Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Surprise Me

Today I was reminded of a particularly fantastic birthday.  Nine?  No, maybe ten. 

My family set me off on a treasure hunt.  A series of notes led me through the backyard, to a neighbor's porch, our garage, another neighbor's wood pile, behind a compost heap, and finally to my awesome birthday gift...my first 3-speed bike, light blue. 

Thank goodness for cameras.  This group of photos sums up my excitement, happiness, disbelief and joy pretty perfectly.  (Dig the track shorts and knee-highs.)  And now I bet you're thinking about your own favorite birthday memory.  I like how that works. 
















  

Saturday, September 11, 2010

NYC

I haven't come across the right words yet to write about September 11th.  So I'll just say this...


Thursday, September 9, 2010

First Class Fool

On a flight to Madrid, I was somehow lucky enough to score a seat in first class.  I'd never been seated in first class, then or since.  The ticket was purchased with obsessively collected frequent flyer miles, and I hadn't even requested an upgrade, so I have no idea how it happened.  But I wasn't arguing.

Clearly, I didn't belong.  In my black knit pants and bleach stained t-shirt, I strolled to my seat. Before I even had a chance to set down my bag, a woman was offering me champagne. A little startled and unclear whether it was free or what, I just opted for orange juice.  It was freshly squeezed.  These folks have it good.

I arranged my collection of magazines and bottle of Lipton iced tea in the seat pocket ahead of me.  Then I sat down in my enormous leather chair, fidgeted a little more, and finally buckled myself in.  So much leg room!  Only...I could no longer reach my magazines.  Or the cute little toiletries bag they gave me with the mini lotions and lip balm.  They were all up ahead in that distant seat pocket, completely out of reach.  So, click went the seat belt and I began the process all over again.

The woman next to me was friendly and seemed to be a first class regular.  She was well dressed with a cashmere scarf artfully thrown over her shoulder.  Her travel plans included Barcelona and northern Spain.  As we chatted, the flight attendant passed by with the menu and wine list for our perusal.

"Anything look good?" she asked.  "I hope the wine selection is better than it was last time."

Um, yeah.  I have no idea.  From rack of lamb, crab cakes or pasta, I chose the pasta.  Experimenting with lamb and seafood didn't seem like a good idea, even in first class.  They brought us warm loaves of bread with butter in a little dish, no foil packets.  Cloth napkins.  But before that, I had to figure out how to release my tray table, not an easy task.  I tried to look casual as I peeked sideways to see what my neighbor was doing.  Ah, it's hidden in the arm rest!  After some fumbling, I managed to get it together.  For dessert?  Ice cream sundaes with a choice of toppings.  I may not know wines, but I do know sundae toppings.

Time to relax.  I thought I'd just recline in my fancy chair and listen to some music, U2's The Unforgettable Fire, in fact.  Between the two seats was a control panel.  You could tilt your head back, recline, lower the foot rest, adjust the width at your knees - just about anything you could imagine at the touch of a button.  This was going to be comfy.

I push the button to recline.  Nothing happens.  I try to adjust the neck rest.  Nothing happens.  I try again to recline.  No good.  Maybe the foot rest.  Nope.

"That's just great.  My chance to live it up in first class and I have a rotten seat," I thought to myself.  "Oh well, let me try one more time."

Just about then I noticed a little something out of the corner of my eye.  My cheeks instantly blushed.  The movement I had detected was my neighbor's footrest going up and down haphazardly while her seat shifted back and forth.  I had been controlling her seat, not mine.  Oh, jeez.

After I had apologized profusely for what seemed an eternity, she politely said, "Well, that was unusual."

I was stuck in coach for the flight home.

                   



    

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

If You Meet A Shy Girl

This is kinda sorta maybe the beginning of a children's type book...or something. 


If you meet a shy girl,
you don't need to remind her that she's quiet.
Just say hello.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's probably funny
but she doesn't want to stand up and tell a joke.

If you meet a shy girl,
she could be wondering what you think of her.
A smile can ease her fears.

If you meet a shy girl,
she likely has a story to tell.
If you're patient, she will trust you with her secrets.

If you meet a shy girl,
she may have a fragile heart.
Please be kind.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's tougher than you think
but everyone could use a hug.

