Create Every Day

Note: This is the first of a series of posts covering Dore’s and my trip to New Zealand.  We’re super excited to be here, and hope to share some of our adventures with anyone that cares to read. 🙂  If you want to be notified of new posts, I suggest using the RSS feed (see the link to the right) and an RSS reader like Google Reader.

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19-March-2010

The plan was to go to work, spend most of the day working, and leave comfortably early for the airport to catch our flight. It didn’t quite work out that way. Around midmorning I got a call from United. Your flight is delayed by thirty minutes. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. It would be nice to have a reason, but whatever. We already had some extra time in San Fransisco because of an earlier scheduling conflict that had us booked on an earlier flight.

Then I got another call. The flight is delayed by 45 minutes now. Hmm… this is getting a bit close, but we can still make it. I went back to work, starting to get a bit worried.

A little later I get the call. The flight is delayed for an hour and a half. Crap. Now we’re never going to make the connection. I called United.

Our options were these: take a flight to San Jose and figure out how to make the 44 miles to the San Fransisco airport, or drive down and fly from LAX. The San Jose route was possibly safer, but Dore and I already had a long layover in LA on our return trip. If we drove down we’d be able to pick up our car on the return trip and skip the layover on the way back. Sure, we’ll have to drive two hours after a long plane flight, but whatever, right?

So that’s how, at one o’clock, we found ourselves dashing out of the house, yelling instructions and reminders back and forth, desperately hoping that we had managed to remember everything.

“Did you get the Mochi to the cat hotel?”

“Did you pack the camera?”

“What about lunch?”

We ran out, threw the bags in the car, and were on our way.

The drive looked like it would be good, but we knew that we were cutting it close. “Let’s see… the flight leaves at four, so we need to be at the airport by three, latest. How long does that give us?”

“We’ve got to be at the car park by three, or we’re in real trouble.”

We hit the traffic about thirty miles out. As the car ground to a halt, we watched helplessly as the GPS ticked down the minutes, updating our estimated arrival time in painfully accurate steps. Two thirty dropped to two forty. Two fifty. Two fifty-five.

Finally we pulled off of the freeway, raced around a few surface streets in L.A., and made it to the parking lot. Dore started unloading bags from the car as I ran inside and got the paperwork started. A few clipped answers later I tossed the key across the counter and ran out to grab my bags. We raced to the shuttle (which, luckily was waiting at the entrance) and crossed our fingers that we had made it in time.

We arrived at the airport at 3:05 pm, exactly one hour before our plane was to depart. Now we were on familiar ground, and there was no force in the world that could stop — or speed up — our progress. We dropped off the bags, got through security, and went as quickly as possible to our gate.

We made it with six minutes to spare. A high-five was definitely in order.

The flight to San Fransisco was, I’m happy to report, fast and uneventful. Did you know you can make it between the cities in only 45 minutes? Damn, technology is great sometimes.

On the ground in San Fransisco, Dore and I took a few minutes to leisurely stroll through the terminal, reconnoitering our meal options. We weren’t particularly hungry, but it’s always best to eat something before a flight. You never know what you’ll get once you’re in the air. We finally settled on the Gordon Biersch cafe, where we both got clam chowder (it was San Fransisco, after all) and a well-needed drink. We took a minute to make a quick video outlining our adventures and called our credit card companies to let them know we were on the road.

After dinner, we strolled over to the international terminal, which, as it turns out, is where they hide all the nice stores. Seriously, all of the boutique labels were there — Gucci, Chanel, Coach, Swarovski, the whole gang. It reminded me a lot of the surprising, and somewhat disconcerting, high-end mall they have in the Heathrow airport. Although I didn’t see any $5000 jars of caviar here.

Appetites sated, we headed down to our gate, where we only had to wait a few relaxing minutes before heading down the jetbridge and out onto the plane. New Zealand, here we come.

Heard during the men’s luge semifinals:

[Next up:] thiry-six year-old, two-time Olympic champion Armin Zoeggeler of Italy; known as “the cannibal” because of his icy concentration.

Now if that’s not a clear description I don’t know what is.

—–

P. S. For what it’s worth, those announcers are probably working their asses off, and goodness knows I can’t go through a day without putting my foot in my mouth.

I’m just sayin’.

Found on our door today:

Thank You So very
    much for the
        soil --
    it's like money in
        the bank sitting
    down there!
        Mary

Seen on the packaging of a complimentary cookie at a hotel:

Warning: Our delicious cookies contain nuts.

I took Dore’s and my cat, Mochi, to the vet yesterday.  She’s been licking the inside of her front leg a lot lately and has managed to make a pretty good sized hole in her fur.  The vet didn’t really tell me much about why Mochi is licking herself, but I suspect it’s a form of kitty teenage angst.  Sort of like reading the Twilight books but more productive.

At any rate, the vet gave me a vial of waxy herbal antiseptic to spread on Mochi’s leg to help the skin heal.  After I applied the salve tonight, I started to read the label out of idle curiosity.  And that’s when I saw the strangest note.  Right there on the side of the vial, in little tiny letters, it read:

Not tested on animals.

