LoriLoo

Emergency

2008-04-25T00:28:00.000-07:00

Our office has recently moved into a new building, a high-rise downtown. The building management recently contacted us about conducting Emergency preparedness sessions for all employees. We scheduled the sessions and I immediately got the question, "Do I really have to go to this?"

Yes.

I knew if I wavered, no one would show up, and then what would happen during an earthquake? No one would know where the emergency Snickers were and we'd all be cranky.

The facilitator began the session by explaining what to do in case of a fire. Only the two floors immediately above and below the affected floor are supposed to "re-locate." Notice, I didn't say evacuate. They don't want people leaving the building. Just moving to another floor so the firemen can do their stuff. I don't know about the rest of the staff, but if I'm in a burning building, and I'm smelling smoke, I'm getting out.

She continued by saying we would be notified about the fire by the fire alarm, which was the standard "California Whoop."

Yes, her slide said, "California Whoop."

At which point several of the male employees asked her to demonstrate the said alarm. They weren't happy with her rendition, so the room was then filled with rowdy "Whoop -- there she is! Whoooop!" yelled back and forth. I'm not sure how much was learned during the session, but it was most definitely my most entertaining meeting of the day.

I hope we never have an emergency.

Replacing Memories

2008-04-22T23:12:00.001-07:00

I realized I've become old when I visit a place and I start to think about replacing former memories.

Tonight, I was at a place where I was once on a first date. It was a tentative first date. We had met for drinks, which turned into dinner, which then led to an after dinner music excursion. We stood there, watching the band, watching the dancers. There were a few of them. Swing dancers, who were quite good. And in period dress. I knew I was a good dancer. I didn't know if he was. We watched, each too shy to venture to the floor.

Tonight I entered the same bar, different night, different time. I was there among friends. My former neighbor, my Vincent, was performing.

How would I have ever known this would turn out this way? I remember moving into the studio apartment, freshly raw from divorce, excited to meet new people, yet wary of meeting new people. He knocked on my door. "Do you have any sugar?" Seriously? A neighbor was asking me for sugar? He seemed nice enough. And I had sugar. I gave him a cup of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon. And our friendship was sealed.

For two years, we chatted as we each made dinner. See, our kitchen windows opened up to face each other. The building was shaped somewhat like an I. Each of our kitchens was positioned to face each other, over an expanse. So he would come home from work; I would come home from work. We would raise our windows, begin cooking our dinners, and chat across the way. This continued until I eventually moved to South Korea.

Surprisingly, we kept in touch. We emailed, and I sent postcards while I was gone. I returned and we met for happy hours and dinners. And the friendship that started over the open windows continued to blossom.

Which leads to tonight. Tonight at the bar where I had a first date that was so promising at the time. And slightly painful to return to in the present.

I thought about the first time I visited the bar. A time of hope, of expectations yet to be fulfilled. I thought about tonight. About friendships I never thought I would sustain. And I was happy with exactly how things have turned out.

As he read his piece, from Doris Lessing, from his own work, from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I realized, I'm exactly where I should be. This bar, this place, this time. And happy to be here.

Favorites

2008-04-22T22:38:00.000-07:00

It's Open Mic. A musician is at the mic, singing a soulful song.

The man next to me exclaims, "Oh, this is my favorite song!"

I listen to a few bars, then turn to him. "I don't recognize it -- what is it?"

He sighs, then turns to me. "I don't know, but it's my favorite."

Must Love Mammals

2008-04-21T22:27:00.000-07:00

"He's so big!" I exclaimed.

"He's the same size he's always been," my curmudgeonly neighbor retorted.

I eyed the dog. No, he was definitely bigger than when I last saw him, almost a year ago. "No, I think he's bigger. It's been almost a year."

"He's five years old." And he stared at me as though this meant something.

"Yes?" I asked with arched eyebrows.

"Don't you know that mammals only grow during their first year of life? Then they stop growing."

I looked at him as though he were testing me. Was this a joke? It didn't seem to be. I thought for a moment.

"Aren't humans mammals? Don't they continue growing past their first year?" He stared at me. "I would beg to differ with your theory."

