(June 30, 2011)
Breakfast today is yogurt with strawberries, granola, and honey and a cup of instant Nescafe (a weak excuse for coffee) at the homey Restaurante Lucy. Always crowded, you'll be forced to wait forever if you're unwilling to share a table with someone or somemore.
I share my table with Daniela, a recent college graduate who majored in communications. She has just returned from a conference in Colombia, accompanying her sister, a renowned environmental attorney. I notice Daniela´s intermediate English text, and our conversation shifts back and forth between our two languages. We exchange emails and phone numbers, so that we can get together; I'll help her with her English.
I´m running late to meet Pedro because I've stayed too long in the Internet Cafe. Still, I arrive before him at the Palanco Metro, from which we bus and hoof it to Carlos Slims' new art museum. Museo Soumaya, named for Slims's deceased wife, mushrooms from the ground, an asymetrical, windowless structure, covered in hexagonal metal panes. Inside is an impressive array of works from Slims' private collection, including sculptures by Rodin and Dali, paintings by Corot, Rivera, El Greco, Dutch Masters, and more. Even the restroom is a work of art, all marble and mirrors and adorned with vases holding white orchids. A fellow museum goer snaps photos as I close the door to one of the stalls.
The triangular excavation adjacent to Museo Soumaya is the future site of a second Slim museum, this one to house modern art. Two hundred and fifty seven museums to visit in this incredible city!
After he helps me re-activate my (Mexico only)cell phone, Pedro and I sit down to lunch in a crowded restaurant. Pedro worries about eating in a little street dive like this; he's already spotted a few cockroaches scurrying up a wall. As some of you already know, I never let bugs get in the way of my enjoyment of a meal, even if they are an essential or accidental part thereof. So far, my stomach has handled pretty much anything anyone can dish out. As Pedro's willing to take a chance with his digestive system, we dig into the meal of the day, squeezing lime juice into the shrimp broth brimming with cubes of potatoes and carrots. I push the sliced frankfurters to the side of my tasty plate of yellow rice. The whole fried mojarra (crappy, in English, but not crappy at all, in taste) with garlic is almost too big for one person. Almost. Of course, there are tortillas, and all we can drink of agua de jamaica. We stuff ourselves for 45 pesos each, less than $9.00 (US).
Two nice things happen: Pedro says I have a Cuban accent (when speaking Spanish), and the waiter asks if I am from Argentina. Flattery makes me feel...flattered.
Pedro walks me over to a place near my hotel, where I can use the Internet in comfort, thanks to Carlos Slim (whom I am starting to like a little). There are armchairs, sofas, tables, and artwork, and you can use a laptop at no charge, for however long you want, from 11am to 9 at night. I spend entirely too much time there.
Later, at the Ciudadela, I run into Jose. We dance to the sounds of a live band playing son cubano and then stroll over to the middle of the park, where Ismael is helping with a cumbia lesson. He teaches me some new moves and laughs at me, nonstop. I ask if he's making fun of me. He says that I dance well, that it's my constant smiling that makes him laugh. I guess it's obvious that I love to dance, huh?
I return to the area with live music and dance with a young Steven Segal look alike with whom I was taking cumbia lessons two years ago. Ricardo tells me that he wants to learn a couple more turns and then will move to Guadalajara, where he will teach dancing. There will surely be a line of women waiting to sign up; he is really, really good and easy on the eyes, as well. Plus, unlike the other Steven Segal, he doesn't beat you up if you make the wrong move.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
It Was a Dark and Stormy Day... (Mexico City, Mexico)
(June 29, 2011) As a storm rages, I wrestle with a restaurateur, meet with a foreign correspondent, hop on the wrong subway line, and tussle with a TV.
I awaken to a dark, chilly day. A tropical storm is pounding Vera Cruz and attempting to do the same here and in other parts of Mexico.
Julieta gives me a big hug before she serves me breakfast. I linger long after I´ve finished. It´s pouring, and I´m freezing in my light jacket. What to do today? Maybe I´ll visit a museum; there are at least 200 I haven`t been to yet. Perhaps I´ll just relax and go dancing later.
(Dancing starts at 4:00 pm and ends by 10 o´clock on weeknights, allowing time to decompress after work and still get a good night´s sleep. Pretty civilized, don´t you think?)
As I exit the Cafe Rex, I can`t avoid the owner, who is manning the cash register. I hand him 25 pesos, and he grabs my hand. "I know someone who makes sculptures of models. Should I make an appointment for you?"
I roll my eyes and try to retrieve my hand.
He pulls me closer, into a bear hug, and whispers, "I know we are going to make beautiful love together, aren't we?"
"Not while I´m alive," I tell him.
As I struggle to get away, he lets out a guffaw and releases me. I don´t eat here every day because I get tired of his overtures and expressions of unrequited like. I know it's all BS, but it's annoying, just the same.
I pass two hours in an Internet cafe, at the last minute receiving a message from a friend who wanted to meet me -- yesterday. I call and we arrange a get together in Colonia Roma, one of D.F.´s chic, upscale neighborhoods. Although Mexico produces superior coffee beans, it is incredibly hard to find a good cup of java. Temoris suggests Cafe Colon.
Temoris is rarely in town. Just returned from Colombia, where he lectured on censorship in the Arab press, he is now teaching a workshop on how to do what he has learned to do by experience. A freelance journalist who has written for major magazines throughout the world, he travels to places such as Iraq, Afghanistan, Cuba, and Gaza. He interviewed the Ugandan politician who proposed the law which would condemn homosexuals to death and who compared himself to Ghandi, Mother Theresa, and others "who are doing God`s work." More often, Temoris tries to report the stories of people who are fighting for justice.
We talk until Temoris must leave for his workshop. As I walk to the subway, I´m considering whether or not to go dancing. Hopping onto a car headed in the wrong direction and spending an hour traveling back to my point of departure settle the matter. I will go straight back to my hotel.
The ride is always interesting: I listen to the young, tatooed boys hawking candies, two for five pesos, in that particular singsong the subway vendors use. An old man, with his trousers rolled up to reveal scabby calves, wheezes through a harmonica. A man touts the benefits of (believe it or not!) a miner's headlamp, which I am sorely tempted to purchase. I try not to collapse in laughter as I surely would, if my friend A. were with me.(See my second blog entry for more on miner's headlamps.)
For dinner, I buy about 90 cents' worth of roasted, salted pumpkin seeds from Sanborn`s. (There I go again, lining the pockets of its owner, Carlos Slim, one of the world´s richest men.) I eat them in my room.
