I write stories with real characters who have marked my life and who hold very dear places in my heart. Tony is one of those people. I am certain we love each other as much today as when we first met even if we are no longer in-touch. My love for him is unchangeable, something on a soul-level. If we were to meet again, we would be able to communicate in an un-barred, true vulnerable human state, no masks. This is how we met. When I was 14 years old, I was beginning to stretch my limits, take risks: break the law, play with drugs and alcohol, hurt my body, rebel against authority. Some of these adventures I have written about in other stories.
Tony was my second official boyfriend. My first one, Scooter, lasted 3 months and then he broke up with me. He had mentioned several times I was too self-deprecating and self-loathing and he could no longer bear it. I was constantly saying awful things about myself, but I had adopted this attitude in response to my unsolicited reputation as a snob. For whatever reason, boys were saying that I was stuck-up. This came as a shock to me. I had no interactions with boys, so why did they think this about me? I had not had any boys try to talk to me or ask me to “go out” with them. In fact, no one ever asked me to dance at the school dances. I felt left out. So, not wanting people to think I was a snob, I decided I would put myself down, tell people I thought I was ugly, and it seemed to reverse the public opinion from snob to girl with low self-esteem. It didn’t feel good doing this and it was wearing on my friends and family. They began to worry about me.
I felt social pressure to have a boyfriend. I had never kissed a boy before Scooter and frankly, I was not ready for an intimate relationship. I could have easily waited another year or two. For whatever reasons, people in my social circle felt I should get together with Scooter. The consensus was we would make a cute couple. He was popular even though he was eccentric. He was skinny, with curly blonde hair he had shaved into a Mohawk, hollow cheeks that were often flushed, and he wore ripped cloth around his wrists to hide how thin he was. He wore a black leather jacket that smelled strong and it made noise when he moved. I thought he looked ridiculous and unattractive. One day after school my friend Elise and I were hanging out at her home. She decided to call Scooter and tell him I liked him. He said he needed to hear it from me, so she put me on the phone.
Terrified I took the phone, “Hello?” I asked.
“Hey, so, you like me?” he asked with a voice deeper than I expected.
“Yeah,” I replied timidly.
“Well, I need to hear it from you,” he said. Wow, he had major balls to ask me to say this plus I didn’t really like him.
“It’s true”, I said, “I like you.” The idea of having a boyfriend was thrilling so it would be worth the lie.
“Okay, cool. Can I call you tonight?” he asked. I gave him my number and for several nights we spoke over the phone. We had a lot in common and he was very down-to-earth and in-touch with his feminine-side. He spoke highly of his mother and had a close relationship to her. Soon we became girlfriend and boyfriend. People considered us the “popular couple” and younger kids were eager to say hi to me as I walked down the hall which surprised me. It came as a shock to me when Scooter broke up with me. I literally wailed for days in my locked bedroom with music so loud it was banging through the walls.
No one in my family could console me. It was one of my first heartbreaks. I was determined to fill my loss quickly. I had started hanging out with bad girl Shauna (for our adventures, visit my post Jan 2010 "Welcome to Bad Ass School") and she said she had the perfect guy for me, Tony. She said he was Mexican. He was a year younger. Between classes, Shauna pointed him out to me. He wore a green football jersey, he was short and muscular and had bright blue eyes and looked happy and innocent. I liked how he looked and wrote him a letter saying he was cute. Letter writing was a big activity during junior high school and an important part of our development I believe. I was very good at writing sexy letters full of steamy promises and compliments. So, after several letters, I asked if we could chat over the phone.
Tony lived in well-fare housing and did not have a phone. He had a creepy step-dad who was from Peru. Tony’s mother had made him and his brother and sister use the step-dad’s name, Fernandez. They referred to their step-dad as “The Peruvian Porch Monkey.” Everyone thought Tony and his siblings were Mexican because of their last name, but they were not. This added to my excitement of dating him. I was perceived as rebellious. He lived in a building with mainly Mexicans and a couple refugee families from Laos. Tony had to sneak outside and head to the gas station to make phone calls. I liked knowing someone who had such a different life than mine. He seemed to need me and it made me feel important. One day, I asked him to meet me outside after lunch and we embraced each other instantly as if we had been waiting an eternity for this moment, kissing in front of everyone. How could I have had such intense feelings for someone at the age of 14? I loved him down to the roots of my soul.
Tony had an older brother Max, who was extremely smart, quiet and sarcastic. He had brown shiny hair and long bangs that hid part of his face. He walked with a cool stride that appeared innate rather than the strange bouncy one adolescent boys usually are trying on for size. He was dark and mysterious. School was a joke to him. I had made fun of him before I was with Tony, so he never warmed up to me. Even worse, he ignored me. Tony was often with him. He looked up to Max tremendously; it was his only real parental figure. Max had issues too though he expressed his differently than Tony. Diane and I once witnessed Max throwing a three month old kitten into the wall repeatedly. Each time the kitten would get up, dizzy, eyes crossed, he would pick the kitten up and slam him into the wall again with a hollow laugh. This incident still haunts me. Diane and I were screaming for him to stop. He sat slouched over on his bed, laughing without making eye contact with anyone. Tony had an older sister Corinne who was painfully withdrawn and who took refuge in her boyfriend. She walked with pigeon toes and was not very present.
Tony had a lot of anger inside him and expressed it by fighting. He would literally go out at night with a pack of dudes looking to pick a fight. Then, he would call me from the pay phone pumped with adrenaline, huffing and puffing as he tried to explain that he had been in a fight and put some guys in the hospital and was running from the police. I wouldn’t hear from him for days. Several times he was sent away to boys’ homes where he was overseen by a psychologist. He was respectful to the people running these places and participated in group activities. He wanted to be a good person. He wanted to work on his anger and abandonment issues. He had such a good heart. He just wanted to be loved. Sometimes his friends’ families would let him stay with them for extended periods of time. Parents were always saying how sorry they felt for his situation. At one point, his mother divorced the Peruvian Porch Monkey and left the three of them while she traveled in her van with her latest boyfriend across the country. I do not know how the three kids managed to feed themselves. Their mom used to leave for months at a time. Sometimes Tony would stay in a place called “Tough Love” where other kids his age and with similar situations were. I don’t know how he ended up there. Maybe he had a parole officer that put him there. Perhaps social services placed him there as he was so young and living without any parents. The situation was always confusing to me. I don’t recall his brother or sister ever being placed anywhere. Once Diane and I went over to Tony’s and all we could find to eat was a frozen block of cheese in the freezer.
Tony would sneak out of his house at midnight to meet me. Sometimes I would fill my bike bottle with hard liquor from my parent’s liquor cabinet, mainly rum and vodka, slip through my bedroom window, and bolt as fast as I could through my dark neighborhood to meet him somewhere far away from my home. We’d get drunk on someone’s lawn, laughing and kissing and rolling around in total bliss of each other’s company or just sit quietly smoking cigarettes. Sometimes I would sneak out and he wouldn’t show up. I would wait, drunk, for hours until I realized he must not have been able to leave. I remember putting bags of pennies together just to have enough money to get him into a dance club on the week-end. But, after several months together, I began to feel I had outgrown Tony. It felt like a dead end. I began to feel more like a mother than a girlfriend. I could take care of him and help him and love him. I wanted someone older than me, smarter, different. I broke up with him over the phone. He was shocked just like I had been when Scooter had broken up with me. I don’t know what he did after we got off the phone. Maybe he beat a poor soul into a mushy pulp but he was still nice to me when he saw me.
He dated other girls, I dated other boys, and very often if we saw each other at some bonfire party in the middle of nowhere, we would drunkenly kiss under some trees feeling that our random affairs trumped any other relationship we were in. I would tell Diane about these escapades and tell her I wasn’t cheating. It was Tony. It didn’t count. This happened often over the years and one night in high school after not having seen each other for ages, we went back to his empty apartment and into his bedroom, kissing and confessing our love, how we were soulmates. This felt like an epiphany. We had finally figured us out. When I left for college, I lost contact with him. I left our town and he stayed behind. I’m not sure if he graduated high school and if he did, I think it took him several extra years to get it done.
