LoriLoo

Modern Day Fairy Tale

2009-09-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Maggie. Maggie liked lists a lot. More than lists, she liked fun. One day, she made a list of 100 things she wanted to do during her lifetime. One of the things on the list was to participate in a giant food fight.

Several hundred of her closest friends received a Facebook invitation to participate in a giant food fight in a small park in San Francisco, bearing multiple tubs of Cool Whip. When invited, friends fell into one of three categories 1 � That�s the most awesome thing ever � I can�t wait for Saturday to arrive! 2 � That sounds pretty cool, I�ll come and watch or 3 � I�m not sure what I�m doing on Saturday, but it most definitely will not be that.

About 50 of her adventuresome friends showed up at the appointed time, including a girl named Lori and a boy named Stas. The group bonded together to prepare the site. Tarps were laid and pegged; containers of Cool Whip and spray cans of whip cream opened and positioned around the edges of the tarp. Excitement filled the air as people prepared to battle.

The call was given, and Cool Whip began to fly. Unbeknownst to most, Cool Whip catches air well and travels great distances when flung. Unbeknownst to most, Cool Whip + plastic tarp = hilarity. It�s one thing to watch slapstick comedy. It�s quite another to participate in it. The group of fifty was happy.

In a matter of minutes, the Cool Whip was gone and the group was covered from head to toe in white goo. Laughter filled the air as people gathered the empty containers and rolled up the tarps.

Stas approached Lori and pointed at his hand. She looked, noticing it, like the rest of him, was covered in Cool Whip. She also noticed that the wedding ring that he had received barely a month ago was not there. They stared at each other. This was not the happy ending they had hoped for.

They surreptitiously search the trash and when the ring was not found Maggie took charge and organized a search party. The 50 people lined up across the area that moments before had been covered in Cool Whip. Inch by inch they searched the grass. Nothing was found.

Someone shouted, �You should rent a metal detector.� �Yes! A metal detector!� echoed the crowd. The perfect solution to a ring lost in a field of grass. To everyone�s bewilderment, there are no businesses that rent metal detectors in San Francisco. So Stas drove an hour south to rent a metal detector (and the friendly proprietor threw in a poking stick for free). As he returned to the park, the fog rolled in over the hills. Cold and shivering, the search began.

Stas� wife, who did not participate in the Cool Whip fight, arrived with fleece. Lori, Stas, and Bryan, still with remnants of Cool Whip in their hair and behind their ears, pronounced her an angel as they layered in sweatshirts and jackets and scarves and hats.

Dusk fell as they took turns using the metal detector, prodding the grass, and searching on hands and knees. Many dog owners frequented the park, throwing balls for their dogs to retrieve. Most eyed the search party suspiciously. As Lori passed by with the metal detector, one asked, �Did you lose something?� She looked at him quizzically and said, �A wedding ring.� He nodded. �I wondered. Your boots are too nice for you to be a homeless lady.� She assessed her mismatched, though warm, outfit and agreed.

After hours of searching, with nothing found except one dirty quarter, the group abandoned the search and went to drown their sorrow in beer and sangria.

Stas, the ringless husband, and Coreen, his beautiful wife, returned to the park the next morning to conduct one last attempt to search for the ring. They employed the metal detector again, talking to the dog owners as they surveyed the grass. Again, the search was futile. They left the park, sad they did not have the lost ring, but happy to have each other. Moments after leaving the park, they received a phone call from one of the dog owners, instructing them to return to the park. The ring was found!

And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.

Sometimes That Happens

2009-07-08T08:52:00.000-07:00

My colleague is maneuvering through heavy traffic. It is start and stop, stop and go. We are stopped when we are rammed from behind. I snap my head around to see what monster of a vehicle has hit us. It�s a small tuk-tuk. My colleague does not get out of the car, doesn�t show any anger, doesn't show any acknowledgment of the crash. I look over at him. He shrugs and says, �Sometimes that happens.� This is my new motto.

2009-07-03T10:46:00.000-07:00

In the restaurant, I order Bengali fish curry. The waiter asks if I want rice or naan with it. I say neither. He says I have to order one, that I can't just have the curry, that it's meant to be eaten with rice or naan. "Fine," I say, not really wanting either, but knowing it isn't worth the fight, "I'll have the naan." He says, "No, madam, it's never served with naan. That's not a good choice. You must eat it with rice."

