Friday, December 14, 2007
biding my tide
The soft plump of goats milk pushes back against my lips. I did not expect this. Is it the wine that makes it so pleasing; after all, the two are a pairing. The skin is also dairy smooth; I had not thought about touching it until now. Do I like this buttery softness? I cannot help but melt a little beneath its weight, incredulously. I think about exploring but instead I allow myself to be explored. I do not yet feel the need to journey the folds of that land, but rather, to let my body be the voyage. Whispers sail past my ears. How strangely my mind responds, laughing, curious, enticed. What happens to this ocean as I let the voyager attempt to navigate my waters. I let it all flow through me while the moon's silver sliver reflects upon my surface.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Geometry
Each day I pass the engines heaving in the rail yard. They are old bulldogs. Sometimes I get off at the station to listen to them sigh awhile. Though they are alive I never see them move, as if in perpetual preparation for a grand exodus. Or are they trapped and tormented beasts wheezing out there last days?
Some days I pass by, wishing I could feel the wind and hear their sighs. But the solid transparent portal holds me back, knowing that I might jump were it to open. Instead I watch, imagining their soft baritones.
I follow the tracks with my eyes. Below a man walks along them collecting what he considers valuable. I wish I could be down there with him, rooting through the urban decay. A junkyard of stories, watched over by sleepy bulldogs who can protect their treasure no more than I can free them.
The trains are left behind me and I am left watching the geometry of the monotonous graffiti bubble tags yearn for creative inspiration.
Some days I pass by, wishing I could feel the wind and hear their sighs. But the solid transparent portal holds me back, knowing that I might jump were it to open. Instead I watch, imagining their soft baritones.
I follow the tracks with my eyes. Below a man walks along them collecting what he considers valuable. I wish I could be down there with him, rooting through the urban decay. A junkyard of stories, watched over by sleepy bulldogs who can protect their treasure no more than I can free them.
The trains are left behind me and I am left watching the geometry of the monotonous graffiti bubble tags yearn for creative inspiration.
Monday, November 26, 2007
leftovers
He fades from my memory like the leftovers in my fridge. They befuddle me at first: what can I do with them? How do I convert them into something palatable? Then their presence begins to irk me: why have they not disappeared yet? Why do they have to be so difficult and nagging on my conscience? Finally, I feel the pain of losing what is still present. I know that what they were was too distinct to be recombined into something new. I know that our relationship has rotted into mephitic waste. And so with sadness I let the leftovers go, allowing for new saporific morsels to creep in and push out the pain.
And they do.
Slowly but surely, I come across new and different flavors. I do not enjoy them fully yet, but they give me pleasure. I feel pangs of guilt about my inability to appreciate this newness in full, but it is all I can do. I will experiment slowly until I am ready to feast again, having cast off my fear and anxiety from what is past.
And they do.
Slowly but surely, I come across new and different flavors. I do not enjoy them fully yet, but they give me pleasure. I feel pangs of guilt about my inability to appreciate this newness in full, but it is all I can do. I will experiment slowly until I am ready to feast again, having cast off my fear and anxiety from what is past.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
elusive comfort
I'm searching for something and I don't know what it is. Days go by and I feel impending failure. This is false. I am upon the journey that is my life. I want to abandon the past to this new journey. Yet, letting go of all that is and has been is nearly impossible. The nature and nurture of a lifetime cling to my ego which I seek to forsake. The answer is an eternal tomorrow, slowly stepping towards it but never reaching that destination. I type away, accomplishing nothing, dividing my hope into half-lives rather than realizing the whole. I will never "be" at this rate. I will only briefly catch wisps of hope in exponential decay. Soon they will be unrecognizable and one with my accomplishments. Happiness resides in these two which I abandon like radioactive waste.
Friday, November 23, 2007
the man
Everything that he does is quiet. He speaks quietly, he walks quietly and I wonder if he makes love quietly. His limp makes him appear as though he were carrying an invisible briefcase filled with gold bars; a hefty and pricey weight to be under. The white of his hair is perhaps the most fundamental part of his being. Ashen wisps thickly drape his scull stopping short of the ears, respectfully. The facial hair, though white, highlights his stately manner adding a youthful type of wisdom. His cane, while essential, is more part of the essence. When he opens his mouth I do not listen. I can only watch his lips which utter tenor tones that quickly dissipate into the harsh devouring air. What does he whisper into the ears of others? He is a man made for whispering words that make one melt.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Attitude
“ A positive ATTITUDE is a powerful force for good, giving life to everything it touches.”
