6 Interesting Things I Saw in Chinatown Today

I highly suggest every now and then taking a walk just to see what's going on outside. Like Amèlie, the quirky French girl of cinema fame, I noticed a few things that stood out during my excursion to Chinatown.

6) A pigeon with a broken wing. Cruising along on the sidewalk just like every other passerby, but much less tall and I wonder if he'll make it through the night or end up some alley cat's dinner. Sad face

5) A guy in a purple and black Yamaka with matching backpack.

4) A man wearing a 2 sizes too big olive green suit over a bright red button up shirt. I had to do a double take to make sure I wasn't looking at a cartoon.

3) Three young black men in a jazz band on the corner of 7th and F St. All with facial hair, one wearing a redskins jersey, another in a black hipster tie, and as an ensemble, really rather talented. They were playing the sax instrumental version of O-o-h Child. Had I a dollar in my pocket, I would have parted with it in their guitar case.

2) Greenpeace guys complete with beards and flannel shirts. I may have gone an extra two blocks out of my way to avoid them. Why does everyone solicit on those exact two square feet in Chinatown? If I see one more person in a "Stop Bitching and Start a Revolution" shirt, I'm going to throw my slushy in their face and say "I just did."

1) The Government Accountability Office still in operation.

The Day After

After hours and buckets of rain, it's finally stopped. The wind still blows and rainboots still abound but I would hazard to say that the weather is nice. I like it like this - cloudy, a little stormy, everyone walking around slightly subdued. I'm traitorously sitting in a Starbucks enjoying an iced coffee with milk and vanilla and a "Bistro Box," an item I think would be a brilliant addition to plane fare: cheese cuts, crackers made of more seed than cracker, apple slices, and a mini container of dried cranberries and almonds. Fresh and delicious (although I still haven't made up my mind about Brie unless it's smoked with ham and I'm at a pub in England) and the perfect compact size. When I'm starving on a 9-hour transatlantic flight, I'd appreciate such a snack. It would make flying a bit more enjoyable for those of us not in business class. I keep imagining that one day I'll have enough money to purchase first-class tickets on a regular basis, that I'll have a quaint apartment in Paris, and that somewhere on the planet will be parked a silver BMW to which I own the title. Unfortunately, I believe the first, single step to this particular journey of a thousand miles is having some idea of and obtaining a job I like. Which, I'm finding, is MUCH easier said than done.

The Devestation

Just to give you guys an idea, here's a link to a picture of the devastation...

Devestation

I think this is an Earthquake

I survived my first earthquake yesterday. Not ever having experienced one before, I must admit to being a little freaked out as I stood there in the midst of stocking sugars at the condiment bar while the building around me and floor beneath me, things that I take for granted will remain stationary until the end of time, continued shaking. My first thought was "what in the world?" my second, "I think this is an Earthquake;" my third, "Ummm, should I do something?" Our emergency drills in grade school on the east coast consisted of how to effectively exit your burning house (Children's Fire Safety House, anyone?) and what to do if there was a tornado (sit on the floor in the hallway with the rest of your class, strategically place yourself next to your crush and stick an opened text book on top of your head). I vaguely remember something about doorways, which they talked about probably once, but other than that, we left the emergency know-how for quakes to our west coast peeps.

After we all looked at one another to confirm that no, it wasn't just us, my coworker who had just finished his shift looked at the two of us behind the counter and said, "I hope you guys are ready, because you're about to get slammed." I said, "What do you mean?" He grinned. "They're gonna evacuate both of those building across the street." Sure enough, within the next ten minutes, people were streaming out onto the sidewalks. Within half an hour, half of them were inside our walls or lounging outside on the patio, cellphones glued to their ears. I don't remember much about the hours between 2 and 4pm except for a blur of pouring steaming coffee, shoveling ice, calling out drink orders (my voice carries the most, not always a good thing), and lots of paper and plastic cups sliding back and forth over the counters. Despite a less than smooth morning (I had spent about an hour taking down orders manually, adding up totals, and making change in my head), I loved it. My brain registers fast pace by clicking into high gear and all of the sudden, I was all over eight things that needed to be done, and with probably more acuity than when I'm just keeping up with two. Bring on the chaos, I say. But maybe next time without the earth moving under my feet.

Possibility or Lack Thereof

It's days like today that I feel that anything is possible. It's days like yesterday that I feel like nothing is. It makes me wonder which is the more accurate perception of reality, and I think for all of us, accuracy lies somewhere in the blurry lines of in between.

Today's potential had much to do with sunlight just a tad too warm and a breeze that's temperature was nothing less than perfect. Every time it lifted my hair away from my neck, it carried magic with it, tempting and teasing like something phenomenal was waiting just around the corner. It wasn't. Only more deceitful breeze. The wind's fingers across my skin, though, and its playfulness with the clouds against the cerulean backdrop I'll take any day, despite its duplicitous promise of more.