Many years later while I was living with my soon-to-be-husband, Tony called me. It came as a shock to hear his voice. He told me he was living in the same town and helping Max install carpets. He told me he still loved me. He said he would always love me. He told me if I wanted him to come visit, he would leave tomorrow. He said he would do anything for me, all I had to do was say the word.
I told him I would always love him too. When I got off the phone, I knew that it would be unfair to keep in touch with him. I loved him, but not the way he wanted to be loved by me. His life would not fit with mine. It hurt terribly to know that the best thing I could do for him was to lose contact with him, anything else would be leading him on. It made me sad, but I knew him so well and knew this was the best thing for him.
About a year later, it was the day of my wedding. I was alone in my hotel room getting ready and my phone rang.
“Hello?”, I answered.
“Hi”, said my dad in a weird voice, “It’s Tony”…
I just laughed and said “Dad!”
He laughed too and we hung up.
There was no need to say more.
Many years after that, I got an email from Tony asking how I was. He told me he was single, has not managed to find the right person, he lives near Max and works with him. Max has a little girl, therefore Tony is now proud “Uncle Tony”. He said he likes to spend most of his time alone. On his free time he goes fly fishing or into the mountains. He told me, “If you drop me off in the mountains alone and with nothing more than I knife, I will come out alive a week later.” After reading his email, I realized he had expressed himself like a true survivor, someone who had defended his own life for as long as he could remember, someone who could only rely on himself to get the job done. Tony rightly cannot trust another person enough to love or to be loved. I find myself sending him love often from the depths of my heart out into the ether. And I know he gets them. And I daringly say with confidence that if I needed him one day, he would come.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Ginny
I remember the first time I met Ginny. It was during the summer at Trojan Ranch Camp in The Rockies. I was about 13 years old. Ginny lived in Venezuela and was arriving a day or two after the rest of us. “Ginny is coming today,” several campers said one morning. “Ginny is so cool!” Everyone was talking about her arrival. She had obviously come to our camp before. Who was this Ginny? I wanted to know. Later that evening, I finally met her. She was staying in the same cabin as my sister, Diane. So, after dinner, I headed over to my sister’s cabin. Diane was standing outside talking to a group of people. I walked over.
“This is Ginny,” said Diane. Ginny was standing next to Diane and a bunch of girls. She had thick brown wavy hair and tons of freckles. She wore a big warm grin. She looked friendly. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped like an Asian.
“Hi” I wanted her to be my friend. I felt special that I was introduced to her. She was the talk of the evening. “You’re from Venezuela?”
“Yeah, my Dad’s an ambassador. My brother and I come here every summer,” she pointed to her brother who was seated alone on a bench several feet behind her. “Felix”, she called out. He looked up, twinkly brown eyes. He had the same freckles and eyes as Ginny. His thick brown hair was cut short around his head. He had big ears.
“He totally looks like you” said Diane. I wondered if Ginny would be offended by my sister’s comment.
“Yeah,” Ginny laughed, “I know. He’s basically me with short hair” she laughed again.
The next day during free time, Ginny showed up to gymnastics, my favorite activity. I was happy to see her. “Cool, you do gymnastics too?”
“Yeah” she beamed. We took turns showing each other our best round-off-back-handsprings and walked around on our hands. There were hardly any other people during gymnastics. Most girls chose horseback riding or arts and crafts. Because it was often just the two of us and the gymnastics teacher, we had special privileges. We could do whatever we wanted as far as gymnastics was concerned. Our teacher was also one of the counselors who lived in the upstairs part of our bunk. One day after gymnastics she asked if we’d like to join her upstairs. No one had ever been upstairs. “Sure” Ginny and I answered right away.
We walked up the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor. Proper beds, not bunk beds like we had, were lined up and the room had big windows. Our counselor took a seat on her bed, a big Howard Jones poster on the wall stared at us. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked while removing a pack of cigarettes from her bedside drawers.
“No problem” Ginny replied with a comfortable grin. Our counselor lit her cigarette with a pink lighter and took a drag as if she had just taken her first breath of air. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We’re not supposed to smoke,” she said while tilting her head back and exhaling.
“No problem,” both of us agreed. We felt special sharing this moment with a camp counselor. She proffered the cigarette to Ginny. “Want a drag?” Without blinking, Ginny took it. She smoked it with confidence and then turned to me as if to say it was my turn.
I stared at the cigarette. I was curious what it would taste like but scared it would hurt. I hesitated not sure if I had the courage. “No, that’s okay,” I replied, quite certain I had just missed a fabulous opportunity to be bad.
The dinner bell rang. Our counselor looked up surprised, stubbed out her cigarette and then sprayed perfume all over her shirt. On our way to the mess hall I said to Ginny, “I can’t believe you smoked! Did it hurt? What did it taste like?”
Ginny seemed totally at ease, “It doesn’t hurt.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve smoked before.”
Our short summer ended. The following summer at Trojan Ranch, I was lucky enough to have Ginny in my bunk. We were in the teen cabin where each morning began with showers and taking turns using hair dryers. A permanent mist of Aqua Net permeated the air. We both had braces and short hair. Madonna was at her apex and I wore a pink lace bow in my hair. Ginny and I shared a room with two other girls: Julie from Texas and Christine who looked like a handsome tan surfer. Julie was pale and a little chubby. She bore no resemblance to a teenager. She wore fancy haute couture clothing and got up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready. She had her own set of hair curlers. She would plug them in before the sun came up. Then she would proceed to roll her hair into neat rows while seated in front of a lighted mirror. She would make her bed and tidy up while her curlers set for at least 30 minutes. Ginny, Christine and I would exchange disapproving glances during her ritual.
One morning, after having supported Julie’s ridiculous routine for over a week, Ginny said, “Hey! Julie! Look over here!” She held her camera just inches away from Julie’s face and wore a provocative smile. “Say ‘Cheeeeese’”
“Oh, my god. No! Don’t take a photo.” Julie was mortified and held her hand in front of her face. Ginny’s camera clicked several times. “You better destroy that photo after it’s developed!” Julie pointed a threatening finger at Ginny and then stomped out of the room in tears.
“Well, it’s funny” Ginny tried to justify, “she looks like a frickin’ grandma!”
One evening, a storm descended upon us. Loud booms of thunder shook our room. Ginny whipped out her flashlight and held it under her chin. “Ahhhhhhh” she screamed, her brown eyes wide and wild.
Christine and I burst out laughing. It was pitch dark except for Ginny’s flash light. Julie abruptly answered, “Cut it out!”
“Why? Are you scared,” I asked.
Christine sang into the dark, “Carol Annnnnnn, Carol Annnnnnn, run to the light!”
Julie cried out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
Lightening hit close to our cabin shaking the window pane. I observed Julie in the shadows, curled up in her bed. “Are you scared?” I asked again.
Ginny looked at me and seemed particularly amused. “Hey Jude” she bellowed out, “Don’t be afraid…take a sad song...and make it be-tuhhhh…” she sang off-key. Her voice gradually got louder and reached an unbearable volume by the end “HeyJude-HeyJude-HeyJudeh-Judeh-JudEH…Wow!”
Just then a big cracking strike of lightening hit outside our window. All of us shrieked and Ginny yelled out “Shit Fire!”
“Shit…fire? Is…that… what… you said?” I managed to squeeze out through my laughter.
“Yes,“ she started laughing, “Shit Fire!”
“Where’d you learn that? Who says that?” I asked.
“My mom!” And then all of us folded over laughing hysterically.
“Your mom?”