This is the poster that hangs above my new desk. It leans against the cubicle due to lack of walls. Next comes Dr. Tinkelman. How I can work in an office setting in where the most respected and feared client is name Doctor Tinkelman is a cruel conundrum.
Casey, with who I share my new career, reminds me so much of Danny DeVito that every time I watch the man struggle to lower his rollee chair closer to the floor I bite my lip until it hurts. True to form, he is short, balding and in a Havana pink shirt. The man has a perpetual need to streamline, employing phrases like, “the idea behind the concept is…” Does this get us anywhere? I have no idea.
He twirls his finger in the air to signify volume control on the conference caller. Cory is on the tripod contraption for our daily 9AM meeting. The meeting’s dialect is unintelligible. We pass Cory around like a beach ball iterating foreign phrases about TFS, the “back end,” and Backlog Items. I am a long way my organic fair trade fresh-roasted home.
Let’s talk about John. To me he appears as an adorable half-Latin panda. Down to reflection in his dark brown eyes, everything about him seems to be nice and considerate. His meticulous coffee routine and tendency to eat dry oatmeal, white bread and cherry tomatoes are the highlight of my cube space. Love of food, I can find it anywhere. Having said that, let’s avoid any discussion about the semantic similarities between “cube space” and “pube space.”
MEETING 8/22
This is ludicrous. I am sitting within a meeting for a product launch. Thousands of dollars, people and expectations involved and I don’t understand a word of what’s going on. I’ve never encountered so many interpretations at one time upon one subject. I am an observer, but why is my name up on that screen?
I have met the alleged Dr. Tinkelman and he is surprisingly efficient. He appears to respect my father and I wonder if this has to do with their similarities – older, male, father-figures with a cut-the-crap attitude. Or, perhaps the camaraderie is on account of their most overt similarity: irony. There must be some bond between a man named Doctor Tinkelman and a man named Dick Bush. It goes unrecognized and again, I bite my lip until it hurts.
As far as I can tell this dance that I am supposed to do is all about waylaying commitment and due dates. It seems that my college classmates might be better suited for this career. A client asks when and the answer is what and how. The program is to be released to test, released to production, refined or unrefined, rereleased to test and finally released to training. Eventually, the question gets asked again and the answer remains nebulous. I’ve never spent so long talking about what concludes as nothing.
This is how I come to love Dr. Tinkelman. He is “dismayed;” this is “unacceptable;” this has been an “embarrassment” for him. Have I been contracted to the wrong side of this war?
This is the poster that hangs above my new desk. It leans against the cubicle due to lack of walls. Next comes Dr. Tinkelman. How I can work in an office setting in where the most respected and feared client is name Doctor Tinkelman is a cruel conundrum.
Casey, with who I share my new career, reminds me so much of Danny DeVito that every time I watch the man struggle to lower his rollee chair closer to the floor I bite my lip until it hurts. True to form, he is short, balding and in a Havana pink shirt. The man has a perpetual need to streamline, employing phrases like, “the idea behind the concept is…” Does this get us anywhere? I have no idea.
He twirls his finger in the air to signify volume control on the conference caller. Cory is on the tripod contraption for our daily 9AM meeting. The meeting’s dialect is unintelligible. We pass Cory around like a beach ball iterating foreign phrases about TFS, the “back end,” and Backlog Items. I am a long way my organic fair trade fresh-roasted home.
Let’s talk about John. To me he appears as an adorable half-Latin panda. Down to reflection in his dark brown eyes, everything about him seems to be nice and considerate. His meticulous coffee routine and tendency to eat dry oatmeal, white bread and cherry tomatoes are the highlight of my cube space. Love of food, I can find it anywhere. Having said that, let’s avoid any discussion about the semantic similarities between “cube space” and “pube space.”
MEETING 8/22
This is ludicrous. I am sitting within a meeting for a product launch. Thousands of dollars, people and expectations involved and I don’t understand a word of what’s going on. I’ve never encountered so many interpretations at one time upon one subject. I am an observer, but why is my name up on that screen?
