Working. Out. (Richmond, VA)

First day at work. I've been out of the office since late June. I left a message on my answering machine saying I wouldn't be back until September. Twenty-some people left me about 36 messages. That's not too bad. Not compared to over 1,600 e-mails that I have to plow through.

No time to plow or even to return calls. Lots of meetings. A new phone system to get used to. Computer doesn't want to cooperate. People are calling, more meetings are being scheduled, my desk is a mound of papers. I'm making copies for a presentation I have to give twice on Wednesday. Running back and forth, forth and back. Greeting people who come into the office, colleagues, friends, acquaintances.

This year I've vowed to drink lots of water, to eat lunch every day, and to leave work when I'm supposed to. I forget to drink. I eat lunch but leave a half hour late. Already an improvement over last year.

Tomorrow and Wednesday I'll be out of the office again, presenting sessions and being present at others. Then back in and back out. My days will get busier and busier. Nights and weekends will fill with meetings, workshops, classes.

I'll soon start feeling exhausted and stressed and as if I were going crazy at times. But I'll never, ever be bored. Every day will be a challenge, each different, some better than others. The time will pass quickly. It will all work out....

A Tall Tale (Richmond, VA)

I joke that I am of average height and that everyone else is tall. But the truth is that I have always felt tall for my height. Except when I'm around other people. And children. I still feel tall when the children are toddlers, though.

In developing nations, at 5'1" I practically tower over others. And I think I'm even taller if we use the metric system, which is probably the reason that this country still refuses to adopt it.

Every once in a while it is brought home to me that I am not as tall a person as I think I am.
Usually, it is when I go to reach something on a supermarket shelf and either have to scale two other shelves to snag the item in question or have to make an offer to a person of higher height that, in exchange for reaching said item, I will happily retrieve an item of equal or lesser value for him/her from the bottom shelf or from the floor.

Sometimes, when I am in a school, surrounded by what appear to be professional basketball players, they turn out to be fourth graders. "Don't they make short children anymore?" I've asked more than once, but nobody has ever responded. Perhaps they couldn't see me.

I have to admit that I was a smallish child. There are pictures of me standing with the neighborhood kids, and I am tiny by comparison. But that's mostly due to the camera angle or because they are all older than me by at least a day or two, and because Asians in the US are, as you know, really, really tall and because my brother had me in a full nelson and I was unable to stand up to my full height.

At about 12 years of age I experienced a major growth spurt and shot up to nearly my current degree of altitude. I could practically look down at my mother, who barely topped five feet. Now, she was a shortie!

For a while there, I was the second tallest person in my little family. My husband, at 6'2", was definitely the tallest. And, until he hit 12, my son was unarguably shorter than I. (Yes, you were, too, R! Don't unargue with me...) But once he turned 12, my son grew not only impatient, but taller. I think he got all his height from me and he even must have gotten some of the height meant for me. But that's genetics for ya!

In the long run, it really doesn't matter much a'tall, does it?





. ..

I Take the Prize (Richmond, VA)

I'm back home for just a few days and already I've won a prize!

Don't get too excited on my behalf. After all, I didn't win the lottery -- or what the Italians refer to as the "Idiot Tax." I was merely the fourth caller to one of our public radio stations, which was thanking contributors to their interminable fundraisers.

What I didn't realize was that they were giving out good prizes, such as meals at restaurants I like or would like to try. Had I just held out a bit longer, I might be telling you about the entertaining play I'd just attended or my delightful dinner at the restaurant I could never afford to visit on my own. Unfortunately, I was the winner of two tickets to an award-winning documentary about the slaughter of dolphins.

After being turned down by the first 16 relatives and friends I asked to accompany me to a film featuring Flipper and friends' finale, I kind of lost the desire to take advantage of my good fortune. Alas, the tickets have expired (along with multiple maritime creatures).

I am hoping that this is just the start of a long run of good luck. Maybe I'll even buy a lottery ticket....

