Some people should never be allowed to travel

Some people should never be allowed to travel. Instead of becoming more interesting, they become more annoying -- they're still just as stupid as before, but now because they've traveled, they're all puffed up with themselves. Last night I met a woman whose every sentence had some allusion to somewhere else.

"Oh, well, if you think the bread is dry here is at Kincaid's, you should try eating bugs like I did when I was in Africa. I believe bugs are the national dish of Zimbabwe."

The other girl with us mentioned that she'd just seen Memories of a Geisha. "Really? I would be interested in seeing that, as I am in the Asian Studies program at UCLA. I've been to Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand."

I didn't yet realize she needed no encouragement to talk about herself, so I asked, "Are you working on your PhD?"

"No, but my dad has one." She said this as if a PhD were some hereditary honor that would be passed down to her, so there was no point in her wasting time earning one. Judging from her age, I couldn't help but think she'd be inheriting shortly.

She started going on about the race riots in Australia, and how the tv showed a bunch of blonde, frat-looking kids pouncing on middle-easterners. "I've been to Australia, of course, several times. What makes this so funny is that Australians like to portray themselves as so laid back and welcoming."

I was so annoyed at this point, I would have disagreed with anything she said. "That's hardly true. They're the ones who turned back a boat of Afghan refugees and sent them to live on some desolate island. And they were with us in Iraq."

"Well, so was Poland," she said, as if that fact negated my point about Australia. And then she added in an undertone: "I've been there, too. Spent a summer teaching in Warsaw." Like she wanted to resist saying it, but couldn't, so she settled on speaking in sotto voice.

When she learned I was Canadian, she said, "Oh, really? I met a group of Canadians in Indonesia. My cousin lives in the east."

I didn't care where her cousin lived, but my friend asked, "East? Do you mean the east coast of Canada?"

The well-traveled troll flipped her hair back and waved her hand, as if hoping that would suffice. "Yes, you know, over there."

I think my friend was still confused as to whether her cousin was Canadian or Indonesian.

"Do you mean Prince Edward Island?" I asked.

"Oh, no, none of my relatives live on an island." She sounded insulted at the very idea.

"Novia Scotia? New Brunswick?" I continued on, determined now to pinpoint this cousin, and making each suggestion with the same relish I'd have had pushing pins into a voodoo doll.

"No." She tried to laugh, but it wasn't quite the silky, conceited laugh of before (I got to know her laugh well, because she always laughed alone). "I can't recall the name of the place."

Joe said, "Kellas' relatives live in Vancouver."

"Oh, I know Vancouver." She chuckled as if she and Vancouver had once been lovers, and she was recalling one of its romantic foibles. She shook off the memory and said, "My family is made up of world-class track and field athletes."

"Are they shot-putters?" After all, she was built like an East-German shot-putter.

"No. They are decathletes. We have several top decathletes in my family."

I said, "I didn't know Vancouver was known for its decathletes."

"Oh yes," she said, surprised at my ignorance. "Vancouver and Washington are famous for their love of track and field."

We ended up at a dance club. On the way there, she went on about how she didn't need a man, and how she pitied women who felt they needed to be in a relationship. "I'd rather be happy and single than miserable in a relationship." The very pretty girl who made up our foursome listened to her politely and said, "That's a good saying." She couldn't withstand the encouragement and blathered on, "A man should only enhance your life."

"Like eyeshadow?" I asked. I had noted that the weary traveler was wearing bright blue eyeshadow. The pretty girl laughed. If the woman had been a cat, her fur would have poofed immediately (as it was, her bleached, permed hair was so poofed out that from the back, her head did look a bit like an angry cat). Her acolyte had betrayed her with that laugh. Thankfully, Joe broke in with a comment on the traffic, and the battle was over.

At the club, she was noticeably older and less amused than anyone else there. She plopped down on a barstool with a vodka and remained there the whole night, whispering snarky things about me to the pretty girl, who sat beside her. I danced the whole time, and her derision as she eyed me was obvious, but pretty soon, thankfully, people blocked my view of her.

Coming home, she complained about the drinks being so expensive, but Joe said, "You don't really go to those places for the drinks," and then she started going on about her high tolerance for drugs and alcohol, as if hoping we'd find it surprising and somewhat shocking -- after all, she was a well-traveled high school teacher who when she wasn't boasting about her travels boasted about her wine collection. But I was not shocked. Joe said, "I've never done any drugs, except for weed." "Oh, that's hardly a drug." When no one else volunteered any drug experiences, or comments, she said, "Not to say that I've done any real drugs, either....." She laughed nervously. The stress of fooling herself must be getting to her, I thought. I got the impression that she spent her whole time trying to make herself believe she was someone she wasn't. Because if she could just fool herself, she could fool anyone.