I try reading in the dim light, but give up. I turn on the television, a cranky, crotchety contraption that promptly turns itself off. We tussle. On. Off. On. Off. I eventually win or, as the case may be, lose. I am subjected to an idiotic and obnoxious video -- the fourth most watched on YouTube -- of a drunkard explaining the meaning of the word "Fwa," which emerges from his lips as a great catharsis and (probably) the prelude to a bout of vomiting (which is, thankfully, not shown).
I awaken to a dark, chilly day. A tropical storm is pounding Vera Cruz and attempting to do the same here and in other parts of Mexico.
Julieta gives me a big hug before she serves me breakfast. I linger long after I´ve finished. It´s pouring, and I´m freezing in my light jacket. What to do today? Maybe I´ll visit a museum; there are at least 200 I haven`t been to yet. Perhaps I´ll just relax and go dancing later.
(Dancing starts at 4:00 pm and ends by 10 o´clock on weeknights, allowing time to decompress after work and still get a good night´s sleep. Pretty civilized, don´t you think?)
As I exit the Cafe Rex, I can`t avoid the owner, who is manning the cash register. I hand him 25 pesos, and he grabs my hand. "I know someone who makes sculptures of models. Should I make an appointment for you?"
I roll my eyes and try to retrieve my hand.
He pulls me closer, into a bear hug, and whispers, "I know we are going to make beautiful love together, aren't we?"
"Not while I´m alive," I tell him.
As I struggle to get away, he lets out a guffaw and releases me. I don´t eat here every day because I get tired of his overtures and expressions of unrequited like. I know it's all BS, but it's annoying, just the same.
I pass two hours in an Internet cafe, at the last minute receiving a message from a friend who wanted to meet me -- yesterday. I call and we arrange a get together in Colonia Roma, one of D.F.´s chic, upscale neighborhoods. Although Mexico produces superior coffee beans, it is incredibly hard to find a good cup of java. Temoris suggests Cafe Colon.
Temoris is rarely in town. Just returned from Colombia, where he lectured on censorship in the Arab press, he is now teaching a workshop on how to do what he has learned to do by experience. A freelance journalist who has written for major magazines throughout the world, he travels to places such as Iraq, Afghanistan, Cuba, and Gaza. He interviewed the Ugandan politician who proposed the law which would condemn homosexuals to death and who compared himself to Ghandi, Mother Theresa, and others "who are doing God`s work." More often, Temoris tries to report the stories of people who are fighting for justice.
We talk until Temoris must leave for his workshop. As I walk to the subway, I´m considering whether or not to go dancing. Hopping onto a car headed in the wrong direction and spending an hour traveling back to my point of departure settle the matter. I will go straight back to my hotel.
The ride is always interesting: I listen to the young, tatooed boys hawking candies, two for five pesos, in that particular singsong the subway vendors use. An old man, with his trousers rolled up to reveal scabby calves, wheezes through a harmonica. A man touts the benefits of (believe it or not!) a miner's headlamp, which I am sorely tempted to purchase. I try not to collapse in laughter as I surely would, if my friend A. were with me.(See my second blog entry for more on miner's headlamps.)
For dinner, I buy about 90 cents' worth of roasted, salted pumpkin seeds from Sanborn`s. (There I go again, lining the pockets of its owner, Carlos Slim, one of the world´s richest men.) I eat them in my room.
I try reading in the dim light, but give up. I turn on the television, a cranky, crotchety contraption that promptly turns itself off. We tussle. On. Off. On. Off. I eventually win or, as the case may be, lose. I am subjected to an idiotic and obnoxious video -- the fourth most watched on YouTube -- of a drunkard explaining the meaning of the word "Fwa," which emerges from his lips as a great catharsis and (probably) the prelude to a bout of vomiting (which is, thankfully, not shown).
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Up Against a Wall on Regina Street (Mexico City, Mexico)
(June 29, 2011) Art! Dogs! Dancing in the park!
My breakfast restaurant won´t open until 9:00 a.m., according to one of the waitresses I meet on the street. I have an hour to while away, so I start walking and watching.
It's obviously time to take the animals out to people watch. A bevy of poodles and bichons frises, all white fluff, lead their walker on her leashes. A sweat-shirt-sporting sharpei, alert and energetic even down to his wrinkles, precedes his mistress down the street. A pair of the world´s ugliest dogs, hairless but for tufts atop their heads and tails -- that rare breed so beloved by Frida Kahlo, who included hers in many self portraits, and by the Aztecs, who no doubt thought they tasted like chicken -- pause to give me the once-over. They are probably thinking:"Oh, my God! Another one of those ugly humans! There are more of them now than in the good old days before the Spanish Conquest!"
A man pushes a cart laden with huge plastic jugs of purified water. "Ay, I´m so tired," he says aloud. Then he sing-songs his wares in a rich, resonant voice that reverberates through the concrete canyon that is Regina Street.
From 1560-1928, this was called The Street of the Heart of Jesus. That heart might break if it were to see what has sprung up among the churches, convent, and remaining buildings that date back to its founding. Now it is home to bars, to stores selling school supplies, to closet-sized food stands, chi chi restaurants, a rambling market,and raw-chicken mongers. Or, maybe not. Merchants probably hawked their produce and all sorts of merchandise in doorways and impromptu stands back then, as well.
I sit down on a stone bench, as I am mesmerized by the mural that covers the first story of an abandoned building. "Huellas de la basura" or "Traces (or Tracks) of Garbage," by Gorka Larrañaga (www.gorkalarranaga.com; www.iranixe.net) shows man-like creatures with broad, squared shoulders, barrel chests, and skinny, bird-like legs. Hands and feet are claws, although one of the creature's hands have bolted knuckles, reminiscent of a robot's. Another figure has a beak. All are bald. Several have openings, in the form of keyholes, doorways, or tunnels, in their chests. In one figure's abdomen, a window --no, a medicine cabinet -- reveals a man's face, partially shrouded by netting and, on the cabinet door, a mirror. Connected at the hip to one of the strange man-birds is an armless child-sized being. A blue cup, from which a black palm tree sprouts, balances on its head. A seated man wearing a hat opens the door of what appears to be the interior of a car -- inside another creature's head. The host holds an empty bird cage.
It is at times like these that I wish I had a camerea, to show you the perfect incongruity between this at once horrific and captivating contemporary mural and the crumbling old building it adorns.