“Shiiiit fiiiiiiiire”, belted out Christine with her best opera voice. “Shiiiiiiit fiiiiiire!”
“Stop it you guys!” shouted Julie, “You are so immature.”
It is almost a written law that when you are acting immature and someone says so, it encourages more immature behavior. That night we were relentless with poor Julie. She threatened to change rooms.
Several summers past and we grew out of the whole summer camp deal. So, Ginny invited me to visit her for a week. I was so excited. We were about 15 years old. Her parents had divorced and she and Felix lived in Delaware with their mother. Ginny lived in a very nice town house that shared a common open yard with the other town houses. She knew all the teenagers in her neighborhood and frequented the homes of wealthy kids who dressed like little men. I had never seen such sophistication. Her mother worked and we were often home alone with her brother Felix.
One evening, Felix made himself a Scotch on the rocks and then asked if we wanted to take a ride with him to the gas station. Felix was younger than both of us, but we got in the back of the car with him as our driver. We went a couple blocks down the road and he parked the car at a gas station. He got out while holding his glass of booze. He preceded to yuck it up with the gas station attendant who must have been at least 40 years old.
“What he is he doing?” I asked Ginny. The two of us peered out of the back window.
“I don’t know,” she laughed, “he looks ridiculous.”
“Look, Ginny! He took his Scotch with him.”
“Oh my god”, she laughed again, “what is he doing?”
“He must think that’s what men do.” I answered.
The two of us watched him as he spoke to the gasoline guy, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass of Scotch as if this is what a normal guy does on a daily basis. Felix got back in the car and Ginny and I teased him during the entire two minute ride home.
Soon after, Ginny received a phone call inviting us to hang out with one of her friends, Scott. Felix drove and then came in with us. He sat on the couch, glass in hand, watching the TV in the living room. Scott came over to us in starched white shorts and a clean red shirt. He was tall with brown curls. “Hey Ginny!” he said warmly. I was introduced and he asked if we wanted to go sit outside. His front yard was made up of rolling green hills of perfectly cut grass. Huge ornamental rocks lined the driveway.
“Have you got any of those Whippits?” asked Ginny.
“I think so” he said while getting up and heading to his blue BMW parked in the driveway. He popped the trunk and rummaged around for a couple seconds. “Right here,” he pulled out a red tank that looked like a small fire extinguisher and dangled it above his head.
“Sweet!” beamed Ginny.
“What are Whippits?” I asked.
Scott and Ginny looked at each other. “You don’t know what Whippits are?”
I was growing more curious by the minute.
“You gotta try them, they are so much fun!” He continued rummaging in his trunk and took out a silver brief case. He walked over and sat down in the grass next to us.
“I hope I have some left” he said while unlocking his little case. He popped open the lid and inside
were a dozen little silver canisters.
“What are those?” I asked.
“You are gonna like these!” he said holding one up. He screwed it into the top of the small red tank. Ginny and I watched quietly. He inserted some kind of plastic piece into his mouth and pressed down. The sound of air whooshed out, the same noise a can of whipped cream makes. He put the can down. A slow grin crept over his entire face and he lied back in the grass, his smile gradually growing bigger.
“What’s it feel like?” I asked in amazement. Scott did not answer. He lied on his back in a trance. Then, five seconds later, he popped up and said, “Man, that was sweet!” He passed the tank to Ginny. “Your turn” he said.
“It only lasts a couple seconds? Is it bad for you?” I was perplexed. “What is it?”
“It’s a gas”, he explained.
“Where do you get it?”
“At a special store”, he replied. “I get a friend to buy them. You have to be 21 years old.”
I was stunned that it was legal to sell such a thing. It seemed like something that should be illegal.
Ginny put the piece in her mouth and pressed down. Whoosh! Then she too got that silly crescendo grin until she lied back in the soft lawn just like Scott had done. Scott took the tank and shook it. It made a rattling sound. He unscrewed the canister. It was empty. He popped in a fresh one and handed it over to me.
“Okay, here it goes,” I put it in my mouth, pressed down and inhaled. I felt cool air entering my lungs then a very light feeling in my head. It felt amazing. I smiled and lied back just as the others had done. I felt so heavy and so light at the same time, so comfortable, so happy. The feeling lasted less than thirty seconds.
We did several rounds and soon all the canisters were empty. We went back inside and watched a James Bond movie that was on TV for a while and then Scott announced that his buddies were throwing a party. Did we want to sneak out and meet them? Sneak out? Party? We were very excited. Ginny made some phone calls and one of her friends volunteered to pick us up at 11p.m. That evening we feigned exhaustion and retreated to her upstairs bedroom only to sneak out an hour afterwards. A big black pick-up truck was waiting for us on the other side of the street.
“Come on” she ran across the street and jumped into the flatbed. I followed suit and sat next to her. The truck pulled out, summer breeze on our skin as we were carried to our next destination…to my next adventure with Ginny.
“This is Ginny,” said Diane. Ginny was standing next to Diane and a bunch of girls. She had thick brown wavy hair and tons of freckles. She wore a big warm grin. She looked friendly. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped like an Asian.
“Hi” I wanted her to be my friend. I felt special that I was introduced to her. She was the talk of the evening. “You’re from Venezuela?”
“Yeah, my Dad’s an ambassador. My brother and I come here every summer,” she pointed to her brother who was seated alone on a bench several feet behind her. “Felix”, she called out. He looked up, twinkly brown eyes. He had the same freckles and eyes as Ginny. His thick brown hair was cut short around his head. He had big ears.
“He totally looks like you” said Diane. I wondered if Ginny would be offended by my sister’s comment.
“Yeah,” Ginny laughed, “I know. He’s basically me with short hair” she laughed again.
The next day during free time, Ginny showed up to gymnastics, my favorite activity. I was happy to see her. “Cool, you do gymnastics too?”
“Yeah” she beamed. We took turns showing each other our best round-off-back-handsprings and walked around on our hands. There were hardly any other people during gymnastics. Most girls chose horseback riding or arts and crafts. Because it was often just the two of us and the gymnastics teacher, we had special privileges. We could do whatever we wanted as far as gymnastics was concerned. Our teacher was also one of the counselors who lived in the upstairs part of our bunk. One day after gymnastics she asked if we’d like to join her upstairs. No one had ever been upstairs. “Sure” Ginny and I answered right away.
We walked up the rickety wooden stairs to the second floor. Proper beds, not bunk beds like we had, were lined up and the room had big windows. Our counselor took a seat on her bed, a big Howard Jones poster on the wall stared at us. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked while removing a pack of cigarettes from her bedside drawers.
“No problem” Ginny replied with a comfortable grin. Our counselor lit her cigarette with a pink lighter and took a drag as if she had just taken her first breath of air. “You can’t tell anyone about this. We’re not supposed to smoke,” she said while tilting her head back and exhaling.
“No problem,” both of us agreed. We felt special sharing this moment with a camp counselor. She proffered the cigarette to Ginny. “Want a drag?” Without blinking, Ginny took it. She smoked it with confidence and then turned to me as if to say it was my turn.
I stared at the cigarette. I was curious what it would taste like but scared it would hurt. I hesitated not sure if I had the courage. “No, that’s okay,” I replied, quite certain I had just missed a fabulous opportunity to be bad.
The dinner bell rang. Our counselor looked up surprised, stubbed out her cigarette and then sprayed perfume all over her shirt. On our way to the mess hall I said to Ginny, “I can’t believe you smoked! Did it hurt? What did it taste like?”
Ginny seemed totally at ease, “It doesn’t hurt.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve smoked before.”