"Whatever," he retorted, and walked away.

Netflix Loves Me

2008-04-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've been at home for any length of time. A really, really long time.

I decided to have a WIWWIW weekend. What I Want, When I Want. And what I really wanted to do was to clean my apartment. See, that might seem strange. But for someone who more or less hasn't been home for 8 months, that was exactly what I wanted to do.

As I was cleaning, I discovered two Netflix CDs. I didn't even realize I had a Netflix subscription. In between cleaning, I watched the movies. And I thought, this is a pretty neat idea. I like this whole movie thing.

I packaged up the movies to send back to Netflix. I thought to myself, I wonder what's next in my queue? I logged on to Netflix, and to my horror, realized I had had the same two movies since January 2007. JANUARY of 2007. Those were the most expensive movies I had ever, EVER, watched. I calculated the total. Each came to $ 130.08.

And they weren't even that good.

Netflix totally loves me.

Doing Business in Bangladesh

2008-04-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

I�ve come to Dhaka because we�re trying to obtain a government registration in order to start programs here. Our application keeps getting delayed with no explanation given. At the last minute, it was suggested that since I was in Nepal, I should make a side trip to Bangladesh to meet with government officials to try to persuade them to approve our application.

I�m sitting in a small outer office on the ninth floor of a tired, crumbling, remarkably non-descript cinder block government building. There is a faded, corners-curling yearly calendar taped to the wall from 2004. The desk has a glass top with faded business cards randomly placed beneath it. One grabs my attention: BAPSA � Bangladesh Association for the Prevention of Septic Abortions.

I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. I know that things work differently in this part of the world; I don�t let myself get upset by this delay. The Director walks through the outer office into his inner sanctum without glancing at us. He shuts the door. A few minutes later he buzzes for his assistant, who goes in then returns a few minutes later, ushering me in. The Director of the NGO Affairs Bureau begins talking, but doesn�t look at me. He�s fingering a one sentence letter from the Ministry of Home Affairs. He begins talking and I listen to him, then begin my spiel � we�re not a political organization, we�re not affiliated with any religious organizations, our model is to partner with the government, the need for educational infrastructure in Bangladesh is great�. I�m careful to keep my tone positive, to not show any frustration, to not show any sign that I�m annoyed that our application has been in purgatory for the past 6 months. He agrees with my points then wants to discuss US geography. He asks me if San Francisco is close to Washington DC. He wants to know where Pennsylvania is. He then mentions other states and their capitals. I indulge him. I try to steer the conversation back to our registration, or rather the lack thereof.

He pushes the buzzer on his desk and immediately his assistant appears. He makes an order in Bangla. The assistant quickly leaves and returns shortly, followed by three other men and carrying a pink folder, stuffed with papers, secured with a wide string that looks like a shoe lace. The folder is placed on the Director�s desk. The Director nods at it. The assistant unties the string and opens the folder, placing it in front of the Director. Amongst the Bangla writing, I notice the name of our organization scattered throughout. Our application.

The five men chatter back and forth in Bangla, animatedly. They don�t seem to be talking about the application, but perhaps I�m wrong. I sit there, wondering what is being said. There is hearty laughter. After about 15 minutes, the Director dismisses the assistant and the other men. Our conversation resumes.

�Yes� I think you need to speak to the Ministry of Home Affairs directly. Tell them what you have told me. That will be the best.� He writes down a phone number and I�m escorted out.

The assistant makes several phone calls then triumphantly tells me that I will have lunch with one of the Directors from the Ministry of Home Affairs. He notices the look of surprise on my face. �But my flight is at 1 pm. 1300 hours. I do not think I can have lunch and be at the airport in time for my flight.� He smiles. �Yes. Lunch at one. Airport at three.� I smile again. �No, flight at one. Leave for airport at eleven. Meet with Director now?� He looks concerned. �No, flight at three.� I smile. �No, flight at one.� I show him my ticket. �Oh,� is his only reply.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, each looking at the other expectantly.

He finally speaks. �I try my best. You visit with Director next visit.� I ponder. Do I explain to him there won�t be a next visit � that this was taking advantage of my being in Asia? I don�t. I smile, thank him, and tell the driver to take me to the airport. Goodbye, Bangladesh.

