I don't think I told you about the first fire, the one that my poor friends-cum-emergency contacts were getting multiple calls about from the alarm company. The one that had them leaving frantic calls for me to get in touch with them and with the fire department. The one that had them suggesting that I find other emergency contacts.
Well, after picking up their 30 messages on my cell hone, I flew home to find a note from the fire fighters on my kitchen table. The note explained that they had answered the call, entered the house through a second-story window, thoroughly investigated, and found..... nothing.
I called the Chief to thank him and to get more details, because there was a definite smokey smell that greeted me when I wandered through the house. After explaining that, despite using the most up-to-date equipment (including thermal imaging and, no doubt, giant axes, helmets, and big boots) and despite the fact that there really had been a fire that his men could not locate, he admitted to being baffled.
"It smelled to us like burnt hair. Did you use a curling iron this morning?" he asked me.
"You've never seen me," I said, "or you would know the answer to that question.I don't own a curling iron because I come by my curls and frizz naturally." I didn't tell him that I don't even own a comb....
"Well, did you roast some meat?" he asked.
"I'm a pseudo-vegetarian," I said. "I sometimes cook poultry or fish, but usually not in the morning."
It was later that evening that I began to sniff whiffs of what started out smelling like a barbeque (hold the sauce) and, within a few days, swelled to the stench of a week-long garbage strike in Manhattan or a month-long power outage in a busy morgue. Quite quickly, M. and I came to the conclusion that a critter had bit the dust by biting a live wire in the wall.
The odor worsened and persisted for quite some time. It seemed to emanate from the stairwell. If you saw me during this time, you might have wondered why my nose looked so red, and now you know what happens to someone who has to pinch her proboscis over a protracted period.
In time, the house returned to its normal homey odors and life went on, as unusual.
Then, last week, the fire alarms went off at 4:20 in the morning. I slipped on a particularly fetching pair of undies. (My mother always told me to make sure that my lingerie was clean and attractive, in case I should end up in a car crash or a house fire and the EMTs have to cut through my clothes). I pulled on the first pair of jeans I could grab, a tattered t-shirt -- what difference would it make if they might have to slash through it, anyway? -- and some ratty sneakers.
What else did I pick up as I tore out of the smoke-filling bedroom, down the staircase, and out the front door? No priceless and irreplaceable photos of my beloved son as a baby and toddler nor of my long-deceased and much loved parents or of the even longer-dead and un-labeled relatives. None of the semi-precious jewelry I've collected nor the treasures I've accrued in my travels. Not my favorite blouse. Not a single thing to wear to the office or to salsa in. I grabbed only one valuable (i.e., my passport) and a purse bulging, as I soon discovered, with cap-less pens, half-used lipsticks, wadded-up tissues, a dollar bill, and a couple of pennies.
Some of the same firefighters who'd previously visited stopped by again, along with some first-timers, in four shiny firetrucks. To make a second story short, this time there was, indeed, a fire. Luckily, it extinguished on its own, before the firefighters got there.
"Do you cut hair?" the biggest fireman asked me.
"Not even my own," I replied. "Why do you ask?"
"We found some long, singed hair up in the attic," he told me. This, just in time for Halloween!
M. kept the evidence: a reeking patch of blackened skin and, burnt-to-a-crisp, yet still-curly, hair. He showed it to the insurance adjuster, who, with a contractor, found some bones (critter number one?) in one of the dead ducts leading from the air handler.
Perhaps the racoons that had long frolicked in the attic, but from whom I hadn't heard a peep or a squeak in about half a year and whom I haven't ever seen hide nor hair of, have finally left my house -- along with their hides and their hairs. In the meantime, and as repairs are being made, I'm insisting that M. put up a trap and install new fire alarms. And I'm making a generous donation to my friends at the fire department.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
First Class (Mexico City, Mexico)
I feel like I'm in a vacuum tube or something. Very little news of the
world outside reaches me. I´ve heard that it's sweltering back
home. No surprise: it's August! I heard about the shocking shootings at
the midnight screening of the new Batman film. I saw a newspaper today
that said that Obama maintains a lead in popularity polls in the swing
states of Ohio, Florida and Pennsylvania. I read that there's severe
drought in some of the farm states, so food prices are sure to rise.