Our short summer ended. The following summer at Trojan Ranch, I was lucky enough to have Ginny in my bunk. We were in the teen cabin where each morning began with showers and taking turns using hair dryers. A permanent mist of Aqua Net permeated the air. We both had braces and short hair. Madonna was at her apex and I wore a pink lace bow in my hair. Ginny and I shared a room with two other girls: Julie from Texas and Christine who looked like a handsome tan surfer. Julie was pale and a little chubby. She bore no resemblance to a teenager. She wore fancy haute couture clothing and got up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready. She had her own set of hair curlers. She would plug them in before the sun came up. Then she would proceed to roll her hair into neat rows while seated in front of a lighted mirror. She would make her bed and tidy up while her curlers set for at least 30 minutes. Ginny, Christine and I would exchange disapproving glances during her ritual.
One morning, after having supported Julie’s ridiculous routine for over a week, Ginny said, “Hey! Julie! Look over here!” She held her camera just inches away from Julie’s face and wore a provocative smile. “Say ‘Cheeeeese’”
“Oh, my god. No! Don’t take a photo.” Julie was mortified and held her hand in front of her face. Ginny’s camera clicked several times. “You better destroy that photo after it’s developed!” Julie pointed a threatening finger at Ginny and then stomped out of the room in tears.
“Well, it’s funny” Ginny tried to justify, “she looks like a frickin’ grandma!”
One evening, a storm descended upon us. Loud booms of thunder shook our room. Ginny whipped out her flashlight and held it under her chin. “Ahhhhhhh” she screamed, her brown eyes wide and wild.
Christine and I burst out laughing. It was pitch dark except for Ginny’s flash light. Julie abruptly answered, “Cut it out!”
“Why? Are you scared,” I asked.
Christine sang into the dark, “Carol Annnnnnn, Carol Annnnnnn, run to the light!”
Julie cried out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
Lightening hit close to our cabin shaking the window pane. I observed Julie in the shadows, curled up in her bed. “Are you scared?” I asked again.
Ginny looked at me and seemed particularly amused. “Hey Jude” she bellowed out, “Don’t be afraid…take a sad song...and make it be-tuhhhh…” she sang off-key. Her voice gradually got louder and reached an unbearable volume by the end “HeyJude-HeyJude-HeyJudeh-Judeh-JudEH…Wow!”
Just then a big cracking strike of lightening hit outside our window. All of us shrieked and Ginny yelled out “Shit Fire!”
“Shit…fire? Is…that… what… you said?” I managed to squeeze out through my laughter.
“Yes,“ she started laughing, “Shit Fire!”
“Where’d you learn that? Who says that?” I asked.
“My mom!” And then all of us folded over laughing hysterically.
“Your mom?”
“Shiiiit fiiiiiiiire”, belted out Christine with her best opera voice. “Shiiiiiiit fiiiiiire!”
“Stop it you guys!” shouted Julie, “You are so immature.”
It is almost a written law that when you are acting immature and someone says so, it encourages more immature behavior. That night we were relentless with poor Julie. She threatened to change rooms.
Several summers past and we grew out of the whole summer camp deal. So, Ginny invited me to visit her for a week. I was so excited. We were about 15 years old. Her parents had divorced and she and Felix lived in Delaware with their mother. Ginny lived in a very nice town house that shared a common open yard with the other town houses. She knew all the teenagers in her neighborhood and frequented the homes of wealthy kids who dressed like little men. I had never seen such sophistication. Her mother worked and we were often home alone with her brother Felix.
One evening, Felix made himself a Scotch on the rocks and then asked if we wanted to take a ride with him to the gas station. Felix was younger than both of us, but we got in the back of the car with him as our driver. We went a couple blocks down the road and he parked the car at a gas station. He got out while holding his glass of booze. He preceded to yuck it up with the gas station attendant who must have been at least 40 years old.
“What he is he doing?” I asked Ginny. The two of us peered out of the back window.
“I don’t know,” she laughed, “he looks ridiculous.”
“Look, Ginny! He took his Scotch with him.”
“Oh my god”, she laughed again, “what is he doing?”
“He must think that’s what men do.” I answered.
The two of us watched him as he spoke to the gasoline guy, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass of Scotch as if this is what a normal guy does on a daily basis. Felix got back in the car and Ginny and I teased him during the entire two minute ride home.
Soon after, Ginny received a phone call inviting us to hang out with one of her friends, Scott. Felix drove and then came in with us. He sat on the couch, glass in hand, watching the TV in the living room. Scott came over to us in starched white shorts and a clean red shirt. He was tall with brown curls. “Hey Ginny!” he said warmly. I was introduced and he asked if we wanted to go sit outside. His front yard was made up of rolling green hills of perfectly cut grass. Huge ornamental rocks lined the driveway.
“Have you got any of those Whippits?” asked Ginny.
“I think so” he said while getting up and heading to his blue BMW parked in the driveway. He popped the trunk and rummaged around for a couple seconds. “Right here,” he pulled out a red tank that looked like a small fire extinguisher and dangled it above his head.
“Sweet!” beamed Ginny.
“What are Whippits?” I asked.
Scott and Ginny looked at each other. “You don’t know what Whippits are?”
I was growing more curious by the minute.
“You gotta try them, they are so much fun!” He continued rummaging in his trunk and took out a silver brief case. He walked over and sat down in the grass next to us.
“I hope I have some left” he said while unlocking his little case. He popped open the lid and inside
were a dozen little silver canisters.
“What are those?” I asked.
“You are gonna like these!” he said holding one up. He screwed it into the top of the small red tank. Ginny and I watched quietly. He inserted some kind of plastic piece into his mouth and pressed down. The sound of air whooshed out, the same noise a can of whipped cream makes. He put the can down. A slow grin crept over his entire face and he lied back in the grass, his smile gradually growing bigger.
“What’s it feel like?” I asked in amazement. Scott did not answer. He lied on his back in a trance. Then, five seconds later, he popped up and said, “Man, that was sweet!” He passed the tank to Ginny. “Your turn” he said.
“It only lasts a couple seconds? Is it bad for you?” I was perplexed. “What is it?”
“It’s a gas”, he explained.
“Where do you get it?”
“At a special store”, he replied. “I get a friend to buy them. You have to be 21 years old.”
I was stunned that it was legal to sell such a thing. It seemed like something that should be illegal.
Ginny put the piece in her mouth and pressed down. Whoosh! Then she too got that silly crescendo grin until she lied back in the soft lawn just like Scott had done. Scott took the tank and shook it. It made a rattling sound. He unscrewed the canister. It was empty. He popped in a fresh one and handed it over to me.
“Okay, here it goes,” I put it in my mouth, pressed down and inhaled. I felt cool air entering my lungs then a very light feeling in my head. It felt amazing. I smiled and lied back just as the others had done. I felt so heavy and so light at the same time, so comfortable, so happy. The feeling lasted less than thirty seconds.
We did several rounds and soon all the canisters were empty. We went back inside and watched a James Bond movie that was on TV for a while and then Scott announced that his buddies were throwing a party. Did we want to sneak out and meet them? Sneak out? Party? We were very excited. Ginny made some phone calls and one of her friends volunteered to pick us up at 11p.m. That evening we feigned exhaustion and retreated to her upstairs bedroom only to sneak out an hour afterwards. A big black pick-up truck was waiting for us on the other side of the street.
“Come on” she ran across the street and jumped into the flatbed. I followed suit and sat next to her. The truck pulled out, summer breeze on our skin as we were carried to our next destination…to my next adventure with Ginny.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Bachelor(ette) Party
I can’t believe what happened today. Right before opening the yoga studio for my class this morning, I received a call from my colleague and studio owner, Mario. “I just wanted to tell you that a group of 10 girls will be trying your class today. They’ve already paid,” he explained.
“What kind of group?” I had a strange feeling in my gut.
“Well, it’s a group of friends…they all know each other…you’ll see.”
I didn’t like this answer one bit. “It sounds peculiar,” I said.
Mario paused and giggled just slightly, I could see him smiling into the phone. He was thinking “Ha, ha, ha. You’re a fucking sucker! Eat it!”