The maroon-colored edifice has been shedding slivers of its facade. Shards of glass have cracked or fallen from the windows. Balconies are chipping paint and earning rust. A still-perfect tile, imbedded in the middle of the top story, depicts the Virgin of Guadalupe. Another, lower down, shows two birds, necks craning toward each other, surrounded by flowers that hover in white space. Trees nest on the roof, no garden, but a scraggle of spindly shoots that testifies to the power and persistence of nature. Life adapts. Life continues.
I continue on to my breakfast.
Later in the day, I am at la Ciudadela, my favorite park. I dance with Paco, Ismael (the cigarette-reeking cabbie, one hell of a dancer), the pompadoured salsa instructor -- all acquaintances from previous visits.
A man with whom I danced last night runs up to me as I head toward the rest room. "Remember me?"
I do. Two lead feet, stiff as a board, trying to execute steps far too advanced for him.
"You dance well," he says. "When are you going back to the dance place?"
I shrug and take my leave.
On my way back to the hotel, I stop for a paste, an empanada-like snack. I pick one filled with tuna and chipotle peppers.
I'm in bed, two minutes short of sleep, by 9:30 p.m.
My breakfast restaurant won´t open until 9:00 a.m., according to one of the waitresses I meet on the street. I have an hour to while away, so I start walking and watching.
It's obviously time to take the animals out to people watch. A bevy of poodles and bichons frises, all white fluff, lead their walker on her leashes. A sweat-shirt-sporting sharpei, alert and energetic even down to his wrinkles, precedes his mistress down the street. A pair of the world´s ugliest dogs, hairless but for tufts atop their heads and tails -- that rare breed so beloved by Frida Kahlo, who included hers in many self portraits, and by the Aztecs, who no doubt thought they tasted like chicken -- pause to give me the once-over. They are probably thinking:"Oh, my God! Another one of those ugly humans! There are more of them now than in the good old days before the Spanish Conquest!"
A man pushes a cart laden with huge plastic jugs of purified water. "Ay, I´m so tired," he says aloud. Then he sing-songs his wares in a rich, resonant voice that reverberates through the concrete canyon that is Regina Street.
From 1560-1928, this was called The Street of the Heart of Jesus. That heart might break if it were to see what has sprung up among the churches, convent, and remaining buildings that date back to its founding. Now it is home to bars, to stores selling school supplies, to closet-sized food stands, chi chi restaurants, a rambling market,and raw-chicken mongers. Or, maybe not. Merchants probably hawked their produce and all sorts of merchandise in doorways and impromptu stands back then, as well.
I sit down on a stone bench, as I am mesmerized by the mural that covers the first story of an abandoned building. "Huellas de la basura" or "Traces (or Tracks) of Garbage," by Gorka Larrañaga (www.gorkalarranaga.com; www.iranixe.net) shows man-like creatures with broad, squared shoulders, barrel chests, and skinny, bird-like legs. Hands and feet are claws, although one of the creature's hands have bolted knuckles, reminiscent of a robot's. Another figure has a beak. All are bald. Several have openings, in the form of keyholes, doorways, or tunnels, in their chests. In one figure's abdomen, a window --no, a medicine cabinet -- reveals a man's face, partially shrouded by netting and, on the cabinet door, a mirror. Connected at the hip to one of the strange man-birds is an armless child-sized being. A blue cup, from which a black palm tree sprouts, balances on its head. A seated man wearing a hat opens the door of what appears to be the interior of a car -- inside another creature's head. The host holds an empty bird cage.
It is at times like these that I wish I had a camerea, to show you the perfect incongruity between this at once horrific and captivating contemporary mural and the crumbling old building it adorns.
The maroon-colored edifice has been shedding slivers of its facade. Shards of glass have cracked or fallen from the windows. Balconies are chipping paint and earning rust. A still-perfect tile, imbedded in the middle of the top story, depicts the Virgin of Guadalupe. Another, lower down, shows two birds, necks craning toward each other, surrounded by flowers that hover in white space. Trees nest on the roof, no garden, but a scraggle of spindly shoots that testifies to the power and persistence of nature. Life adapts. Life continues.
I continue on to my breakfast.
Later in the day, I am at la Ciudadela, my favorite park. I dance with Paco, Ismael (the cigarette-reeking cabbie, one hell of a dancer), the pompadoured salsa instructor -- all acquaintances from previous visits.
A man with whom I danced last night runs up to me as I head toward the rest room. "Remember me?"
I do. Two lead feet, stiff as a board, trying to execute steps far too advanced for him.
"You dance well," he says. "When are you going back to the dance place?"
I shrug and take my leave.
On my way back to the hotel, I stop for a paste, an empanada-like snack. I pick one filled with tuna and chipotle peppers.
I'm in bed, two minutes short of sleep, by 9:30 p.m.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
I´m baaaaack! (Mexico City, Mexico)
(June 28, 2011)
Other than a couple of new faces and the vendor or insane person attempting to sing, off-key, in an ear-splitting monotone that echoes off the walls of my room and makes me want to slit his throat and/or mine, things are pretty much the same at the hotel I call home. The first thing I do after unpacking is go for a walk to see what´s changed in the neighborhood.
I am shocked to discover that my preferred breakfast joint has been shut down, yellow tape strips announcing its closing according to law yadda, yadda, sections such and such. Probably a question of hygiene, or maybe a desire to extract a big fee/bribe for the restaurant to reopen? Who knows and who will tell me?
My favorite chicken rotisserie guy greets me at the restaurant across the street. "Where have you been? I went to Los Angeles to look for you."
"I don´t live in Los Angeles."
I order a quarter of his succulent, crispy skinned chicken from the sullen waitress. Within minutes of its arrival, I polish it off, suck the marrow from the bones. I even eat the the mound of potato chips that accompanies the poultry. I believe this is the way in which I am expressing my grief at the Cafe Rex's demise. I am sad to lose my cheap, filling, nutritious, and delicious breakfasts. More than that, I am worried about the fate of Julieta, my favorite waitress, and of the other employees. Work is hard to come by these days, especially for the not so young.
On my way out of the restaurant, I notice that the door is ajar at Cafe Rex. When I peer in, I see the chickens browning on the rotisserie. I enter and greet Julieta and the others. People are seated at the tables, eating paella, eating chicken, eating as usual.
"What happened?" I ask the owner, the lecherous older man who usually ogles me as if I were some spring chicken and he the fox, ready to spring. Today, he's obviously too absorbed in his restaurant's troubles to trouble me.
"It was a trap," he says, refusing to elaborate.
"Will you be open tomorrow for breakfast?"
"Yes, there´s no problem."
