good byes

it would be too hard if I weren't coming back.

basic necessities

tl's dogs:

dixie will do anything for food.

duke will do anything for love. 

saturday night

warm night. on the patio, eating by the light of my computer. sounds of a baby laughing, gurgling drift across the alley.

not older, just closer to death

a little part of me dies when I find out a man I might have married is now engaged.

t + 8 yrs?

"where is dr. w today?"
"he's on vacation, getting much needed facetime with his kids."
"oh yeah?"
"yes. his son was at preschool and made a drawing of his family. It was a woman with two children.
when he came home, his parents asked: 'where's daddy in the picture?'
'daddy's at work!'"

ouch.

armchair

theory: many world problems trace back to the british empire.
evidence: irrawady delta was thinly populated before the british colonized burma and started rice cultivation there to feed their empire. now cyclones ravage the low lying delta.

generosity

Its a pleasant night, for this week, but there is a welcome warmth as I board the bus. "Very good, very good, dearie," the bus driver notes my u-pass. Is he a witch or is such cheeriness necessary for working the post-midnight shift?

I choose a seat near the front of the bus, still next to a girl, though I haven't lived in India for years. My mother has done her job well.

As the bus jerks on, I survey the people on the bus. Two goth guys chat with the driver. A goth girl next to me. A homeless man in a dark hoodie, beard across the seat. A woman? man? in a red jacket doubled over in slumber.

I cough, cough. Bronchitis isn't easy to get over. Cough, cough, cough. The night air is irritating.

The man next to me, in the dark hoodie, leans over his bag and the aisle. I turn to see he is offering his water bottle, nodding, smiling. Suprisingly, his teeth are intact. I shake my head, "No, thank you, I'm almost home." He nods again, puts it away.

I try to surpress my coughing. The tickle is there, in the right side, behind the carotid. I ignore it. I imagine scratching. I can't. Cough. Cough. Cough.

The bus lumbers along. We cross the bridge. Only 4 stops until home.

I note a dark-sleeved arm reaching towards me. I turn again. The homeless man is offering me a stick of gum. I accept, not wanting to be rude; I feel guilty that I will be getting off at the next stop, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

He grins toothily, nods encouragingly, then slouches back into his seat. I chew, let the saliva drizzle over the sore throat. My heart beats a little faster, prodded by this man's generosity. How kindly, easily, simply he offers what little he has for the comfort of others.

the global village

while looking at pictures of two classmates' wedding (ganga + andrew), I realize:

two americans had an Indian wedding in a villa on the French coast.

what?

this city

I board the bus at the airport. a lean white guy enters, a bit indie, with a small leather bag. a friend, asian (vietnamese? chinese? japanese? features are lean but hard to read, or I am inexperienced), follows. They carry large umbrellas, perfectly folded, suggesting recent purchase (perhaps at the airport? after landing in city famed for rain?).

I cough, watch, assess. two euro kids on an backpacking trip in the states? something doesn't support that: they look remarkably fresh and do not have backpacks. But perhaps they are tired and their amazing skin does not show it. I imagine the blond one ducking into the bathroom just beyond their arrival gate, washing and quickly changing shirts.

I catch his eye but immediately look away. one more split-second of contact and we would have to speak. He pulls out a book with a title in dutch? german? I am remarkably uneducated, unsophisticated, untraveled: remarkably American despite my brownness.

More coughing, more watching. The Asian one takes a paper bag out of his luggage - inside is a over-ripe banana and a hotdog bun. He peels the banana and wedges it into the bun to eat like a frankfurter. banana dog: japanese delicacy?

We near downtown. The blond leans over, with a lilting accent: 'Excuse me, are you from here?'

'I moved recently.'

'Do you know this street? Pike? We are to get off there.' His friend chimes in with the address '150 1/2 Pike Street.' 'You know Green Youth hostel. It is there; we are to stay there.'

'Hmm. I don't. But I know Pike. I'm getting off there, actually. You can just follow me.'

The conversation continues into one I've had many times, but meanders into new territory (yet this too always seems to happen here; a seemingly predictable conversation surprises with new connections, thoughts): Where are you coming from? Japan. Where are you from? I was born and brought up in the US, but my parents are from India. Where? Where in India? No, where in the US? Pennsylvania.

We are just coming from Pennsylvania! No! Yes! Where? Harrisburg! Wow! Where did you grow up? East of Pittsburgh. Cool. What do you do in Harrisburg? We are soccer players.

Oh we have a friend from Pittsburgh who is Indian. I might know him. What is the name? Vinny Something-something; are there a lot of Indian people in Pittsburgh? More now but not that many when I was growing up; I probably know someone who knows him.

We disembark.

You (blond one) were born in Japan? No, I was born in Germany, but I grew up in Japan.

Interesting. I thought the Asian one was a European transplant, but it is the white one who is the immigrant!

Hmm, so there is a soccer team in Harrisburg? Yes. What brings you to Seattle? We are staying the night before going to Vancouver. You have a game in Vancouver? No, we are going there to get visas.

We arrive at Pike Street before I can ask why two Japanese soccer players in the US are going to Canada for visas.

I squint at the closest door number: 1400. I don't know if there are enough blocks before the water to get down to 150, or what the half means. Is this a Harry Potter hostel?

I point out the water and orient them to east, west. They nod, smile. Thank you, good luck. I cross the street briskly and see my bus at the corner. I look over my shoulder, and they are walking towards the water, duffel bags slung over shoulders. If they were staying in Seattle longer, perhaps we could have hung out.

one act play

setting: city bus, spring evening, still light but only because it is so far north.
man on bus (tries to get off via back door, starts pounding back door): "back door! back door!"
crowd of people standing on bus (ripple from back to front, but escalating to a chant): "back door!"
bus driver points to sign: 'No use of back door after 7 pm.'
tall black woman with sunglass: "oh, no back door after 7 pm."
[pause]
backdoor then opens, and man hops off.
door closes, bus groans, jerks uphill.

capitol hill

yuppie + hipster = yupster.

pho

suddenly, I know what I have been craving on rainy days for years.