LoriLoo

My Old Kentucky Adventure

May 10, 2011

Travel

Want to know how to get a police escort to the front gates of Churchill Downs while making your first appearance at the Kentucky Derby? It’s quite simple, it just takes four lovely ladies in big hats, a golf cart (or two) and a little collision. Please read on.

As we parked the car, a golf cart sidled up beside us. “You ladies like a ride to the track?” Given that one in our party had recently had back surgery, we figured the less walking we did, the better. We slipped into the golf cart, Maika and Shannon facing forward behind the driver and Emily and I on the back seat, facing backwards. We bounced along the neighborhood streets that surround Churchill Downs, darting through small alley ways, getting closer and closer to the gates. Emily and I were chatting when we heard a loud crash, the cart stopped suddenly, and I bounced off of the back of the cart, landing solidly on my bum, legs flailing in the air, my hat flying several feet to the side of the road. I lay there, staring at the neighbors staring back at us, slowly making myself upright and trying to resurrect what little sense of pride I still had. Emily remained in her seat and Maika and Shannon were attempting to exit the cart, wobbling unsteadily. We immediately saw that Shannon, the one who had recently had back surgery, had hurt her knee. As in, couldn’t put any weight on it, swelling up massively, and a trickle of blood running down her leg hurt her knee. We stood there, knowing she needed medical attention, but not sure how to get it. Try to carry her to Churchill Downs? Call an ambulance (we had no idea where we were)? Other ideas? Another golf cart driver, a young lady, through puffs on her Marlboro cigarette, insisted that we get in her cart and she would drive us to the closest police station, only a few blocks away. Hesitant to get into another golf cart, we gave each other questioning glances. Realizing we didn’t have much of a choice, we got in. The driver’s friend, a healthy young woman, to put it euphemistically, lifted up the edge of the cart as we drove along, making sure that Shannon’s knee was not jostled on the pot-holed alleys on the way to the police station.

“Can I help you?” the policeman asked, somewhat taken aback by a golf cart barreling through the police barricade. We all started speaking at once.
“She’s been hurt.”
“There was an accident.”
“We crashed.”
“Is there a doctor here?”
“She just had back surgery.”
He called his sergeant, and she arrived a few minutes later. I explained as succinctly as possible what had happened, and asked if there were a doctor or EMT at the station. There was, indeed, an EMT. Praise the Lawd. (I find myself not only speaking with a southern drawl when south of the Mason-Dixon line, but also inexplicably more religious as well.)

After icing and bandaging Shannon’s knee, the EMT led us to a church pew in the hallway of the police station. This was a bona-fide church pew, hymnal pockets and all. Not sure why it was in the hallway of the police station (please, every time you read the word police here, pronounce it PO-lees), but it provided a comfortable place for us to rest out of the now-falling rain.

As we sat there, all in a row on the church pew, banter began once again.
“You two should at least go to the Derby. I mean, you came all this way, it’s a shame not for you to go.”
“But what are we going to tell your husband? We need to get our stories straight.”
“No mention of the word accident. Do not use that word. Let’s say incident instead.”
“Do we need to take you to the hospital?”
“Where will you be? We can’t just leave you here.”

At that point the sergeant, one of the only women in the station, having watched this for several minutes, said, “This is mo’ entertainin’ than the Sisterhood of the Travlin’ Pants. I’m gone get me a piece of pie to enjoy this most thoroughly.” That stunned us into silence for a moment.

Sho’ ‘nuf (I can’t help myself but to speak southern in the re-telling) she came back with a piece of mighty fine-looking pie. “Ya’ll cain’t make a decision to save yo’ life,” and back to her pie she went.

“What ch’all fine ladies in here fo’?” asked another policeman walking by. “Not the type we no’mally see on Derby days.” And, once again, we all tried to explain the accident we had been in.
“Y’all been drinkin’?”
“No, sir,” I replied. “We ne’er made it to the Derby.”
“Well, that’s why ya’ll’s got hurt. Ya’ll been drinkin’, you’d been fine. This lil’ lady needs a drink, that’s what she needs.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s a fine idea.”
“Well, where’s yo’ flask?”
“Excuse me? I, I, I don’t have a flask.” (Am I really being asked this at the police station?)
“Young lady, is this yo’ first time to the Derby?”