Still hungry, I stop at a hole-in-the-wall fruit stand and consume a bowl of fresh papaya, cantelope, and mango chunks, drenched in chili, salt, and the juice of half a lime.
I spend an hour at an Internet cafe, letting people know I´ve arrived. I´m so tired that I return to my hotel for a nap. After 10 minutes or so, my alarm shrieks me awake. Groggily, I redress.
Emerging from the subway, I am completely disoriented. The streets are closed to vehicular traffic, as thousands of people mull about, almost every one of them carrying a plastic Saint Judas, garlanded with flowers. Some of the saints are the size of a Barbie doll, others a foot or two tall. Occasionally, someone staggers by holding one that is bigger than life-size. I weave my way through the throng, among the men handing out cards covered with prayers and blessings, and around the numerous vendors of rosaries, corn on and off the cob, tortillas, quesadillas, sandwiches, saints, flowers, puppets, and manual can openers. I glimpse the church spires that tell me I'm close to where I want to be, but I can't see the dance hall over the heads of the saints.
After ten or fifteen minutes of false starts and middles, of ending up across the street from my destination, and of forging my way back, I escape the crowds.
"Salsa, tonight? I ask upon arriving at Salon Hidalgo.
"Pura salsa," the ticket taker assures me. "Nothing but."
My best bartender´s face lights up when he sees me. "¡Qué milagro!" What a miracle, indeed.
I sit down at a long table, empty but for a large pocket book slung across the other end. A couple turns up and, upon learning that the seats across from me are free, they drape their jackets on the chair backs and hasten onto the dance floor.
The music is playing. One cumbia follows another. Pura salsa, my eye!
A man holds out his hand. "I don´t know how to dance cumbia," I tell him. He withdraws his hand, along with the rest of him.
A quartet of women enters, searching for seats. I am happy when they join me. (It´s always a good idea not to appear to be alone.) We introduce ourselves: Irene (the only woman whose name I can hear and remember) is a dark skinned beauty with a strong, Mayan profile; there's the friendly, vivacious, and slender dyed-blond; a third woman is elegant in black and pearls; the fourth is very overweight, frowny, heavily made up, and the least receptive to me. We quickly start to joke and laugh. They fan me with their fans, and I wave my hands to do the same for them. The fans are more effective, but not by much. It´s hotter than hell, and we haven't even danced yet.
I walk over to a table to greet someone I recognize. "Don't you teach dance at the Ciudadela?" I ask him.
He leads me to the floor and says, "Yes, and I will give you private lessons wherever you want."
He holds me in a boa death grip; I push him away. He launches into a series of steps that translate into "LOOK AT ME! I AM SUCH A GREAT DANCER!!!!" and that make me look away. As soon as the song ends, I send him a message that translates into "LOOK AT ME! I CAN RUN!" I scurry back to my table.
My other dance partners include a slovenly, bespectacled guy of undeterminable age and girth, who turns out to be a wild man on the dance floor. He spins me multiple times, ending with a dip that drops me to within an inch of my life and the dance floor. An acquaintance from the park catches me on my way to the restroom and drags me into a poor excuse for a cumbia. A profusely sweating, mustachioed walrus of a man leads me so deftly in a cumbia that I remember the rhythms, the steps I've forgotten, and some that I never learned. Four or five other men pull me out of conversation with my new girlfriends. Angel, an excellent, smooth-dancing teddy bear, always hovers in the wings and swoops me onto the floor when nobody else does.
It's only 8:45 p.m., but I am exhausted. Lack of sleep is catching up with me, and my hips are aching. Gotta go!
My girlfriends decide to leave with me. But first, they program my name and hotel phone number into their cell phones. This takes about 10 minutes of yelling the spelling and misspellings of my last name over the band's blaring. Then we wait about 10 minutes for Irene to emerge from the Ladies' Room.
As we dawdle by the stairway, virtually all of my partners come up to me, requesting another dance. I refuse. Then, a young man with whom I haven't danced, asks me to. "Thanks, but I'm too tired and have already taken off my dancing shoes," I tell him. "But look! There are all those women out there waiting for you!"
"But none with blue eyes."
"Oh, no. I think there must be others. You just have to look for them."
The five of us women descend the stairs, stream out into the street and down into the subway. The blond gifts me a rose from a bouquet that she's bought for her mother's birthday. We all hug good night and goodby.
Other than a couple of new faces and the vendor or insane person attempting to sing, off-key, in an ear-splitting monotone that echoes off the walls of my room and makes me want to slit his throat and/or mine, things are pretty much the same at the hotel I call home. The first thing I do after unpacking is go for a walk to see what´s changed in the neighborhood.
I am shocked to discover that my preferred breakfast joint has been shut down, yellow tape strips announcing its closing according to law yadda, yadda, sections such and such. Probably a question of hygiene, or maybe a desire to extract a big fee/bribe for the restaurant to reopen? Who knows and who will tell me?
My favorite chicken rotisserie guy greets me at the restaurant across the street. "Where have you been? I went to Los Angeles to look for you."
"I don´t live in Los Angeles."
I order a quarter of his succulent, crispy skinned chicken from the sullen waitress. Within minutes of its arrival, I polish it off, suck the marrow from the bones. I even eat the the mound of potato chips that accompanies the poultry. I believe this is the way in which I am expressing my grief at the Cafe Rex's demise. I am sad to lose my cheap, filling, nutritious, and delicious breakfasts. More than that, I am worried about the fate of Julieta, my favorite waitress, and of the other employees. Work is hard to come by these days, especially for the not so young.
On my way out of the restaurant, I notice that the door is ajar at Cafe Rex. When I peer in, I see the chickens browning on the rotisserie. I enter and greet Julieta and the others. People are seated at the tables, eating paella, eating chicken, eating as usual.
"What happened?" I ask the owner, the lecherous older man who usually ogles me as if I were some spring chicken and he the fox, ready to spring. Today, he's obviously too absorbed in his restaurant's troubles to trouble me.
"It was a trap," he says, refusing to elaborate.
"Will you be open tomorrow for breakfast?"
"Yes, there´s no problem."
Still hungry, I stop at a hole-in-the-wall fruit stand and consume a bowl of fresh papaya, cantelope, and mango chunks, drenched in chili, salt, and the juice of half a lime.
I spend an hour at an Internet cafe, letting people know I´ve arrived. I´m so tired that I return to my hotel for a nap. After 10 minutes or so, my alarm shrieks me awake. Groggily, I redress.