Crossing

2009-07-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

We�re trying to cross the street. I take one step forward, then jump back as a tuk-tuk nearly runs over my toes. My colleague has gotten halfway across the street. He turns around and sees me continuing to stand on the side of the road. He comes back, grabs my hand and pulls me. �You just have to walk. The cars will not stop.� I simply close my eyes and trust I�ll get to the other side.

2009-07-01T07:45:00.000-07:00

I�m sitting in one of the government schools we support with a library and books. The children are seated cross legged on the floor in their classroom, no desks available. They smile shyly and giggle and avert their eyes when I look at them. I ask them about their favorite stories and one by one, they come up and recite poems or re-tell their favorite tale. They�re speaking Hindi and Telugu and I�m mesmerized. They recite with such intensity and such seriousness. The girls have matching onyx braids, plaited and looped to form twin pigtails with strands of jasmine tucked in. Their outfits scream with color � fluorescent orange, deep crimson, brilliant turquoise salwar kameezes and dresses adorned with gold thread and sparkling jewels. The boys sport identical short spiky hair cuts, their spindly arms and legs protruding from dingy short sleeve shirts and navy shorts that are too big, gathered at the waist with a rope or belt. Their dark eyes appear so big in their tiny faces.

After the last recitation, the teacher, a big serious man, calls a beautiful little girl to face me. She�s wearing an orange floor length skirt with tiny mirrors sewn along the hem. He stands behind her and lifts up her skirt above her knees. I�m taken aback. What is he doing? He jerks his head to her legs. �Look.� I see before me two tiny deformed legs, bowing outwards at unnatural angles from her knees. I lift my eyes to the girl�s face and she casts her eyes downward. I�m speechless. I don�t know why he is doing this. I want to scream, �What are you doing? Let the girl be. Why are you embarrassing her like this?� He says to me, �The water is contaminated. Fluoride. Her sister is the same.� This does not make sense to me. I sit there, still speechless, not sure what he is expecting or what is the appropriate thing to say in this situation.
After a minute or so of silence, he says, �You will help her. You will fix her legs.�

I continue to sit there, all eyes on me, all the children, all the school staff. I feel embarrassingly uncomfortable. I stammer, �Uh, uh�� How do I explain that I don�t have the connections to fix her legs? That I don�t know what her condition is, much less what could be done to fix them. I realize that they think I have access to unlimited resources. How do I explain I don�t? How do I respond to this request in a country where no one uses the word �no�? How do I not make promises that I know I cannot keep?

I wish I could say that I responded with a culturally sensitive, gracious response. I wish I could say that the tense silence was broken with the girl understanding that I wanted to help, but I didn�t know how. Instead, I, like the girl before me, cast my eyes downward.

The Jew Park

2009-06-30T11:52:00.000-07:00

We�re driving through Hyderabad. Krishnaveni points in a direction and says, �Over there is the Jew park.� I�m not sure I�ve understood correctly. �The Jew park?� �Yes � you don�t have the Jews in America?� �Yes, we have Jews. And I guess sometimes they live in the same neighborhood.� To myself I�m thinking, this seems slightly strange. Krishnaveni continues, �Yes, you can see the animals.� It�s then that I realize she�s saying �zoo park.� This makes me feel much more comfortable with the conversation.

Do Not Be Alarmed

2009-06-29T11:32:00.000-07:00

When these words are said, they usually have the opposite effect as intended. For one often isn't alarmed, until told one shouldn't be.

Halfway en route to Hyderabad, the pilot announces that everything is under control, not to be alarmed, but due to mechanical difficulties we are returning to Delhi. I wonder about this. We are one hour into the two hour flight. Wouldn't it be more effective just to continue? Either way, it will take an hour to get to an airport. I'm assuming they have mechanics in Hyderabad.

I see all the passengers looking around with questioning eyes. The flight attendants come through the aisle, smiling, reminding everyone to buckle their seat belts. Several people ask questions, and I hear a Hindi answer with a sprinkling of English: technical, okay, new aircraft.

The return to Delhi seems more turbulent. Almost as though the pilot does not have control of the plane. We rock back and forth, and bump up and down. I keep telling myself that I�m imagining this , that it�s just a little turbulence. I see Delhi below us. We descend, and hit the landing strip with a thud. And don�t seem to be slowing down. We finally do, then come to a halt. It�s then that I notice the dozen fire trucks moving along side and behind us. And the dozens of jeeps with bright yellow �Safety Taxi� plastered on their sides. The flight attendants tell us to remain seated. I watch men in bright yellow and red helmets and orange safety vests examining the landing gear. Standing, pointing, nodding, walking around, stopping down, taking pictures with their mobile phones.