Once again, we sat in stunned silence. And then went back to trying to decide what to do next. We finally agreed that we would all go to the Derby. I mean, three of us had flown all the way from Cal-i-forn-i-a to see those horses. Shannon would limp, or we would carry her, or we would get a wheelchair. We would make it work. We had come too far not to make it to the Derby.

When the sergeant heard our decision, she offered, “Well, the leas’ I can do is offer you a police escort.” Why, yes, you can.

And that, dear readers, is how you arrive to the Kentucky Derby with a police escort.

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Second Chances

May 3, 2011

Books

Many years ago, I read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I devoured it. I loved the words; I loved the story; I loved the magic. I read it incredibly quickly, then reread it again (and again), savoring the language. I imagined being swarmed by yellow butterflies, just like Mauricio.

Shortly after finishing One Hundred Years of Solitude, a friend lent me Love in the Time of Cholera. Again, it was love at first read. The obsessions, the twists, the language. Had I found a new favorite author?

Somewhat obsessed myself, I went to the public library and checked out all of the books I could find by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And as I began to read them, I slowly felt disappointment creeping over me. The stories were flat. The plots weren’t intriguing. Where was the magic?

Since then, I’m been somewhat wary of reading additional books from authors who I’ve adored from the first word. That first encounter with them creates such an impression. I want to savor that, not have it tainted by additional works. Yes, there’s the argument that I may discover even more that I love. But I may not.

In 2005, my favorite book was published, The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. It is a heart wrenching memoir of the first year of Ms. Didion’s widowhood, during which she was confronting grief, as well as taking care of an adult child hospitalized just before her father’s death. She flashes back to stories when she and her husband are together, suddenly remembering that he is no longer with her. It’s not a book comprised solely of happy memories, though many were. It’s real. It reflects how relationships are built in the day-to-day stuff that you slug through. It highlights how we replay true events in our mind. What if I had just done this differently? Could I have prevented the outcome? Her writing is sharp and meandering at the same time, providing a beautiful juxtaposition. This is my go-to book. Whenever I want to indulge in elegant language, or need a good cry, I pick up this book.

Fast forward to last Friday. I was at a friend’s house. She was on the phone; I was examining her bookshelf. I noticed an old, tattered copy of A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion.

Dare I?

As she hung up the phone, I lifted the worn book from the shelf. I casually asked, “How was this?” She paused. “I don’t remember reading it. You read it and let me know.” I turned it over in my hands.

Dare I?

She gazed at the bookshelf. “You know, I must have read it. This is my shelf where I keep my most treasured books. I just can’t remember what it was about.”

I dare.

I begin reading on the bus ride home. The first few chapters are not disappointing. The language is straightforward, yet complex. The scenes are not in chronological order, so there is suspense and revelation with each fact that is revealed. It’s quirky. It provides glimpses of realistic insight into the nastiness of family affairs and life as a privileged expat. By Sunday morning, I have finished the book.

And I still have a favorite author. Thank you, Ms. Didion.

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#winning

May 2, 2011

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I’m always surprised when I don’t win contests. Not particularly disappointed, just surprised. I figure that someone has to win the contest, and it’s just as likely that it would be me rather than anyone else. Plus, I’m lucky.

A few weeks ago, I entered a contest to win luxury box tickets to the Kentucky Derby, along with $100,000 to place on bets. The winner would be announced today. I placed a reminder on my calendar to check the email account that I use specifically for contests and other online entries. As I opened it, I noticed I had 11 new messages. Oh, excitement! Surely one of them was the confirmation that I had won. As I scanned through them, I noticed that none of them proclaimed I had won the prize. I read through them again, just to make sure I hadn’t skipped over an important message. I checked my spam folder, just to be sure. The winning confirmation wasn’t there either. Completely surprised, and very excited to be going anyway.

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Team Chuppah

April 17, 2011

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Rachel is my former co-worker, my slow running buddy, and a dear friend. A few months ago, as we were on a slow run through Golden Gate Park, she mentioned that she was trying to figure out a creative chuppah for her upcoming wedding. As we ran, we brainstormed ideas. What if each guest created a square with their wish for her and her fiance, then they were all assembled, like a quilt? Good idea, but too involved. What if guests shared one word, one wish, for the couple, and those were embroidered on the cloth? Better.

Today was declared “Wedding Errand Day.” We started the day with a trip to Home Depot to purchase PVC pipes to support the chuppah. We found white pipes, but they were covered with writing. We figured a little sandpaper and white spray paint would fix that.