Emerging from the subway, I am completely disoriented. The streets are closed to vehicular traffic, as thousands of people mull about, almost every one of them carrying a plastic Saint Judas, garlanded with flowers. Some of the saints are the size of a Barbie doll, others a foot or two tall. Occasionally, someone staggers by holding one that is bigger than life-size. I weave my way through the throng, among the men handing out cards covered with prayers and blessings, and around the numerous vendors of rosaries, corn on and off the cob, tortillas, quesadillas, sandwiches, saints, flowers, puppets, and manual can openers. I glimpse the church spires that tell me I'm close to where I want to be, but I can't see the dance hall over the heads of the saints.
After ten or fifteen minutes of false starts and middles, of ending up across the street from my destination, and of forging my way back, I escape the crowds.
"Salsa, tonight? I ask upon arriving at Salon Hidalgo.
"Pura salsa," the ticket taker assures me. "Nothing but."
My best bartender´s face lights up when he sees me. "¡Qué milagro!" What a miracle, indeed.
I sit down at a long table, empty but for a large pocket book slung across the other end. A couple turns up and, upon learning that the seats across from me are free, they drape their jackets on the chair backs and hasten onto the dance floor.
The music is playing. One cumbia follows another. Pura salsa, my eye!
A man holds out his hand. "I don´t know how to dance cumbia," I tell him. He withdraws his hand, along with the rest of him.
A quartet of women enters, searching for seats. I am happy when they join me. (It´s always a good idea not to appear to be alone.) We introduce ourselves: Irene (the only woman whose name I can hear and remember) is a dark skinned beauty with a strong, Mayan profile; there's the friendly, vivacious, and slender dyed-blond; a third woman is elegant in black and pearls; the fourth is very overweight, frowny, heavily made up, and the least receptive to me. We quickly start to joke and laugh. They fan me with their fans, and I wave my hands to do the same for them. The fans are more effective, but not by much. It´s hotter than hell, and we haven't even danced yet.
I walk over to a table to greet someone I recognize. "Don't you teach dance at the Ciudadela?" I ask him.
He leads me to the floor and says, "Yes, and I will give you private lessons wherever you want."
He holds me in a boa death grip; I push him away. He launches into a series of steps that translate into "LOOK AT ME! I AM SUCH A GREAT DANCER!!!!" and that make me look away. As soon as the song ends, I send him a message that translates into "LOOK AT ME! I CAN RUN!" I scurry back to my table.
My other dance partners include a slovenly, bespectacled guy of undeterminable age and girth, who turns out to be a wild man on the dance floor. He spins me multiple times, ending with a dip that drops me to within an inch of my life and the dance floor. An acquaintance from the park catches me on my way to the restroom and drags me into a poor excuse for a cumbia. A profusely sweating, mustachioed walrus of a man leads me so deftly in a cumbia that I remember the rhythms, the steps I've forgotten, and some that I never learned. Four or five other men pull me out of conversation with my new girlfriends. Angel, an excellent, smooth-dancing teddy bear, always hovers in the wings and swoops me onto the floor when nobody else does.
It's only 8:45 p.m., but I am exhausted. Lack of sleep is catching up with me, and my hips are aching. Gotta go!
My girlfriends decide to leave with me. But first, they program my name and hotel phone number into their cell phones. This takes about 10 minutes of yelling the spelling and misspellings of my last name over the band's blaring. Then we wait about 10 minutes for Irene to emerge from the Ladies' Room.
As we dawdle by the stairway, virtually all of my partners come up to me, requesting another dance. I refuse. Then, a young man with whom I haven't danced, asks me to. "Thanks, but I'm too tired and have already taken off my dancing shoes," I tell him. "But look! There are all those women out there waiting for you!"
"But none with blue eyes."
"Oh, no. I think there must be others. You just have to look for them."
The five of us women descend the stairs, stream out into the street and down into the subway. The blond gifts me a rose from a bouquet that she's bought for her mother's birthday. We all hug good night and goodby.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Break Down (Richmond, VA)
(June 26, 2011)
Wouldn't you know that just when I need to go driving all over town, gathering everything I need before leaving the country for the summer, my car decides to conk out?
I'm not referring here to the world's ugliest auto, which I've written about in the past and which, you would rightly think, would hold a mighty grudge against me for calling it homely and not finding a single positive thing to say about it. No, this is the old lady's car with the old car's body. The car that turns mechanics on -- not just because it needs lots of work and has probably helped them buy a couple of boats with the money I've spent to keep the thing running -- but because of the sexy roar of that turbo engine when it smacks into action. With just 88,000 miles, this 1988 paint-peeling baby has zip, speed, and looks just great when pealing (sp?) ahead of others on the highway, although it looks quite decrepit when parked, idling, or moving at the speed of limits.
It's this car, sturdy and reliable, hiding its inner beauty under a hood, it's this car that has betrayed me when I need it most.
First, it starts whining. A high-pitched, bird-like sound that I think is coming from another nearby vehicle. When I finally realize that no single car has been following me around for over an hour and a half, I am almost as unnerved as I would have been had I confirmed that I was being stalked. Any remaining nerve disappears when I glance at my dashboard, where there are more lights flashing than you'd encounter on the annual Tacky Lights Christmas Tour. Not only are they warning me of low levels of fluid and high levels of engine temperature, but they are sending me subliminal and superliminal messages: GET OFF THE ROAD! NOW!
U- and me-turning, I draw into a gas station, parking in the rear. What seems like forever after calling for help, the mobile mechanic pulls up alongside me. After a careful and thorough 10-second evaluation, he says, "You're totally out of coolant."
That's unusual, because this car is always up to my neck in coolant. That's because the malfunctioning coolant gauge always says that the level is low, so we're always checking to keep it full. I tell this to the mechanic as I pay way too much for a big batch of the fluid in the station's convenience store. I stand next to him as he pours the liquid into the proper container and assures me that I'll be able to go my merry way.
My merry way is impeded when the mechanic notices the liquid gushing out from the bottom of the car. "Uh-oh," he says, never a good word coming from a mechanic who is crawling under your vehicle.
"It's the water pump," he tells me.
"It's gonna cost a million dollars," I hear.
"I can order one, but since the car is old, the part might not be in stock."
I go into the convenience store to explain my situation and ask permission to leave the car until the mechanic can fix it. "It's okay with me," says the fellow behind the counter, "but if the big boss comes by, he'll have it towed."
"Can you call the big boss?" I ask.
"No."
"Can I call the big boss?" I beg.