Dancing with the Blues (Richmond, VA)

No, I'm not talking about dancing with the police, although I do have a regular salsa buddy who is a former officer. I'm talking about Blues dancing, something I never heard of until last Friday, when I took a lesson -- and put it into practice.

"So, what exactly is this dance form? " the uninitiated (You?) might be asking.

My answer, which is the only one you'll receive here, is that it is three parts swing, one part slink, and some other parts of whatever the heck you want to throw into the mix. The music, especially if you like blues (as I do), is great. My only problem with the dancing is that the most prevalent way to execute it is for the couple to be plastered against each other, which leads to a sense of closeness and intimacy that I just don't want with any man with whom I don't plan to have babies.

A case in point: A late arrival to the session (who'd missed the lesson) was able to manage some of the slinkier movements and then he began to put his own moves on me. Although the results were not what he had in mind, I've got to give him credit for his line(s) , which went something like this:

He: My first ex-wife was a psychologist for (the same school system you work for).

I: What did your second ex-wife do?

He: She was a Harvard-educated professor of Buddhism (at a local university).

I: How about you third ex-wife?

He: That would be you....

No, it wouldn't.

I'm going back to salsa.

First Daze Back (Richmond, VA)

My friend Cheryl will be off to her full time teaching position in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in a few days. It's closer than where she spent the last year -- Korea -- but probably just as alien. (My apologies to any Oklahomaker who might be reading this...) Friday night is the goodbye party, and what a party it is!

Cheryl's friends are either contact improvisation dancers, writers, or both. They are artists and/or musicians. A yoga instructor and the esteemed, 90-year-old founder of the university's dance department are also in attendance.

Everyone is a good cook. Someone brought a salad, greens with figs, dotted with with pomegranate seeds. One of the guys baked a peach tart; a sign -- which I choose to ignore -- warns vegetarians that lard is in the crust. Blue corn bread. A huge bowl of blackberries. Figs, fresh from Robbie's garden. Potato salad. A rotisserie chicken, store bought. Crab meat with black beans, green peppers, garlic, onions, and green olives. A salad of tomatoes from somebody's yard, basil-scented, rich with summer. Meltingly warm chocolate-peanut butter cookies.

I am, for some reason unbeknownst even to me, telling the cookie baker about Finland: "World's highest or second highest suicide rate," I tell her. "That's because it's so damned dark most of the year. People are depressed. The men hardly talk. The national dance is the tango. It's the only country in the world where there's a Latin radio station. Latin - a dead language. That's perfect because they're suicidal -- Finnished." I harbor no ill feelings towards Finland or the Finns and am almost sure that some of what I am saying is true.

Male partners in orange shirts and pajama bottoms sit next to each other on the couch, and a female writer who looks familiar (as does almost everyone) watches from a nearby chair. Most of us are dancing in the living room. At one point, Cheryl dons a kimono and dives repeatedly onto one of those huge bouncy-balls favored by Pilates exercisers. A guy in a skirt, a man wearing a cowboy hat, an acquaintance who's a carpenter -- all seem to enter an altered state as they move and groove. We pseudo-tango, belly dance, improvise to the eclectic music selections. Host Robbie, a talented dancer, musician, and more, whips off his shirt, stands at the glass front door, gyrates, and says: "I hope my neighbors are watching!"

Rued Awakening: Homeward Bound

I've spent hours packing my one carry-on suitcase and "handbag" (translation: second suitcase). Weeks ago I sent home a skirt and a top with A. I've used up most of my allowable 3-ounce containers of shampoo, lotions, and miscellaneous liquids and creams. I'm leaving a shirt and a tote bag (along with a tip) for the woman who cleans the room. I should have plenty of room.

After all, I haven't purchased too much: four thin paperback books of cartoons by Alex; a straw mask; two smallish primitive paintings; two ex-votos (one tiny, the other notebook-paper size); four small woven cosmetic bags with floral or geometric designs; a six-strand stone bracelet that's already fallen apart; three bottles of the indispensable Tajin, a mixture of salt, chili, and lime that will last me for a year and that I will sprinkle on virtually everything that's destined for my mouth, from soup to nuts to fruit to ice cream; a small bag of habas enchiladas to munch on the plane, in the airport, or at home (should it last that long). Oh, and there's the book of revolutionary poems that I was given for dancing, to the sounds of a live band, in the plaza in front of a subway station. I'm using every bit of available space to squeeze everything in and, if the bags don't burst, everything will fit.