I catch the Olympics on TV from time to time, so I know that Mexico has
scored medals in diving and that many athletes have done the US
proud. I'm certain that more is being reported -- most of it bad -- and
that I'll learn more than I want to know once I get back to the States.
Meanwhile, I spend my days in awe of the industriousness and creativity of Mexicans, who utilize every nook and cranny of buildings, alleys, sidewalks, and metro stations and cars, to sell everything and anything to passersby. I wander about, stopping from time to time to gaze up at a magnificent building, to visit a museum, or to buy a bite or a meal from a street vendor or in a restaurant. In the evenings, I dance my daily calorie intake off, arrive at my hotel early, wash my clothes in the sink, and sink into bed. I turn the TV on and wake up, between two and four in the morning, to the same shows I was watching when I fell asleep.
These are my last couple of days in Mexico City, and I already feel sad as I say farewell to friends and acquaintances I may not see again. This morning at one of my regular breakfast spots, an employee greeted me with a giant smile, a bear hug, and a big, fat kiss on the cheek. As I told her goodbye, the waitress told me how she always looks forward to seeing me and put down her armload of plates to embrace me. I left the banana that the obnoxious owner placed on my table as a "gift." I passed my friendly neighborhood tacos de canasta guy and waved hello, knowing that I probably won't have time for another taco before I go.
I've got most meals planned out for the rest of my time here: Saturday's breakfast will be a hearty buffet -- fresh fruit and juice, eggs, breads and sweet rolls, chilaquiles, perhaps a guisado (a main dish -- but only if it's poultry or fish, no more other meats for me!), and cafe con leche bien cargado (a super-charged latte). I'll need the sustenance, as I'll be skipping lunch before heading to my favorite park to dance most of the afternoon away. I might take some food to eat in my hotel room (roasted chicken from the rotisserie; a thin, crisp, whole grain flatbread, and a gelatina with a prune, a chunk of canned peach, and a walnut from a nearby bakery) before I ready myself to attend a Middle Eastern dance presentation in which a friend will be performing. I'll get a freshly squeezed oj, a cheese and mushroom omelette, some black beans, tortillas, and the requisite cafe con leche from one of the small, humble restaurants that is open on Sundays. Eating out options are always more limited on this, most people's day of rest, so I don't know if or what I'll eat before heading out to a museum and to my last evening of dancing. My last full day will be Monday, so I might eat a tamal of rayas con queso (a tamale with cheese and green pepper strips), a chocolate atole (a corn-based drink with the consistency of a thin gruel) , and some papaya and mango chunks from sidewalk stands and catch up on my vegetable quotient at a Chinese buffet or a vegetarian restaurant. Perhaps a glass of red wine later in the evening in the company of my friend, I, along with a handful of salty, spicy peanuts with fried, whole garlic cloves and hot peppers. Maybe a little bag of addictive, toasted and salted pumpkin seeds. Before I leave town on Tuesday morning, I´ll grab a filling breakfast at another buffet to keep me satisfied until they feed me lunch (!) on my plane.
Lest you think that I'm kidding, I have to report how sorry the airline was to inform me that there were no seats in Coach or Business Class or Under the Fuselage, so they had to put me in First Class for every step of each of my flights to and from Mexico. Oh, well. If someone has to bear the indignities of having more leg room than I would need if my legs were twice as long as they are, of having more elbow room than I would need if my elbows were twice as what? sharp? bent? outstretched? as they can be, of being served a meal, snacks, and beverages that are twice as good (although they're not great...) as what are offered in the fast food airport locations -- and which are already included in the price of my flight -- well, that someone might as well be me! I´ve already learned from my experience in getting here, that First Class is about a gazillion times better than other classes. Not only did I get on and off my flights sooner than everybody else, but the planes seemed to arrive at their destinations faster and smoother.