Anyway, this woman reminded me very much of my ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend, the New Zealander who asked me if living in London were scary, after spending my life on a farm. (My ex must have told her I was from the midwest, which to her meant farm living...funny, that coming from a sheep-loving New Zealander.) But I'll go on about that some other time.

Munich restaurant review

I had the most delicious meal last night for only 8 euros (including a glass of wine). If you want to try it, it's a little "cafe bistro" next to the Theresienstraße u-bahn station. Unfortunately, I can't remember the name, other than that the words "cafe bistro" were in it, and it was next to a smoky, sad little beer room; I can't call it a pub, as it was fluorescent-lit, like a hospital waiting room, and there were only sad looking men in it…they looked like they were awaiting bad news of a loved one, too.

But, it was the only place in that neighborhood serving food at 8:30 PM. The ceiling seemed to resemble the roof of a cave, or perhaps just a generic hallucination. There was an Omar Khayam type scene painted on one wall, and slot machines lined up on the other. Except for the serving lady (who was very nice), there were only a few Persian men in it…two middle-aged guys were arguing, then suddenly, they stood up and hugged each other. I thought they were making out until I realized it was some emotional detente…maybe they finally agreed to let their son and daughter marry. Then they sat back down and one pounded his fist on his chest..they stared at each other and hugged again. I was already committed to leaving at that point, though, so I couldn't stay and watch.

Junk on my trunk

Porto Pollenca...

We parked on a main street by the port. The next morning, our car was covered in dirt and twigs and such, though there had been only a light rain. G wondered why only our car was filthy. He cleaned it up a bit, and we went for a hot chocolate. When we got back, it was even filthier. G seemed a bit bothered that he couldn’t figure it out. Anyway, we got in the car, and as I was strapping on my seatbelt, thunk! A load of dirt landed on our roof and dripped down the windshield. I looked up, and saw a little old lady with huge glasses that magnified her eyes sweeping her balcony just above us. She had potted plants all over it, and I assume her balcony also collected the junk from the balconies above her, and so it all ended up on our car. She was only a few feet away, but seemed quite oblivious as she continued to sweep junk down on us with violent strokes.

My trip to Santa Barbara

This morning I headed out for Santa Barbara, but around Santa Monica, I decided the traffic looked better going the other way, so I turned around and wound up in Oceanside. I stopped in at the tourist bureau and the old ladies manning the desk finally ran out of visitors from Missouri, so they were forced to ask me where I'm from. I was about to say the South Bay, but I could see by their frowns they expected as much, so I said, "Uhhh...Los Angeles." (It's clear why I do improv, isn't it?)

I almost got the idea, as I was trying to come up with some place like Burkina Faso, that they were rooting for me...the more I hesitated, the more hopeful they looked. When I finally ended up from Los Angeles, they shrugged and looked motherly, as if I got points for at least trying.

I asked, "Is there a beach in Oceanside?" (Thus implying that although I was from Los Angeles, at least I was from some place inland, like Korea Town.) They looked excited and got out a big map and pointed at the beach, which was about two blocks away. "It looks very big," I said. "I might actually be able to find it."

"Oh, don't worry," one old lady said, "We'll point you in the right direction."

The other lady, who apparently wasn't listening that closely, chimed in, "No, to get to the beach, she has to go left out of the parking lot, then right. On Mission. Then she comes out at the pier."

"Oh yes! The pier! If you like big, you'll love our pier. Oceanside has the longest wooden pier in all of California." (When the old ladies said 'longest wooden pier', it didn't have the connotation it has now. Or maybe it did. Who knows what lurks in the minds of beehived old ladies.)

"And at the end of the pier...." One old lady traced her pearly pink fingernail along the pier on the map, so as to build up tension. But she stopped half-way, as if she forgot the tension and was back to thinking about directions.

I asked, "What's at the end?"

"A Rubio's!"

So much for a pot of gold. I ended up skipping the pier. Then I decided to skip Oceanside. Now I'm back home.

THE END

Farm kids (in Forres, Morayshire, UK)

I couldn't tell at first whether it was an old lady or a little girl; she was running down the country road with her legs all akimbo, chasing a boy on a bicycle. As we drove closer, I saw that it was a little girl with blonde hair. She was wearing men's slippers and carrying a rifle. She looked at us wildly and then stared back at the boy pumping away on the bicycle ahead of us.

