Re-Entry

I smiled at the immigration official. She met my smile with a cold gaze. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

"So, how was your trip?" she uttered in a monotone.

"It was great. It was beautiful weather, and so relaxing. How were your holidays?"

She harrumphed. "Stayed here. Didn' go nowhere. Guess it's okay, though, I'm gonna be a granma this year."

I was sincerely surprised. "Congratulations! But, you don't look old enough to be a grandmother!"

A flicker of a smile crossed her face. "I am. Baby's due in June. My son's already twenty years old; 'bout time he started making babies."

I checked carefully for another flicker of a smile. Was this perhaps irony that I wasn't getting? No. She was serious.

Melancholy

I’m overcome by sadness. It’s our last night here in Mexico and I’m packing, preparing to leave for the airport in the morning. This is the same feeling that used to wash over me at the end of summer vacation and currently visits me every Sunday evening – the feeling of enjoying something so much and not wanting it to end. Of wanting just one more (and more and more) day.

Sunset

Coba

The discussion last night focused on what time we should leave this morning. The receptionist said Coba opened at 9; three websites said it opened at 8. It would take us an hour to drive there, so we suggested splitting the difference and leave at 7:30. That way, if it opened at 9, we’d only have half an hour to wait; if it opened at 8, we’d still beat the crowds. Bob was adamant that we beat the crowds and get there before the tour buses. We would leave at 7. Wearily we woke at 6:45 am. This is vacation, right?

We pulled into the parking lot at 8:05 am, no tour buses in sight. Once inside, we rented bicycles to cover the 70 km of ancient Mayan temples. We rode the single speed, rusty bikes, creak, creak, creak, from temple to temple, enjoying the shade of the large palm fronds and the rare breeze. We were virtually alone in our exploration. We relished the quietness, the solitude, the sacredness of the sites. As we approached each site, Bob jokingly urged, “Hurry, a tour bus has arrived. We have to beat the tourists.”

We inspected the ancient carvings, which always seemed to depict a mighty warrior standing on two servants acting as footstools. We climbed to the top of the tallest temple pyramid, amazed at the view, jungle in every direction, the sea further out, lakes dotting the landscape. We retraced our path along the sacbeob (white ways connecting the temples), encountering first a few people, then larger and larger groups, until we reached our starting point. Bob looked at us knowingly. Two and a half hours had passed.

Before we departed the jungle to return to the parking lot, Bob stopped us. “For ice cream, how many tour buses are in the parking lot?”
“Are we including mini-vans?”
“No, only large tour buses.”
“Price is Right rules, if you’re over, you lose.”
“Four.”
“Eight.”
“Five.”
“Six.”

The lot that was empty a mere couple of hours ago was now filled to capacity. Cars, buses, mini-vans, packed tightly against each other. We counted. One, two, three, four, five, six… Six large tour buses and at least that many small touring vans. Laughing, we conceded the early start was worth it.

Renewal

The tune was familiar, the words I didn’t recognize. I listened more carefully. Where was it coming from? I walked from our porch onto the beach. There stood a large group of all ages, children to elders, singing “How Great Thou Art” in Spanish. I watched as one member, cloaked in a white robe, waded from the beach into the water, deeper and deeper, until he reached a trio of men, waist deep in the ocean. The one in the middle wore a long sleeved, fancy snap cowboy shirt, cowboy hat shielding him from the noon sun. The other two stood reverently beside him. They received the one from the shore with open arms, then gently plunged him backwards into the sea, submerging him totally. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens, then returned to the shore. He joined the larger group, his voice melting into the sweet notes, as one by one other members waded to salvation.

Discovery

I bit hard on the mouthpiece. I chomped my teeth up and down on the plastic nodules on each side. It’s been years since I snorkeled. How hard could it be – it’s like riding a bike, right? I thought back to the last time I snorkeled, in Hawaii, maybe six years ago? Most important thing, don’t inhale water. I remembered that, the burning sensation of salt water in your lungs. Not something I wanted to repeat.

I plunged my face underwater and started swimming. I hadn’t swum far when I saw the first fish. I floated, still, my eyes scanning the area. The lone fish darted in and out of the coral and among the short sea grasses. I watched it carefully and in my stillness noticed more. Tiny, eel-like fish, nibbling on unseen treats. Fan coral, gracefully waving with the movement of the water. Sand colored fish, camouflaged against the sea floor. I slowly swam on. The next hour or so was a balance between swimming to new locations and peaceful observations. Noticing the big flashy fish first, then seeing everything else dwarfed by its existence. Circling a non-descript rock to discover the backside hollowed out, hosting dozens of spindly, prickly sea urchins. Drifting along, trying desperately to see further ahead, then glancing down, shocked to find myself above a school of dozens of velvety black fish, each with a shocking neon blue streak on its back. And then, as I navigated my way across the channel where boats enter the bay, struggling not to get caught in the rope, noticing a sea turtle just feet below me. In awe, I watched as it flapped its feet, gracefully advancing across the sea floor. I held my breath, not wanting to draw any attention to myself. Another turtle swam under the first and nudged it playfully on its underside. The first one swam upwards, closer, closer, and closer until I wondered if I should be afraid. Do sea turtles bite? Was this a turtle of the snapping variety? I gently propelled myself backward, out of the turtle’s path. It came to the top of the water, took a breath, then dove downward, oblivious to me.

Choices

Denver Airport. Gate 16. 9:30 am.

“Hello everyone. We’ve got a full flight today. If anyone has flexible plans, please come see me at the podium. If you’re willing to delay your flight, we’ll provide you with a hotel for this evening, a coupon for dinner, and a guaranteed seat on this same flight tomorrow en route to Mexico.”

There was no movement in the waiting area.

I looked around. Mothers fussed over fussy toddlers. Couples snuggled together. No one entertained the United Airlines representative’s offer.

“Denver is a lovely city. This is a great offer – you can spend the day in Denver at United’s expense. If there are any single travelers in the waiting area with flexible travel plans, or even any couples, please come see me at the podium. We’ll also provide each of you with a round-trip ticket to anywhere United flies in the continental United States.”

I thought for a moment. I could use a free round-trip ticket. I could use a day on the beach in Mexico even more.

A few more minutes passed.

Her voice became more desperate. “People, we’re in a recession. This is like free money. This has value. We’re offering a free round-trip ticket anywhere United flies, you can spend the day in Denver, we’ll pay for your hotel and lodging. Come see me at the podium!”

I imagined the thoughts going through people’s minds. Day in Denver, snow on the ground, 27 degrees vs. arriving to Mexico, balmy winds, start of a tropical vacation. So not even a choice.

Delicious

I'm making cardamom shortbread. I place the sheet of delicate shapes into the oven. I glance at the recipe.

Bake for about 12 minutes, or until lightly browned and firm.

I think to myself, "That's what I'd like to be: lightly browned and firm."

Emergency

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

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

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

"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.