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.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Worse Carma -- Give me a break! (Richmond, VA)
I usually leave my daytime job and stop for a while in a bookstore en route to my second job. But I find myself closer to home this afternoon, so I head there, thinking that I'll try to catch a short nap, eat, or relax before re-jumping into the fray.
Instead of taking the highway, I choose surface streets through residential neighborhoods. I'm enjoying the thought of my impending rest-stop, as I stop at a stop sign. I look both ways but don't catch sight of the school bus hiding behind the hedge in the middle of the median strip until I almost hit it. I hit the brakes, instead. With the sounds of the students' curses ringing in my ears, I take a deep breath to calm my shakes and carefully make my way home.
I'm at the laptop for about half an hour when someone starts banging on the door. When I look out the keyhole, I spot a school bus parked on the corner and a cop on my porch.
"Oh, my God," I'm thinking. "I didn't run the stop sign. The bus didn't have its signs out or its lights flashing. I can't believe they'd come after me for "almost" having an accident!"
I'm shaking as I open the door.
The officer greets me with, "Is that your car, Ma'am?"
The bus driver was turning the corner and took off the front bumper and headlight of M's car. I don't have a key and I'm going to be late for night school.
I give the officer M's phone number and insurance info, and drive off to job #2.
Traffic is bad. I figure I better move to my right long before I need to exit. A car towing a flatbed trailer, full of lawn care equipment and supplies, slides in ahead of me. I turn to make sure I've got enough room to change lanes and begin to move over. When I look back, the trailer is stopped directly in front of me. I hit the breaks and miss the trailer by about six inches.
Will somebody please pick me up from work tonight?????
Instead of taking the highway, I choose surface streets through residential neighborhoods. I'm enjoying the thought of my impending rest-stop, as I stop at a stop sign. I look both ways but don't catch sight of the school bus hiding behind the hedge in the middle of the median strip until I almost hit it. I hit the brakes, instead. With the sounds of the students' curses ringing in my ears, I take a deep breath to calm my shakes and carefully make my way home.
I'm at the laptop for about half an hour when someone starts banging on the door. When I look out the keyhole, I spot a school bus parked on the corner and a cop on my porch.
"Oh, my God," I'm thinking. "I didn't run the stop sign. The bus didn't have its signs out or its lights flashing. I can't believe they'd come after me for "almost" having an accident!"
I'm shaking as I open the door.
The officer greets me with, "Is that your car, Ma'am?"
The bus driver was turning the corner and took off the front bumper and headlight of M's car. I don't have a key and I'm going to be late for night school.
I give the officer M's phone number and insurance info, and drive off to job #2.
Traffic is bad. I figure I better move to my right long before I need to exit. A car towing a flatbed trailer, full of lawn care equipment and supplies, slides in ahead of me. I turn to make sure I've got enough room to change lanes and begin to move over. When I look back, the trailer is stopped directly in front of me. I hit the breaks and miss the trailer by about six inches.
Will somebody please pick me up from work tonight?????
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Bus, Stop! (En route to New York City)
The left side of my backside is numb from sitting beside a 300-pound woman whose bottom spreads onto my seat the way the tide sends tendrils of water into the nooks and crannies of a sea-level cave. I think that I'm actually sitting on her lap. I'm so dwarfed by her that I worry that she'll tilt me back and stick a bottle in my mouth.
Every few minutes, but with no discernible pattern or warning, she flicks the filmy fabric that covers her head and upper body. Flick. Flick. Flick. It lightly brushes my arms and face, making me itch.
There are no vacant seats. There is no escape.
Feet block the aisle leading to the on-board restroom, which boasts neither rest nor room and not even a working sink, much less toilet paper. Trying to use the facility is anything but facile; as one attempts to lower one's pants, one is batted about, slammed into the wall, threatened with tipping headlong into the reeking, bottomless toilet, ricocheted around like a marble spinning, churning, smashing along its frenzied zigzag through a pinball machine maze. In order to avoid this experience, I refuse all liquids for hours before and during my trip. So now I'm head-achy, grouchy and nauseous. And I have to use the foul WC, anyway. I might never make it out. If I do, I might die of dehydration.
Maybe I should hope for a bottle, after all!
Every few minutes, but with no discernible pattern or warning, she flicks the filmy fabric that covers her head and upper body. Flick. Flick. Flick. It lightly brushes my arms and face, making me itch.
There are no vacant seats. There is no escape.
Feet block the aisle leading to the on-board restroom, which boasts neither rest nor room and not even a working sink, much less toilet paper. Trying to use the facility is anything but facile; as one attempts to lower one's pants, one is batted about, slammed into the wall, threatened with tipping headlong into the reeking, bottomless toilet, ricocheted around like a marble spinning, churning, smashing along its frenzied zigzag through a pinball machine maze. In order to avoid this experience, I refuse all liquids for hours before and during my trip. So now I'm head-achy, grouchy and nauseous. And I have to use the foul WC, anyway. I might never make it out. If I do, I might die of dehydration.
Maybe I should hope for a bottle, after all!