I have met the alleged Dr. Tinkelman and he is surprisingly efficient. He appears to respect my father and I wonder if this has to do with their similarities – older, male, father-figures with a cut-the-crap attitude. Or, perhaps the camaraderie is on account of their most overt similarity: irony. There must be some bond between a man named Doctor Tinkelman and a man named Dick Bush. It goes unrecognized and again, I bite my lip until it hurts.
As far as I can tell this dance that I am supposed to do is all about waylaying commitment and due dates. It seems that my college classmates might be better suited for this career. A client asks when and the answer is what and how. The program is to be released to test, released to production, refined or unrefined, rereleased to test and finally released to training. Eventually, the question gets asked again and the answer remains nebulous. I’ve never spent so long talking about what concludes as nothing.
This is how I come to love Dr. Tinkelman. He is “dismayed;” this is “unacceptable;” this has been an “embarrassment” for him. Have I been contracted to the wrong side of this war?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Lieutenant Dan
I stand on the courthouse steps looking out over my kingdom. It wasn't until today, when I sought the sun, that I realized just what the imperial building behind me was. The people walking by are all the same right now, it's their before and after stories that are different. The woman in the pink shirt wears funky wedges with mat silver finishing, as if spray painted. This is surprising considering her Jackie O hairstyle. The older man with his headphones says business professional, perhaps single as well. His world has a different soundtrack than mine. I hear the ding of the train while he hears Beethoven's 9th Symphony or Sisqo's Thong Song.
I've been surprised by public transportation courtesy. As I recall in Boston, it was very much a to-each-her-own fight for a spot on the T. Up on Federal and 38th a raw collection of urbanites creep out of the evolving barrio. There are probably 6 of us. I arrive last, having the luck of living 3 houses and one "mofles" shop away from the stop. I worry that the scarred man in the denim jeans and jacket can see my thought bubble, which questions an entirely denim ensemble. I pop this judgment balloon and gaze off in the direction of the now late 38.
The bus finally arrives and the American file I so love (compared to India) begins to form. However, as the bus opens it's doors Mr. Denim All Clad holds back. He silently motions me ahead with a slight nod and twist of the wrist. Is this young white girl courtesy or your every day sort?
The woman on the bus has shoulder pads and always says things like, "Well gee Barb." Her name should be Dot. Barb and Dot work in the same building and are secretaries for engineers. In their late forties, they converse about their pedometers' accuracy and various harmless life details. What do the engineers think of them? Were they hired because they were the best or for lack of better applicants, or for lack of ANY applicants? This is how I think about my life.
I like the front of the train. There are more interactions among strangers who customarily have to relate with other strangers. The man in the wheelchair sits across from the morbidly obese man. Both had to use the handicapped ramp and entrance to get onto the train but for very different reasons. The former lifts himself out of his wheelchair to sit himself upon the seat, legs dangling lifelessly below. The latter, legs intact, can barely remove himself from the sitting position to an upright one. As the obese man leaves the other gentleman manually arranges his legs in a crossed position. It is odd to me that he chooses to do this. I doubt it is more comfortable. It appears, rather, to be for the impression of comfort: the naturalness of live legs that is implied by their intertwining.
Arbitrarily, I think of sleeping with the man, wondering if I should be ashamed of this thought. I think this all has to do with Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump and my perceptions of him as a sex symbol as well as the first sexual male that made an impression on me as a child. Then again, it could just be because I fear the loss of my sexuality. Slowly I let it leak from me and loiter upon strangers in wisps of thought that drain from my being.
I've been surprised by public transportation courtesy. As I recall in Boston, it was very much a to-each-her-own fight for a spot on the T. Up on Federal and 38th a raw collection of urbanites creep out of the evolving barrio. There are probably 6 of us. I arrive last, having the luck of living 3 houses and one "mofles" shop away from the stop. I worry that the scarred man in the denim jeans and jacket can see my thought bubble, which questions an entirely denim ensemble. I pop this judgment balloon and gaze off in the direction of the now late 38.
The bus finally arrives and the American file I so love (compared to India) begins to form. However, as the bus opens it's doors Mr. Denim All Clad holds back. He silently motions me ahead with a slight nod and twist of the wrist. Is this young white girl courtesy or your every day sort?
The woman on the bus has shoulder pads and always says things like, "Well gee Barb." Her name should be Dot. Barb and Dot work in the same building and are secretaries for engineers. In their late forties, they converse about their pedometers' accuracy and various harmless life details. What do the engineers think of them? Were they hired because they were the best or for lack of better applicants, or for lack of ANY applicants? This is how I think about my life.