After what seems like an eternity, we de-plane, board a bus, and are driven to another Air India plane. As we are walking up the stairs to board, the older Muslim man in front of me, white crocheted skull cap snug over his salt and pepper hair, turns to me. �God is watching over us today. Otherwise, we would have crashed and died. Thanks God.� I smile. Yes, thanks God.

The Road to Mathura

2009-06-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

The guidebook showed a photo of a river with the caption, �Every evening at sunset, the river is full of lighted lamps, set afloat by the faithful.�

The text explained the evening ritual: at nightfall small lamps are lit, flowers are tossed into the river, and the lamps are floated onto the river with prayers. This sounded very holy. And very peaceful. And it appeared to be on the road on the way home from Agra, where we had just visited the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. What better way to end the day than with a peaceful, serene visit to a lovely riverside village?

Everyone was up for it. The driver turned off the main highway. He slowed down and asked for directions. A few minutes later, he slowed down again, rolled the window down, and my colleague sitting in the front seat who also speaks Hindi asked for directions. I listened carefully and realized he was asking for the birthplace of Krishna. �No, no, no,� I interrupted. �Not the birthplace of Krishna, Vishram Ghat. Where Krishna rested. Look, here in the book.� Ahhh, the man pointed straight ahead. This practice continued, slowing down, rolling down the window, asking for directions � to police, to soldiers, to men waiting for the bus, to a man on a bicycle � and we eventually got closer and closer and closer to Vishram Ghat. At one of the intersections, the kind direction giver pointed to the right. The three of us in the backseat said, �Thank god we don�t have to go down that street,� pointing to the left to a narrow alleyway teeming with people, rickshaws, bicycles, and motorbikes.

I was surprised the driver didn�t park the car and tell us to take a rickshaw. Or walk. I probably would have, had I been driving. That�s another thing I admire so much about India � the persistence. It will happen.

And it did. We arrived to the river front and were told, by a priest, that basically only amateurs light the lamps to float on the river. The *real* blessing happened at his spot at 7 pm. We continued to the waterfront, followed closely by a cow. Even though we weren�t going to see the idyllic scene we had imagined, we figured we could throw the flowers into the river, light the candle, say a prayer, and set our three lamps afloat.

Once back in the car, we realized the alley was too narrow to turn the car around, so we continued in the same direction. Right to the street where we earlier had uttered, �Thank god we don�t have to go down that street.� Famous last words. We eked along, trying to avoid pedestrians, bicycles, motorbikes, rickshaws, and the occasional other car. A couple of times my colleague in the front seat had to get out of the car to move a parked motorbike over a few inches, so that we could continue. Most people walking by laughed as they watched us try to navigate the tiny alley, although a few hit the car, raised their hands in a questioning position, and asked what I believed to be the Hindi version of �WTF?� We were the sole source of what must have been the village�s worst traffic jam in ages.

After what seemed like forever, we were back on the highway. Several minutes passed in silence until my colleague said, �I don�t think that guidebook is so good.�

A Day at the Taj

2009-06-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

Breakfast -- Take 5

2009-06-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

My favorite breakfast is oatmeal. Preferably with fruit, but fine without. When I travel, I carry packets of instant oatmeal to eat for breakfast. Lunch and dinner I�ll go completely local � street food, restaurants, snacks � but for breakfast I crave a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of green tea.

Day one in Delhi � I call room service.

�I�d like a kettle of boiling water, a bowl, a�� I�m cut off.
�Toast?�
�No, not toast. A bowl.�
�Toast?�
I think. Is there another word I can use for bowl? Not really. �No. No food. A bowl and spoon.�
�Oh. Bowl.�
I listen to his pronunciation. Sounds the same as what I said. �And a cup.�
�Cup of tea?�
�No, no tea, just a cup.�
�Black tea?�
�No, just a cup.�
�Ok, ma�am.�

I wonder what will arrive. I get an ice bucket filled with boiling water, a tin bowl, and a spoon. I ask for a cup (pantomiming). He returns with a cup of black tea.