Meanwhile, I spend my days in awe of the industriousness and creativity of Mexicans, who utilize every nook and cranny of buildings, alleys, sidewalks, and metro stations and cars, to sell everything and anything to passersby. I wander about, stopping from time to time to gaze up at a magnificent building, to visit a museum, or to buy a bite or a meal from a street vendor or in a restaurant. In the evenings, I dance my daily calorie intake off, arrive at my hotel early, wash my clothes in the sink, and sink into bed. I turn the TV on and wake up, between two and four in the morning, to the same shows I was watching when I fell asleep.
These are my last couple of days in Mexico City, and I already feel sad as I say farewell to friends and acquaintances I may not see again. This morning at one of my regular breakfast spots, an employee greeted me with a giant smile, a bear hug, and a big, fat kiss on the cheek. As I told her goodbye, the waitress told me how she always looks forward to seeing me and put down her armload of plates to embrace me. I left the banana that the obnoxious owner placed on my table as a "gift." I passed my friendly neighborhood tacos de canasta guy and waved hello, knowing that I probably won't have time for another taco before I go.
I've got most meals planned out for the rest of my time here: Saturday's breakfast will be a hearty buffet -- fresh fruit and juice, eggs, breads and sweet rolls, chilaquiles, perhaps a guisado (a main dish -- but only if it's poultry or fish, no more other meats for me!), and cafe con leche bien cargado (a super-charged latte). I'll need the sustenance, as I'll be skipping lunch before heading to my favorite park to dance most of the afternoon away. I might take some food to eat in my hotel room (roasted chicken from the rotisserie; a thin, crisp, whole grain flatbread, and a gelatina with a prune, a chunk of canned peach, and a walnut from a nearby bakery) before I ready myself to attend a Middle Eastern dance presentation in which a friend will be performing. I'll get a freshly squeezed oj, a cheese and mushroom omelette, some black beans, tortillas, and the requisite cafe con leche from one of the small, humble restaurants that is open on Sundays. Eating out options are always more limited on this, most people's day of rest, so I don't know if or what I'll eat before heading out to a museum and to my last evening of dancing. My last full day will be Monday, so I might eat a tamal of rayas con queso (a tamale with cheese and green pepper strips), a chocolate atole (a corn-based drink with the consistency of a thin gruel) , and some papaya and mango chunks from sidewalk stands and catch up on my vegetable quotient at a Chinese buffet or a vegetarian restaurant. Perhaps a glass of red wine later in the evening in the company of my friend, I, along with a handful of salty, spicy peanuts with fried, whole garlic cloves and hot peppers. Maybe a little bag of addictive, toasted and salted pumpkin seeds. Before I leave town on Tuesday morning, I´ll grab a filling breakfast at another buffet to keep me satisfied until they feed me lunch (!) on my plane.
Lest you think that I'm kidding, I have to report how sorry the airline was to inform me that there were no seats in Coach or Business Class or Under the Fuselage, so they had to put me in First Class for every step of each of my flights to and from Mexico. Oh, well. If someone has to bear the indignities of having more leg room than I would need if my legs were twice as long as they are, of having more elbow room than I would need if my elbows were twice as what? sharp? bent? outstretched? as they can be, of being served a meal, snacks, and beverages that are twice as good (although they're not great...) as what are offered in the fast food airport locations -- and which are already included in the price of my flight -- well, that someone might as well be me! I´ve already learned from my experience in getting here, that First Class is about a gazillion times better than other classes. Not only did I get on and off my flights sooner than everybody else, but the planes seemed to arrive at their destinations faster and smoother.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
"The Sex Capital of the World" (Mexico City, Mexico)
I'm sitting in the front of a Chinese restaurant.Traffic streams by. The noise level is high. There's the sound of dishes clinking and the steady murmurs of the diners surrounding me. There's the
constant thud, thud, thud of bass, waves of roiling techno music that
never change or stop. Only later am I able to
understand the incessant blare of a man's voice over a loudspeaker, touting the cleanliness of the nearby public toilets.
The front of the restaurant is completely open to the street. As the wind picks up, it works its way into the plastic Waldo`s bag I had placed on the table, making the handles sway seductively.