My cousin said, "That's not allowed. Kids here aren't even allowed to have plastic guns."

It was kind of odd. I've never seen a rifle that close before.

How not to deal with grief

It was Saturday morning. I was supposed to go to my second grief support group meeting, but it was so depressing the first time I went, I decided to go for a drive instead. I'd never been to San Diego, so that's where I headed. Just as I reached Irvine, though, it started raining. My Miata's plastic rear window was messed up, and the rain started coming in the car; I thought, well, I've never been to Irvine, either, and got off at the next exit.

I ended up at a huge mall. I went into a craft store and bought some poofballs and twisty pipe cleaners for my four year old nephew. When I came back out, the sun was shining.

(I should perhaps mention here that I have ADD, so I get lost a lot. I've gotten lost so many times that it no longer bothers me, unless I wind up in a neighborhood with a lot of pawn shops and gun stores.)

Since it was nice out, I decided to explore Irvine. I took one random turn and then another, hoping to happen upon the city's interesting part. But it seemed that each new street was more boring than the last. I finally wound up on a road full of business parks. There was no one else around. That is, except for the cop behind me. He turned his lights on and I pulled over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Yes, it's my expired sticker, isn't it. But, I have the paperwork here." I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out a wad of papers. I started going through them, looking for the one saying I had paid my registration and just needed my car to pass smog.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"I have no idea." I laughed. "I was hoping maybe you could help me."

"You are in Irvine."

"Well, I knew that."

"Do you know where Irvine is?"

"I have a vague idea." I was still rifling through my papers.

"Do you know what state you're in?"

"Yes." It suddenly hit me that he wasn't being too friendly.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

"You still haven't told me what state you're in."

"California."

"That is correct."

I found the paper and handed it to him. "Could you tell me the way back to the 405?"

"Not so fast. When I pulled you over, it wasn't just because of your expired sticker."

"It wasn't?"

"I saw you coming out of the shopping mall. You kept making turns and you wound up here. Can you explain that?"

"I got lost. I always get lost."

"What did you buy in the mall?"

I opened the bag so that he could see the poofballs and pipe cleaners.

"You came to Irvine to buy that?"

"Well, no. I didn't really come here for any reason."

"You realize, don't you, that your behavior is not normal."

"It is for me."

He looked at my license. "It says you live in Marina Del Rey."

"I just moved there a few months ago."

"Yet, now you are in Irvine. What I want to know is, why would someone who lives in Marina Del Rey come to Irvine...for no reason?"

I shrugged.

"Listen, I want you to recite the alphabet without singing. Do you understand?"

I recited the alphabet.

"Do you realize how fast you recited that? That was not normal. Are you on any medication?"

"I'm on Ritalin."

"OK, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

He gestured at two short, Asian cops standing a few yards away. "They're in training. Ignore them." It seemed as if nothing better would suit them, as they were both staring at the ground.

He then had me do a series of drunk driving tests. I was wearing heels, which bothered him. He asked me to take them off, but I refused. He insisted, and I kicked them off. After I successfully passed his ballet tests, he shone a flashlight up my nose.

"Did you know you have a deviated septum?"

"No. Because I don't."

"Yes, you do. I'm trained to spot them. Did you know a deviated septum is a sign of cocaine use?"

For those of you who don't know me, the idea of me doing cocaine is ridiculous. I was so angry, my heart was pounding.

"Look," he said. "I specialize in detecting drug addicts, and I'm afraid you fit all the criteria: you don't know where you are...."

"I was joking!"

"You are on Ritalin...."

"I have ADD. I've been on it for years."

"Well, in my experience, people who take Ritalin take it when they can't get cocaine. And, you live in Marina Del Rey. Yet, now you are in Irvine. For no good reason."

"I was just going for a drive. I like driving."

"No one 'just drives' to Irvine."

"Well, I know that now."

"Finally, you have a deviated septum."

"Look, my mom died a month and a half ago and I'm still a bit stressed out. I thought if I went for a drive, it would make me feel better." I despised myself for mentioning it, but I was really starting to worry I'd wind up in the slammer.

The cop studied me for a moment. Then, he said, "I'm sorry, but I know people who have lost a parent. And do you know that not one of them just out of the blue decided to drive to Irvine."

He grabbed my wrist. "I'm going to take your pulse now, if you don't mind." He looked at his watch, then announced, "Your pulse is really, really fast. Dangerously fast."

