What do you see?

I know it's supposed to be someone lifting a man overboard, but to me it looks like a lady in a ball gown on a boat! Strapless, cause that is tres chic!

What freedom wears

I remember my dad telling me once that there is no shame in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, only pride. At the time I was working as a laborer at a large plant nursery for 8 hours a day in the blazing heat of summer with a father and son from Mexico, Esteban (father) and Jose (son). We watered plants, cut them back, made small repairs around the greenhouses, moved plants from one place to another, transplanted established plants to bigger pots, and every once in a while propagated plants, taking cuttings from healthy plants that would then grow into new baby plants. It was exhausting, hard labor. I'd drink 2 gallons of water a day and come home at 5pm only to take a shower, eat a sandwich and collapse into bed, exhausted. I did this 5 days a week for 8 hours a day in the summer. Jose and Esteban did it 6 days a week for years on end.

One evening I talked to my dad about how hard they worked, how they could work circles around me. Some days, the only way I made it through the day with its sweat and dirt and sun, always the sun, was to remind myself that I was going to college, that one day this wouldn't have to be my life if I didn't choose it. But for Jose and Esteban, this was as good as it could get. No retirement, no health insurance, just back breaking labor until they couldn't work any longer. And yet, they came to work every day happy to be there, working hard everyday and clearly taking a lot of pride in what they did. Pride in one's work, no matter what it is, was an important lesson that I am grateful to have learned early on.

Last Friday I encountered two delightful souls on the morning ferry ride. One was an older gentleman who clearly had spent most of his life in the sun. He stood beside me on the rail, taking pictures of the city with a small digital camera. I don't think he noticed himself doing it, but when he took a picture of something he (apparently) liked, he gave a little grunt of happiness. What I loved most about this man was his outfit. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of cut-off jeans. The jeans were wrangler-type work jeans, and they still bore the evidence from years of starch and ironing in a crease in the front. Perfectly starched and creased cut-off shorts. I imagined this man a recent retiree enjoying his freedom after decades of hard work. I pictured him heading home after his last day on the job, walking into the kitchen to get a cold beer, then rummaging through the junk drawer to find a pair of scissors. With the blades in hand he walks to his closet and systematically removes all of the legs from his pants and the sleeves from his shirts. FREEDOM!

The other man was on his way to work. We remarked politely about the beautiful weather. (Here is where I have to tell you that I don't actually use people's real named on this blog, for obvious reasons. This man gave me what I am sure is a nickname, but it is so apt to him that clearly I can't use it, either. So I regret to inform you that I will have to use a different animal than the one he told me).

This man had a thick thatch of chest hair, a somewhat long head of hair (and chops) and eyes that were very alive. He looked just like a panther, I thought. Then he stuck out his hand and introduced himself as  Panther. It was my turn to grunt in happiness! Panther asked me what I did for a living, I told him and then reciprocated. He told me, shamefacedly, that he worked in construction, that he was in "limbo". My heart twisted for him because he was so clearly embarrassed that he didn't say, I don't know, "doctor" or "lawyer". Immediately I felt myself wanting to tell him that there is no shame in making a living, only pride. But I stayed silent and we both went on to make our way in the world on a warm spring morning.

Excuse me, but...

there's a cucumber in your bike basket!




(I don't know why, but this just made me laugh for some reason!)

Big boat, bird

The Maxerrelaxer

I’d like to take a moment to extol the virtues of a rare breed of human—the one who can relax anywhere, anytime. Some of us, while we are waiting in line at the post office or stuck at a red light in our car, find ourselves becoming agitated at having to wait. We see this interlude as wasted time, and we spend it sighing in exasperation, texting on our phones or shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, our bags growing heavier and heavier with each passing second until we are absolutely positive that a lead brick somehow made it into our purse or bag. Often, if there is more than one line, we convince ourselves that all of the other lines are moving faster than ours, but we know in our heart that if we move, our luck will then run out and the new line will stop altogether. And so we sit there in a kind of fuming stasis, waiting until we are released from the purgatory between one important something ending and the next beginning.