I look up from my heaping plate of garlicky string beans, grilled chicken, and broccoli, and realize that I have a direct, perfect view across the street and into "The Sex Capital of the World."
Perhaps your imagination is wilder than mine is -- or your experience broader -- but I am stumped by what I see: long-sleeved, plaid shirts, Michoacan ice cream, baseball caps, cell phone accouterments, and Betty Boop umbrellas. These everyday items don't fit with my concept of sex, but to each his/her own, right?
I am probably watching too many shows on the Travel and Living (TLC) Channel, because I decide to visit "The Sex Capital of the World" after lunch.
In the meantime, a sudden dive in temperature presages a downpour. Of course, I've left my raincoat in the hotel room, so as the clouds let go, I am forced to dawdle over the remains of my seafood soup, Chop Suey, octopus, jello, mango, and papaya.
The young woman who has been sashaying back and forth in front of the restaurant to entice passersby inside, shelters in the doorway. She's still showing off the enormous, photo-heavy menu, but as she shivers in her ditsy-bitsy, backless mini-dress, she seems less suited to promoting the world's largest Chinese buffet than "The Sex Capital of the World," which I will herein refer to as "The Big C."
As the rain dies down, I pay my bill, then sprint between cars. I note, but do not heed, the message printed on the side of a little Coke delivery truck: "As hard as it might be, maintain your distance." I am committed to seeing "The Big C" with my very own eyes, and nothing will dissuade me.
As is the case with many multistory buildings in Mexico City, this edifice houses the equivalent of a mini mall. There are hundreds of shops, booths, and stalls occupying almost every inch of space, save for the narrow corridors that allow you to visit each one. I pass the displays that I had already glimpsed from across the street, making my way inside with a certain wariness.
Look! Here's a display of Pampers wipes and another of socks embroidered with Minnie Mouse, Ernie, Bert, and Cookie Monster. Huh?
Then I come across a huge "exhibit" of boxer shorts, frankly, the most unsexy I've every beheld. The colors are neon -- orange, green, and red -- and words, such as "strangled," adorn them. Huh??
Next, I see the toys: Transformers, Captain America, and Batman action figures. I'm already well into the bowels of "The Big C," and completely baffled.
Okay, hold your horses! Now we're talkin'! Next to the shop selling "Instant Lunch" ramen noodles, Boing fruity sodas, and beautiful, hand-sewn Barbie prom gowns is XAVIERA'S SEXY LINGERIE SHOP. A male mannequin, listing at the entry, is dressed in what I believe must be a (plastic) gladiator costume: a studded collar and a skirt. Hanging above his head are little, plastic French maids' outfits, teeny, plastic nurses' uniforms, and a plastic leopard-skin bustier with garter straps. Hot!!! I mean, wouldn't the plastic be hot? Everything looks like a super-cheap Halloween costume.
I move along to LOVER'S SEX SHOP. Here, I see packages of "Beer Garden Babe," "Santa's Favorite Elf," and "Bad Apple Snow White" costumes. They also sell computer parts.
The acrylic nail shop next door is draped with thongs, padded jock straps, and fancy hair pins. No nails, acrylic or otherwise.
I decide not to ascend the staircase to tour the rest of "The Big C." I didn't know what to expect when I entered, but it was rather a disappointment. Although the mango with chili ice cream pop I bought from the Michoacan franchise was really, really hot.
The front of the restaurant is completely open to the street. As the wind picks up, it works its way into the plastic Waldo`s bag I had placed on the table, making the handles sway seductively.
I look up from my heaping plate of garlicky string beans, grilled chicken, and broccoli, and realize that I have a direct, perfect view across the street and into "The Sex Capital of the World."
Perhaps your imagination is wilder than mine is -- or your experience broader -- but I am stumped by what I see: long-sleeved, plaid shirts, Michoacan ice cream, baseball caps, cell phone accouterments, and Betty Boop umbrellas. These everyday items don't fit with my concept of sex, but to each his/her own, right?
I am probably watching too many shows on the Travel and Living (TLC) Channel, because I decide to visit "The Sex Capital of the World" after lunch.
