Life Alive

My little sister and I ate in the basement of a crunchy hippie restaurant last month. There was a woman eying us from across the room. Emily thought she was a psychic, and judging by her hanging shawls and stack of cards, I thought so too. She wore a headpiece with draping gold discs, something between a crown and a hat, like an African princess. It was a distracting thing to have in one's peripheral vision, and eventually I decided to ask her what she was about.

"Goddess card readings," she answered. "It's really fun - we just see what card you draw and talk about what it might mean for your life. I've been doing this for many years, and everyone gets just the right card." With two sisters in the middle of life crises, she had hit the jackpot.

She handed us the stack of cards. We both drew from the middle of the deck.
Emily uncovered Aphrodite, the goddess of Love.
For me, Oshun, goddess of Sensuality.
Two sisters, sixty possibilities, and this is what we get.
"Amazing that two sisters should draw this pair!" she remarked. "So... tell me what you think it means."

We were both silent. We didn't care what we thought; we wanted her to tell us. - Everything. I would have let her make all of my big decisions right then and there. But instead, she talked of self-love and hot baths and fresh-cut flowers. But the reading still produced my answers. It just happened to be that I already knew them.

Down the Rabbit Hole

My friend Katie and I stumbled upon a traveling circus in the middle of Downtown Crossing. A passerby saw us eyeing the box office and handed us a pair of tickets.

"These'll getcha in if you wanna see! Intermission will be over in about two minutes."

And just like that, we were at the circus. It was pitch black inside - the better to sell kid-friendly glow sticks. Strobing neon spotlights illuminated the packed stadium and its bouquets of cotton candy. It's astonishing sometimes how much life is like Alice in Wonderland.

"You're late!" said the ticket man.
"We're very late!" said Katie.

Three pony-riding goats, an amazing balancing man, and a geriatric clown later, we headed back out the main gate.

"The show's not over yet, ladies."
It never is, I thought.

Country Ham & Eggs

During our Florida trip, little sister, ma, and I woke up early one morning. We decided to beat the rush for Sunday breakfast and sat ourselves on the patio of a restaurant at the pier. Our server came right to the table.

"Coffee today?" The magic words.
"You're good," I replied.
"Well hon, I been doing this thirty years now. I know what you want when you walk in at 6am."

She brought us three ceramic mugs, and we all reached into the little dish of creamers. Em and my Mom take their coffee with cream; I like to stack and unstack the little buckets. Two old men power-walked right up to the gate in their jogging shorts and sweatbands. They sat.

"Coffee gentlemen?" Like a pro.
"Decaf," they replied simultaneously, still panting a little.
"You ladies ready to order?" she asked from their table. I needed a minute. I looked at my mom. Mom needed a minute. "That's fine, take your time," she said knowingly, disappearing into the restaurant.

When she came back, she took the old men's order.
"We'll take the ladies," they said, pointing at our table. Everyone laughed. They ordered eggs whites and whole wheat toast, dry. The waitress came back to us.
"Well ladies," she said. "What'll it be?"

I watched the lines on her face as we ordered. What kind of toast? How did we want our eggs? Thirty years - which thirty years? Age 20-50? 16-46?

In the few minutes we spent waiting for our food, our friends across the patio finished their egg whites, dropped cash, and resumed their walk. A couple replaced them just as fast.

"Coffee today?" 

The Fifth Floor

My dad took me to New York when I graduated from junior high. Our hotel was in a slightly sketchy neighborhood, and on our walk home from the theater, he instructed me to keep my eyes at eye level or below. 

"People who live in the city don't look up," he said. "They walk with purpose."

So I did. And eleven years later, I realized he was right, when my friend and I passed the tallest building in Boston on our way home from a play.
"Wow, I've never noticed that before!" she said, looking up. 

"What's that?" I asked.

"Up around the fifth floor - it's all pipes and tubes." I looked up.

The whole expanse of the massive fifth floor was a boiler room; no desks or shades, just tunnels of tubes and vats. It was fascinating - in a building so famous for its exterior, with mirrored windows from floor to ceiling, the pipe-room was on display without regrets - even lightly illuminated after dark. And for the rest of the night, it was a new city. I discovered that familiar storefronts were parts of 20-story buildings with ornate cornices, that the windows above Starbucks had colorful eaves. I saw Boston with the fresh eyes of a tourist, but I felt the affection of an adopted local.

Genius Bar, Revisited

Last week I pressed the power button on my computer and found a flashing white file folder with a question mark, accompanied by a persistent clicking sound from the bottom right of the keyboard. Two days later, I was back in the white glass room, talking to Brian about my options. He was very calm and professional as he asked me which files I'd like to save. Which pictures, songs, stories, papers? I watched his mouth move and felt a familiar tightening in the back of my throat. I was about to cry over my hard drive.