But some people have the uncanny ability to just take a load off regardless of where the opportunity presents itself. Let’s call them the “maxerrelaxers”. Sometimes you see them sprawled on the floor—dirty, clean, it doesn’t matter to the maxerrelaxer—in a long line at the DMV or waiting for the mall to open. They don’t let little things like a dearth of chairs prevent them from chilling out! I strive to be a maxxerrelaxer, but the truth is, I don’t like to sit on the filthy floor. That’s why I was so excited to see a man today who represents my ideal. He didn’t need the floor to take a load off—where I saw only a chain railing, he saw a hammock. Brilliant. Notice he even has one foot kicked up in a classic maxerrelaxer stance. I salute you! I will endeavor to take a load off and enjoy the wait just like you!

Where we goin' now, Shrek?

Sweet!

Motorcycle Maintenance and the Art of Conversation

Yesterday I met a lovely middle-aged man—we’ll call him MM—who was on a grand adventure with his middle-aged motorcycle buddies from Oklahoma down south to the ocean. I was a little peeved at MM when they first roared onto the ferry on account of him parking his bike WAY too close to me, thus invading my personal space. I decided to ignore them but then MM chose to strike up a conversation about the headlight on my bicycle. He ended up being funny and charming and was one of the rare conversationalists who asks you a question after answering yours.

One thing I’ve discovered talking to random strangers on the boat is that most anyone is overjoyed to tell you their story: what they’re up to on any given day, where they’re from, what body parts ache when it rains, etc. but very very rarely do I come across a person who seems genuinely interested in anything other than talking about themselves. And don’t get me started on people who glance at their phones every twenty seconds waiting for someone more interesting than you to communicate with them (sometimes I’m guilty, too). But MM wasn’t one of these one-sided talkers, and over the course of our 10 minute ride he asked about my work, and I told him where to camp on the Florida Gulf Coast and how to get to the Florabama (I hope he made it!).

In honor of MM and his motorcycle gang, I dare you to have a real conversation with at least 3 people today…it doesn’t have to be a long conversation, just an authentic one. Report the results of your experiment in the comments below, if you are so inclined.

Contact

Friday proved to be a day of windy rides. On the bike ride to the ferry, some dust blew in my contact and I had the bright idea to take it out to try to wipe it off once I got on the boat. Of course the wind blew it out of my hand and onto the ferry deck, which I'm sure was washed at least once in 1973. Blind, befuddled and wind-whipped, I proceeded to squat down and sweep my hand along the deck, my contact-less eye squinted shut so I could see well enough to actually find the contact, being careful not to move my feet lest I hear the tell-tale crunch of a hard contact shattering beneath my feet (a sound I know all too well, alas!). At some point I realized that to the passengers, I was now the weird lady on the ferry. Finally, behind me and to the left, I saw my contact glinting on the deck. I picked it up and held it in one hand, which forced me to weeble wobble my bike with the other off the ferry and into the street. I decided I couldn't make it to the office like this, so I detoured across the street to the casino to find a bathroom to wash my errant lens. I walked in through the doors to the guard, one eye still squinted shut (I really can't see anything with only one contact in because of my astigmatism). I'm sure I looked like just another customer come to play the slots at 730 in the morning and he waved me through without batting an eyelash.

I'm happy to report that I am typing this now with my vision fully restored.

The best part of the day was the ride back to Algiers after a long day at a conference. I decided to eat dinner in the quarter and dark was rapidly approaching when I got on the boat. The air was cool and the clouds scurried fast across the sky, tired after a long day, I imagine. As we approached the Algiers dock, I looked back and saw the lights of the street car moving down the road. It's a terrible picture, but do you see the line of beautiful, warm glowing yellow in the middle of the picture? That's the streetcar. For some reason it just struck me as so pretty and I got really happy.

So the day ended happily after all. Yay!