Our office has recently moved into a new building, a high-rise downtown. The building management recently contacted us about conducting Emergency preparedness sessions for all employees. We scheduled the sessions and I immediately got the question, “Do I really have to go to this?”

Yes.

I knew if I wavered, no one would show up, and then what would happen during an earthquake? No one would know where the emergency Snickers were and we’d all be cranky.

The facilitator began the session by explaining what to do in case of a fire. Only the two floors immediately above and below the affected floor are supposed to “re-locate.” Notice, I didn’t say evacuate. They don’t want people leaving the building. Just moving to another floor so the firemen can do their stuff. I don’t know about the rest of the staff, but if I’m in a burning building, and I’m smelling smoke, I’m getting out.

She continued by saying we would be notified about the fire by the fire alarm, which was the standard “California Whoop.”

Yes, her slide said, “California Whoop.”

At which point several of the male employees asked her to demonstrate the said alarm. They weren’t happy with her rendition, so the room was then filled with rowdy “Whoop — there she is! Whoooop!” yelled back and forth. I’m not sure how much was learned during the session, but it was most definitely my most entertaining meeting of the day.

I hope we never have an emergency.

I realized I’ve become old when I visit a place and I start to think about replacing former memories.

Tonight, I was at a place where I was once on a first date. It was a tentative first date. We had met for drinks, which turned into dinner, which then led to an after dinner music excursion. We stood there, watching the band, watching the dancers. There were a few of them. Swing dancers, who were quite good. And in period dress. I knew I was a good dancer. I didn’t know if he was. We watched, each too shy to venture to the floor.

Tonight I entered the same bar, different night, different time. I was there among friends. My former neighbor, my Vincent, was performing.

How would I have ever known this would turn out this way? I remember moving into the studio apartment, freshly raw from divorce, excited to meet new people, yet wary of meeting new people. He knocked on my door. “Do you have any sugar?” Seriously? A neighbor was asking me for sugar? He seemed nice enough. And I had sugar. I gave him a cup of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon. And our friendship was sealed.

For two years, we chatted as we each made dinner. See, our kitchen windows opened up to face each other. The building was shaped somewhat like an I. Each of our kitchens was positioned to face each other, over an expanse. So he would come home from work; I would come home from work. We would raise our windows, begin cooking our dinners, and chat across the way. This continued until I eventually moved to South Korea.

Surprisingly, we kept in touch. We emailed, and I sent postcards while I was gone. I returned and we met for happy hours and dinners. And the friendship that started over the open windows continued to blossom.

Which leads to tonight. Tonight at the bar where I had a first date that was so promising at the time. And slightly painful to return to in the present.

I thought about the first time I visited the bar. A time of hope, of expectations yet to be fulfilled. I thought about tonight. About friendships I never thought I would sustain. And I was happy with exactly how things have turned out.

As he read his piece, from Doris Lessing, from his own work, from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I realized, I’m exactly where I should be. This bar, this place, this time. And happy to be here.

It’s Open Mic. A musician is at the mic, singing a soulful song.

The man next to me exclaims, “Oh, this is my favorite song!”

I listen to a few bars, then turn to him. “I don’t recognize it — what is it?”

He sighs, then turns to me. “I don’t know, but it’s my favorite.”

“He’s so big!” I exclaimed.

“He’s the same size he’s always been,” my curmudgeonly neighbor retorted.

I eyed the dog. No, he was definitely bigger than when I last saw him, almost a year ago. “No, I think he’s bigger. It’s been almost a year.”

“He’s five years old.” And he stared at me as though this meant something.

“Yes?” I asked with arched eyebrows.

“Don’t you know that mammals only grow during their first year of life? Then they stop growing.”

I looked at him as though he were testing me. Was this a joke? It didn’t seem to be. I thought for a moment.

“Aren’t humans mammals? Don’t they continue growing past their first year?” He stared at me. “I would beg to differ with your theory.”

“Whatever,” he retorted, and walked away.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been at home for any length of time. A really, really long time.