“What kind of group?” I asked again since he was not going to elaborate.
“It’s just a group of girls doing a wedding party for their friend.”
This was very strange. “Is this something you are going to start offering regularly?” I asked.
“No, no. It’s just this one time,” he replied.
“Okay,” I answered with hesitation. “Have any of them done yoga before?”
Mario paused, “Ummm. I think one or two of them have…”
I did not like this one bit. I opened the studio and greeted my students who came every Monday morning. Soon it was time to start class but the group of girls had not arrived. I stood in front of my class, “Today we have a group coming. They are not here yet, so we are going to start a little late,” I explained as I walked back to the front desk.
Five minutes later, I heard laughter coming up Rue des héros, my favorite street. A group of girls walked in. One was blind-folded.
“Hello,” said one of the girls with a professional camera in her hand. The whole group broke into laughter. “This is a surprise for our friend. She doesn’t know where she is,” the camera girl gestured to her friend. The blind-folded girl stood in anticipation and smiled shyly. She wore a fluorescent orange t-shirt. Her friends had written all over it in black permanent marker. Things like, “I’m forever screwed” or “Life is now over.”
“Oh, okay,” I replied thinking to myself “Great, my yoga class is a funny activity for the bride-to-be. Gee, I am so lucky.”
“Sorry we’re late. Is there a place for us to change?” the girl with the camera added.
“Sure,” I said, “Class is about to start. How long do you think you’ll need to get dressed?”
“Two minutes,” she said and a trail of girls giggled their way into the dressing room.
I walked back into the yoga room. My regular students and I sat in anticipation. We listened to the group of girls whispering and cackling in the dressing room. While the group of girls changed their clothes, I decided to talk to my students, something I normally don’t do, but I was feeling so irritated. I could no longer contain it all. “Today, class will be a little special,” I began, “Mario decided to send us a group of girls for their bachelorette party and most of them have never done yoga…I’m not exactly okay with this but I’m going to make the most of it.” I typically did not express myself like this, so it must have been a little worrisome. “I will most likely keep it basic today so just bear with me.” I smiled an unhappy smile.
The group of gigglers made it into the room. Two girls helped the blindfolded girl into a sitting position on the mat. My students watched the bride-to-be. With one swift movement, the girls removed her blind fold. Mystery activity revealed! She gasped and looked around. She looked pleased as she took in the colorful room and all the people around her. She glanced happily at each of her friends. They giggled again.
“Here it goes,” I said to myself, “the party has begun.” We started our yoga class as usual. I wondered if they thought it was funny, ridiculous, or peaceful. I could not say. They seemed to be enjoying themselves though one of the girls had an incredibly hard time making her body do what the rest of us were doing. When I’d ask the class to sit up straight, she would hunch her back and melt over. When I’d ask the class to stay on their stomachs with their hands on the floor, she would place her forearms on the mat and pull herself up in a discomforting way.
I tried to show her the safe way. I tried to adjust her. I tried to get her to look at the students around her and copy her friends who seemed to “get it”, but she was completely out-of-tune with her body. I could almost see her having a semi-out-of-body-experience. It was as if she was observing her body and asking it in utter confusion, “Why won’t you do what I ask? Why?”
Half-way during the class, the bride-to-be got teary eyed and tried not to cry. One of her friends patted her on the back. She wiped her eyes. I wasn’t sure if yoga had been the catalyst. Had yoga released her bottled up emotions? Or was she just touched in general by what her friends had organized for her?
During our routine, hardly any photos were taken. But, as soon as we got into “Happy Baby”, a pose on our backs holding our feet, the photographer assumed her role. I think she had been waiting for this type of funny pose the entire time. Unfortunately for her, we didn’t do any funky moves or shaking or whatever she might have expected.
(Important side note: While all of this was going on, I also had a new student who wore a veil the entire session. At one point, she dramatically rolled into a ball complaining of abdominal pains. And my favorite, she asked questions and made comments at inopportune moments. She was the cherry on the Tequila Sunrise at this party and she was even wearing red pants.)
After class ended, the bride’s friends put the blindfold back on her. She would not see where she was as far as neighborhoods go. The group of girls got dressed and thanked me as they left. “That was excellent,” one of the girls even said.
After they left, I called Mario and basically told him to never do that to me again. He pleaded he didn’t know there would be cameras and blindfolds. But, either way, he didn’t give a shit. I just wanted him to know that I would not be doing that again unless it was a private group.
I took a couple deep breaths. The class had been good for my students, or so it seemed. It had not been good for me, but I had accepted my situation and done the best I could. It was over and done with. No need to think about it anymore, was there? Except for one little nagging feeling occurred as I tidied up the empty room. I kept thinking, “Wow! This will be a great story to tell.” And that, my friends, is my Bachelorette party for you (with a veiled cherry on top).
“What kind of group?” I had a strange feeling in my gut.
“Well, it’s a group of friends…they all know each other…you’ll see.”
I didn’t like this answer one bit. “It sounds peculiar,” I said.
Mario paused and giggled just slightly, I could see him smiling into the phone. He was thinking “Ha, ha, ha. You’re a fucking sucker! Eat it!”
“What kind of group?” I asked again since he was not going to elaborate.
“It’s just a group of girls doing a wedding party for their friend.”
This was very strange. “Is this something you are going to start offering regularly?” I asked.
“No, no. It’s just this one time,” he replied.
“Okay,” I answered with hesitation. “Have any of them done yoga before?”
Mario paused, “Ummm. I think one or two of them have…”
I did not like this one bit. I opened the studio and greeted my students who came every Monday morning. Soon it was time to start class but the group of girls had not arrived. I stood in front of my class, “Today we have a group coming. They are not here yet, so we are going to start a little late,” I explained as I walked back to the front desk.
Five minutes later, I heard laughter coming up Rue des héros, my favorite street. A group of girls walked in. One was blind-folded.
“Hello,” said one of the girls with a professional camera in her hand. The whole group broke into laughter. “This is a surprise for our friend. She doesn’t know where she is,” the camera girl gestured to her friend. The blind-folded girl stood in anticipation and smiled shyly. She wore a fluorescent orange t-shirt. Her friends had written all over it in black permanent marker. Things like, “I’m forever screwed” or “Life is now over.”
“Oh, okay,” I replied thinking to myself “Great, my yoga class is a funny activity for the bride-to-be. Gee, I am so lucky.”
“Sorry we’re late. Is there a place for us to change?” the girl with the camera added.
“Sure,” I said, “Class is about to start. How long do you think you’ll need to get dressed?”
“Two minutes,” she said and a trail of girls giggled their way into the dressing room.
I walked back into the yoga room. My regular students and I sat in anticipation. We listened to the group of girls whispering and cackling in the dressing room. While the group of girls changed their clothes, I decided to talk to my students, something I normally don’t do, but I was feeling so irritated. I could no longer contain it all. “Today, class will be a little special,” I began, “Mario decided to send us a group of girls for their bachelorette party and most of them have never done yoga…I’m not exactly okay with this but I’m going to make the most of it.” I typically did not express myself like this, so it must have been a little worrisome. “I will most likely keep it basic today so just bear with me.” I smiled an unhappy smile.
The group of gigglers made it into the room. Two girls helped the blindfolded girl into a sitting position on the mat. My students watched the bride-to-be. With one swift movement, the girls removed her blind fold. Mystery activity revealed! She gasped and looked around. She looked pleased as she took in the colorful room and all the people around her. She glanced happily at each of her friends. They giggled again.
“Here it goes,” I said to myself, “the party has begun.” We started our yoga class as usual. I wondered if they thought it was funny, ridiculous, or peaceful. I could not say. They seemed to be enjoying themselves though one of the girls had an incredibly hard time making her body do what the rest of us were doing. When I’d ask the class to sit up straight, she would hunch her back and melt over. When I’d ask the class to stay on their stomachs with their hands on the floor, she would place her forearms on the mat and pull herself up in a discomforting way.