I try to sleep, but what's the point? I've asked the hotel desk clerk to call a cab and to call me at 3:00 a.m. I'm not sure that he'll do either, so I close my eyes at 1:30 and open them every 15 minutes. I'm not ready to go home but I don't want to miss the plane.


At 3:00 the phone rings. I pop out of bed and answer. No answer.


A quick wash-up. I'm as ready as I'll ever be at such an ungodly, unhumanly hour. I try calling the desk four or five times to get help taking my luggage downstairs, as the hotel elevator hasn't been operating for the last week. No answer, no luck, no dice, no help.


I lug and tug everything down four interminably long flights of stairs. The lobby is deserted, except for the clerk and the taxi driver, who were obviously and obliviously snoozing.


The streets are dark, eerie, and uncharacteristically silent. The cabbie delivers me to the airport quickly and easily.


It is 4:20. My flight leaves at 7:30 am. Even the airline folks are still sleeping. It's too early to do anything else.

I figure that I'd better get something to eat now or I'll have to settle for bags of salty peanuts until I arrive home late this afternoon. I lug and tug my baggage and myself up a flight of stairs to have the worst meal I've not enjoyed since I left the US: tiny cubes of salt, seasoned with freeze-dried potatoes; ice-cold fried eggs; and refried, untried beans on what might pass for a tortilla -- if you are a lover of cardboard with an "off" taste.

On the first leg of my journey home, I am leg to leg with a handsome young man who spends the entire flight picking at his face and neck, staring at the slim or thick pickings, and popping them into his mouth. I am nauseous and look forward to upchucking on him. Unfortunately, I don't.

The flight from Atlanta to Richmond is uneventful by comparison.

Backlog: Last Dance III (Mexico City)

J.C. (not Jesus, but Juan Carlos) is scheduled to pick me up at the hotel at 5:45 p.m. He leaves me a message, confirming that we're on for the evening, but when I call him back, he tells me that there are some complications.



When he shows up at 6 o'something, it's without his car. He needs to stop at the university (where he's getting a Masters degree while teaching economics) to pick up materials for the semester."It won't take too long," he assures me.

We subway to the campus, and it takes a lot longer than either of us expected. By 7:15 or so we've retrieved his car and are heading towards Salon Hidalgo.

We don't arrive for hours, not because the place is far away or difficult to reach, but because Mexico has won a major soccer game against the US and all roads to our destination are blocked by jubilant crowds. Once we're in the neighborhood, we can't find parking, so we end up at a lot near Bellas Artes and ride the metro to Hidalgo. It's after 9pm and Jesus and his friend, with whom I was hoping to dance and to whom I would have liked to have said goodbye, are already gone.

I tell J.C. that he should dance with other women, but he says that he has plenty of nights to do that. The other women are sorely disappointed; this guy, in his 30's, is tall, dark, and gorgeous. He has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, perfect posture, and cheekbones as high as the law allows. He's the best dancer on the floor, and he dances every number with me.

On the way back from the restroom, I'm asked to dance by the "bloodhound." "No, gracias." The guy with no discernible girlfriend approaches. "No, gracias."

Women watch -- I can feel them aiming curses, arrows, daggers, and machetes my way-- as I try to follow J.C.'s smooth, stylish, graceful moves. He's an excellent lead, and I'm feeling pretty accomplished, myself. As I execute (a good word for what I did) a turn, I smack J.C. in the head. Despite my clumsiness and despite his dizziness, he remains gracious and sweet.

By 10:30, the bands have stopped playing, and the waiters have started clearing the tables. The place is clearing out.

J.C. drives me back to my hotel, and we say our farewells with a hug and a peck on the cheek. "See you next year."