This happens each morning, with varying success. Today, day 5, I call room service. �Good morning, I�d like hot water�� He cuts me off. �Okay, ma�am.� And brings up exactly what I was expecting. Oh, India, I�m beginning to love you.

2009-06-24T03:45:00.000-07:00

I was given a notebook by our local staff. On the cover is the quote : Common every day. Live to become fine with the happiness because of having you to keep company with.

I�m not sure I understand, but I think I like it.

2009-06-23T10:35:00.000-07:00

I stand and watch silently as my colleague negotiates the fare for the auto-rickshaw. A pack of drivers gather round, an informal union of sorts. The driver names a price and Dinesh counters in Hindi. I stand quietly, trying, unsuccessfully, to appear inconspicuous. I know that my tall white presence does not help his bargaining. Dinesh offers a price, the equivalent of about 45 cents. The driver shakes his head. The others kick the dirt and shake their heads, offended at his offer. They click their tongues and turn their backs.

I watch. I�ve seen this too often. The drivers all appear offended, but they�re watching. They�re waiting. They�re assessing how much the passenger will give, both in the bargaining process and for the fare. I spot the one � the one that will take us for the price Dinesh is offering. He�s got playful black eyes and a rotund pot belly, sweat forming a large oval on the front of his shirt. I stare at the drivers� feet, noticing they all are wearing similar sandals, all have similarly dusty feet. After several rounds of Dinesh offering the same price and the original driver appearing offended, our guy steps forward and motions for us to follow him to his vehicle. I silently wonder if the other drivers are angry. We would have eventually paid the 10 extra rupees being asked.

As we get into the auto-rickshaw, I quietly say to Dinesh, �You�re good at that. I�m not such a good bargainer.� He replies, �I hate that. I hate the bargaining back and��

�Don�t hate me!

We look at the driver. �Don�t hate me. This is hard work. It�s hot, this is hard. Where you go, not many people. How will I get another��

Dinesh interrupts, �Not you � I don�t hate you; I hate the bargaining.�

And all is well. We putt putt our way onto the highway and our driver breaks into song in Hindi. He sings a few verses and tells us he will entertain us. I�m laughing; the hot air of the night washing over me as if I�ve just opened the oven door. He alternates between slightly broken English and Hindi. �I will be your blood.� This catches my ear. ?? �You will not be able to forget me. I make you so happy.� At the moment I am so happy that I am not alone with him. Another Hindi song and I notice he�s adjusted his rearview mirror and he�s staring directly at me. I know, I�ve accepted, I won�t contest India always wins, so I simply laugh as the hot wind blows my hair out of its tightly twisted knot. There�s no point in getting upset. Horns blare all around us. Cars come perilously close to our open vehicle. He swerves to miss a pothole. I hear Hindi, then, �First whiskey, then no whiskey, then you love the Indian.� I glance up. What is this jibberish? He�s smiling at me in the rear view mirror. �See, I told you I entertain.� I laugh silently, glad for the moment that India always wins.

Barcelona

2009-05-20T23:48:00.000-07:00

The thing I love most about travel is that suddenly magic is everywhere. Or maybe it�s always there, but I just don�t notice it in when I�m wrapped up in the ennui of my everyday routine. A few of my favorite Barcelona moments�

Looking down at the monastery at Montserrat

Montserrat
On the funicular at Montserrat, we sat at the front, eager to see the views as we ascended the mountain. Moments before our ascent, a group of chatty, elderly Spaniards boarded. They crowded in. Tob and I exchanged glances, feeling guilty in our seats, and offered our seats to two older ladies. �No, no, no� they repeated, as they took the seats and commented our on good manners. They wanted to know where we were from; they were from Valencia. They commented on how handsome Tob was; one woman pointed to her husband and suggested we swap men for the day, and they all cackled hysterically. The women then broke out in song, a traditional song from Valencia, and pantomimed dance moves in the crowded car. At that moment I saw my role model for aging. As we exited, we exchanged air kisses and wished each other happy trails.