Next came a trip to Joanne’s fabric store for cloth and thread to make “chuppah sleeves,” slender encasements attached to the underside of the chuppah to slip over the PVC piping. This would allow the poles to be on the inside of chuppah.

Once home, we took the piping outside and prepared to spray paint. For those who have never used spray paint, holy cow, it carries. Especially when there’s a slight gust. Warren persevered, however, and poles were painted pristine white.

We carefully cut the fabric and began sewing the sleeves. Over beers. Kind of old-fashioned sewing circle meets modern-day happy hour. We attached the sleeves to the chuppah, a stunning white linen cloth, with words (shared by shower guests) embroidered around the border in a beautiful cursive. As we raised it, we celebrated. Team chuppah FTW!

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Accentuate the Positive

April 12, 2011

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One of my ongoing goals is to be more positive and grateful. I’m a fairly positive person, but every now and then I find myself stressed out over things that really shouldn’t stress me out. So each time I find myself complaining, I play the “What’s the upside here?” game. Today a routine six-month dental cleaning turned into a “you’ve got to have a root canal right now” visit. As I was laying supine in the endodontist’s chair, here’s what I came up with:
- I have health insurance
- I can communicate with the dentist in my native language
- It was more or less a three-hour nap, with added drill noises and hands in my mouth
- I still have my teeth
- The dentist was incredibly attentive, asking me every few minutes if I was doing okay or if I needed a break
So, even though unexpected, not the worst way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.
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Oceanside Meetup

April 7, 2011

Travel

I’ve been in Oceanside, CA since Monday, working with 10 of my awesome colleagues. Highlights of the week:

Sunset last night:

Coworkers in the surf:

Four O’Clock afternoon treat (and the chef):

Sunset tonight:

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My Favorite SXSW Talk (better late than never)

April 5, 2011

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The timing wasn’t great. It was a 9:30 am talk on the Sunday morning the day after Daylight Savings time was implemented and a night of ridiculously epic parties. Parties that lasted well into the morning. It was a struggle to get out of bed, shower, and make my way to the convention center. But it was also something I really wanted to see, not just because of the subject matter (creative leaders), but also because of the speaker (Sarah B. Nelson).

Technically speaking, I first met Sarah because I’m the number one fan of the band she’s in (Porkchop Express). I’ve known her professionally as well, and also run into her in social situations. She’s a woman I admire – she comes across as strong, determined, and true to her values. She’s an incredibly talented musician and designer, and has a wicked sense of humor as well. So despite the time challenges, I was determined to make it to her session. And I’m so glad I did.

In a down-to-earth and straightforward manner, Sarah shared personal examples of leadership experiences that had both gone well, and gone not so well. Key takeaways were:
- Sit down and map out expectations at the beginning of the project. Find out the goals, hopes, and dreams of each team member. Listen to team members’ fears and concerns. Document their expectations., both of each other and the team.
- Know your own fears. Say them out loud. Acknowledge them.
- If you’re angry, stop. What are you afraid of? Be aware of HALT. If you’re feeling hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, take a break. Take care of yourself. You can’t give to others before you’ve taken care of yourself.
- If you have to kill an idea, present viable options to a client. Encourage the team to do a refine/evaluation. Be honest. What works? What doesn’t? What ideas can be salvaged?
If you’re interested in learning more, talk a look at the slides. It was an incredibly inspiring way to spend a Sunday morning.
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Aging

March 31, 2011

Tales of San Francisco

She asked if she could start a fitting room for me. Something about her stilted accent seemed very familiar. I sensed a glimmer of recognition in her eyes as well. I looked at her name tag. “Paolina.” Could it be?

Hesitantly, I asked if she had a son. I mean, it’s kind of a weird question to ask a stranger. She paused, then answered, “Yes.” “Is his name Mike?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered, cautious. “I was his first grade teacher! At Argonne!” I exclaimed excitedly. I could see her recollecting. My hair is much shorter now, hers much longer. I’ve gained a few pounds over the years, as has she.

“Ah! Yes! Yes!”she proclaimed. “Mike, he’s, he’s on the break now.” I wondered what break he could be on. “What do you mean?” I asked. “The spring break.” I pondered, not remembering that San Francisco schools had a spring break. “He’s in college now, in the San Diego. He studies the mechanical engineering.”

It was the first time I’ve ever felt old.