"That's because I'm really, really annoyed."

"Look, I don't think it's safe for you to drive with that pulse rate. That pulse rate indicates a bad reaction to drugs. It's no use trying to fool me -- I'm trained to recognize people like you. It'd be better if you just told me when you last took the cocaine."

"I have never done cocaine!"

"I see. Well, I'd like to know how you got that deviated septum, then. I am going to have to ask to search your car. Officer Wong and Officer Chen will take down your information."

While he rummaged through my car, I told the trainees my job and contact information. They seemed so uncomfortable with the situation, it made me feel a bit better. (My Chicago friend, Beth, yelled at me later for letting him search my car: 'Don't you know he could have planted something on you?')

After returning empty-handed, he asked, "Has whatever you've taken worn off enough for you to drive safely? I don't want to be responsible for you getting in an accident and killing an innocent person."

Once more, I said I hadn't taken drugs and that my septum was not deviated.

"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth." Then he let me go.

Later, I asked my friend who is a hospital intern to look at my septum. She said it's not deviated.

Gypsy woman vs. businesswoman

I caught a Circle Line tube around 10:30 AM. It was fairly crowded with mostly tourists, but the guy sitting next to me and the woman next to him were in business suits. At one stop, the doors opened and a fat gypsy lady got on. She clasped her hands together and said in a sing song voice, “Hello! I’m...”

“I’m sorry, but no," said the businesswoman in an even louder voice. "Not in this car, not today. Get out.”

“Good show, good show!” said my neighbor, shaking out his newspaper as if to shake the gypsy off.

The stunned looking gypsy backed away while the businesswoman continued her tirade: “Go to some other carriage. I want to enjoy a nice, quiet tube ride.”

The gypsy was now standing on the platform looking in. "F--- you," she said.

“Thank you, but I have a lovely husband at home to do that for me. That's why I have two lovely children. So f--- off yourself."

Then the tube doors closed and we were on our way. It all happened so quickly. The man went back to reading his newspaper, and hardly anyone registered a reaction. It may as well have never happened. I felt that the man wanted to express some deeper thanks to his neighbor, but by the time we hit the next stop, the newspaper seemed to have engrossed him fully, and then he got off. Another stop, and pretty much only the woman and me remained of the original passenger load. Then she got off, and it was just me.

Note: This entry was from my London journal. Musicians, gypsies, etc., will get on the tube during tourist hours and work a car for money. They stay in the car just until the next stop.

Return to Harry's Bar (Paris)

I worked my way through some middle-aged, slick-haired folk and asked the blond barman, “Is there a spot for one person?”

He indicated a table in the far corner, blocked by people sitting on either side.

“Scuse me.” I spoke inaudibly, hoping they would sense my presence. At last I swallowed and just shoved through. As I was squeezing past, the barman arrived to ask the man on the right if he could give me room, and to take my order.

“We don’t serve wine." He didn't like my order.

“What do you have?”

The only things that sounded appealing were champagne and cognac. I chose cognac. Two fellows sat in front of me, and a couple to the right. They all stared at me, as if requiring some explanation for my presence.

“I was here once eight years ago,” I said.

The man who wouldn’t move, a thick-lipped, heavy-lidded man whose every part seemed a bit too big for the whole, replied, “The place hasn’t changed, and neither have you.”

Suppressing an inward yawn, I got out my book and started reading. The same guy said, “You look like Jody Foster.”

“Thank you.”

"We mean it.” His small friend nodded. His friend was almost the opposite of him in looks – dark-haired and sharp-featured. “You look like her in her good days. Good for you. Not for her.”

I smiled wanly. They chatted in French some more. Then the sharp-featured guy asked, “What brings you here?”

“Well, I had romanticized this place in my teens.” I was going to say because of Hemingway (whom I stopped liking right after my teens*), but before I could continue, the flaccid man shouted:

“I knew it!” He looked at his friend in victory.

“He thinks he’s very good at understanding people right away," said his friend.

“I am amazing at it. For example, today I correctly analyzed a man’s entire character, based on his screen saver.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“It’s the thing that your computer puts on when you haven’t touched it for awhile.”

“I know that. I mean, what was the screen saver?”

“A picture of a kid-kart. Like Speed Racer.” He looked extremely self-satisfied, and somewhat nostalgic for that afternoon. I neglected to ask him what his characterization had been. After he finished reminiscing about the kid-cart man, he came back to me:

“You have come back to Paris and searched out this bar, which you visited eight years ago, for romance. I knew it – why else would you be sitting here reading what is no doubt a woman’s novel....”