If you are a shy girl,
Hello.
I'm glad to meet you.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Oo La La

I love Paris.  I've been there twice, but could probably visit countless times without becoming even remotely bored.  On my second visit, I wanted to experience the city that locals know and love.  Sure, the Eiffel Tower and Louvre are must-sees, but I had seen them both the first time around.  This time I wanted to just wander and watch. 

With no particular destination in mind, I strolled the side streets, passing the inevitable markets displaying row upon row of strawberries and raspberries.  Fraise and Framboise, two French words that I actually know and blurt out with a proud smirk.  (Let it be said that rarely have I passed up an opportunity to purchase fresh berries and eat them straight from the carton.)  I bought a paper at the corner newsstand even though I couldn't read it.  The funny grey-haired gentleman took both my hands in his and said, "Thank you, Miss."  I stood in line with the businessmen and picked out a chocolate croissant from the bakery.  I'd have chosen something less obvious, but I became anxious when I started to hold up the line with my indecision.

Then I happened to find it - a nail salon, tucked away in the middle of the block, small but simple and chic.  That's what I'd do!  I'd get a manicure as if I were just popping by on my lunch break from Galleries Lafayette.  It occurred to me that I could ask for a French manicure, and I chuckled to myself at the dorkiness of it.  Surely only a tourist would make such a request.

Tentatively I stepped inside, hoping they would accommodate a non-French speaker.  Luckily there are only a few options at a nail salon, so after offering up my hands they got the idea.

"Manicure?" the woman asked in English.  Whew.  "How about a French manicure?"

I smiled and nodded.  How sweet of her to humor me.

There were no other customers in the shop, just the two women running the place.  They looked to me to be related, perhaps sisters, but maybe they just shared that lovely grace that French women seem to have.  I was directed to a small table by one of the women while the other straightened up and fluffed pillows in the reception area.  My nails were trimmed, soaked and buffed.  My cuticles were softened in a bowl of warm lotion.  The actual process was no different than any other, except that it seemed much more glamorous because I was in Paris.  Finally came the polish, applied expertly with a deft stroke of white across the tip, the hallmark of a perfect French manicure. 

The women chatted in their native tongue as I sat smiling.  A picture window provided the perfect vantage point for viewing the bustle of the morning.  Across the street, a woman appeared in the doorway of a dress shop.  Her presence immediately grabbed the attention of the two women and they looked up and exchanged knowing glances with one another.  They obviously had an opinion about her.  The shop woman emerged with a large bucket and proceeded down the sidewalk.  Reaching the curb, she poured out the entire bucket of, presumably, water.  It seemed innocent enough to me, but the action prompted gasps from both women, who then set off on a whirlwind of chatter and accusing grimaces.  Clearly she had done something completely unacceptable, and I doubt it had much to do with a bucket of water.  Oo la la, French gossip!

The women continued on, clucking and whispering with hushed urgency.  Every now and again they would nod at me as if to say, "Can you believe that woman?"  I would look back and give them a reassuring nod.  Meanwhile, I hadn't understood a word, but the tone was all that was needed. 

My manicure complete, I stood to leave and expressed appreciation with my best "Merci."  So maybe I didn't speak French, and maybe I wasn't really a local, but I had been privy that day to the neighborhood rivalries and jealousies that are present the world over.  I headed out the door, admiring my nails.  And as I passed by the other woman I gave her a suspicious stare - just for good measure. 


         

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Clara and Carol

There was a little granny on our street named Clara Wilson.  A storybook grandma with a bun and a housedress. Petite and somewhat frail looking, but quite the opposite in reality.  She was strong.  She must have been in her late eighties but was light on her feet and full of energy.  Her yard and house were beyond neat and tidy at all times.  At the crack of dawn you would find her outside on the sidewalk sweeping up twigs and the tiniest bits of grass.  Those dang oak trees with their acorns dropping everywhere and the stupid squirrels making a mess of things.  God forbid she find a piece of trash left by some inconsiderate passerby. 

Lilacs grew in the alley behind her house.  Mountains of lilacs, ridiculously beautiful and fragrant for their short season every spring.  My mom and I were welcome to pick as many as we could carry, and we always did.  Then she'd invite us in for coffee and juice in her delicate tea cups.  It couldn't have been cozier. 

My mom idolized Clara and loved her independent spirit.  Of course, they were practically one and the same...my mom had all the same qualities and I'm pretty sure some of them rubbed off on me too.  Although I often wish I'd had the chance to know my mom as an old woman, I feel I got a glimpse of her in Clara.