The last time I saw Mike was when he was in second grade. He was big for his age, very tall and solid. He had penetrating dark eyes and translated for his mom, who didn’t speak English very well. He had a large gap between his two over sized front teeth. He loved spending summers in Bulgaria, his home country. That was just, what, a few years ago? I tried to calculate when I taught him, and couldn’t figure out the math. A child I taught, in college now? That can’t be right. Maybe this was all a mistake and this was another woman named Paolina who had a son named Mike and it was just a crazy coincidence.

“So, have you been back to Bulgaria recently?” This would confirm that she wasn’t the Paolina I knew.

“Oh, yes. We go. We go this summer. We love the trip. Mike, he take the summer school classes, so we go for one month, not two.”

It was as though I had been punched in the stomach. I took a deep breath. A child I taught in first grade was now in college. Yes, that was possible. I mean, I had left teaching ten years ago. Wait, thirteen years ago. Oh. And I left teaching the year after teaching Mike. So that meant the children I had taught earlier in my career were out of college. As I thought about it, it made logical sense. And it confounded me.

I remember so well teaching Mike’s class. I remember the children who needed extra attention, those students who just didn’t thrive in a traditional classroom. So we created stations, and games, and alternative schedules, and buddy systems. I remember the field trips we took to the Academy of Sciences (and more than one lost child – panic!). I remember the crafts and projects we made on the different holidays, some successful, others not. The “game” of choosing rubber gloves and seeing who could pick up the most pieces of trash on the playground. I remember thinking, at the time, that I was not old enough to be trusted with the education of such amazing children. It felt like just, well, if not yesterday, then maybe a few days before yesterday.

But it wasn’t. It was three careers, one divorce, one international move, three domestic moves, and countless countries traveled ago. In my mind, though, I still see my 24 kindergarten and first grade students as that – delightful five and six year olds learning to read and write and play and live together.

Paolina had just said something and was waiting for my response. I smiled. “Yes, it’s so nice to see you, too, Paolina. Please tell Mike I said hello and have a wonderful trip to Bulgaria this summer.”

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That Beautiful, Bittersweet, Sinking Feeling

March 17, 2011

Travel

Over the past several years, I’ve placed myself in situations where I experience a lot of change. Mostly, that change is traveling from one environment to another, interacting with different groups of people on a regular basis. At Room to Read, it was temporarily living and working with different staffs in 12 countries around the world. At Automattic, it’s attending meetups with various teams in different locations around the world.

This week, I spent eight days with 35 co-workers and multiple non-work friends at SXSW conference in Austin. Each day was jam-packed – shared meals, conference sessions, individual meetings, working the trade show booth, evening activities of going to bars, hanging out in the lobby co-working, seeing live music, dancing into the early morning hours, and going out for late-night shawarma. Eight days of near utter exhaustion and very little sleep. Eight days of no exercise and meals consisting almost entirely of either bbq or tex mex.

Towards the end of the week, I thought, “Wow, I’m looking forward to a solid night’s rest in my own bed.” Yet, this afternoon at the AUS airport, boarding my plane, having been away from the excitement of sociability for a few hours, I felt a twinge of grief. That moment of, “Aw. I’m really sad. I miss the craziness of the past week. Of trying to get a reservation for 22 in a restaurant. Of coming home at 3:30 am and chatting with my roommate for an hour before going to sleep for a few hours.” It’s familiar, that sinking feeling in my stomach each time I leave people I care about and enjoy being around. That feeling that’s with me almost every single time I board a plane, either to return home, or to leave home. And even though I’m sad, I realized it’s okay. Because it’s a bittersweet reminder of the amazing people who are in my life.

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Returning to the Land of Oz

March 1, 2011

Travel

I’m en route to Australia after a 21 year gap. My initial time in Australia contributed to my never-ending sense of adventure and created friendships that last until now.

I reflect on my initial journey, somewhat with amazement. The year was 1989 and I journeyed to Australia as an exchange student. As students, we were excited because a new technology called “facsimile” had been introduced. We could write a letter, send it over the fax machine, and the recipient would receive it almost instantaneously. Amazing!

I think about how I’m traveling now. I carry a laptop computer that weighs less than many of my hardback books. Email, Skype, and video chats are how I conduct virtually all of my daily communication. I have cell phones that have more RAM than my first computer. Converting local time to a dozen time zones around the world comes naturally.

The one thing that hasn’t changed, however, is my excitement about journeying to a new place, even if it’s new again after 21 years.

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