The path was narrow and alternated between warm sunny patches and shady bits. The climb was gradual until the end, where hundreds of stairs met us. After catching my breath at the top, I looked around. And was speechless. There, below us, laid the countryside, stretching in one direction to the sea, the other to the Pyrenees Mountains. Moments later, two Spanish men arrived, with their dog, Mike. They showed us their town, at the base of the mountain. They were currently in between jobs, and came to Montserrat almost every day to run to this peak. They told us about a restaurant that had been at the top of the mountain, but was swept away during a flood 20 years ago (no one was hurt) as we shared our lunches. Laughing with each other, the fruit was sweeter, the Serrano ham saltier, the cheese creamier. As they prepared to run back down the mountain, we exchanged pleasantries and kisses on cheeks. I was overwhelmed by being in a country that loves life.

Miro and Me
I ran into the museum, eager to escape the oncoming storm. I was so excited about visiting this museum. Joan Miro is one of my favorite artists � the colors, the simplicity, the lines, the vibrancy � each piece astounds me. As I started walking through the galleries, listening to my audio guide explain the history of each painting, I realized I was the only visitor. Thinking maybe I had made a mistake and had less time than I thought, I asked one of the few guards what time the museum closed. No, I still had another couple of hours. I wandered from gallery to gallery, peering close at the red, the yellow, the blues, then slowly backing away, watching each masterpiece transform. In each gallery, I was the only person, even the guards were nowhere to be seen. I couldn�t believe my fortune. Miro and me, all alone.

�May I take care of you?�
Oh, magic. Here was a charming Spanish waiter, asking if he could choose my food for me. See, I love eating. I just don�t like making choices. There�s the anxiety of choosing something on the menu, and it not living up to my expectations, and what if I should have chosen the other item� To have someone just bring me food � oh, heaven.

I told him I�m allergic to bell peppers and he whisked away, returning with a lovely chilled bottle of crisp white wine and a small plate of delicious, melt in your mouth mussels, in a just slightly salty broth. He laughed as I mm�ed and ah�ed as I ate each one. All that remained in front of me was a pile of shells when he told me I was not finished. Not sure I understood him (I think I�m much more fluent in Spanish than I actually am), he continued. �Senora, use your teeth to get the rest� and he showed me how to scrape the shells to get every last remnant. Delicious food and I can use my fingers?

What followed next were generous portions of lightly fried seafood � shrimp, calamari, sardines, small fish -- which I shared with the Portuguese man sitting next to me, also dining alone. He offered me his platter of fried artichokes. We continued to chit chat as more platters arrived. The last was even more delicious than the prior platters. It had warm cheese on top and the solid mass on my fork melted in my mouth, no distinguishable flavor except pure happiness.

Los Pies Grandes

2009-05-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

I ducked into the Camper shoe store just as the rain was beginning to fall. Leisurely, I wandered around, imagining each of the funky shoes upon my feet � heaven! I lifted a pair of black high heels, intending to try them on, and realized I didn�t know my European size. I held the floor sample to my foot; at a 38, it was considerably smaller than my foot. I asked the salesman if he spoke English. �A little,� he replied. I told him I spoke a little Spanish. �Let�s speak in Spanish, then,� he suggested with a smile.

I started. �I�d like to try on two pairs of shoes, but I don�t know my size. Maybe I�m a 44?� At that, he burst out laughing. �44 is a man�s size! It is huge!� I laughed and lifted a foot. �Pero mis pies son grandes!� For a split second, I wondered whether I told him my feet were huge, or my stones were huge. Pies? Piedras? Either way, he seemed to understand. Or at least humor me. Still laughing, he asked me what size I wear in the US. I told him 8 � or 9. He suggested I try a 38, the sample in my hand. I compared the shoe to my foot and told him it was way too small. Still laughing, he brought me a 39 and 40. �You do not need a 44,� he said. Sure enough, I walked out with a pair of 40s and happy.

Check-In

2009-05-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

As I entered my room in Jo'burg, I found this note:

Dear Valued Guest,

We are currently experiencing the effect of the blasting from the Gautrain project.

There is no prior warning of the blasting, and it can and has occurred at any time, particularly in the middle of the night.

This is beyond our control, but wanted you to be aware, so that if you do experience the building shaking, that you are not alarmed in any way.

We apologise for this inconvenience, and hope that it will not detract from what we presume is an otherwise comfortable stay.

Just as I finished reading, I felt the building shake. Just in time information...