I tried to show her the safe way. I tried to adjust her. I tried to get her to look at the students around her and copy her friends who seemed to “get it”, but she was completely out-of-tune with her body. I could almost see her having a semi-out-of-body-experience. It was as if she was observing her body and asking it in utter confusion, “Why won’t you do what I ask? Why?”
Half-way during the class, the bride-to-be got teary eyed and tried not to cry. One of her friends patted her on the back. She wiped her eyes. I wasn’t sure if yoga had been the catalyst. Had yoga released her bottled up emotions? Or was she just touched in general by what her friends had organized for her?
During our routine, hardly any photos were taken. But, as soon as we got into “Happy Baby”, a pose on our backs holding our feet, the photographer assumed her role. I think she had been waiting for this type of funny pose the entire time. Unfortunately for her, we didn’t do any funky moves or shaking or whatever she might have expected.
(Important side note: While all of this was going on, I also had a new student who wore a veil the entire session. At one point, she dramatically rolled into a ball complaining of abdominal pains. And my favorite, she asked questions and made comments at inopportune moments. She was the cherry on the Tequila Sunrise at this party and she was even wearing red pants.)
After class ended, the bride’s friends put the blindfold back on her. She would not see where she was as far as neighborhoods go. The group of girls got dressed and thanked me as they left. “That was excellent,” one of the girls even said.
After they left, I called Mario and basically told him to never do that to me again. He pleaded he didn’t know there would be cameras and blindfolds. But, either way, he didn’t give a shit. I just wanted him to know that I would not be doing that again unless it was a private group.
I took a couple deep breaths. The class had been good for my students, or so it seemed. It had not been good for me, but I had accepted my situation and done the best I could. It was over and done with. No need to think about it anymore, was there? Except for one little nagging feeling occurred as I tidied up the empty room. I kept thinking, “Wow! This will be a great story to tell.” And that, my friends, is my Bachelorette party for you (with a veiled cherry on top).
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Hairtales from the Cursed
It’s time to write about a recurring trauma in my life. (Heavy-hearted sigh) Another hair-do massacre has taken place. As I write, I am recovering from a heart-attack directly linked to the hair dressers. It’s still the first 24 hours, so I am in a fragile state. I’m hoping by tomorrow I’ll only have minor palpitations. From some luck of the draw, I have been cursed since birth with some kind of Hair-Do Curse.
But, before I tell you about today, let’s take a trip down Hair-Don’t Memory Lane. I’ll narrow it down to the Top 5. They are in chronological order. And this story is rather long so you might want to save these tales for a day when you have time to sit and read.
Hairtale 1 (Note: If you have The Curse, there are signs of it early in life.)
From birth to the age of about 12, this was my recurring hair-dresser routine: “How would you like your hair cut today?” the hair dresser asks.
“Well, I’m trying to grow it out. So, please just give it a trim,” I reply.
“Okay. No problem.” Then, scissor noises: hack hack hack. Twenty minutes later, hair-dryer noises. I glimpse in the mirror several times at the hair-ball manifesting before my eyes. I try not to watch as every curl is brushed out into a fluffy cotton-candy mass. Then there are hair-spray noises. The hair-dresser pats my afro while smiling. Then, she whirls my chair around so I am facing myself head-on in the mirror.
My mother stands behind me and asks, “Oh, don’t you just love it?”
How the hell can I say “no”? I can’t. I cannot say a word. I am concentrating too hard to keep back the tears and control my mouth which so badly wants to contort and quiver. I am ugly. I am so ugly. I hate how I look. “Get me out of here. Why did you do this to my hair? Would you want to look like this?” That’s what I want to say to the hair dresser, but I can’t because my mother just asked me to say how much I like it.
We cannot leave fast enough. My mother cannot unlock her car fast enough. I cannot hide in the back with my coat over my head fast enough. I cry the entire way home. Once we are home, my mother gets out her hair dryer and straightens my hair. She makes me feel normal again. She fixes the awful mess. This scene happens several times a year for years.
Hairtale 2 (Note: The Curse is most dangerous when in your own hands.)
At the age of about 13 years old, I decide my hair is now in my own hands, for better or for worse. It’s the 80’s and I feel very free. Girls are wearing their hair very short. Long bangs and short sides are in. There is room for mistakes (and I’ll need all the room I can get when cutting my own hair). Why not experiment? One day, I’m alone in my room listening to music and staring into my mirror. I love the scarf my new boyfriend gave me. It looks like a long dirty piece of gauze around my neck. I say to myself, “Time for a haircut.” I get the scissors. My hair is almost chin length when I straighten it with a hair dryer.
I will look good with short sides and long bangs. Snip, snip, snip. I glance in the mirror. Not bad. I think the sides could be a little shorter. Snip, snip, snip. I can see my scalp peaking beneath the short hairs on the side of my head. My heart starts racing. Do I want it this short? Yes! I look punk, it’s a new me. This is a perfect role for me. I pull my long bangs over my left eye and cut them into a point. Even better! That night at dinner, my parents take turns looking back and forth at each other.
“Did you have brain surgery, kid?” asks my father dryly. Clearly he does not like my new do.
My mother looks confused. “Did you mean to cut it that short?”
“Yes,” I say and sit-up straighter, “I like it this way.” I untie the grey rag I’m wearing and re-wrap it around my neck.
“You look like a Garbage-Patch Kid,” my sister says flatly while chewing her food.
No one seems to appreciate my new look. For weeks, I maintain this look. Time passes and we are now staying in a hotel in Denver, a Christmas vacation for the family. My sister and I have our own room. While my sister is sitting on the bed listening to Depeche Mode on her Walkman, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, alone. The sides of my hair have grown-in quite a bit, time for a trim.
I get out my scissors and trim my sides dangerously close. The sides look like an uneven army buzz. There are too many holes. I need to smooth it all out. I dig through my make-up purse and find a disposable orange Bic razor. I carefully begin to shave the sides to get them nice and even.
I nick myself a little and a couple drops of blood rise to the surface of my scalp. I stand back and observe the art project in front of me. My head is shiny. I am not going for a shiny head look. I look like the freak from the Thompson Twins video. I begin to panic. I comb my bangs over the side of my head, like and old man trying to cover a bald spot. My bangs are too long. I neatly cut them to fit perfectly around my ear. It hides the baldness but looks like a wig. I try to stay calm but I can’t.
This is a disaster. My heart beats faster. “Diane!” I cry out for my sister. Maybe she can help me or at least comfort me. “Diane!”
She can’t hear me, she is singing with her music. Diane is in her own little world. I hurry out of the bathroom and walk up to her bed, “Diane!” I scream.
She flinches a little. She takes off her headset and looks at me.
“I totally fucked up my hair! I totally fucked it up!” I start crying.
“What did you do?” She stands up. I walk back to the bathroom and she follows me. We are both standing under the bright lights in our cramped hotel bathroom. I lift my make-shift hair flap and uncover the baldness.
“What the fuck, Sunny? Why did you do that?”
I stare at myself red-eyed and ugly in the mirror.
“Did you shave it with a Bic?”
“Yes”, I sob, “What am I going to do?”
“Dad is going to kill you, Sunny!” Diane was not offering any comfort whatsoever.
“No shit, Diane! Shut up! Help me, god!” I snap.
“What do you want me to do, Sunny? I can’t fix that shit. Cover it back up with your hair, they might not see it.”
I pat my hair flap back over the side and spray some Aqua Net to hold it in place. “Does it look normal?” I keep patting my hair down. “Does it look okay?”