"No." The big boss is "the corporation," and you never know when its representatives will do a drive by and tow anything that they come across.
Mobile mechanic suggests driving the car into the nearest residential neighborhood and parking it. "You can drive it for about three minutes..." he says.
"Before it explodes," my mind finishes the sentence.
I park the car in a subdivision, in front of a house where there are already six or seven vehicles. Maybe they won´t notice the addition... I ring the doorbell, but nobody answers. So I walk down the block, knocking on doors, hoping to have someone else inform the homeowner of my plight and my request that he or she won´t have my car towed. No one is home.
Later that day, I drive back to the neighborhood in the super ugly car. The woman who eyes me suspiciously from behind a screen door guesses that it´s okay to leave the car, but I´ve parked it in her husband´s spot and am blocking the mailbox. Can I move it?
I can´t because I´ve already given the keys to the mobile mechanic and I don't have the spare with me. "I´ll come back tomorrow," I tell her.
Husband and I return to the neighborhood the next day. I tell the woman and her husband that the mechanic won´t be able to fix the car until tomorrow, because the wrong water pump came in. My husband moves the car down the block, while I explain that the car doesn´t have an up-to-date sticker because I hadn´t noticed that it had expired until a police officer stopped me the other day, verified that the fee had been paid, and my husband had sent in the $1.00 to get a replacement for the one I had never put on and had subsequently lost, but the new sticker hasn´t arrived yet. I give them my business card and home phone, so they can call me if there are any problems. I obviously come across as completely pathetic because the couple has become quite sympathetic.
The next day, despite three phone calls made and messages left, the mechanic never contacts us. Turns out he had a family emergency. When he calls the day after, he assures us that he will fix the car that very next day.
That´s the very day that we learn that my car has died. The mechanic says that it´s a blown head gasket, but I think it is pure and unadulterated spite.
Wouldn't you know that just when I need to go driving all over town, gathering everything I need before leaving the country for the summer, my car decides to conk out?
I'm not referring here to the world's ugliest auto, which I've written about in the past and which, you would rightly think, would hold a mighty grudge against me for calling it homely and not finding a single positive thing to say about it. No, this is the old lady's car with the old car's body. The car that turns mechanics on -- not just because it needs lots of work and has probably helped them buy a couple of boats with the money I've spent to keep the thing running -- but because of the sexy roar of that turbo engine when it smacks into action. With just 88,000 miles, this 1988 paint-peeling baby has zip, speed, and looks just great when pealing (sp?) ahead of others on the highway, although it looks quite decrepit when parked, idling, or moving at the speed of limits.
It's this car, sturdy and reliable, hiding its inner beauty under a hood, it's this car that has betrayed me when I need it most.
First, it starts whining. A high-pitched, bird-like sound that I think is coming from another nearby vehicle. When I finally realize that no single car has been following me around for over an hour and a half, I am almost as unnerved as I would have been had I confirmed that I was being stalked. Any remaining nerve disappears when I glance at my dashboard, where there are more lights flashing than you'd encounter on the annual Tacky Lights Christmas Tour. Not only are they warning me of low levels of fluid and high levels of engine temperature, but they are sending me subliminal and superliminal messages: GET OFF THE ROAD! NOW!
U- and me-turning, I draw into a gas station, parking in the rear. What seems like forever after calling for help, the mobile mechanic pulls up alongside me. After a careful and thorough 10-second evaluation, he says, "You're totally out of coolant."
That's unusual, because this car is always up to my neck in coolant. That's because the malfunctioning coolant gauge always says that the level is low, so we're always checking to keep it full. I tell this to the mechanic as I pay way too much for a big batch of the fluid in the station's convenience store. I stand next to him as he pours the liquid into the proper container and assures me that I'll be able to go my merry way.
My merry way is impeded when the mechanic notices the liquid gushing out from the bottom of the car. "Uh-oh," he says, never a good word coming from a mechanic who is crawling under your vehicle.
"It's the water pump," he tells me.
"It's gonna cost a million dollars," I hear.
"I can order one, but since the car is old, the part might not be in stock."
I go into the convenience store to explain my situation and ask permission to leave the car until the mechanic can fix it. "It's okay with me," says the fellow behind the counter, "but if the big boss comes by, he'll have it towed."
"Can you call the big boss?" I ask.
"No."
"Can I call the big boss?" I beg.
"No." The big boss is "the corporation," and you never know when its representatives will do a drive by and tow anything that they come across.
Mobile mechanic suggests driving the car into the nearest residential neighborhood and parking it. "You can drive it for about three minutes..." he says.
"Before it explodes," my mind finishes the sentence.
I park the car in a subdivision, in front of a house where there are already six or seven vehicles. Maybe they won´t notice the addition... I ring the doorbell, but nobody answers. So I walk down the block, knocking on doors, hoping to have someone else inform the homeowner of my plight and my request that he or she won´t have my car towed. No one is home.
Later that day, I drive back to the neighborhood in the super ugly car. The woman who eyes me suspiciously from behind a screen door guesses that it´s okay to leave the car, but I´ve parked it in her husband´s spot and am blocking the mailbox. Can I move it?
I can´t because I´ve already given the keys to the mobile mechanic and I don't have the spare with me. "I´ll come back tomorrow," I tell her.
Husband and I return to the neighborhood the next day. I tell the woman and her husband that the mechanic won´t be able to fix the car until tomorrow, because the wrong water pump came in. My husband moves the car down the block, while I explain that the car doesn´t have an up-to-date sticker because I hadn´t noticed that it had expired until a police officer stopped me the other day, verified that the fee had been paid, and my husband had sent in the $1.00 to get a replacement for the one I had never put on and had subsequently lost, but the new sticker hasn´t arrived yet. I give them my business card and home phone, so they can call me if there are any problems. I obviously come across as completely pathetic because the couple has become quite sympathetic.
The next day, despite three phone calls made and messages left, the mechanic never contacts us. Turns out he had a family emergency. When he calls the day after, he assures us that he will fix the car that very next day.
That´s the very day that we learn that my car has died. The mechanic says that it´s a blown head gasket, but I think it is pure and unadulterated spite.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Make up and Make Over (Richmond, VA)
(Written in April, 2011)
My dental hygienist is cleaning my teeth, and I'm telling her about my horrific passport photos. I suggest that we set up a mini-makeup clinic and hair salon at every location where passport pics are taken, so that women could look their best when looking their worst. "We'd make a mint," I say, although it sounds more like, "Wud mukka munth."