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Bad Carma (Richmond, VA)
A friend advises me to get a Mercedes, but if you can't afford to fix it, you can't afford to buy such a vehicle. I can't and I don't. Sure it'd be swell to find myself behind the wheel of a cute little Mini, a shiny Jaguar, a sporty convertible. But the truth is that looks have to take a back seat to practicality. I need a car that will take me where I want to go. Style is not the top priority.
But I've been going to the garage in my not-so-new Nissan more often than I've been going anywhere else. I've replaced more parts than the human body has bones. Still, there's a whining sound when I turn the steering wheel, there's a bucking feel when I try to pick up speed, and every week the tires seem to be more -- well, tired.
I've added oil and some thick gunk that will plug the hole in the oil tank but will lead -- in time -- to the demise of the vehicle. I've added steering fluid to stop the whining and some gunk to plug the leak from its container and/or hose. I'm toting around more fluids and stop-gap liquids in my trunk than a hypochondriac has medicines in his bathroom cabinet. I might as well buy stock in Autozone because I've already purchased half of what they stock.
So, last week I park in front of the health food store. I run in to pick up a few items. As I get back into my car, I spot an acquaintance I haven't seen in ages. We chat for a minute, he leaves, and I start the car. I put it in reverse, but I can't back up. The car is running, but it isn't going anywhere.
I run back into the store and hunt down my buddy. "Do you know anything about cars?" I ask him.
"No," he replies -- quite honestly, I will learn in short order -- , "but I'll see what I can do."
He tries his hand and foot at the wheel and the pedal, respectively. The car doesn't respond. He throws open the hood, stares thoughtfully at the inner and outer workings of the engine, and asks if I have Triple A.
I do.
I call for help. The tow truck guy sprays some stuff into the engine, when he arrives, explaining that sometimes something [insert technical name here or just use a term such as "floo-flah"] gets full of dirt and won't do what it needs to. My car doesn't respond to spray or explanations such as these.
My mechanic -- whose children I'm helping to put through college -- puts one of his helpers on it. This guy cleans the dirt out of the floo-flah flap, drives the car around for 15 minutes, and pronounces it cured. I breathe a sigh of relief, as the cost will be no more than that of one exceedingly thin college textbook.
The next day, I start the car up in the morning, but it refuses to move. The tow trucker tries to start it, but no dice. I tell him I just had the floo-flah flap fixed, but he's flummoxed. My car and I are towed to the garage, where the guy who cured it the day before is able to start it up with no problem.
My mechanic says they need to take a closer look. This time it's the fuel pump that needs to be replaced. I am now paying for his children to go to Harvard.
Somebody, please help me figure out how I can get a new-isher car for nothing -- the exact amount I have on hand to buy one. At this point, I'm even willing to drive something that advertises a product. Even a product I don't like. Floo-flah flaps, for example.
But I've been going to the garage in my not-so-new Nissan more often than I've been going anywhere else. I've replaced more parts than the human body has bones. Still, there's a whining sound when I turn the steering wheel, there's a bucking feel when I try to pick up speed, and every week the tires seem to be more -- well, tired.
I've added oil and some thick gunk that will plug the hole in the oil tank but will lead -- in time -- to the demise of the vehicle. I've added steering fluid to stop the whining and some gunk to plug the leak from its container and/or hose. I'm toting around more fluids and stop-gap liquids in my trunk than a hypochondriac has medicines in his bathroom cabinet. I might as well buy stock in Autozone because I've already purchased half of what they stock.
So, last week I park in front of the health food store. I run in to pick up a few items. As I get back into my car, I spot an acquaintance I haven't seen in ages. We chat for a minute, he leaves, and I start the car. I put it in reverse, but I can't back up. The car is running, but it isn't going anywhere.
I run back into the store and hunt down my buddy. "Do you know anything about cars?" I ask him.
"No," he replies -- quite honestly, I will learn in short order -- , "but I'll see what I can do."
He tries his hand and foot at the wheel and the pedal, respectively. The car doesn't respond. He throws open the hood, stares thoughtfully at the inner and outer workings of the engine, and asks if I have Triple A.
I do.
I call for help. The tow truck guy sprays some stuff into the engine, when he arrives, explaining that sometimes something [insert technical name here or just use a term such as "floo-flah"] gets full of dirt and won't do what it needs to. My car doesn't respond to spray or explanations such as these.
My mechanic -- whose children I'm helping to put through college -- puts one of his helpers on it. This guy cleans the dirt out of the floo-flah flap, drives the car around for 15 minutes, and pronounces it cured. I breathe a sigh of relief, as the cost will be no more than that of one exceedingly thin college textbook.
The next day, I start the car up in the morning, but it refuses to move. The tow trucker tries to start it, but no dice. I tell him I just had the floo-flah flap fixed, but he's flummoxed. My car and I are towed to the garage, where the guy who cured it the day before is able to start it up with no problem.
My mechanic says they need to take a closer look. This time it's the fuel pump that needs to be replaced. I am now paying for his children to go to Harvard.
Somebody, please help me figure out how I can get a new-isher car for nothing -- the exact amount I have on hand to buy one. At this point, I'm even willing to drive something that advertises a product. Even a product I don't like. Floo-flah flaps, for example.
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