Ladderless

I stepped into my room in Paris, exhausted but giddy.  It was a shared room in a hostel on the Left Bank, up four flights of creaky stairs.  After a long flight all I really wanted to do was lie down, just for a second, to try to process the notion that I was, indeed, in Paris.

I quickly scanned the room - small and basic, but clean and with a little character to boot.  There were two sets of bunk beds so I thought I'd settle in and claim one.  None of my roommates were in at that time, but one set of beds had clearly been used.  The blankets were rumpled and random pieces of clothing were draped over the edge.  I wasn't so sure about the second set - they both seemed neat and tidy but there was a duffel bag shoved under the bottom bunk.  With nobody around to ask, and not wanting to annoy my fellow bed mates, I decided to take the top bunk.

But, ummm...

There was no ladder.

I am 5' 1" and have never been described as athletic.  For a solid five minutes I think I just stared at the bed.  Surely I was missing something, right?  What was I supposed to do, take a running leap and hope for the best?  Suddenly I had flashbacks of the pommel horse in gym class...I never did make it over that stupid thing.  Eventually I put a tentative foot on the edge of the bottom bed and peeked over the top mattress.  I did a little hop.  There was no way on earth I could jump up from there.  Even worse than the realization that I was stranded, was the fear that one of the roommates would walk in as I was awkwardly balancing and hopping. 

Then I spotted a small stool in the corner, disguised by a jacket.  That might do the trick!  Dragging it over, I angled for the best possible position from which to climb.  Just about then, someone walked in.  She said hello and went about her business in the other room, walking back in periodically.  Certain that I did not want to make my first attempt at climbing while she stood watching, I nonchalantly looked through my bag, searching for nothing in particular, and made my best effort to look busy.  Hum-dee-dum.

Finally she left and I scrambled over to the stool.  It helped a little, but this was not going to be pretty.  I managed, barely, to jump up waist high, then scoot forward enough to swing my leg over.  With the other leg still hanging down, I did a little roll and somehow ended up on my back, safe and sound (sort of) on the top bunk.  I was up there, and I planned to stay up there for awhile!  But let me tell you, getting back down was no more graceful. 

That evening I came back after seeing some sights and two girls were in the room, the one I met earlier and a new one.  We all stood chatting, and suddenly the new girl sprang across the room, vaulted like some kind of circus freak, and landed ever so effortlessly on the top bunk.  I could not fathom in my wildest imagination how that was possible.  I was in awe and hated her at the same time. 

Then the other girl said, "Oh, let me move my duffel bag.  No one is using that bottom bunk.  You can take it if you want."

Thank GOD.

  

Oh, the Seventies



Oh, the Seventies.  This picture made me burst out laughing when I came across it this afternoon.

That's me.  Wearing a Shaun Cassidy t-shirt.  Yes, from the Hardy Boys.  I also had a light blue satin jacket with his picture on the back.  During Ms. Monson's art class, I splattered paint on it while washing my brushes.  Seemed kind of tragic at the time. 

That's my dad.  With a moustache.  My dad didn't normally sport a moustache and I think the reason is apparent.  Looks like he glued it on.  Quite humorous indeed...I don't think that lasted very long.

And that's my sister.  She just looks cute and cozy.  Seems about right.

Well, that's about it.  Just thought I'd share.  See ya. 

Springsteen and A Raspberry Tart

Today is October 4th, and October 4th is not one of my best days.  It's the anniversary of the day our mom died.  Even so, I was happy today and tried to do fun things that remind me of her.  So here's what I did...

Played a little Bruce Springsteen this morning - good and loud.  Mom was a big fan.  We both thought the "Dancing In the Dark" video was shot live at a concert, and didn't find out until years later that the girl pulled up on stage was actually Courteney Cox.  We were bummed.

Put on a pair of her earrings (she always wore big hoops).  I bought us both a pair one year - hers were olive green and mine were lavender.  Eventually I lost one of mine, so I wore the green ones today. 

Grabbed a coffee to go at Cafe Orlin.  When she visited NY while I was in college, we went to Orlin and sat outside on a warm spring night.  Two guys got in a fight directly across the street from us and smashed a beer bottle on a sign post.  Way to make a good impression of New York, guys.  She ordered a Cafe Latte and pronounced it with the accent on the last syllable of each word: caFAY laTAY.  Cracked me up.

Had lunch at Yaffa on the next block.  She liked it there too and it's one of my old favorites.  Wrote her a little note like I do every year.  When I finished writing, I checked the time on my phone and it was 3:06, the number of the house I grew up in.  Made me smile. 

Walked over to Veniero's and ordered two raspberry tarts.  The best!  This is my yearly tradition because my mom loved that place.  I take one home for myself (of course) and leave the other outside on the ledge along with my note.  Seems there is always someone standing there or sitting in a car watching me while I do this.  Suppose they wonder what I'm up to, but that's the way it goes.  Not to mention the folks at Veniero's.  I imagine they find it a little odd as well, especially if they ever bother to read the notes.  Heh.

Bought myself a pair of boots.  I stood pigeon-toed as I checked them out in the mirror.  For some reason that was my usual stance when I tried on clothes in high school, and my mom always teased me about it.  Apparently I still do it.

Just finished off my raspberry tart.  Deeeee-licious.  Night, mom.  Love you.

  

The Heat Is On

CLANG.  Kerchunk-chunk-chunk.  Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze.

The heat is on.  Despite my best protests and campaigning, fall has apparently arrived. 

Most apartments in New York City, at least every one I've occupied, have steam heat that rumbles up fitfully from cantankerous boilers hidden deep in the basement.  It's an angry and intrusive heat.  A heat that arrives in the middle of the night without calling first.  One minute you're sleeping peacefully, and the next you are shocked awake by what sounds like hammering on metal pipes next to your head. 

The radiator is always painted a fake dull silver, layer upon layer, curling at the edges.  If you're lucky, the knob to adjust the flow of steam hasn't been painted shut.  For the first several years I lived here I didn't even realize that was an option.  Maybe that was for the best, because now I spend my days and nights loosening and tightening this valve compulsively.  It's almost always too hot for my taste - the window stays cracked even in the coldest depths of January.  You can smell the heat the moment you open the door.

Let me just say up front that I am grateful to have heat at all.  Because I know that at some point the boiler will rebel and laugh as we sit heat-less for a day or two or three.  And no amount of sweatshirts and socks will quite cut the chill.  Happens every winter, just to remind us who's boss.

Growing up in Minnesota, we had quiet gentle heat.  Maybe it had to be to offset the malicious winter weather.  We had heat that blew happily from black iron grates in the floor that temporarily branded your feet with octagons when you stood on them.  As soon as we heard that puff of air, we'd run to sit on the grate in the TV room, a blanket tucked beneath us and over our shoulders.  We'd seal in the air until we became human Jiffy-Pop.  The best, though, was when our mom would wear her white fluffy robe.  She'd knot it at the waist and let the air inflate the bottom into a giant bell.  It never ceased to be hilarious. 

So for now I will lie awake and listen to this conversation of clunks and whistles.  Just about the time I think they're winding down and my lids are getting heavy again, a new set of sounds will be invited in to join the party.  After a week or two, they'll all be absorbed into my sub-conscious and I won't give them a second thought. 

Maybe.  It's possible.

Ker-chunk.

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. 

  

NYC

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

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.

                   



    

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.

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. 

         

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.