I like the front of the train. There are more interactions among strangers who customarily have to relate with other strangers. The man in the wheelchair sits across from the morbidly obese man. Both had to use the handicapped ramp and entrance to get onto the train but for very different reasons. The former lifts himself out of his wheelchair to sit himself upon the seat, legs dangling lifelessly below. The latter, legs intact, can barely remove himself from the sitting position to an upright one. As the obese man leaves the other gentleman manually arranges his legs in a crossed position. It is odd to me that he chooses to do this. I doubt it is more comfortable. It appears, rather, to be for the impression of comfort: the naturalness of live legs that is implied by their intertwining.
Arbitrarily, I think of sleeping with the man, wondering if I should be ashamed of this thought. I think this all has to do with Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump and my perceptions of him as a sex symbol as well as the first sexual male that made an impression on me as a child. Then again, it could just be because I fear the loss of my sexuality. Slowly I let it leak from me and loiter upon strangers in wisps of thought that drain from my being.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Atatürk
I'm feeling less jaded these days, and actually, it's scary and exciting at once. Lately, I have made a deliberate effort to live life as if every day were some sort of new adventure. Right now it feels like my goal has been actualized in a way that has been unexpected. One of the writers I am reading states that travel transforms one into a 5 year old, unable to understand her surroundings, the language or people's behavior. Just guessing along the way, we probably learn at a child's rapid pace as well; I hope. As it turns out, when one's eyes are wide open on a trivial day to day basis, this happens regardless of location. My conversation with the old man on the light rail is just such an example.
When the old man sat next to me I immediately worried about whether there was the lingering smell of John Holly's chicken on my breath. I had been dipping into the little white carton while waiting for the train. Still, the man left little time for worrying as he commented on my book, "Looks like a good book you're reading."
"Yeah, it's ok I respond," wondering if there is something particular about me that attracts harmless old men and finding joy that this might be true.
...sleepiness forces me to leave the rest for tomorrow
When the old man sat next to me I immediately worried about whether there was the lingering smell of John Holly's chicken on my breath. I had been dipping into the little white carton while waiting for the train. Still, the man left little time for worrying as he commented on my book, "Looks like a good book you're reading."
"Yeah, it's ok I respond," wondering if there is something particular about me that attracts harmless old men and finding joy that this might be true.
...sleepiness forces me to leave the rest for tomorrow
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Americana
There is something magical about catching the perfect moment in a baseball game. I believe that is why so many wait around so long to see it. Tonight was one of those nights when the slow trickle out of the stadium after the 7th inning stretch looked like a good idea. And when the bottom of the 9th arrived with a score of 8-9, 2 outs, 2 strikes and one man on base, I almost wanted to close my eyes. But with swift precision a crack rang out as he wailed the ball. The small orb soared over the field and into the erupting stands.
The man rounds the bases with each and every one of us vicariously running and cheering behind him. I imagine myself striding into the group hug at home plate; I imagine the happiness I would feel jumping into their ecstatic arms. It's striking (no pun intended) how emotional I can get at such a play. Perhaps it's my state of mind, or perhaps the infectious camaraderie of the crowd, but I almost feel like crying for joy. Perhaps this is some of what we all desire. This is what is missing from our lives. This is why it is America's favorite pastime. We clap for the encore bow, and he does not let us down.
The man rounds the bases with each and every one of us vicariously running and cheering behind him. I imagine myself striding into the group hug at home plate; I imagine the happiness I would feel jumping into their ecstatic arms. It's striking (no pun intended) how emotional I can get at such a play. Perhaps it's my state of mind, or perhaps the infectious camaraderie of the crowd, but I almost feel like crying for joy. Perhaps this is some of what we all desire. This is what is missing from our lives. This is why it is America's favorite pastime. We clap for the encore bow, and he does not let us down.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Wanderer
I sit in my room alone after a long day of nothing. When I look in the mirror I notice the red outline of sunglasses around my pink nose. Oh yes, the adventure.