She cocks her head. “I don’t know, Sunny. It’s pretty bad. Just don’t show them that side…”
Hairtale 3 (Note: Even family members who love you could have The Curse)
Around 18 years old, my mother decides my hair is too dark. I am no longer her golden-haired little girl. Why not add some highlights? My mother buys a DIY highlight kit at Target. It comes with a scary rubber white cap punctured with miniscule holes. She puts it on my head and pulls hairs through the tiny holes with a plastic hook. I look like a cancer victim suffering chemo. We wait for the bleach to do its magic. We take off the cap and rinse my hair. Yellow strings hang randomly around my head. My mother studies my hair, “I think we need to add more highlights around your face,” she says and smears a bunch of highly toxic white cream on my hair around my face, especially above my forehead.
Being the trusting soul I am, I busy myself with more important things like talking on the phone. After a while, my mother tells me to rinse my hair. I rinse it and look in the mirror. I have a thick white stripe down the top of my head.
“Oh, my god!” I scream, “Mom, I look like a fucking skunk! What did you do?”
My mother panics. This means she begins laughing, crying, and coughing at the same time. She can’t speak. She tries to cough up a few words, “Ohh.I’m.sorry. Maybe.it.will.look.better.when.we.dry.it.”
I am not convinced. We dry it. Do you think it looks better dry? My mother speeds back to the store and buys some brown hair dye. We dye my hair back. It is fine for several months, but then the brown begins to fade and the white stripe reappears. (At least it has considerably grown out and it looks kind of SJP Sex in the City-ish but this was pre-Sex in the City days.)
Hairtale 4 (Note: If you have The Curse, you can expect at least one standing-ovation performance.)
Fast-forward to myself at 30 years old. My husband and I are living in Brussels. My sister is about to get married. Two days before I am flying to Arizona, I decide to get caramel highlights like Jennifer Aniston. (And you all know the color I’m talking about.) Just down the street is a hair-salon. A petit pretentious male has me sit down in a sleek black swivel chair. He brings out a book with different highlight colors. “So, show me which color you like?” He opens the shiny book. There are strips of different colored hair with fancy names underneath.
“Oh, I like that one, Honey Caramel,” I point to the hair strip. It is a beautiful warm color. I imagine how great my hair will look in this golden shade.
“Perfect”, he says. He takes the book away and starts to prepare my selection in a black plastic bowl. Very hip music is playing in the salon. Very hip people work there. I am going to leave looking very hip. My hairdresser sets a little timer on the shelf behind me. I wait while the chemicals do their magic.
“Ding, ding, ding,” rings the timer. It’s time to rinse my hair. Oh, I’m so excited. He rinses and rinses and then he dries while I look in the mirror. Do you think my hair is Honey Caramel? I don’t think my hair is Honey Caramel. My hair is Burning Bush Red. He finishes drying my hair.
“All done,” he says and walks over to the cash register.
As I’m paying, something is just not right. Should I say something? I hesitate. I finish paying. And then I say it. “It looks red.”
“Red?” he shakes his head, “No, it’s copper.”
“It looks red,” I repeat. “This is not the color I chose.”
“Yes, you chose this color,” he says quite confidently.
I begin to boil inside. “No. I chose Honey Caramel. Show me the book. I’ll show you,” I say.
He looks very hesitant. “Look, Madame, this is the color you chose.”
The two of us are standing in front of the mirror looking at my hair. By now, the other hair-dressers stop what they are doing. Everyone is listening. Everyone is looking at me and my red hair. He goes over to the book shelf and brings the hair samples to me. He opens the book. It is not the same book he initially showed me.
“This isn’t the book I looked at. This book doesn’t have the color I chose.” Now I am livid and shaking. He is trying to deceive me. It is unbelievable.
He smiles wryly, “This is the only book we have,” he says while making eye contact with all the other hair dressers. This is his cue to them, “Go along with what I say.”
“No. No. There is a different book with Honey Caramel.” I shake my head. My voice is getting louder. I’m still standing in front of the mirror. Customers are looking at me. “This is red. My hair is red!” I scream.
“Madame. Please calm down. Your hair is not red,” he says, “It’s copper.”
This is when I lose it. I look at the customers. “Does this look like Honey Caramel to you?” I scream while pointing to my head. I make eye contact with each customer. They avert their glances. No one wants to acknowledge me.
“Madame. You are going to have to leave. You are making a scene.”
“This is not Honey Caramel!” I bellow, “You are lying! You’re lying! My hair is red!” I scream on the top of my lungs. My throat hurts. I am losing control. Mustering up the last of my energy I look at the customers again and say, “This man is a liar! He’s a liar! I wanted Honey Caramel hair and he made it red! Don’t come here!” I leave the salon shaking. My breath is irregular. I make it back home.
My husband doesn’t understand what is happening. I am trembling. I am pacing back in forth in our apartment. I am acting crazy. I explain to my best ability what happened at the salon. My husband is upset. He leaves our apartment in a hurry and goes to the salon. I continue pacing back and forth. My husband is back within minutes.
“I can’t get your money back, Sunny. The man refuses but if you go back, he will fix it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Go back? Go back?” I holler. “I made a fucking scene in there. I can’t ever go back there…EVER!”
“Well, I don’t know what else to do,” my husband says.
The next day, I go to a different salon. They make my color better. In fact, everyone at my sister’s wedding comments on how great my hair color was, some auburn shade that is impossible to recreate considering it was two different hair colors from two different salons. To this day, that is my worst case-scenario regarding my behavior. So, imagine the fear in my husband last night when I come home with Hair Catastrophe Number 5!
Hairtale 5 (Note: At some point, we the cursed need to accept our destiny.)
Let’s fast forward to the present. I am now a mother of two little girls. Three years ago, some woman hacked my hair into a mess of two layers, one very short, one very long. I never went to her again. I have been, ever since, re-growing my hair. Yesterday, it was pretty long and almost layer-free. I was feeling happy that my hair was finally long again. I have been going to the same hair salon for two years now without any drama.
Yesterday, my little girls wanted to get their hair cut. I needed a hair-cut too. We arrive at the salon and it is virtually empty, no waiting! The hair dressers know us very well. We know them. They know how picky I am. I never want a style, just a trim. I always leave with wet hair. I am the simplest of customers. What could go wrong? A thin young black man with a lisp and a lopsided afro is going to cut my hair. He has cut it before. But, I remind him again, “So, you know I am growing-out my hair, right?”
“Yes,” he mumbles and rolls his eyes, “Just a trim”, he adds, “You’ve told me before, if I cut one inch, it shrinks up 5 inches. I remember.”
Pleased with his response I smile and say, “Okay…”
And we are off. Snip-snip here and snip-snip there. I pay little attention. Soon he is done. “How does it feel?” he asks me.
I quickly run my fingers through my hair. Something is off. Towards my scalp it feels very thick but as I get closer to the ends, it feels dangerously thin, almost stringy. As my hair is wet and there is no way in hell I am going to let anyone dry my hair into a shameful cotton candy bliss, I pull my hair up with an elastic band and pay. We go home.
My girls are happy with their haircuts. I begin to dry mine. Something is not right. I dry it a little more. My hair is all different lengths but can be summed-up as follows: there is one short, dense and curly top layer and one long, thin and stringy bottom layer.
This can’t be! I look in the mirror. I apply some fancy hair products and try to even it out a little. The top layer shrinks and becomes very bulbous. The bottom layer hangs there like broken violin strings.
“I don’t like my hair cut.” I repeat this several times to my girls. My husband arrives late that evening. I look at him and say, “I think I got a super bad haircut.”
He slaps his thighs angrily, “Oh, God! Again? Why? Why do you get your hair cut? I don’t understand!”
“Never mind,” I say. He doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s my fault. I try and forget this massacre. Maybe in the morning it will be better. I get a great night’s sleep and when I wake-up, I go to the mirror. Strings of hair dangle in random places. A thick top layer has shrunk and formed a toupee on top of my head. I go downstairs. “Look!” I say with desperation. “Look at my fucking hair! What is this?”