2009-04-26T07:01:00.000-07:00

The guest house I�m staying at only accepts cash payments. Which I find hilarious, because my bill is in the millions of Kwacha (best name for a currency ever) and the bills in my wallet are 50, 100, 1000, 10,000, 20,000, and a few 50,000 denominations. I�m trying to count to a million, laughing hysterically because I keep mistaking 100�s for 1000�s and 10,000�s for 50,000�s. My colleague does not seem so amused. I�ve asked to settle my bill the night before I�m leaving, so that if I need to go to the ATM to get more cash, I can.

As I�m trying to count the wads of money that I�ve stuffed into my purse, the desk clerk, Pretty, asks me if I had any room service. I told her yes, that the evening I arrived, I had vegetable curry. She asks me how much it was. Foreign currency baffles me, especially when I travel to more than one country in a trip. Is the exchange rate 7? 61? 5700? I look at her with a blank face. �I don�t know, maybe 9,000? 50,000?� I have no idea.

She calls the waiter into the reception area. He has the menu in his hand. �Hello!� I greet him. �Hello!� he returns with a wide grin. That�s one of the things I love about Zambia. If you smile when you greet someone, you get the heartiest welcome in return. �May I see the menu?� He stares at me. �I ordered the vegetable curry on Sunday and would like to see the price.� �No,� he responds, �it�s not on the menu.� �Yes,� I smile. �I ate it on Sunday. Can I see?� He gives me the menu. �It�s not there,� he clips in with a lovely British accent. I know it�s there, because this is the exact same copy of the menu that I ordered from last Sunday. I turn the page and run my finger down the page. I stop at vegetable curry, 30,000 ZMK. He seems surprised. �How did that get there?� I shrug and tell Pretty 30,000. I tell the waiter thank you.

Pretty totals my bill and tells me the amount. It�s close to three million. I start counting out stacks of money, giggling non-stop. I finish and she recounts.

I look at the bill and realize she hasn�t added in the vegetable curry. See, I�m one of those annoying people who points out when I haven�t been charged for things. I feel it�s karma. That if I don�t �fess up, something bad is coming my way. I tell Pretty that I need to pay for the vegetable curry. She asks me if I want to order dinner. I tell her no, but I want to settle my bill. What transpires next is an African version of �who�s on first.� I finally give up, satisfied that I�ve tried, and retire to my room.

An hour and a half later I hear someone knocking on my colleague�s door. �Room service!� the voice booms. I hear some words exchanged, and then there is a knock on my door. �Room service!� Already in bed, I shout, �I didn�t order room service � thank you!� I then hear a knock on every other door on the hallway, to no avail. I find this odd.

The next morning, my colleague asks me if I got my vegetable curry. I look at him, perplexed. Evidently the waiter thought we were *ordering* vegetable curry. When we said we didn�t order it, he simply knocked on every door, until finally someone accepted it. We�re speaking the same language, but there�s something lost in translation.

2009-04-25T07:03:00.000-07:00

�You must be new here.�

I�m warming myself in the sunshine, relaxing by an outdoor fountain, waiting for my colleague to return from the bank. I open my eyes and see a very tall, very lanky, very, very, very black man talking to me. I stare at his skin. It�s almost blue it�s so black. Both his eyes and his teeth seem unnaturally white, almost phospherant compared to his skin.

�Not so new, why?�

�Your skin, it�s too light. Why is your skin so light? You can�t have been here very long.�

I shrugged. �A couple of weeks��

�I knew it. There�s no way you could be in Zambia and still be as light as you are. Look around. No one is as light as you. Stay here a while.�

I laugh. He asks me what I do. I tell him and return the question. He�s an artist, a sculptor, a poet, an actor. He tells me I�m going to see him on television one day and say to my friends, �Hey! There�s Nick. I met him in Zambia and look at him now!�

I hope I do.

Choices

2009-04-24T02:35:00.000-07:00

There is only one outlet in my room. I feel like I�m playing a real life game of rock paper scissors. Lamp beats laptop cord until battery runs low on laptop. Laptop cord wins until I�m thirsty, at which point electric kettle wins. After water is boiled, it�s up for grabs. Lamp wins if it�s evening; laptop cord wins if there�s still work to do.

Mystery

2009-04-22T02:34:00.000-07:00

My room here in Zambia has a tub with a hand shower. Which would be fine, except that the shower head doesn�t reach above knee level. Looking on the bright side, I suspected I could get some awesome stretches in as I bathed. I was ecstatic when I opened the taps and warm water flowed from the tap. I pulled the knob to create the shower flow, and water trickled out the low shower head. Cold, very, very cold water. Had I run out of warm water that quickly? In a matter of seconds? I pushed the knob so that water flowed from the tap. No, it was warm. This went back and forth for several minutes. Cold shower? Warm bath? After a mere moment�s consideration, warm water trumped.