As I head out of Boulder I am certain that I know where I'm going. After all, the directions are simple, even for me: down Baseline, right on 120th, left on Dillon and a right on Sheridan. Then I am damn near there. If only it had been so simple. Still, the cruise starts out just fine, as every Scooter adventure might. I stop for gas right off and meet the most wonderful toothless old man at the gas station. He is curious about the specs on my vehicle, information I wish I could provide. Nonetheless, he excitedly converses with me and shows me a trick for pouring gas so I don't spill it onto my vehicle as I have just done. He apologizes for taking my time and it is only then that I realize how happy I am for giving the man a chance, something I wish I could do more often.
The sky opens up as I take off and I wonder whether I should be stopping by the various places where I have friends outdoors doing active things. At first I hesitate, desiring to take the detour, but then I realize the joy this adventure is giving me, and I decide that this is what I am meant to be doing today. I zoom by the lake and watch the last hopeful tanners cling onto summer in their well-worn bikinis. As I sneak up on the swift bikers I plan my own ride for next week. Finally, I reach the summit of the hill and zip my way into downtown. I think about stopping at a cute coffeeshop but am distracted by the man staring at me in his four-door pickup.
The weathered cowboy and I exchange a nod, he in his 8-cylinder beast, me on my 2 stroke frogger. Then, off we go our separate ways, the pitch sung out by our engines as distinct as our vehicles. He grizzles like a bear on the prowl, I buzz like a fly stuck in a fallen raindrop.
Soon enough the houses drop away and I go from comparing mailboxes to flying towards genuine amber waves of grain, or is that corn. Often enough motorcyclists go by, and for the first time I understand some of their need to cruise. They look at me with dubious eyes, the kind that say, "are you lost little girl?" I wonder what I might look like with my fiery hair flowing freely and tangled behind me and my teal and melon striped top: a spectacle for rural Colorado no doubt. Everybody needs a turn I suppose.
The infinite field of sunflowers, on the other hand, mesmerizes me. It is a polychromatic sea unlike any I have seen. I try to remember the artist who evokes this image but I can't so I just enjoy the bonding of yellow and green that goes on for miles. I must have lost track of time, because by the time I look up I can see that little of civilization appears before me and any intersection seems out of eyesight as well. When I finally find a street sign I find that I am on 160th, not the Baseline I started from in Boulder. My brother has said that for Christmas he would like to give me a sense of direction. I would like to be indignant, but as I realize that giant mass of white peaks behind me is not the Rockies but the Denver International Airport (and I am therefore not nearly where I should be) I figure that perhaps, this would be a good idea.
After cruising through a very nice trailer neighborhood (as far as trailer neighborhoods go) I come to a dirt road at which point I throw in the towel and use the phone-a-friend option for this round. Thai of course laughs in my face as he informs me that I not only need to take the dirt road for 7 miles but find the legendary Colfax to begin my backtrack of about 30 miles. Well, at least the sun is still shining I guess.
The gas station is filled with trucks and people look at me as if I'm crazy as I refill for the journey back. At this point I am closer to my parents' house, but showing up 60 miles from Boulder after being lost for an hour without a helmet would not go over well. Anyway, I finally have an opportunity to utilize the longest road in the United States: sketchy Colfax Blvd. After jumping from one side of the highway to the other several times I finally join the straight route into the city, beginning on the outskirts where the tacos are the best and making my way towards a place more suited for falafel. I, on the other hand, keep wondering whether there is any merit to Thai's obsession with Popeye's.
I finally give up on the idea when the first lightening strike hits a few blocks away. I am close to home but doubt that I will make it in time. Supposing this is the case, I can't resist Twist and Shout's allure. After all, it's been a long ride; I deserve a musical gift upon my return. So I run into the store and pick up the first cd I can think of. When I hop back on my ride the drops are thick and harsh. Even with my jacket on the speed of my scooter makes the drops penetrating as if I'm stuck in a paintball barrage.
Finally I hit downtown. Sombreros and well-dressed Hispanic people abound. I wonder what the commotion is. Civic Park emanates with life and culture making me envious of their food, their camaraderie and their hips. My non-Latina ass is sore as hell from the journey so I skip a pit stop at the festival and weave my way through downtown. It seems almost magical when I arrive on my street. I have a seen so much and gone so far on an unassuming Sunday afternoon. And while my family and friends may torment me forever for my pitiful sense of direction, it will be worth every minute of it for the gummy smile of the old man who taught me how to pump gas correctly.