Amanda has been up to dental hi-jinx for a long time, so she understands. She understands that this is a bad idea. She also understands that I need help, so she recommends that I meet her at the makeup counter of Saks Fifth Avenue for a makeover.
When her hands and instruments are out of my mouth, I make clear that my last and only makeover took place when I was 22. The woman attempting to remake me, certainly did. She spackled me with layer upon layer of plaster-like goop. I was the original American Idol -- one that could have been placed in the middle of town in the same way that Michelangelo's David graces the main piazza in Florence, Italy. Except that I was not that big or impressive or well crafted or male or, shall we say, statue-esque. I guess I should say that the only real similarity was that if the statue of David or the newly made up me had smiled, both our faces would have cracked.
Despite the heavy-handed application of facial plaster, I thought I looked pretty damn cute -- although dour. I remember catching sight of my unrecognizable self in a store window: My skin was unchipped porcelain. My lips were full and pouty, my cheek bones high and highlighted, my eyes, flashy. My eyelashes were so long, they were practically knocking into passersby. I quickly adopted a near approximation of a confident, sexy stride.
When I strode into my apartment, my roommate shrieked: "What the HELL happened to you?!"
It took me two hours, a jar of Vaseline, and a roll of paper towels to remove my faux face.
"My make-up lady will know just what to do to make you look great," Amanda assured me.
Several days later, Amanda and I meet at the agreed-upon department store makeup counter. As an averred mall-hater, I take pride in avoiding exactly this type of location. I had considered donning a big hat and large sunglasses to shield me from the glare of the sun and anyone who might know me, but I reconsidered; it would be very difficult to apply makeup through a lens, darkly.
The makeup applicator is on break, so we escalate up to the designer dress boutiques. We waste time rummaging through racks of teeny ensembles, designed for tall babies or anorexic tweens, with huge prices that we couldn't afford, even if we wanted to buy something. Which we don't. Then we wander among displays of equally pricey dishes, glasses, and knickknacks. I decide to forgo purchasing a bead-bedecked bread knife in favor of paying my monthly mortgage. Sure, it's not as pretty, but woman cannot live by bread alone.
We return to the makeup counter and wait some more, while I comment, in hushed tones, that I don't want to walk out looking like any of the cosmetics consultants who are hard or hardly at work there. Amanda tells me to be quieter.
Finally, our gal appears -- well coiffed and smartly made up and down. Amanda introduces us, and I immediately clarify my intentions and parameters: "I want to look younger and as close as I can get to beautiful. And the process has to take me no more than two minutes a day. Otherwise, we are both wasting our time. Can you fix me?"
Let's call her "Cherry" is up to the challenge. She concentrates on the things that need the most fixing: a tinted moisturizer will lend me a natural "glow"; some missing eyebrow hairs will be penciled in to give me a more youthful visage; mascara and eye liner will make my eyes "pop."
I am assured by both Cherry and Amanda that I have received the equivalent of a magical, miracle redesign. I look "fresh," "vibrant," "renewed," "finished." My eyes are not just plain ol' windows to my soul; they're picture windows, no, Palladium windows, framed by lashes so long they can't believe they're real! My complexion comes and "glows." Frankly, I can't wait to see me!
I look in the mirror. My mother looks back at me. I am totally freaked out to realize that I have become my very own mother!!!!!
Despite the disquiet I feel, I am now the proud owner of a small collection of makeup that takes me 118 seconds to apply, that gives me a look so natural that nobody notices, and that cost me the equivalent of half a dress I can't afford.
My dental hygienist is cleaning my teeth, and I'm telling her about my horrific passport photos. I suggest that we set up a mini-makeup clinic and hair salon at every location where passport pics are taken, so that women could look their best when looking their worst. "We'd make a mint," I say, although it sounds more like, "Wud mukka munth."
Amanda has been up to dental hi-jinx for a long time, so she understands. She understands that this is a bad idea. She also understands that I need help, so she recommends that I meet her at the makeup counter of Saks Fifth Avenue for a makeover.
When her hands and instruments are out of my mouth, I make clear that my last and only makeover took place when I was 22. The woman attempting to remake me, certainly did. She spackled me with layer upon layer of plaster-like goop. I was the original American Idol -- one that could have been placed in the middle of town in the same way that Michelangelo's David graces the main piazza in Florence, Italy. Except that I was not that big or impressive or well crafted or male or, shall we say, statue-esque. I guess I should say that the only real similarity was that if the statue of David or the newly made up me had smiled, both our faces would have cracked.
Despite the heavy-handed application of facial plaster, I thought I looked pretty damn cute -- although dour. I remember catching sight of my unrecognizable self in a store window: My skin was unchipped porcelain. My lips were full and pouty, my cheek bones high and highlighted, my eyes, flashy. My eyelashes were so long, they were practically knocking into passersby. I quickly adopted a near approximation of a confident, sexy stride.
When I strode into my apartment, my roommate shrieked: "What the HELL happened to you?!"
It took me two hours, a jar of Vaseline, and a roll of paper towels to remove my faux face.
"My make-up lady will know just what to do to make you look great," Amanda assured me.
Several days later, Amanda and I meet at the agreed-upon department store makeup counter. As an averred mall-hater, I take pride in avoiding exactly this type of location. I had considered donning a big hat and large sunglasses to shield me from the glare of the sun and anyone who might know me, but I reconsidered; it would be very difficult to apply makeup through a lens, darkly.
The makeup applicator is on break, so we escalate up to the designer dress boutiques. We waste time rummaging through racks of teeny ensembles, designed for tall babies or anorexic tweens, with huge prices that we couldn't afford, even if we wanted to buy something. Which we don't. Then we wander among displays of equally pricey dishes, glasses, and knickknacks. I decide to forgo purchasing a bead-bedecked bread knife in favor of paying my monthly mortgage. Sure, it's not as pretty, but woman cannot live by bread alone.
We return to the makeup counter and wait some more, while I comment, in hushed tones, that I don't want to walk out looking like any of the cosmetics consultants who are hard or hardly at work there. Amanda tells me to be quieter.
Finally, our gal appears -- well coiffed and smartly made up and down. Amanda introduces us, and I immediately clarify my intentions and parameters: "I want to look younger and as close as I can get to beautiful. And the process has to take me no more than two minutes a day. Otherwise, we are both wasting our time. Can you fix me?"
Let's call her "Cherry" is up to the challenge. She concentrates on the things that need the most fixing: a tinted moisturizer will lend me a natural "glow"; some missing eyebrow hairs will be penciled in to give me a more youthful visage; mascara and eye liner will make my eyes "pop."