2009-04-21T02:32:00.000-07:00

My colleagues entered the bank. I stayed in the front seat of the SUV, happy for the break. In front of me a soldier, clad in dark khaki green from the beret on his head down to the black of his boots, casually talked to the bank security guard. The solider bent over to examine a speck on his boots. He stood and produced some shoe polish and a rag and bent back over to buff his shoes. I noticed, with some alarm, the rifle which was slung over his shoulder was now pointing directly at me. I immediately envisioned the newspaper headline �Soldier Discharged after Gun Discharged in Fatal Freak Accident.� I stared at the gun. It looked like maybe there was a safety on it. Perhaps? I know nothing about guns. I leaned to one side, out of range of the gun. The solider shifted to polish the other shoe. I was in the line of fire once again. I weighed my paranoia against the likelihood this unlikely event would actually occur. Paranoia won out. I dropped to the floorboard of the car, clearly out of range of the rifle. My colleagues returned to the car, perplexed. �What are you doing?� I sat up. �Oh, nothing. Just thought I dropped something on the floor.� I was quite relieved to see the soldier standing upright, gun pointing at the ground.

Princess

2009-04-20T02:31:00.000-07:00

I enter my room, see the mosquito net hanging over my bed and my heart skips a beat. I have been enamored with this type of netting since I was a child. For some inexplicable reason, I associate the draping that I see in front of me with royalty, princesses who want for nothing, romantic liaisons behind a diaphanous curtain. For a moment, the average lodge transforms into the exotic.

Beauty's Gift

2009-04-19T02:25:00.000-07:00

The facilitator began the discussion by asking, �How many of you have actually read the book?� Only one hand in the crowded room rose. �How many of you know a child orphaned by AIDS?� A few more hands. �How many of you have a family member affected by HIV/AIDS?� Still more. �How many of you know your HIV status?� Nearly two thirds of the hands were raised. �How many of you know someone who has died of AIDS or complications from AIDS?� Many more hands slowly rose. �Now, how many of you have not raised your hand in response to my last five questions?� One sole hand was raised.

The author began, �If the apartheid government had allowed this to happen, the entire world would be up in arms � Genocide! They would be crying. So why did we allow our black government to be in denial about AIDS in South Africa? Why?�

A colleague invited me to attend a book reading in Johannesburg. We sat, transformed by the words of the writer, Sindiwe Magona. She couldn�t have been more than five feet tall (if even), yet she filled the room with her passion, her disappointment, her pleas to action. The book involves the FFF, five firm friends, and what happens when one of them, Beauty, dies of AIDS, infected by her husband. As she is dying, she implores the others not to let the same fate befall them.

Moved by the author�s passion, I bought Beauty's Gift and completed it by the next day. It�s one of those books that when you reach the end of the chapter, you think, I�ll just read one more, and before you know it, have reached the end.

Flight 261

2009-04-15T07:49:00.000-07:00

As I was storing my carry-on baggage, the man behind me introduced himself. �I heard your voice � where are you from?� he asked in an obviously American accent. �San Francisco. How about you?� �Baltimore.� The conversation continued as we prepared ourselves for the 11 � hour flight to Johannesburg. He had recently been laid off from Home Depot and was joining friends in Zambia that he had reconnected with on Facebook. Facebook! His surprise at being on Facebook at age 42. But here he was � on his way to Zambia, for a mission. Mission? This piqued my interest. I�m not particularly religious, but love observing, participating, learning more about religions. I�m in awe of those who have unwavering faith. How do they know? He talked more about the mission � a 150 acre farm outside of Livingstone, Zambia. I asked him what denomination he was associated with.

�Well, it�s sort of one we made up.�

Really? Now I totally wanted to talk to this guy. I pressed for more details. He wasn�t giving them up. I�ve just finished reading �Under the Banner of Heaven� about Mormon Fundamentalists. Was he creating a new sect? Was he a fundamentalist?

He switched the subject to how Melatonin was originally developed to help women�s menstrual cycle become more regular. I commented that it just put me to sleep. I tried to steer the conversation back to his missionary work. He changed the subject to ACC basketball.