Hydration

2008-04-09T23:18:00.000-07:00

In the hotel in Dhaka, there are two small bottles of bottled water. Each has a tag on it that says:

Dear Guest,
Our tap water is drinkable. However if it concerns you, as an added service, this bottle of mineral water is complimentary.

For some reason, this does not encourage me to drink the tap water.

At the Hotel

2008-04-08T23:17:00.000-07:00

On my pillow there is a small calling card that says �Good night� with the hotel�s logo. I turn the card over and it says this:

Come out of the circle of time and into the circle of love.

???

Entering Bangladesh

2008-04-07T23:15:00.000-07:00

I�m in the Immigration line at the Zia International Airport in Bangladesh, waiting. Out of boredom, out of curiosity, I start reading the list of taxable vs. tax fee goods. Some of the more interesting items:

Taxable:
Music Centres
Refrigerators
Dish Washers
Electric Sewing Machines
Ovens � gas and microwave
Air guns
Candelabrums (tax assessed on the number of points)

Are these things that people usually bring with them on a plane? Curious.

Tax Free:
Electric ovens
Rice Cookers
Blenders
Type Writers
Manual Sewing Machines
Computer Scanners

Can�t quite figure out the logic behind the lists, but then again, since I�m not carrying any of said items, it probably doesn�t matter.

Dhaka Bound

2008-04-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

I�m fascinated by this system. I�m sitting in the Kathmandu airport, simply observing. My flight has been delayed. I was supposed to catch a flight to Dhaka, Bangladesh, at 4:40 pm; however, I arrived to the airport and was told it would leave at 5:40 pm. I�m in the waiting area, a throwback to the 70�s, with its dusty tiled floor, copper accents, and nondescript shops that are simply named �DUTY FREE.� The monitor says the flight will leave at 15:50, even though it�s now 16:00. Other flights have status of �Boarding� or �Delayed� or �Cancelled� or �Departed,� flashing by their flight number, but not mine.

I watch the comings and goings of passengers. There seem to be two categories � tourists dressed seemingly inappropriately in shorts and tank tops in this conservative culture, and Nepali men. Every so often, a Nepali man with a topi and walkie talkie scurries through the waiting area, yelling the name of a destination and herding passengers. I finally hear �Dhaka� and make my way towards him. He has a luggage cart laden with black plastic garbage bags. As I show him my boarding pass, he scribbles on it, reaches into the garbage bag, and pulls out a box with a smudged stamp that says �Catered by Everest Hotel.� I�m confused, but make my way through the second security screening.

I enter the second and final waiting area, the one designated just for Biman Bangladeshi Airlines flight 704. What immediately strikes me is that among the hundreds of people in the waiting area, I am the only female. The. Only. One. Everyone else is a young Nepali man, a labourer, making his way to a foreign country in hopes of making a fortune. I sit and read my book. A few minutes later a young Nepali woman enters the waiting area. She sits beside me. �Are you going to Dhaka?� she asks in a lilting voice. �Yes,� I nod.

We open our thin cardboard boxes. It contains a breaded chicken patty, crustless cheese sandwiches on white bread, a piece of fruitcake, and a mango juice. I�m curious. Is this the meal for the flight? Or is this the meal for the waiting area? I notice everyone else eating, so I do as well.

When the announcement is made to start boarding, the hundreds of men race for the gate, crowding each other in a mob. The young Nepali woman and I look at each other, somewhat shocked. We wait until all the men have boarded the plane before making our way to the gate.

On the plane, our seats are next to each other, the middle seats of the middle section of five at the front of the plane. We�ve been upgraded to business class, which is virtually empty. Why have we been assigned middle seats? The silver-haired flight attendant asks me where I�m from, then tells me unique facts about the Bangladeshi communities in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York. He also tells me his favorite movies, and that Charles Heston has died. He saw Ben Hur in the cinema in Dhaka when he was only 8 years old. I smile and listen. Without my asking, he then tells me he will find me a window seat.