In the meantime, a sudden dive in temperature presages a downpour. Of course, I've left my raincoat in the hotel room, so as the clouds let go, I am forced to dawdle over the remains of my seafood soup, Chop Suey, octopus, jello, mango, and papaya.
The young woman who has been sashaying back and forth in front of the restaurant to entice passersby inside, shelters in the doorway. She's still showing off the enormous, photo-heavy menu, but as she shivers in her ditsy-bitsy, backless mini-dress, she seems less suited to promoting the world's largest Chinese buffet than "The Sex Capital of the World," which I will herein refer to as "The Big C."
As the rain dies down, I pay my bill, then sprint between cars. I note, but do not heed, the message printed on the side of a little Coke delivery truck: "As hard as it might be, maintain your distance." I am committed to seeing "The Big C" with my very own eyes, and nothing will dissuade me.
As is the case with many multistory buildings in Mexico City, this edifice houses the equivalent of a mini mall. There are hundreds of shops, booths, and stalls occupying almost every inch of space, save for the narrow corridors that allow you to visit each one. I pass the displays that I had already glimpsed from across the street, making my way inside with a certain wariness.
Look! Here's a display of Pampers wipes and another of socks embroidered with Minnie Mouse, Ernie, Bert, and Cookie Monster. Huh?
Then I come across a huge "exhibit" of boxer shorts, frankly, the most unsexy I've every beheld. The colors are neon -- orange, green, and red -- and words, such as "strangled," adorn them. Huh??
Next, I see the toys: Transformers, Captain America, and Batman action figures. I'm already well into the bowels of "The Big C," and completely baffled.
Okay, hold your horses! Now we're talkin'! Next to the shop selling "Instant Lunch" ramen noodles, Boing fruity sodas, and beautiful, hand-sewn Barbie prom gowns is XAVIERA'S SEXY LINGERIE SHOP. A male mannequin, listing at the entry, is dressed in what I believe must be a (plastic) gladiator costume: a studded collar and a skirt. Hanging above his head are little, plastic French maids' outfits, teeny, plastic nurses' uniforms, and a plastic leopard-skin bustier with garter straps. Hot!!! I mean, wouldn't the plastic be hot? Everything looks like a super-cheap Halloween costume.
I move along to LOVER'S SEX SHOP. Here, I see packages of "Beer Garden Babe," "Santa's Favorite Elf," and "Bad Apple Snow White" costumes. They also sell computer parts.
The acrylic nail shop next door is draped with thongs, padded jock straps, and fancy hair pins. No nails, acrylic or otherwise.
I decide not to ascend the staircase to tour the rest of "The Big C." I didn't know what to expect when I entered, but it was rather a disappointment. Although the mango with chili ice cream pop I bought from the Michoacan franchise was really, really hot.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Sick and Tired (Mexico City, Mexico)
Was it the mutton for breakfast? The taco stacked with steak that I tasted last night? Is it all the street food I`ve devoured? The greasy spoons I`ve so enjoyed?
I don't know and I don't care, but I'll tell you something: It really stinks to be shivering, achy, and nauseous and to suffer from Moctezuma's revenge, especially when I have to run down a corridor to use the bathroom. Plus, it is really clammy and cold today. The rain pours through the glass ceiling and into the hallway. I worry about slipping as I sprint down the hallway.
I can't drag myself to the Internet cafe to communicate with family and friends. I don't have the strength to go down to the hotel lobby to find out from I. when she wants to go out walking tomorrow.
Don't want to dehydrate, so I down as much water as I can. Bathroom run. More water. And so on.
I watch one show after another on TV. One is an interesting travelogue about Perth, Australia. I don't have any idea what the others are, as I keep falling in and out of sleep. I turn off the tube when Perth reruns.
At about 4:00 a.m., I pop a couple of Pepto Bismol tablets. I drink more water. My tongue turns black.
While I am here, I resolve not to eat any more meat; I don't think my system can handle it. I'm not swearing off of anything else, though. Except, maybe, late-night television.