As I head out of Boulder I am certain that I know where I'm going. After all, the directions are simple, even for me: down Baseline, right on 120th, left on Dillon and a right on Sheridan. Then I am damn near there. If only it had been so simple. Still, the cruise starts out just fine, as every Scooter adventure might. I stop for gas right off and meet the most wonderful toothless old man at the gas station. He is curious about the specs on my vehicle, information I wish I could provide. Nonetheless, he excitedly converses with me and shows me a trick for pouring gas so I don't spill it onto my vehicle as I have just done. He apologizes for taking my time and it is only then that I realize how happy I am for giving the man a chance, something I wish I could do more often.
The sky opens up as I take off and I wonder whether I should be stopping by the various places where I have friends outdoors doing active things. At first I hesitate, desiring to take the detour, but then I realize the joy this adventure is giving me, and I decide that this is what I am meant to be doing today. I zoom by the lake and watch the last hopeful tanners cling onto summer in their well-worn bikinis. As I sneak up on the swift bikers I plan my own ride for next week. Finally, I reach the summit of the hill and zip my way into downtown. I think about stopping at a cute coffeeshop but am distracted by the man staring at me in his four-door pickup.
The weathered cowboy and I exchange a nod, he in his 8-cylinder beast, me on my 2 stroke frogger. Then, off we go our separate ways, the pitch sung out by our engines as distinct as our vehicles. He grizzles like a bear on the prowl, I buzz like a fly stuck in a fallen raindrop.
Soon enough the houses drop away and I go from comparing mailboxes to flying towards genuine amber waves of grain, or is that corn. Often enough motorcyclists go by, and for the first time I understand some of their need to cruise. They look at me with dubious eyes, the kind that say, "are you lost little girl?" I wonder what I might look like with my fiery hair flowing freely and tangled behind me and my teal and melon striped top: a spectacle for rural Colorado no doubt. Everybody needs a turn I suppose.
The infinite field of sunflowers, on the other hand, mesmerizes me. It is a polychromatic sea unlike any I have seen. I try to remember the artist who evokes this image but I can't so I just enjoy the bonding of yellow and green that goes on for miles. I must have lost track of time, because by the time I look up I can see that little of civilization appears before me and any intersection seems out of eyesight as well. When I finally find a street sign I find that I am on 160th, not the Baseline I started from in Boulder. My brother has said that for Christmas he would like to give me a sense of direction. I would like to be indignant, but as I realize that giant mass of white peaks behind me is not the Rockies but the Denver International Airport (and I am therefore not nearly where I should be) I figure that perhaps, this would be a good idea.
After cruising through a very nice trailer neighborhood (as far as trailer neighborhoods go) I come to a dirt road at which point I throw in the towel and use the phone-a-friend option for this round. Thai of course laughs in my face as he informs me that I not only need to take the dirt road for 7 miles but find the legendary Colfax to begin my backtrack of about 30 miles. Well, at least the sun is still shining I guess.
The gas station is filled with trucks and people look at me as if I'm crazy as I refill for the journey back. At this point I am closer to my parents' house, but showing up 60 miles from Boulder after being lost for an hour without a helmet would not go over well. Anyway, I finally have an opportunity to utilize the longest road in the United States: sketchy Colfax Blvd. After jumping from one side of the highway to the other several times I finally join the straight route into the city, beginning on the outskirts where the tacos are the best and making my way towards a place more suited for falafel. I, on the other hand, keep wondering whether there is any merit to Thai's obsession with Popeye's.
I finally give up on the idea when the first lightening strike hits a few blocks away. I am close to home but doubt that I will make it in time. Supposing this is the case, I can't resist Twist and Shout's allure. After all, it's been a long ride; I deserve a musical gift upon my return. So I run into the store and pick up the first cd I can think of. When I hop back on my ride the drops are thick and harsh. Even with my jacket on the speed of my scooter makes the drops penetrating as if I'm stuck in a paintball barrage.
Finally I hit downtown. Sombreros and well-dressed Hispanic people abound. I wonder what the commotion is. Civic Park emanates with life and culture making me envious of their food, their camaraderie and their hips. My non-Latina ass is sore as hell from the journey so I skip a pit stop at the festival and weave my way through downtown. It seems almost magical when I arrive on my street. I have a seen so much and gone so far on an unassuming Sunday afternoon. And while my family and friends may torment me forever for my pitiful sense of direction, it will be worth every minute of it for the gummy smile of the old man who taught me how to pump gas correctly.
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