The HR part of me wanted to coach him � dude, if you�re trying to convert people, you�re going to have to be comfortable talking about your beliefs.

The other part of me wanted to smack talk how wrong he was about the Terrapins having a great basketball team next year. In the end, that won. You can take the girl out of North Carolina, but you can�t take the North Carolina out of the girl.

Why I Love Flying

2009-04-15T07:47:00.000-07:00

Other people claim they hate plane flights, but I love them. I love the thought of two, or six, or in this case, twenty-two hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. I can read (People magazine, no less!), I can work, I can watch a movie, I can do a crossword, I can sleep, I can talk to my seatmate, anything! I realize that I could make these same choices in my everyday life, but other things seem to get in the way � social commitments, work commitments, doing everyday errands, blah.

I had a lovely German seatmate on the flight from SFO to Frankfurt. He was a very statuesque man and I almost (read, almost) offered my aisle seat to him. I felt much better when he explained he always requested a middle seat because his shoulders were so wide that he didn�t like the aisle seat; people continuously bumped into him. I didn�t feel quite so guilty about my coveted aisle seat. We discussed travel, and the thrill of living in another language � how that affects the way you think, how you express yourself. He had made a lot of money in the watch business (go figure) and invested in a few small properties in Germany. He rents apartments and garages. His friends and family badger him to buy more, invest more, more, more, more, but his attitude is, �Why bother? I live a comfortable life. Not extravagant, but comfortable. If I buy more properties, yes, I�ll be richer, but I�ll have to work more and have less time to enjoy what I have. Who wants that?� I love that attitude. We were having a lovely conversation, both of us plagued by insomnia, until the woman in front of us angrily stood up, turned around and shushed us with the admonition, �Some of us are trying to sleep!� We raised our eyebrows at each other, shrugged, and turned on our i-Pods.

I also love airplane food. Yes, I do. The presentation is magnificent. Little packets of food � a salad, bread, butter, a sampling of a main meal, dessert, *and* a piece of chocolate. It�s great. I�m a sucker for individual portions. And it�s served hot. Who doesn�t like hot food? I have a secret obsession with the refreshing towelletes that all but US airlines provide. I never use them on the plane, instead stashing them in my purse. I feel like I�m channeling my grandmother, who grew up in the Depression and saved twist ties and recycled tin foil. But refreshing towellettes are so useful! Especially when travelling. Suppose you�re in the desert and you�ve travelled for days. You arrive at an oasis and are offered plump dates by your host. You want to partake, but feel the grime and dust of three days of travel crusting your hands. But wait! You know you have a refreshing towellette and you briefly excuse yourself, quickly swiping the lemon scented towellette over your face and hands, returning to the feast feeling fresh and anew. See � there�s a reason I hoard these precious packets.

"What Long, Long Roots You Have"

2009-01-20T20:15:00.000-08:00

Not exactly the message you want to hear, particularly from your dentist. Or endodontist, to be more specific. You know, the guy that does root canals.

After over two hours of laying in his chair, mouth wide open, trying to drown out the sound of drills and "another number 10 file, please" with shuffled songs on an iPod, I watched Dr. Wing drop his hands in exasperation.

"I just can't finish."

What is this strange language my dental professional is speaking to me? I pressed the pause button on my iPod and lifted my head gently. I tried to mouth a question, but the apparatus in my mouth prevented me from doing so, and I simply made a gagging noise. I tried to formulate a response with my hands, but the instrument tray prevented me from raising my hands more than an inch or so. I finally stared at him, pleading, and raised my eyebrows.

"I just don't feel comfortable with the work that I've done. You had four roots instead of three, which was a surprise, and they're incredibly long. I can't finish this today. We'll have to make another appointment later in the week."

I thought about this for a moment. He removed the clamps and rubber from my mouth. Not wanting to acknowledge what he just told me, I tried to ask, "What exactly does that mean?" and was consumed by a searing pain in my jaws.

"You'll need to come back in, I'll numb you, I'll continue where I left off. There's just a mm or so that I can't quite get. I need more time." He spoke these words so matter of factly. I was still having a hard time accepting this proclamation.

"And what would happen if we just left the root there? You got most of it, right? Let's just call it a day."

It was his turn to eye me with quizzical curiosity. I simply nodded and made a mental note to thank my parents for genetics that blessed me with long legs, long fingers, and as I realized now, long roots.