I don't know and I don't care, but I'll tell you something: It really stinks to be shivering, achy, and nauseous and to suffer from Moctezuma's revenge, especially when I have to run down a corridor to use the bathroom. Plus, it is really clammy and cold today. The rain pours through the glass ceiling and into the hallway. I worry about slipping as I sprint down the hallway.
I can't drag myself to the Internet cafe to communicate with family and friends. I don't have the strength to go down to the hotel lobby to find out from I. when she wants to go out walking tomorrow.
Don't want to dehydrate, so I down as much water as I can. Bathroom run. More water. And so on.
I watch one show after another on TV. One is an interesting travelogue about Perth, Australia. I don't have any idea what the others are, as I keep falling in and out of sleep. I turn off the tube when Perth reruns.
At about 4:00 a.m., I pop a couple of Pepto Bismol tablets. I drink more water. My tongue turns black.
While I am here, I resolve not to eat any more meat; I don't think my system can handle it. I'm not swearing off of anything else, though. Except, maybe, late-night television.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Eyes Have Had It (Mexico City, Mexico)
It's hot tonight in the Salon de Convenciones dance hall. No, I lied; it's sweltering. There's no air conditioning, and the ceiling fans are working so hard they're running out of steam.
But not so the fans of dance. A thousand or so people cram into two huge rooms, one featuring a live band playing mostly danzon, the other showcasing a group playing salsa and cumbia covers. It's 7 :00, already too late to find a table untaken, a seat un-sat-in.
I pick my way through the salsa room, looking for people I know and a place to stash my sweater and Japanese fan and to change into my dancing shoes. A male acquaintance shepherds me to a table where two women are waiting patiently to be asked to dance. As I swap my footwear, we introduce ourselves. Then I'm off to salsa.
The place has been renovated since I was here last year. The formerly cracked and pitted linoleum floors are newly tiled in shiny white and black, and the ceilings are hung with some sort of sculpted black and white architectural forms. Everything looks fresher and cleaner -- except for the dancers, myself included, who are dripping like sea lions just up from the ocean.
In addition to six or eight old and young dance buddies, I've attracted a new, sweat-soaked partner who helicopters five feet around my table, trying to catch my eye. I take frequent trips to the ladies' room, to escape his steady, sweaty gaze.
Whenever I'm not dancing or escaping, I spend time inching around the peripheries of the dance floors, searching for my daughter and her friend and his friends, who may or may not be coming to meet me. Along the way, and despite my honest protestations that I really do not dance danzon, I end up danzoning part of the evening away, anyway.
I tell everyone to keep an eye out for my daughter.
¨What does she look like?¨ they all ask.
¨She´ll be the prettiest woman you see,¨ I tell them. ¨Long, thick, black curly hair; coffee-colored skin; dark brown eyes...¨ I haven´t even finished, but they're all on the look-out and can´t wait to meet her.
I stop to watch the best dancers do their moves. Five gay guys are putting on an electrifying show. Energetic, sexy, creative, acrobatic, they´re putting everybody else to shame. I want to ask them where they learned to dance. I want them to teach me. I want to dance with them. They don´t ask me to.
One of my young friendboys grabs my hand. We locate a spot in the corner, under a fan, where we actually have room to maneuver. He´s fun to salsa with, and I´m really getting into the swing of things when I suddenly discover why this coolish corner is relatively empty.
Friendboy flips my hand so that my back is facing him and my face is facing the men's room, to which there is no door. This ¨open-door¨ policy yields a direct view into private moments that nobody should be privy to. As I catch sight of a line of huge, hairy bellies, I thank fate for contact lenses that have not restored my vision to 20\20. Still, truly horrifeyed, I fight my partner´s lead in an attempt to turn around and away.
Friendboy wants another go-round, but I want to move out of the line of sights. I also realize that FB has been dancing with me a little too often, smiling at me a little too much, looking into my eyes a little too intently. I send him off to find a younger partner. When he returns, after just one number, I tell him to ask the two women at my table to dance. One at a time.