I decided to have a WIWWIW weekend. What I Want, When I Want. And what I really wanted to do was to clean my apartment. See, that might seem strange. But for someone who more or less hasn’t been home for 8 months, that was exactly what I wanted to do.

As I was cleaning, I discovered two Netflix CDs. I didn’t even realize I had a Netflix subscription. In between cleaning, I watched the movies. And I thought, this is a pretty neat idea. I like this whole movie thing.

I packaged up the movies to send back to Netflix. I thought to myself, I wonder what’s next in my queue? I logged on to Netflix, and to my horror, realized I had had the same two movies since January 2007. JANUARY of 2007. Those were the most expensive movies I had ever, EVER, watched. I calculated the total. Each came to $ 130.08.

And they weren’t even that good.

Netflix totally loves me.

I’ve come to Dhaka because we’re trying to obtain a government registration in order to start programs here. Our application keeps getting delayed with no explanation given. At the last minute, it was suggested that since I was in Nepal, I should make a side trip to Bangladesh to meet with government officials to try to persuade them to approve our application.

I’m sitting in a small outer office on the ninth floor of a tired, crumbling, remarkably non-descript cinder block government building. There is a faded, corners-curling yearly calendar taped to the wall from 2004. The desk has a glass top with faded business cards randomly placed beneath it. One grabs my attention: BAPSA – Bangladesh Association for the Prevention of Septic Abortions.

I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. I know that things work differently in this part of the world; I don’t let myself get upset by this delay. The Director walks through the outer office into his inner sanctum without glancing at us. He shuts the door. A few minutes later he buzzes for his assistant, who goes in then returns a few minutes later, ushering me in. The Director of the NGO Affairs Bureau begins talking, but doesn’t look at me. He’s fingering a one sentence letter from the Ministry of Home Affairs. He begins talking and I listen to him, then begin my spiel – we’re not a political organization, we’re not affiliated with any religious organizations, our model is to partner with the government, the need for educational infrastructure in Bangladesh is great…. I’m careful to keep my tone positive, to not show any frustration, to not show any sign that I’m annoyed that our application has been in purgatory for the past 6 months. He agrees with my points then wants to discuss US geography. He asks me if San Francisco is close to Washington DC. He wants to know where Pennsylvania is. He then mentions other states and their capitals. I indulge him. I try to steer the conversation back to our registration, or rather the lack thereof.

He pushes the buzzer on his desk and immediately his assistant appears. He makes an order in Bangla. The assistant quickly leaves and returns shortly, followed by three other men and carrying a pink folder, stuffed with papers, secured with a wide string that looks like a shoe lace. The folder is placed on the Director’s desk. The Director nods at it. The assistant unties the string and opens the folder, placing it in front of the Director. Amongst the Bangla writing, I notice the name of our organization scattered throughout. Our application.

The five men chatter back and forth in Bangla, animatedly. They don’t seem to be talking about the application, but perhaps I’m wrong. I sit there, wondering what is being said. There is hearty laughter. After about 15 minutes, the Director dismisses the assistant and the other men. Our conversation resumes.

“Yes… I think you need to speak to the Ministry of Home Affairs directly. Tell them what you have told me. That will be the best.” He writes down a phone number and I’m escorted out.

The assistant makes several phone calls then triumphantly tells me that I will have lunch with one of the Directors from the Ministry of Home Affairs. He notices the look of surprise on my face. “But my flight is at 1 pm. 1300 hours. I do not think I can have lunch and be at the airport in time for my flight.” He smiles. “Yes. Lunch at one. Airport at three.” I smile again. “No, flight at one. Leave for airport at eleven. Meet with Director now?” He looks concerned. “No, flight at three.” I smile. “No, flight at one.” I show him my ticket. “Oh,” is his only reply.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, each looking at the other expectantly.

He finally speaks. “I try my best. You visit with Director next visit.” I ponder. Do I explain to him there won’t be a next visit – that this was taking advantage of my being in Asia? I don’t. I smile, thank him, and tell the driver to take me to the airport. Goodbye, Bangladesh.