A few minutes later, he guides me to the first row window seat. As I sit down, he says, �For you, my VIP.� I smile and thank him. A few minutes later he guides the young Nepali woman to the seat beside me. �She feels comfortable with you,� he offers, and with that we are off to Bangladesh, a mere 3 � hours late.

I Always Forget

2008-03-31T10:37:00.000-07:00

That �sweet lime juice� = orange juice in Nepal. I order sweet lime juice expecting a chilled, tart, refreshing drink and receive a glass of room temperature Tropicana.

I Love This Country!

2008-03-31T10:32:00.000-07:00

As soon as I landed, I remembered. I remembered how magical Nepal is. I love the questions, the chaos, the beauty, the serenity of the people.

The immigration agent looked at my application for entry. �What is this Human Resources you say you do?� he asked in response to my answer for occupation. I smiled. �I hire people, and train them, and sometimes fire them.� �For which company you do this?� �It�s called Room to Read � we build schools and libraries.� He harrumphed and waved me through.

The hotel manager�s face lit up when he saw me. �Namaste! I thought I would never see you again!� I laughed. �Sometimes the world brings us surprises. I am back so soon.�

And so happy to be here.

March Madness

2008-03-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

Four number ones in the Final Four? I'm so sad I'm not in the US to partake.

Personal Space

2008-03-30T04:11:00.001-07:00

How do we learn the concept of personal space? I�m sitting next to an elderly Chinese woman on United flight 869 who might as well be in my seat. As she eats, she props her elbows out so widely that they practically rest on my chest. I shift, trying to avoid her contact, to no avail. I would have to be not in my seat in order to not be touching her. And if I stand my ground? Doesn�t matter. She doesn�t appear uncomfortable rubbing elbows. So why does this make me uncomfortable? We�re in a small, confined space, an airplane. I realize, intellectually, that there�s limited real estate here. I�m not a particularly territorial person. Yet I don�t like her touching me. I sit here, trying to be okay with it. I�m not.

And yet. There�s something both endearing and incredibly irritating about her at the same time. Irritating because she waits until I am either asleep or deeply engrossed in work on my laptop to poke me and let me know she wants to go to the bathroom. I slowly rise from my aisle seat and let her out. And each time she comes back from the bathroom she pokes me, smiles, and then salutes me. That makes me smile. Until she starts rubbing elbows again.

On the Road Again

2008-03-29T15:58:00.000-07:00

This may be the first time ever that I�ve not looked forward to traveling. I was back in San Francisco for less than a month since my last international jaunt, and work was intense. We moved our offices from the Presidio to the Financial District. Moves are stressful, even when you think you have thought of every possible snafu. Because most likely you haven�t.

I had just opened all my mail from the last time I was gone and cleaned my apartment when it was time to pull out my suitcase and pack for this trip. Initially I was excited that I would only be gone for 12 days. 12 days � that�s the least amount of time I�ve traveled for this job. It�s not a month, or 6 weeks, or 3 months. It�s a mere 12 days, a blink of the eye. I�ll be back home before anyone even realizes I�m gone.

At SFO, I just felt tired. When the gate agent complained that she couldn�t figure out my ticket, and wasn�t sure where my bags would end up because my ticket was half electronic and half paper ticket, I didn�t have the energy to react. I couldn�t question, I couldn�t smile, I couldn�t fight. I simply looked at her, shrugged my shoulders, and asked if she had any recommendations on where to look for my bag. Hong Kong? Bangkok? Kathmandu?

As I entered the Red Carpet Lounge, another passenger asked me how to get to a particular area. I answered, not comforted by the fact that I had the wearied look of a traveler that had been there too many times before.

And I hate this. In theory, I think that I want the opportunity to travel. I love working with our in country teams. I realize I�m incredibly lucky to have the opportunities I do to travel and experience new things. So why am I dreading it? Why do I want to spend just one more night in my comfortable bed in San Francisco?

Irony

2008-02-28T06:39:00.000-08:00

Traveling for 4 weeks in developing countries, eating at roadside noodle stands, never getting sick.

First day back in San Francisco, having lunch at a lovely downtown establishment, resulting in food poisoning.

