped on his conversation. No, his monologue.

“This is huge. Huge, I tell you. Do you realize how huge this is? We are at war. War. War, I say. This is momentous. Historical. Years from now people will ask you where you were when the war broke out. History. You will never forget this.” The two others in his row had that anxious look on their faces, that look of being trapped and not knowing when an opportunity for escape would arise.

At that point I realized what had happened as I fought sleep during the 3 1/2 hour trip from Minneapolis.

Bush had done it. War had begun.

I guess I knew it would happen. I mean, come on. The ultimatum Bush gave Hussein was a farce. What leader would voluntarily leave his country? No true leader would. Now more than just my eyelids were heavy. I thought of all the people whose lives would be forever changed by this decision. The men and women in the armed forces, from all countries involved. The families of those fighting in the war. The citizen casualties. The families of the POWs that will be captured, never knowing if their loved ones are alive, dead, or tortured.

As the taxi drove into San Francisco I heard the newscasts over the radio, blurred by my own thoughts. I saw the skyline of the city I’ve called home for so many years. The lights of the TransAmerica tower glistening, the Bay Bridge sparkling in the distance. I envisioned this city, my home, the recipient of an attack. The missiles exploding, the tanks barreling down Market Street, the windows of buildings sending shards of glass shattered from shock waves. Irrational? Maybe. But my fear nonetheless.

This morning I turned the news on while getting ready for work. Something I hardly ever do. The first story was live from Kuwait City. The city where I lived after graduating from college. The city where I taught at the International School, taught eager fifth graders from Kuwait, Syria, Lebanon, Bahrain, Egypt, Australia, and the US. The city just recovering from the Gulf War, still recovering live mines from the ocean, swept out by the tides then back in, stranded on the beaches. The city where, two years after the Gulf War ended they finally began replanting the palm trees. They finally were bringing life back into a country so long ravaged by death.

The story detailed the missile attacks in northern Kuwait. I thought back, 10 years ago, to the students and their families. The families who had suffered such loss during the Iraqi invasion. Families in which fathers, husbands, uncles, brothers, were still unaccounted. I wondered how many of those same families will be grieving losses at the end of this war. I wondered how many families here will be grieving losses at the end of this war. Irrational? No. My fear nonetheless.

At the Hotel

I entered my room and was met by the largest bed I have ever seen, covered with down everything – pillows, comforters – there are feathers everywhere. I’m sad I don’t know anyone in Minneapolis. This would be the perfect venue for a slumber party.

Destination Unknown

I hurried into the domestic terminal, not sure if 90 minutes would really be enough time to clear security. The first thing I saw were lines and lines and lines of people, people of all ages, snaking back and forth, in and out among the cordoned lanes. Oh, fric, I thought to myself. This was my first business trip with my new job. I wanted there to be no snafus, no delays, no unexpected obstacles. I looked at the wall – the masses of people were in the Hawaiian Airlines line. Okay, that’s not my airline. Northwest, Northwest, Northwest, where are you? I continued walking the terminal; I came to the Northwest counter. There was no one in line. Was it open? There seemed to be agents at the counter. I asked a red vested customer service agent which counter to go to for the 8:40 am flight to Minneapolis. “Take your pick.” Hmmm. Guess there’s not a high demand for flights to Minneapolis in the middle of March. Go figure.

Bummer

We drove through Golden Gate Park, watching the weekend frolickers. A couple strolled with a baby carriage, slowly walking under the shady trees. A group of teenagers tossed a frisbee on the freshly sprouted green grass. A couple rode bicycles along the grassy area in between the sidewalk and the road. I glanced over just in time to see the girl, clad from head to toe in a stylish white running suit, slow down as her front wheel became entrenched in a huge mud bog. She teetered a little to the left, a little to the right, then toppled full force to the left. Her foot met the ground in time to prevent her from completely wiping out, but the result was a giant explosion of fresh mud, splattering her once pristine white outfit with dollops of squishy brown mud.

Warning!

A friend helped me run software to remove all the “bad things” slowing down my computer. While looking at the log, I noticed most of the 179 items were ad tracking devices. One thing, however, stood out. Under description it read “Possible browser hijack attempt.” I feel like I’m being invaded.

Charming

I noticed him as I walked up the street. I noticed the attention he gave to each customer as he helped them into the airport shuttle. I was surprised, quite taken aback, as I walked past and he turned his attentiveness from them to me. “Hi, my name’s Scott. And you?” and he extended his hand. I, instinctively, offered my hand. “Lori. Nice to meet you.” With his white glove he pulled my hand to his full lips and planted a kiss ever so firmly, ever so lightly, on the back of my hand. “Do you work near here? I’ve noticed you walking by several times.” I started to offer that I lived right around the corner, but thought better of it. “No, I don’t,” I replied with an ever so slight smile. Once again, he pulled my hand to his lips. “It’s a pleasure. I hope to see you again soon.” I continued my long, brisk strides, back to my apartment.

I was tempted to turn around. To see if he was offering his hand to the next woman who passed by. Instead I just kept walking forward, a smile on my face.

How could he have recognized me? I don’t walk past there regularly. And I don’t think I’ve seen him. I should just accept it for what it was. Charming.

The Little House

As I ride BART, I occasionally read, occasionally nap, and occasionally just stare out the window. Right before I reach my destination is a pair of houses, a larger house shadowing a tiny house, different from all those around them because of the marine murals covering them. A whale jumps from the second floor, waves swirling around its protruding body. The tail splashes above the entrance to its smaller sidekick. I marvel at the pair of houses. Someone took a lot of time to paint the giant whale and torrential waves.

This morning, as I waited for the whale, I was alarmed. There, in front of the houses, were several sirens belonging to local fire trucks. The tiny house was on fire.

When I passed by this afternoon, the whale tail was gone. Boards covered the remains of my marine friend. I was sad.