In the hotel in Dhaka, there are two small bottles of bottled water. Each has a tag on it that says:

Dear Guest,
Our tap water is drinkable. However if it concerns you, as an added service, this bottle of mineral water is complimentary.

For some reason, this does not encourage me to drink the tap water.

On my pillow there is a small calling card that says “Good night” with the hotel’s logo. I turn the card over and it says this:

Come out of the circle of time and into the circle of love.

???

I’m in the Immigration line at the Zia International Airport in Bangladesh, waiting. Out of boredom, out of curiosity, I start reading the list of taxable vs. tax fee goods. Some of the more interesting items:

Taxable:
Music Centres
Refrigerators
Dish Washers
Electric Sewing Machines
Ovens – gas and microwave
Air guns
Candelabrums (tax assessed on the number of points)

Are these things that people usually bring with them on a plane? Curious.

Tax Free:
Electric ovens
Rice Cookers
Blenders
Type Writers
Manual Sewing Machines
Computer Scanners

Can’t quite figure out the logic behind the lists, but then again, since I’m not carrying any of said items, it probably doesn’t matter.

I’m fascinated by this system. I’m sitting in the Kathmandu airport, simply observing. My flight has been delayed. I was supposed to catch a flight to Dhaka, Bangladesh, at 4:40 pm; however, I arrived to the airport and was told it would leave at 5:40 pm. I’m in the waiting area, a throwback to the 70’s, with its dusty tiled floor, copper accents, and nondescript shops that are simply named “DUTY FREE.” The monitor says the flight will leave at 15:50, even though it’s now 16:00. Other flights have status of “Boarding” or “Delayed” or “Cancelled” or “Departed,” flashing by their flight number, but not mine.

I watch the comings and goings of passengers. There seem to be two categories – tourists dressed seemingly inappropriately in shorts and tank tops in this conservative culture, and Nepali men. Every so often, a Nepali man with a topi and walkie talkie scurries through the waiting area, yelling the name of a destination and herding passengers. I finally hear “Dhaka” and make my way towards him. He has a luggage cart laden with black plastic garbage bags. As I show him my boarding pass, he scribbles on it, reaches into the garbage bag, and pulls out a box with a smudged stamp that says “Catered by Everest Hotel.” I’m confused, but make my way through the second security screening.

I enter the second and final waiting area, the one designated just for Biman Bangladeshi Airlines flight 704. What immediately strikes me is that among the hundreds of people in the waiting area, I am the only female. The. Only. One. Everyone else is a young Nepali man, a labourer, making his way to a foreign country in hopes of making a fortune. I sit and read my book. A few minutes later a young Nepali woman enters the waiting area. She sits beside me. “Are you going to Dhaka?” she asks in a lilting voice. “Yes,” I nod.

We open our thin cardboard boxes. It contains a breaded chicken patty, crustless cheese sandwiches on white bread, a piece of fruitcake, and a mango juice. I’m curious. Is this the meal for the flight? Or is this the meal for the waiting area? I notice everyone else eating, so I do as well.

When the announcement is made to start boarding, the hundreds of men race for the gate, crowding each other in a mob. The young Nepali woman and I look at each other, somewhat shocked. We wait until all the men have boarded the plane before making our way to the gate.

On the plane, our seats are next to each other, the middle seats of the middle section of five at the front of the plane. We’ve been upgraded to business class, which is virtually empty. Why have we been assigned middle seats? The silver-haired flight attendant asks me where I’m from, then tells me unique facts about the Bangladeshi communities in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York. He also tells me his favorite movies, and that Charles Heston has died. He saw Ben Hur in the cinema in Dhaka when he was only 8 years old. I smile and listen. Without my asking, he then tells me he will find me a window seat.

A few minutes later, he guides me to the first row window seat. As I sit down, he says, “For you, my VIP.” I smile and thank him. A few minutes later he guides the young Nepali woman to the seat beside me. “She feels comfortable with you,” he offers, and with that we are off to Bangladesh, a mere 3 ½ hours late.