I wondered how often he'd been cried to. He must have delivered oodles of death sentences in his career as a Genius. But my tears are shy, so I said this instead:

"I'm having a really emotional response to the failure of my computer hardware. It's annoying." He looked at me for the first time since I'd sat down on that modern-chic stool. His eyes were true blue, and he had freckles.
"Yeah, I mean it's all your stuff," he replied. "Do you have it backed up?"
"Not really," I said. "Not unless my memory counts."

It didn't. Somewhere in the course of the last three years, I'd begun to trust all my intellectual property to a dirty, white machine. Only to see it appraised in five minutes by an ultra-hip techie with a logo on a lanyard.

Real Good for Free

My favorite local burrito place opened a new location. To celebrate, they sponsored 6 hours of free food. I was ready and waiting before the place even opened. My neighbors in line shared stories about where they'd come from, what they were going to order, who tipped them off to the promotion. It was a lovely little community for all ages.

Standing outside in the 10-degree afternoon, I realized that this wasn't about saving five dollars at all. Most people would gladly pay five dollars to get out of a frozen thirty-minute queue. Or even more than five dollars if it were TSA security.  It was about putting yourself in a position to receive a little gift, and accepting that gift in good company. 

Antiquing

On a rainy vacation day in Vermont, it seemed appropriate to find shelter in a local antique dealer's home. We were hailed in off the road by a big flag that read "OPEN" and another "Antiques." The blue house was complete with a barn to each side, an old moldy tent, and two floors, all overflowing with furniture pieces and knick-knacks. The driveway was lined with rusty chairs and sculptures, all of which had seen many more rainy days in Vermont than I. An assortment of bells clinked as we entered the house, and I found myself gripping a tennis ball when I turned to close the door behind me.

We started tentatively toward the living room to our left and were greeted by a long-haired man in earth tones and working boots.

"Ever been here before?" he asked us.

"Nope, first timers," I replied.

"Ah, okay. Welp, we got all the stuff you see out here, we got stuff in the barn out back and the shed, we got stuff out there under the tent... Oh, sometimes you might find stuff inside things," he added, opening a china cabinet to reveal its hodge podge contents. "You can dig around and find some great stuff. You lookin' for anything particular?"

"Not really. Just lookin'."

"Okay. Well, don't be afraid to holler at us if you have questions. And don't be afraid to dig." He started out of the room but immediately returned to add, "Everything's on sale, too, so if ya want somethin', tell us."

"Great! Thanks so much!"

Once we were left with the goods themselves, I tried my best to focus on one thing at a time. There were three rubber stamps, a toy typewriter, rusted wrenches and screws, a row of leather jackets, and beautiful, smoky silverware. Each room was arranged by theme, which was appropriate because it was a house, so living room stuff was in the living room, games in the den, etc. Upstairs, we found the master bedroom. In the center was a bed frame, with a lovely headboard and floral sheets hanging over the top. There were chests of drawers and a desk with vanity mirror. Clothes were hanging in the closet. A dusty white nighty hung next to a long purple coat, with shoes underneath to match. It was like going through my grandparents' attic, but while that gave me information about people I knew and loved, this gave me clues to a strange, open-ended mystery. I felt like I was supposed to be a vulture - to want to see everything and find the buried treasure, but I couldn't shake the history of these private items. Where did the lady wear her white purse with the gold chain? What color lipstick did she keep inside?

After a little while, a petite woman came upstairs. She was a sweet person with a salt-and-pepper mane and a weathered face.

"How are you doing up here?" she asked.

"Great!" I replied.

"Where ya from?"

"Boston. Well, we live in Somerville."

"Oh really? I lived in Somerville for years! That was when I was with my first husband; yeah, this is my second marriage," she looked up to signify some explanation. "But I loved Somerville. It's convenient, close to Cambridge, but it's quieter, like a neighborhood. When we moved out here, it was one of those life-changing things, you know?" I nodded. "So are you guys finding anything?" she asked.

"Not yet. There's just so much!"

"Yeah. Well, it's only your first visit. Let us know if you like anything, because prices are tweakable."

I told her that I liked one of the trunks, but didn't think I could fit it in my car.

"Well, we have loads of them if you want something smaller. Did you check out back?"

"No, we've only been in here so far."

"Oh, well, look under the tent and check in the barn. There's a flashlight out there on your way in."

"Okay," I said.