It´s 9:00. My daughter and friends have not showed, or they are lost among the pulsating crowds. I head for the subway, in the company of several of my friends.
But not so the fans of dance. A thousand or so people cram into two huge rooms, one featuring a live band playing mostly danzon, the other showcasing a group playing salsa and cumbia covers. It's 7 :00, already too late to find a table untaken, a seat un-sat-in.
I pick my way through the salsa room, looking for people I know and a place to stash my sweater and Japanese fan and to change into my dancing shoes. A male acquaintance shepherds me to a table where two women are waiting patiently to be asked to dance. As I swap my footwear, we introduce ourselves. Then I'm off to salsa.
The place has been renovated since I was here last year. The formerly cracked and pitted linoleum floors are newly tiled in shiny white and black, and the ceilings are hung with some sort of sculpted black and white architectural forms. Everything looks fresher and cleaner -- except for the dancers, myself included, who are dripping like sea lions just up from the ocean.
In addition to six or eight old and young dance buddies, I've attracted a new, sweat-soaked partner who helicopters five feet around my table, trying to catch my eye. I take frequent trips to the ladies' room, to escape his steady, sweaty gaze.
Whenever I'm not dancing or escaping, I spend time inching around the peripheries of the dance floors, searching for my daughter and her friend and his friends, who may or may not be coming to meet me. Along the way, and despite my honest protestations that I really do not dance danzon, I end up danzoning part of the evening away, anyway.
I tell everyone to keep an eye out for my daughter.
¨What does she look like?¨ they all ask.
¨She´ll be the prettiest woman you see,¨ I tell them. ¨Long, thick, black curly hair; coffee-colored skin; dark brown eyes...¨ I haven´t even finished, but they're all on the look-out and can´t wait to meet her.
I stop to watch the best dancers do their moves. Five gay guys are putting on an electrifying show. Energetic, sexy, creative, acrobatic, they´re putting everybody else to shame. I want to ask them where they learned to dance. I want them to teach me. I want to dance with them. They don´t ask me to.
One of my young friendboys grabs my hand. We locate a spot in the corner, under a fan, where we actually have room to maneuver. He´s fun to salsa with, and I´m really getting into the swing of things when I suddenly discover why this coolish corner is relatively empty.
Friendboy flips my hand so that my back is facing him and my face is facing the men's room, to which there is no door. This ¨open-door¨ policy yields a direct view into private moments that nobody should be privy to. As I catch sight of a line of huge, hairy bellies, I thank fate for contact lenses that have not restored my vision to 20\20. Still, truly horrifeyed, I fight my partner´s lead in an attempt to turn around and away.
Friendboy wants another go-round, but I want to move out of the line of sights. I also realize that FB has been dancing with me a little too often, smiling at me a little too much, looking into my eyes a little too intently. I send him off to find a younger partner. When he returns, after just one number, I tell him to ask the two women at my table to dance. One at a time.
It´s 9:00. My daughter and friends have not showed, or they are lost among the pulsating crowds. I head for the subway, in the company of several of my friends.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Car Sick (Richmond, VA)
I (almost) run into a colleague as I'm pulling out of a parking lot. "Whoa!" he shouts. "Your tire!"
Apparently, it's the belt. Even I can see that the tire looks like it's wearing a gauze bandage, although if that's a belt, call a style doctor!
Belt or bandage, this is really bad news. Within a week after replacing tires on my previous two cars, they passed into Auto Heaven. They died of different causes, too sad and too fresh to write about right now, but they were both completely and irrevocably dead.
"You can't drive on the highway like that," my Harbinger of Doom warns me. He advises me to go to Costco, where they'll put on a new tire and rotate it --isn't that what one does when one drives one's car???-- for a good price.
The price is very good for Costco, but it ain't that great for me. I don't think my car is worth $108 at this point, especially since it's likely to join its predecessors before it rotates its belt too much.
Do I really need a shiny, new tire? I think not.
I head over to a shop that features retired tires. A fellow pops one on within about 15 minutes. I don't think he rotates or balances, but a smooth ride would be an alien experience and with the potholed roads I regularly travel, it probably wouldn't last the short lifetime of my car. I think that my car IS probably worth $30.00.
