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.

03/03/03

I like that.

A Walk In The Woods

We greeted the park rangers as we huffed and puffed our way up the ridiculously steep Matt Davis trail. We stopped to chat, more so to catch our breath. Friendly chaps, they were, patiently answering all our questions.

“How do you become a ranger?

Do you work just in this park or lots?

Why aren’t dogs allowed on the trails?

How much is the fine for having dogs on the trail?

Is the fine per person or per dog?”

Once we were sufficiently rested we continued on. The rangers stayed in the same spot. Another party rounded the bend, a father and his teenage son enjoying the wilderness. When the two groups met, we heard the father exclaim, “Oh. It’s the police!”

“Ranger, sir. We really prefer the term ranger,” spoken with the same patient tone used with us only moments before.

Not surprisingly, we were late leaving. It usually happens like that on our jaunts to Tahoe. We plan to leave San Francisco at 7:00. Em usually arrives at my house at 8 or 8:30.

I waited until we reached the East Bay before calling our friends already in the mountains, giving them a heads up we’d be late, telling them not to worry.

“Did you *just* leave, LoriLoo?” he accusingly asked.

No. Not just. I thought for a moment. Well, sort of just. We’re out of the city, though. We’re already to Fairfield. Okay, okay, we did just leave.

“Well, don’t worry about stopping at the Jelly Belly factory. I knew you’d be running late so I took care of it. You just come on up here.”

I laughed and repeated the conversation to Em. “Did he ask you to stop at the Jelly Belly factory beforehand or is he just being funny?”

I’m sure he’s just joking. This was the first I’ve heard about jelly beans.

But not the last.

When we entered the house at midnight, 15 pounds of Jelly Belly flops quietly greeted us from the kitchen table.

He wasn’t joking.

What Was That Again?

The first hour of Korean class tonight was spent listening to a visiting lecturer pontificate on the Korean Diaspora in the Imjin War (1592-98). His voice was monotone and punctuated by that unnatural halting speech pattern that so many non-native English speakers exhibit. It was difficult to listen to him, even more difficult to understand him. Two points, though, piqued my interest.

He was explaining how several hundred Korean slaves (captured by the Japanese) were baptized by Christian missionaries while living in Japan. He made the comment, “They were executed by the stake. By the burning.” Which immediately brought to mind a bad dinner at a cheap steak house. “Ahhhhh! I’m being killed by a charred steak! Help me! Help!”

He then made a point that one of the key strategic tactics of the Japanese was to capture all the Korean potters and hold them captive. I thought I had misheard. Out of all groups of people, potters wouldn’t rank at the top of my list of most dangerous, must be captured, isolate them communities of people. Personally, I would’ve gone after say, government officials. Or the military. You know, the guys throwing spears and stuff. Not clay.