Why Thai Airlines Rocks

2008-02-25T23:30:00.000-08:00

The flight from Phnom Penh to Bangkok is 55 minutes. I assumed we might get beverage service; it was, after all, 9.30 pm. But no, we not only received a full meal, but watching the attendants in action was incredible. Two passed out food. Another two walked up and down the aisle with pre-poured cups of water, orange juice, apple juice and Coke. Another couple walked up and down aisles with open bottles of wine, both red and white. Another came by and collected used cups as soon as you were finished. Another poured tea. Another poured coffee. It was choreographed perfectly. An act that could compete with NASCAR.

And, when I went to the bathroom, there were fresh purple orchids there. Now *that's* attention to detail.

Grandma

2008-02-25T05:47:00.000-08:00

I recently received news that my grandmother passed away. Even though she was old, and in a nursing home, and her health was failing, this news still came as a surprise to me. Maybe not a surprise, per se, but a disappointment. I wanted to see her just once more. I had planned to see her again, in April, for her birthday. I wasn't quite ready for her to die.

She was my last grandparent still living. I suppose I should consider myself lucky. Many of my friends my age lost their grandparents long ago. Instead, I feel as though a string has been cut, that I�m now one generation closer to death.

She also was my favorite grandparent. Yes, she was racist, ridiculously and embarrassingly so. But she also was incredibly kind. And simple. She laughed a lot. She was direct. She made us tomato sandwiches on Wonder Bread. She froze too many leftovers that were never eaten, and saved too many twist ties and scraps of tin foil that were never re-used, a child of the Depression. She plaited my hair and told me stories about dropping out of elementary school to take care of her thirteen siblings, about one of her siblings dying when he got too close to the fire and burned to death, and then going to work in the mills for what seemed like forever. Stories that I heard, but couldn�t quite comprehend. Thirteen siblings? To me, two seemed like too many. Not finishing elementary school? How was that possible? Two generations, yet a world, away.

I wonder what she was thinking, what she was cognizant of, when she died. Had she received my postcard from Laos? If so, did she know who it was from? Did she remember she had two children, five grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren? Did she recognize how much we loved her? Were her last emotions ones of peace or of the ever increasing angry and confused moods?

Grief is unpredictable. When I received my father�s email that simply said, �Please call,� I knew why. Before calling, I tried to convince myself that there were a million other reasons he could have sent an email like that. Maybe they won the lottery. Except I don�t think there is one in NC. Maybe mom fell off a ladder again. Maybe�

As soon as I heard his voice, I knew. I sat quietly as he spoke, tears running down my face. A couple of times I tried to say something and was mute. My voice simply wouldn�t come out. We hung up and then the tears, the sobs, the wailing wouldn�t subside. For hours I laid there, exhausted from the effort of crying, empty from processing this by myself. There was no one to call, no one to hug, no one to share with. Grief is strange. Over the next several days, I made arrangements, I planned, I executed, and I rarely thought about why I was leaving Cambodia early. It was only when I was in the taxi on the way to the airport that the tears returned. And haven�t stopped since.

$1 Life Insurance

2008-02-22T04:51:00.000-08:00

I love to walk. Walking is difficult in Cambodia. The sidewalks always seem to be in a state of repair. When they are in working order, they usually are being used as parking spaces for both cars and motorbikes, forcing pedestrians (of which there are few) to walk in the road.

Our office is a 15 minute walk from my guesthouse. I feel it's silly to pay a motorbike or tuk tuk driver to drive me the one or two kilometers there. Until today.

I begin the stroll to the office. As I'm walking, I get no less than 20 offers from passing motorbike drivers and tuk-tuk drivers for a ride. "Moto, lady?" "Tuk-tuk, lady?" I smile and shake my head no. As I'm forced into the street to pass a parked car on the sidewalk, a motorbike driving on the wrong side of the road literally almost runs me over. He smiles and swerves. My heart is in my throat.

I continue walking. As I start to cross the street, a motorbike rounds the curve at an alarmingly high speed and almost runs over me. I jump and decide, that as much as I like walking, it's worth the $1 for a tuk-tuk ride to ensure I arrive to the office alive. Probably the cheapest life insurance I'll ever purchase.