"And we may have more if you come back, too. You know, this business is always changing. It used to be people were buying up all the linens. You'd get a bunch in and then people would dig through them and want to get there hands on them all, but now nobody wants them anymore. So you gotta pick and choose when you're on a pick up," she laughed. "You have to try to find the right things. But we've got lots of trunks in and out of here."

"Okay, well, we'll check out there and see what we find."

We thanked her and headed out to the barn. The rain had seeped through and damaged a lot of the pieces - bed frames had turned orange and blankets brown. By the time the man came back out to show me all the trunks under the tent, the rain had let up a little bit, and we were ready to hit the road again. But he worked hard to make the sale. He had to sell while he had us. That was the nature of his business. But we were just looking.

RMV Part Deux

After settling my business at the RMV in Boston, I found myself in line at the Somerville Office of Traffic and Parking. Immediately in front of me was a short lady and her two kids: a trendy girl of about 12 and an impish boy around 6 years old. The boy was dancing around the pole in the center of the room and chewing on the antenna of his mother's cell phone. The girl wore a backpack purse and twirled her hoop earrings impatiently. Their mother looked exhausted and gazed absently at the floor. Every now and then she pleaded with her son in Spanish, telling him not to chew the antenna.

When we all got to the place in line that runs alongside chairs, the mother folded exhaustedly into the first one. Her daughter sat next to her and kissed her on the cheek. After they had rested a moment, the boy spun out from the pole and into the rope gates of the line, crashing himself and the gate down loudly. His head spun immediately toward his mother who scolded him and motioned him toward her. He sat next to her then and kept quiet until they all got to the window.

The mother spoke quietly, and her English was tentative as she attempted to explain her purpose to the teller. The teller responded confusedly, so the young girl leaned forward and explained her mother's business in clear, sophisticated English. She became the mediator for the rest of the affair, and the teller addressed all further questions directly to the girl.

When the lady left the window to gather their paperwork, the girl buried her nose in her armpit and scrunched up her face with a disgusted sigh. She made a breathy remark in Spanish to her mother, who let out a loud crack of laughter. This provoked her son to do the same, though I'm not sure he heard his sister to begin with.

RMV

Deep in the heart of Chinatown lies the root of all evil in Boston. Conveniently situated next to a Dunkin Donuts, the building brews a melting pot of disgruntled Bostonians from 9 to 5, all through the business week. When you enter the building, a lady with spiky red hair and pointed fingernails hands you a slip of paper with a letter and a number.

Then you proceed through the doorways to her right and left, where you find yourself under rows of fluorescent lights, facing a wall of service windows with unlikely pairs of people failing to communicate. The floors are checked with splatter-painted tiles, and long wooden benches line the middle of the room. The people spread themselves out on the benches with two to seven feet of personal space on either side and try to divert themselves. Some people read, some eat, some text; one man behind me sampled ring tones for thirty minutes. The only clue as to the length of your wait is an electronic voice overhead reciting letters and numbers. But any given combination of these could mean a thirty-five minute dialogue at the counter.

The walls are covered in signage endorsing the Fast Lane Pass, luring you back to the pointy-haired greeter for another round. The benches are hard and narrowly spaced, so that you have to jam your knees into the seat to let people past. I sat on the end, hoping for a quick exit, but my wait clocked in at forty-five minutes by the time my number was called. When the voice announced A096, I advanced triumphantly to the counter and smiled at my new acquaintance on the other side. She deflected her eyes to my paperwork and informed me that my materials were not sufficient for the business I had come to do, and then she sent me away with a list of errands for my next visit. I pushed my way through the Dunkin Donuts crowd feeling empty and disoriented.

Genius Bar

Yesterday my iPod broke, so I went for support on the 3rd floor of a cold glass building in Boston's Back Bay. As instructed, I checked in with the man holding an iPad. With one slick touch, he highlighted my name on his touch screen and told me to have a seat. As I situated myself among the other patient hipsters, I scanned the photos of people just like us that hung across the white walls. The pictures captured attractive young people of every color holding different versions of solid-colored devices. Next to each one stood a similar person dressed in a blue shirt with a string around his or her neck, just like the ones who lined the Genius Bar; just like the ones who adorned the 3 flights of stairs and greeted me with strange familiarity in the entryway on the first floor.

When the iPad man introduced me to his friend Paul, of the Blue Shirt variety, he told me Paul was going to take good care of me and asked me if that was alright. And then Paul asked about my day and life as he told me that my iPod could not be fixed, but that I could trade it in for one hundred dollars to have one that works again. I thanked Paul, packed up my things, cordially returned all the thanks and goodbyes I received on my way out, and welcomed with sweet contentment the wet heat and grimy agitation of Boylston Street.

RIP: iPod Nano 2008-10.