Apparently, it's the belt. Even I can see that the tire looks like it's wearing a gauze bandage, although if that's a belt, call a style doctor!
Belt or bandage, this is really bad news. Within a week after replacing tires on my previous two cars, they passed into Auto Heaven. They died of different causes, too sad and too fresh to write about right now, but they were both completely and irrevocably dead.
"You can't drive on the highway like that," my Harbinger of Doom warns me. He advises me to go to Costco, where they'll put on a new tire and rotate it --isn't that what one does when one drives one's car???-- for a good price.
The price is very good for Costco, but it ain't that great for me. I don't think my car is worth $108 at this point, especially since it's likely to join its predecessors before it rotates its belt too much.
Do I really need a shiny, new tire? I think not.
I head over to a shop that features retired tires. A fellow pops one on within about 15 minutes. I don't think he rotates or balances, but a smooth ride would be an alien experience and with the potholed roads I regularly travel, it probably wouldn't last the short lifetime of my car. I think that my car IS probably worth $30.00.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
High Anxiety (Richmond, VA)
I hate to fly. Surrendering control to somebody who might have suffered a bad night's sleep, who might have a hangover or be taking meds (Warning: You may become drowsy. Do not operate heavy machinery or even think of piloting a plane within four months of taking this medication), who might be revisiting a heated argument with a spouse, or who might be holding a grudge against employer or colleagues or the the world, does not put me at ease. I know that I'm statistically safer on a Boeing than in a Buick, but call me irrational -- I still think that if I am already on the ground, rather than diving into it, I'll have a better shot at walking away from a crash.
So, during take off and landing and anytime I'm conscious in-between, I'm white-knuckling it. Sweat trickles down my back. My hands are clammy. My face is ashen.
I always listen attentively to the flight attendant's instructions. I securely fasten my seat belt. I note the exit doors in front of and behind me. In case the lights along the aisle do not come on, I count the rows to the nearest and next-nearest exits (because if the nose of the plane meets a mountain, the closest doors might not open). I mentally rehearse the steps to adjust the mask that will drop down if we experience a loss of cabin pressure, which would, by its very dropping, precipitate my rapid, panicked breathing which would, in turn, surely suck up every molecule of oxygen in the airplane and probably the universe. I try not to focus on that remark about the oxygen bag not inflating, but I can't help but imagine my face reddening and my eyes widening as I gasp myself to death, should it malfunction. I resist the urge to check if that is really a flotation device or if it's just a seat cushion, made of cheap fabric. I refrain from removing it to test its float-ability in the toilet, although I have an overwhelming desire to do so.
As my uneasiness turns to queasiness, the person sitting next to me is requesting a change of seat. This is a shame, because if he would only speak to me, I would feel better and most likely not dig my fingernails into the fleshy part of his forearm.
So, during take off and landing and anytime I'm conscious in-between, I'm white-knuckling it. Sweat trickles down my back. My hands are clammy. My face is ashen.
I always listen attentively to the flight attendant's instructions. I securely fasten my seat belt. I note the exit doors in front of and behind me. In case the lights along the aisle do not come on, I count the rows to the nearest and next-nearest exits (because if the nose of the plane meets a mountain, the closest doors might not open). I mentally rehearse the steps to adjust the mask that will drop down if we experience a loss of cabin pressure, which would, by its very dropping, precipitate my rapid, panicked breathing which would, in turn, surely suck up every molecule of oxygen in the airplane and probably the universe. I try not to focus on that remark about the oxygen bag not inflating, but I can't help but imagine my face reddening and my eyes widening as I gasp myself to death, should it malfunction. I resist the urge to check if that is really a flotation device or if it's just a seat cushion, made of cheap fabric. I refrain from removing it to test its float-ability in the toilet, although I have an overwhelming desire to do so.
As my uneasiness turns to queasiness, the person sitting next to me is requesting a change of seat. This is a shame, because if he would only speak to me, I would feel better and most likely not dig my fingernails into the fleshy part of his forearm.
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