Favorite Lines

2008-02-17T03:01:00.000-08:00

From "The Ego & the Crowd� by Nguyen Thi Chau Giang, the fiction piece in the in-flight magazine on Vietnam Airlines, my favorite lines:

Her long and straight eyelashes were like those of a cow.

***

�Stay away from me, otherwise I�ll smash you into the men in the crowd, crushing you to a pulp to bake, sprinkle with honey and serve for the public�s tasting.�

***

�My darling, I love you,� the man exclaimed quickly. �I feel sympathy for you,� she replied.

Morning in Vientiane

2008-02-16T03:06:00.000-08:00

Sweeping the Temple Grounds

Today I leave Laos. I'm sad, as I always am when it comes time to leave a place I've grown accustomed to. I'll miss our staff, the openness and friendliness of everyone I've met, the deliciously slow pace of life here.

I felt like I hadn't quite had enough of the city, so I awoke at daybreak and walked around Vientiane before heading to the airport at 8:30 am. The monks and I were just about the only ones in the streets as the city slowly awoke. I stopped into several temples, wandered the grounds, listened to morning chants, and eventually found myself in the middle of the morning market where it seemed all Laotians were buying fresh fruits and vegetables. I haven't seen that many people in one place the whole time I've been here. It was a nice way to say good-bye to a new favorite city.

International Woman of Mystery

2008-02-12T02:10:00.000-08:00

Every morning I order three glasses of hot water, a bowl and a spoon from room service. Every morning, the same sweet boy brings it to my room, looks around, smiles, and leaves.

See, I love oatmeal for breakfast. Love it, love it, love it. So I bring instant oatmeal with me when I travel. I also am not a big caffeine drinker, so I bring herbal tea with me. And I start the day very, very happy.

Tonight I returned from dinner and decided it would be nice to have a cup of tea before bedtime. As I picked up my key, I asked the front desk clerk if I could get two glasses of hot water. He laughed, said yes, then said, �We all question. We do not know. We think, why this smiley woman always order hot water and bowl, but no food? Is she making noodles?�

One More Reason...

2008-02-09T06:57:00.001-08:00

...that I love Laos. I bought postcards earlier in the week, but the store was out of stamps. Today at lunch I wrote postcards -- 25 in all. After dinner I stopped by a mini-mart to purchase stamps. I pulled out my stack of postcards. The clerk said, "Oh, you have so many friends!" I laughed. He then took half of the postcards and started licking stamps.

Not a Bad Saturday

2008-02-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

I decided to let the day emerge today. I didn't have any set plans, I was open to anything. What transpired:

Giving alms to monks in the morning
Breakfast with a woman from Canada and a woman from England who I met on the street
Exploring Wat Xieng Thong
Being offered a boat ride on the Mekong
Exploring temples on the other side of the river
Given a friendship bracelet by a little girl at a temple, when I politely declined, she said, "for you, no money" and tied it to my wrist
Exploring the "Buddha cave" -- descending into utter darkness with a 10 year old as my guide
Another boat ride on the Mekong
Fresh grilled fish for lunch
Meeting fellow Californians at another temple
Hour long Laos massage
Sunset at Wat Phu Si overlooking Luang Pragang
Shopping at the night market
A dinner so spicy I cried at the table
Reading on my balcony under a cool tropical breeze

Morning Alms

2008-02-08T17:34:00.000-08:00

Giving

At 6:30 am I awake to a clanging sound. I realize the monks are making their way through the town, collecting alms. I dress quickly and hurry downstairs. Hundreds of monks walk down the street, single file, briefly stopping to collect sticky rice, sweets, pastries, whatever the faithful offer. I kneel on a mat that the sweet hotel clerk has provided for me. He smiles and gently tells me that as I make an offering I should pray with my heart for whatever makes me happy and goodness will come. I have a thin blue plastic bag full of sweets wrapped in banana leaves. As the monks come closer, I bow to the ground, then offer each a leaf-wrapped packet. I am humbled by this procession. I am grateful to be here, grateful to have something to offer, grateful my offering is received. Goodness has come.