Now it was my turn to interrupt. “I would hardly call this a woman’s novel.” (I was reading A Dance to the Music of Time.)

“It is not all about love?”

“The author won a Nobel Prize.” (I’m not sure on that, but in any case, he should have.)

“Did he win a Booker Prize?” That seemed to matter to them more. I shook my head.

“He wrote in the '50s.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“It follows some young men from public school onwards.”

The little man whispered, “It is British English?” He spoke in a half-conspiratorial tone, as if he wanted to hide this literary side of himself from his more blustery friend. I nodded. I read some more. They spoke French again. (I should mention that their English was perfect. I almost doubted that they were French, and were just Americans pulling my leg, but somehow, their characters could be nothing but French. No amount of language lessons can do away with one’s personality.)

The big man asked, “What do you think of Paris?”

"It's wonderful."

“What do you think of French people?”

"Very nice."

“No one has been mean? I thought all Americans hated French people. They make it sound like we are all killing each other.”

I had no idea what he meant by the latter, but his friend quickly corrected him, “It is the newspapers that say that, not the people. You’ve been reading the New York Post too much.”

“Bah, the New York Post! I will never read that newspaper again!”

I almost got the idea that the paper had mounted a smear campaign against him, so violent was his reaction. Then, he asked me what I did.

“I'm a computer programmer. Were you going to guess that?”

“Oh, I didn’t get that far. I was not even close to even thinking about what you did. My friend, here, is in computers. He is a salesman. He knows all about that stuff.”

His friend demurred.

“You have to understand something to sell it," the big man argued.

“Well, maybe.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You understand it all perfectly.”

I asked him what area he was in. He said java applications for mobile phones. What company? A small one, you wouldn’t know it.

The big guy said, “A little company by the name of International Business Machines.”

The small guy shook his head, as if he were a humble rich man who didn’t want attention drawn to his wealth, so as not to make others uncomfortable. I decided to go back to my book at this point for good. Soon afterwards, they got up and said that if I came back the next night, maybe I’d see them. They also continued to bemoan my choice in drink, saying I should have had some apple-based spirit instead.

*See comments.

Remember the medlar

Another tidbit from my 2003 diary:

On the flight home, I sat next to a couple of drunken businessmen. I tried to ignore them, but eventually my neighbor lost interest in the flight attendant and leaned over into my space.

"Are you in school?"

I shook my head.

"But you're reading Adam Smith."

"Yes, but I'm not in school."

"Why are you reading it, then?"

"It's a great book."

“Oh, but he oversimplified a lot of things. I mean, that whole organic viewpoint of economics. He was just copying Darwin.” His professorial air only slightly reeked of alcohol.

"But Adam Smith published this around 1776." He didn’t seem to understand the implication, so I continued: “Darwin lived in the 1800s.”

“Oh...you had me there.” It didn't look like he cared much, though. He ordered another drink. Then, referring to the ink on my hand, he asked, "Did you go out last night?" He smiled at what he must've guessed was our common bond. “I stayed out until 4 AM myself."

"No, that's the word, medlar. I wrote it on my hand to remember it, because supposedly, the oil from the medlar nut is so tasty, goats in Morocco climb trees to eat them." It did look more like a smudge than a word, I suppose. (Note: I don't know where I got this word from. I just did a text search on 'Wealth of Nations,' and it didn't turn up.)

Silence. Then I noticed his complexion. On a healthier day, I'm sure he would have taken the medlar on (for it definitely has an organic point of view).

Now I felt like being inquisitive. "Did you make it to work today?"

"Nah, I woke up at 1 PM." He gave a sour laugh. "I slept through my own talk."

"Will that hurt you at work?"

He shrugged with the remnants of bravado left over from last night -- 1/2 hangover, 1/2 resignation.

I read my book in peace the rest of the way home.

I have a travel story, too

I was in Berlin walking through the Tiergarten park, when I saw what I thought was a fat, nude sun-bather. I had a new camera attachment for my Palm Pilot and wanted to try it out, so I surreptiously snapped a photo (I wasn't yet used to how people in Berlin love to be nude in public). I downloaded the grainy photo onto my computer and sent it to a coworker as a joke...like, look at the photo of the big fat nude guy in the park! Then I happened to look at it more carefully -- it was of two nude men having sex. It was awful...especially as I had a crush on this coworker. Thankfully, he deleted it without looking at it (upon my urgent request). I'm sure he would have wondered why I was sending him a photo of a gay couple going at it.