Who would have guessed?

Dore, on some lame organic Halloween Candy at the store:

If I gave that out I would egg my own house!

August 26, 2009

Green seats. Green plastic seats, with holes cut in them by the children of bygone years. An altogether different shade of green used for patches. Sometimes the patches were of another material akin to duct-tape and held on with glue. Other times the cut was deemed small enough that it could just be covered by the off-color goo. It never looked right. And it always looked old.

Some of the seats had odd lumps, and there was always the crappy seat that floated in the limbo between the wheel well and the seat in front. You always had to sit with your knees up in that seat. You always tried to ignore it and get another one. But sometimes you got there late and had to settle for the inferior set.

Me, I was a window sitter. I looked out the window and thought of what might be out there. I watched the land roll by as the bumps of the road and the cacophony of the other children blended into an overwhelming morass of sound and feeling. It was dark in the mornings during the winter, and I would watch the light rise from black to a dull grey of a wintery cloudy morning.

I watched the familiar scenes wash by and looked for the unique and surprising in the familiar. A bird on a fence post. A new driveway being cut. And sometimes I would notice a little something new where I had always seen before. The sattelite dishes of the radio tranlator. A new house tucked behind where I had never seen it before.

Sometimes there were new stops, new faces. I watched them get on the bus, watched where they sat. The kid with the dirty pants and tussled hair. The little girl that must be his sister — no two families moved into town at the same time.

The ride was calming, soothing. Just me and my thoughts. And sixty other children, all tired for the early hour but teeming with the sugar-blasted breakfast products shoveled down their throats. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.

And there were bullies and socialites and dreamers like me. There were talkers and pokers and paper airplane flingers. There were annoying kids and fun kids and smelly kids that you didn’t want to sit with. There were window sitters and aisle sitters. I was a window sitter.

“What are you looking at?”

Over the years I heard that question many times. One kid in particular always asked me that question.

“Whatcha looking at, Lavering?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s stupid.”

It was a lame response, and I always knew it. I hated not having an answer. What was I looking at? The landscape, certainly. But that wasn’t it. I wasn’t looking at anything. But I was looking at everything. I didn’t have words to describe it.

I heard the question so many times over the years, and I thought that it was mean. They just wanted to tease me about something. They wouldn’t understand. They didn’t want to understand. So I kept to my safe “nothing”.

Then one day — I think it must have been in high school — I heard the question for the first time in a long time.

“Whatcha looking at, Lavering?”

“No-”

For some reason I paused. Damn it, I’m tired of that answer. A few seconds passed, and I thought it over. I think it was the first time I actually, truly thought about the question.

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking.”

I waited for a snide remark.

“What are you thinking about?”

And the funny thing was, the question was genuine.

“Lots of things. Nothing in particular. I don’t know.” I think I had something better to say than that, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was that I was actually thinking about. I do remember that this was on the way home from school. It was the day after a wet day, when the sun was out amongst the clouds and the fields shone golden with a wet, musty undertone of brown. Dappled cloud shadows rolled across the fields and mountains and added a painterly look to everything.

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

That day surprised me. Sometimes people aren’t what you expect. Sometimes they really do get you. This was one of those times. The conversation wasn’t deep, it wasn’t long. In fact, it is one of the shorter and quieter conversations I have ever had. But it was right. Just two people understanding one another. And more than anything for me, one person understanding myself better. I turned back to my well-studied window — with its engraved manufacturer’s mark and the two finger-breaking latches that served to open it in hot weather — and I looked out at something. My thoughts were slow to come after that. Perhaps they were aprehensive for being known. But they came, and soon I was awash again in a world of my own imagining.

And the bus rolled on down the road towards home.

If you want to hear awesome, look no further than Wing.  This Hong Kong-born singer turned Kiwi (hill yis, New Zealand!) is hilarious.  I can’t stop laughing when I hear her rendition of Hell’s Bells.

[Note: I found this poem while looking back over some old backups of my documents.  Always, always, always save backups of your work.  You’ll thank yourself later.]

2001; Edited 5-December-2002

Along the lane ran an old toppled wall;
Not two stones stood together but one did fall.
The grass grew high between jumbled piles.
Ants strode through broken arches in long winding files.
And nary a stone upon stone was not broke,
The time, rain, and cold their toll having took.
The lane, too, wore like rags the ravages of time –
Wheel ruts ‘round sinkholes ruined the line.
And puddles like oceans spanned its breadth,
Their still surfaces rippling at the slightest breath.
Above, mottled clouds of gray made the green
Of the earth all the brighter ‘neath dewy sheen.
(The sun was, on this day, as it was on most,
Riding far up beyond the cumulus host.)
And so all stood silent, and still in the morn,
As innocent as the babe on the day it is born.
Away over the hill, and beyond the bend, there
Rode a soft whisper upon voices of air.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, sounds of hooves upon stones;
Bells jingling merrily and the harness’ groan –
A horse with a rider and cart slowly go
Down the dell on the lane, that old country road.
But they do not mar the beauteous scene,
Rather it’s enhanced that it should be seen.