I am assured by both Cherry and Amanda that I have received the equivalent of a magical, miracle redesign. I look "fresh," "vibrant," "renewed," "finished." My eyes are not just plain ol' windows to my soul; they're picture windows, no, Palladium windows, framed by lashes so long they can't believe they're real! My complexion comes and "glows." Frankly, I can't wait to see me!
I look in the mirror. My mother looks back at me. I am totally freaked out to realize that I have become my very own mother!!!!!
Despite the disquiet I feel, I am now the proud owner of a small collection of makeup that takes me 118 seconds to apply, that gives me a look so natural that nobody notices, and that cost me the equivalent of half a dress I can't afford.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Picture This! (Richmond, VA)
(Written in March, 2011)
My passport expires in June, so I need to re-apply. Piece of cake. Fill out some paperwork, write a check, and -- uh oh! -- here's the hitch: include two, unsmiling, poorly lit photos that make criminal mug shots look glamorous by comparison.
I visit my friendly neighborhood pharmacy, scooting into the restroom to apply lipstick. To avoid looking like death warmed over, I dab some color on my cheeks. Then I run my hands (a.k.a. comb substitute) through my hair. Voila! I'm ready. The face reflected in the mirror isn't pretty, but it shouldn't scare the pants off or the be-jesus out of anyone.
I find the photo counter and the sweet 20-something who takes the pictures. He poses me in front of the white background, which helps create the desired effect.
Click. I examine the image: horror-film zombie.
Help! I've been face-snatched!
This can't possibly be me! Have I inherited my neck from a patchy, scaly, mottled dinosaur? Whose eyes are these? They're staring in different directions, indisputable proof of human evolution from a close insect-ancestor. Wrinkles I never noticed crease forehead and cheeks. A plethora of wrinkles -- maybe they've somehow moved from your face to mine. Hurry! Check the mirror! Maybe you are now wrinkle-free!
I am gazing at an unfamiliar map, crisscrossed with previously unchartered rivers and deltas, all etched in hi-def display. Freckles and shadows and dark discolorations vie with each other on an ashen background, coalescing in a patchwork quilt of splotchiness on what once I considered my face.
"Is this your first day?" I ask the photographer.
We give it another shot.
This time my eyes peer in the same direction, but I look as if I'm either facing a firing squad or viewing my own corpse. My hair, equally alarmed, stands on end.
I am visibly, as well as visually, distressed.
The camera man, momentarily perceptive, tells me that no woman is happy with her passport photo. Whipping out an album from behind the counter, he shows me a parade of highly disturbing and disturbed visages.
"That one's not bad," I say, pointing to the photo of a blue-eyed blond -- probably not at her photogenic best but passable -- about 20 years my junior. "I'll take it!"
Camera guy snatches the book from my hands. "You can't do that!" he admonishes.
"They won't let you use somebody else's photo. That doesn't look anything like you!"
"I prefer to think that's what they're going to say if I pull out the photograph that you just took," I reply and add, "Please do not say anything that is going to get you killed."
Of course, that's his invitation to say, "You don't really look THAT bad."
"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend, do you?" I ask him, sweetly. He shakes his suddenly pale-faced head, his eyes darting around the store like balls on a billiards table.
Female readers will understand with no problem that this fellow had just confirmed that I look terrible. But I must interpret his "manguage" into language that camera guy, himself, can comprehend. "This is not a compliment," I explain. "There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, that you can say to make me feel good about this photo except that your camera is obviously defective and that you don't know how to take a picture. Or you can just close your mouth and leave the building."
The poor kid is in shock. I pay for the photos, but only to console him.
I am depressed for the rest of the day.
My passport expires in June, so I need to re-apply. Piece of cake. Fill out some paperwork, write a check, and -- uh oh! -- here's the hitch: include two, unsmiling, poorly lit photos that make criminal mug shots look glamorous by comparison.
I visit my friendly neighborhood pharmacy, scooting into the restroom to apply lipstick. To avoid looking like death warmed over, I dab some color on my cheeks. Then I run my hands (a.k.a. comb substitute) through my hair. Voila! I'm ready. The face reflected in the mirror isn't pretty, but it shouldn't scare the pants off or the be-jesus out of anyone.
I find the photo counter and the sweet 20-something who takes the pictures. He poses me in front of the white background, which helps create the desired effect.
Click. I examine the image: horror-film zombie.
Help! I've been face-snatched!
This can't possibly be me! Have I inherited my neck from a patchy, scaly, mottled dinosaur? Whose eyes are these? They're staring in different directions, indisputable proof of human evolution from a close insect-ancestor. Wrinkles I never noticed crease forehead and cheeks. A plethora of wrinkles -- maybe they've somehow moved from your face to mine. Hurry! Check the mirror! Maybe you are now wrinkle-free!
I am gazing at an unfamiliar map, crisscrossed with previously unchartered rivers and deltas, all etched in hi-def display. Freckles and shadows and dark discolorations vie with each other on an ashen background, coalescing in a patchwork quilt of splotchiness on what once I considered my face.
"Is this your first day?" I ask the photographer.
We give it another shot.
This time my eyes peer in the same direction, but I look as if I'm either facing a firing squad or viewing my own corpse. My hair, equally alarmed, stands on end.
I am visibly, as well as visually, distressed.
The camera man, momentarily perceptive, tells me that no woman is happy with her passport photo. Whipping out an album from behind the counter, he shows me a parade of highly disturbing and disturbed visages.
"That one's not bad," I say, pointing to the photo of a blue-eyed blond -- probably not at her photogenic best but passable -- about 20 years my junior. "I'll take it!"
Camera guy snatches the book from my hands. "You can't do that!" he admonishes.
"They won't let you use somebody else's photo. That doesn't look anything like you!"
"I prefer to think that's what they're going to say if I pull out the photograph that you just took," I reply and add, "Please do not say anything that is going to get you killed."
Of course, that's his invitation to say, "You don't really look THAT bad."
"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend, do you?" I ask him, sweetly. He shakes his suddenly pale-faced head, his eyes darting around the store like balls on a billiards table.
Female readers will understand with no problem that this fellow had just confirmed that I look terrible. But I must interpret his "manguage" into language that camera guy, himself, can comprehend. "This is not a compliment," I explain. "There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, that you can say to make me feel good about this photo except that your camera is obviously defective and that you don't know how to take a picture. Or you can just close your mouth and leave the building."
The poor kid is in shock. I pay for the photos, but only to console him.
I am depressed for the rest of the day.
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