Yesterday had nothing at all to do with the weather, but then the weather acquiesced to my mood: the sky growing dark, the light in my bedroom turning gray, and the clouds unleashing drops that fell hard against the pavement and bounced back upwards in defiance. It eventually settled into the kind of gentle drizzle that had me merging into a warm, fluffy mass with the too many pillows on my bed, drowsiness rubbing away thought and replacing it with the bliss of unknowing. I have a feeling that figuring out the intricacies of this human soul is going to take a lifetime.

A Literary Master on Politics

I have read Charles Dickens before and I will read him again, but I never realized his wit or how relevant his commentary on his government in the past would be to my own today: one to which I'm forced to pay attention because I live a stone's throw from our "parliament." Clearly men of power have been running in circles for time immemorial. I give you, Dickens:

"It is true that HOW NOT TO DO IT was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round... It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties in discovering, How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn't been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honorable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn't been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; ... I now dismiss you."
Little Dorrit
Charles Dickens ©1857

Here here Master Dickens. By no means could I have said it better myself.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From Salsa - Part Dos

Conversing with strangers on the dance floor when they're a foot away is not entirely comfortable. Trying to figure out steps during a lesson when you think you know the right way and they think they know the right way when in reality, neither of you is correct, is tense. There's pushing and pulling and lots of "No, your hand should be on my back"s and "I think we're supposed to be holding hands this way"s and "Are you sure that's the way you turn?" which then translates into blundering moments during open dance where if I don't learn to keep my elbows away from people's cheekbones, I'm going to be in real trouble on the salsa circuit.

I have to say though, as a bit of a pat on the back, that I must be improving somewhat since one of the better dancers on the floor asked me to dance twice last night. The really good ones make me nervous. All of the sudden, I start thinking too much (story of my life, le sigh). They figure out that I turn rather well and the next thing I know, our arms are all pretzeled over our heads, my elbow is once again precariously close to his face and I'm inwardly dreading how the next 3 seconds are gonna go. I'm laughing nervously, my partner's face maintains the expression of a Greek statue (could you just smile guy, so that I know we're ok and you're not praying for the end of the song?) and my usual ability to read people goes straight out the window. Cue unease and a slight blush of embarrassment. Finally the song draws to a close, there's the customary hand squeeze and exchange of "Thank you"s but do they really mean it? AGH, it's so hard to tell! Nevermind, I'll just go home and dance by myself. At least most of the time I know what I'm thinking...

Lesson #2 - Life is awkward. (So is that word, by the way. I mean just look at it: three awkward looking consonants squished between two vowels. Rather appropriate I say...) Interactions with strangers are rarely going be suave and effortless. No one is 100% sure of themselves all the time, even the Greek statue faced guys who've had lots of professional lessons. And occasionally you're going to whack someone in the face. It just happens. Go with it. We're all stumbling through this mess together.

Oasis

My favorite café now sits only 2 blocks from my house. It has a back patio that's almost a gateway into another world; one far from the city with all of its noise and hurry. The wind blows peaceful here and the rustling of the leaves is enough to cover up the occasional street noise that sneaks in. Unless you know about the patio already, you'd never suspect that the back door led to anything other than a dumpster. But flowers bloom here and wispy green vines snake down the wooden fences and tremble in the breeze that pushes the clouds across the sky at its leisure. I come here to escape reality because it's only once I'm here that I realize how lucky I am to have the time to do this. Although I wish I was so much more than I am, that doesn't equate to eight hours a day in a building, and I marvel at so many people's ability to call that success.

Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned from Salsa - Part Uno

Dance is a conversation. Often, as is the case with me, it’s a monologue. I don’t care what you’re saying, just listen to what I’m saying. Or, even more often, it’s a monologue in my house when no one else is home. I only hope our curtains aren’t see-thru.

Yet, in disconcerting attempts to better myself as a human being and teach myself that it’s not all about me (a lesson that comes as a shock most days), I’ve recently been making forays into social dance. More specifically Salsa. Just like when using actual words, sometimes you and the other person are totally on the same wave length. You get each other, you understand the movement, as a female, I can pick up on the signals (which in dance I find a bit easier than in life, but that’s another story and, er, em, moving on...).

Other times, you’re both speaking the same language, but the meaning isn’t coming across. Yeah, we got the steps down, but I’m not sure what that last thing was and although we both seem to be on beat (for the most part, cringe), I can’t tell by you lifting your hand in front of my face if you want me to duck and turn under it or if you’re trying to poke my eye out.

Sometimes I’m apparently giving the wrong signals as no, pretty sure I didn’t want to do that triple turn and end up looking at the room upside down, and I definitely didn’t want you to try to kiss me as I left the establishment. As I have a hard time giving off the latter signal when I do mean it, I marvel at strangers’ inability to correctly read the situation.

But most uncomfortable are the times when dance feels like I’m speaking German in the remotest regions of Mongolia. All the hand gestures in the world can only get you so far. It’s those times when I’m praying for the song to be over so I can extract my somewhat introverted self from a tense embrace and regain my much coveted personal space in which I can wipe my sweat/the sweat of someone-who’s-name-I-didn’t-catch (Jorgé?) off of my arms/neck/forehead. Gross.

Lesson #1: People are sweaty, you’re sweaty, they’re going to get in your space and you’re going to have to talk to them. And it ain’t always gonna be pretty.