We go there for its laid back atmosphere. It’s never crowded; we always sit at the sushi bar and banter with the chefs. After an evening at the museum, that was what we wanted – a place to unwind, to talk, to enjoy good food.

Why was every seat in the restaurant taken, along with every seat at the sushi bar? On a Thursday night? I had never seen this many people at this sleepy neighborhood joint in all my visits there. Combined. And there was music. Of sorts. An older woman with makeup caked on, a Glamour Shots shoot gone awry, crooned at one end of the room.

We looked around. It was an … artsy crowd. Lots of mismatched clothes. Juxtaposition of ghastly white skin and India ink black hair. Blood red lips and heavily kohled eyes.

We noticed a flyer. “The Queen of Jazz” cd release party, March 3, 7-10 pm. That explains it. The woman sitting at the sushi bar to our right was saying, “And what kind of mascara do you find best?” He replied, with a flourish, “Well, I use it all… You really aren’t going to make me choose, dear, are you???”

After perusing the room for a few moments we raised our eyebrows at each other.
“Do you…” I started.
“…think we stand out?” he finished.
“Yeah,” I replied, “But why?”
He paused then smirked, “Maybe that we’re the only normal ones in here?”

A larger than life Chairman Mao, resting peacefully, in his government issued pajamas, snuggled under his government issued blanket, surrounded by tens of thousands of tiny plastic dinosaurs, all made in China. Green, blue, red, orange, ochre, salmon, groups of brightly colored variations of dinosaurs – Tyrannosaurus Rex, Brachiosaurus, Stegosaurus, Ceratops, Albertosaurus, Allosaurus – all clumped in tightly packed groups, swirling in trippy patterns towards the Chairman, just beneath his platform bed, supporting his sleep of reason.

Awesome.

On my morning walk to BART I see the usual suspects. Professionals hurrying to work. Homeless curled in doorways. Panhandlers hustling for a quarter, a dollar, anything you got. He approached me in a wavering unanticipated movement. “Hey!” I kept my eyes lowered and kept walking. “Hey! You! In the green jacket.” Oh. That would be me. You would think 10 years in the city would render me impervious to such beckonings. You would think. I turned and raised my eyebrows to indicate, “Yes? What do you want?” “You! You’re as beautiful as a squash!”

On the 38 Geary, squished in the evening commute, attempting to avoid the jostles and jabs of my fellow passengers, I tower over the two minute Asian women in front of me, one older, one a student. A burly specimen towers behind me, constantly poking me as the bus jerks, starting and stopping abruptly. He rings the bell, indicating this is his stop. He tries to dart out of the door. The tiny student gently places her arm on his. “Excuse me,” she susurrates, “I believe you have my wallet.” Without looking he hands it back to her and bolts out the door.

While browsing here, I saw this and thought it to be the perfect gift for a friend, somewhat tongue in cheek. I placed my order on Amazon, requesting it to be delivered to my work address, since I’m never home. The day it was delivered I was not in the office. Unfortunately, it was delivered to my old department (I recently moved from Training to Human Resources). My former administrative assistant was expecting an order from Amazon, reference books for our corporate library. Not paying attention to the address label, she opened the box. And was shocked to find what lay inside. Needless to say, it wasn’t what she was expecting and she expressed her dismay at the contents. Did I mention I work for a fairly conservative company?

I returned to the office the next day after attending an employment law seminar about harassment in the workplace to an opened box and a explanatory note on my desk. Oh, the irony.

The headwinds were against us – the flight that usually seems to pass in an instant drug on. and on. and on.

The pilot finally announced our descent into Oakland; my popping ears verified his words. I peered out the window. I love to watch the lights of the city grow larger and larger as we near the ground. All was dark, except for what appeared to be the runway lights. Had we landed? Not possible. I hadn’t felt a thing.

A deep, silky, let-me-be-your-man voice came over the p.a. system. “Smoooooooooooooooooooooooooth.”

We so had landed.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

“We’ve got to get up! It’s the Chinese New Year parade today!” I couldn’t believe my luck. Not only did I get to experience The Gates while in New York City, I also was able to attend the Chinese New Year Parade. It doesn’t matter what the cause, if it’s a celebration, I’m happy. Gloriously, deliriously, drunkenly happy.

We pushed, shoved, fought our way through the throngs of people gathered to watch the parade. Floats with waving beauties passed before us. Elegant dancers gently waving fans glided past. Dragons of all colors, shapes and sizes slithered by. And then. The parade was over. The police, New York’s finest, hustled us out of the streets and back to the sidewalks.

I heard a loud “pop!” then was hypnotized by the enchanting confetti drifting from the sky. Blues, greens, magentas, yellows, twirling, swirling, spinning, twisting from the sky. Another “pop!” behind us. Another deluge of colors, landing on us, beside us, underneath us. For half an hour we made our way through the crowd, every so often stopping, mesmerized by the shower of colors around us. “Happy New Year,” an elderly Chinese woman spoke in broken English. I replied, in broken Chinese, “Gung Hay Fat Choy.” Smiles were exchanged, wishes conferred. A magical moment in New York City.

The Gates – Central Park, New York City

I read an article in The New Yorker over a year ago about the works of Christo and Jeanne-Claude. How odd. They do things in public spaces with fabric. At the time, their upcoming project was The Gates, a series of 7500 saffron flags in Central Park, due to “open” in February 2005. “I think I’ll go to that,” I mused.

It opened this past weekend. Saturday morning, just off the red-eye, we found ourselves walking through Central Park, strolling under Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s saffron gates, relishing the random rays of sun that sliced through dreary skies. I’m not sure if it was meant to represent anything, but it worked. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people, New Yorkers and tourists together, descended upon Central Park. No one seemed to mind the crispness, the cold that confronted them. People were pleasant, smiled greetings to one another, engaged in polite small talk, talked about “the art.”

I attempted photographs. Each one disappointed. How to capture the majestic feeling? The treasure of being outdoors on a beautiful day? The glory of being awash in a wondrously happy color on a dreary day? The connection to the multitudes with a similar mission, to enjoy something without a stated purpose? I laughed as I tucked my camera back into my purse. I knew that my attempts to capture the moment, either in words or in graphics, were in vain. I looked around, then focused on one flutter of one flag of one gate. I snapshotted the feeling inside me, one of pure happiness, of being at the exact place, with the exact person, doing the exact thing I wanted to do.