My husband looks at my hair. He tugs at a few pieces. “Why is it all uneven like this? It’s all different lengths.”
“I know!” I scream. “I have to go back! I’m going to have to chop it all off! Why can’t I have long hair? Why? Is there a fucking law out there posted at every hair salon? Why is it so hard for people to just let me grow my hair long?”
“Sunny, you can't go back there acting like this. If you go, you have to be calm!” he says.
“I know! I’ll be calm!”
“It doesn’t look like it,” he says.
I hurry back upstairs after quickly swallowing a cup of coffee. I have no appetite to eat. I put my make-up on with a shaky hand. I try to breathe in and out slowly. I grab my coat and head back. “Stay calm. Stay calm” I say to myself all along the way. No scene today, that will get me nowhere.
I arrive at the hair salon. I spot the guy who cut my hair. I gesture for him to come over. I stay calm. “Hi,” I say smiling. I explain the dilemma. He leads me over to a chair. He stands behind me. He doesn’t see the problem. He doesn’t understand why I don’t like the “cottage cheese meets string cheese” look he gave me. He says he barely cut my hair. He smiles and condescendingly says I’m just not used to having my hair cut. He repeats this phrase several times. I have no response to his utterly dumb statement so I just stay quiet.
He gets his manager who knows me very well. The manager says he will cut my hair again. The other hairdresser stands alongside us. The manager wets my hair and combs through it. “You layered it too much,” he says to his colleague. “She likes a more natural look”, he adds. He begins to snip. “You want me to even this out, right?” he asks me.
“Yes, but I don’t want short hair. I have been growing it out for two years,” I say staying calm.
Ten more minutes of snipping. It’s getting short. “It’s short,” I say in a panic. He glances up at me but keeps cool. He has no choice. Obviously there has been too much damage. He finally finishes. “It’s much shorter than I wanted,” I say sadly combing my fingers through my very short locks.
“Yes, yes, I know” he agrees, “but this is the only way for your hair to recover.”
The young hair dresser comes over to me, “I’m sorry,” he looks me in the eyes. No one ever apologizes in France so this actually makes me feel better, it does. The manager tells me he is sorry. He gives me a coupon for a free haircut. Everyone says goodbye to me. I walk home thinking, “This is just my fate. I need to accept it. I shouldn’t feel so shocked.”
I walk inside our home. “So? Let’s see,” says my husband.
I walk into the room. He looks at me and smiles but says nothing. My daughters come and look. “What do you think?” I ask. My eldest gives me an apologetic smile. She thinks hard and says, “Now you have short hair like me.”
My little one says, “And like me!” My poor little girl has curly hair like me. Yesterday, I witnessed her going through the same agonizing afro-blow of shame. Unlike myself, when the hairdresser asked her if she liked her round hair-do, she replied, “I don’t like it!” She looked over at me sadly. I knew what she was feeling and it broke my heart. There she was, my little sweetie sitting so innocently with her light brown cotton candy head. “I don’t like it, Mommy”, she repeated trying not to cry.
I said the only soothing words one can say in her situation, “Do you want the lady to straighten it?” (I think my little one might also have The Curse.)
Support lines are now open. Call us for more information on support groups in your area. You are not alone.
But, before I tell you about today, let’s take a trip down Hair-Don’t Memory Lane. I’ll narrow it down to the Top 5. They are in chronological order. And this story is rather long so you might want to save these tales for a day when you have time to sit and read.
Hairtale 1 (Note: If you have The Curse, there are signs of it early in life.)
From birth to the age of about 12, this was my recurring hair-dresser routine: “How would you like your hair cut today?” the hair dresser asks.
“Well, I’m trying to grow it out. So, please just give it a trim,” I reply.
“Okay. No problem.” Then, scissor noises: hack hack hack. Twenty minutes later, hair-dryer noises. I glimpse in the mirror several times at the hair-ball manifesting before my eyes. I try not to watch as every curl is brushed out into a fluffy cotton-candy mass. Then there are hair-spray noises. The hair-dresser pats my afro while smiling. Then, she whirls my chair around so I am facing myself head-on in the mirror.
My mother stands behind me and asks, “Oh, don’t you just love it?”
How the hell can I say “no”? I can’t. I cannot say a word. I am concentrating too hard to keep back the tears and control my mouth which so badly wants to contort and quiver. I am ugly. I am so ugly. I hate how I look. “Get me out of here. Why did you do this to my hair? Would you want to look like this?” That’s what I want to say to the hair dresser, but I can’t because my mother just asked me to say how much I like it.
We cannot leave fast enough. My mother cannot unlock her car fast enough. I cannot hide in the back with my coat over my head fast enough. I cry the entire way home. Once we are home, my mother gets out her hair dryer and straightens my hair. She makes me feel normal again. She fixes the awful mess. This scene happens several times a year for years.
Hairtale 2 (Note: The Curse is most dangerous when in your own hands.)
At the age of about 13 years old, I decide my hair is now in my own hands, for better or for worse. It’s the 80’s and I feel very free. Girls are wearing their hair very short. Long bangs and short sides are in. There is room for mistakes (and I’ll need all the room I can get when cutting my own hair). Why not experiment? One day, I’m alone in my room listening to music and staring into my mirror. I love the scarf my new boyfriend gave me. It looks like a long dirty piece of gauze around my neck. I say to myself, “Time for a haircut.” I get the scissors. My hair is almost chin length when I straighten it with a hair dryer.
I will look good with short sides and long bangs. Snip, snip, snip. I glance in the mirror. Not bad. I think the sides could be a little shorter. Snip, snip, snip. I can see my scalp peaking beneath the short hairs on the side of my head. My heart starts racing. Do I want it this short? Yes! I look punk, it’s a new me. This is a perfect role for me. I pull my long bangs over my left eye and cut them into a point. Even better! That night at dinner, my parents take turns looking back and forth at each other.
“Did you have brain surgery, kid?” asks my father dryly. Clearly he does not like my new do.
My mother looks confused. “Did you mean to cut it that short?”
“Yes,” I say and sit-up straighter, “I like it this way.” I untie the grey rag I’m wearing and re-wrap it around my neck.
“You look like a Garbage-Patch Kid,” my sister says flatly while chewing her food.
No one seems to appreciate my new look. For weeks, I maintain this look. Time passes and we are now staying in a hotel in Denver, a Christmas vacation for the family. My sister and I have our own room. While my sister is sitting on the bed listening to Depeche Mode on her Walkman, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, alone. The sides of my hair have grown-in quite a bit, time for a trim.
I get out my scissors and trim my sides dangerously close. The sides look like an uneven army buzz. There are too many holes. I need to smooth it all out. I dig through my make-up purse and find a disposable orange Bic razor. I carefully begin to shave the sides to get them nice and even.
I nick myself a little and a couple drops of blood rise to the surface of my scalp. I stand back and observe the art project in front of me. My head is shiny. I am not going for a shiny head look. I look like the freak from the Thompson Twins video. I begin to panic. I comb my bangs over the side of my head, like and old man trying to cover a bald spot. My bangs are too long. I neatly cut them to fit perfectly around my ear. It hides the baldness but looks like a wig. I try to stay calm but I can’t.
This is a disaster. My heart beats faster. “Diane!” I cry out for my sister. Maybe she can help me or at least comfort me. “Diane!”
She can’t hear me, she is singing with her music. Diane is in her own little world. I hurry out of the bathroom and walk up to her bed, “Diane!” I scream.
She flinches a little. She takes off her headset and looks at me.
“I totally fucked up my hair! I totally fucked it up!” I start crying.
“What did you do?” She stands up. I walk back to the bathroom and she follows me. We are both standing under the bright lights in our cramped hotel bathroom. I lift my make-shift hair flap and uncover the baldness.
“What the fuck, Sunny? Why did you do that?”
I stare at myself red-eyed and ugly in the mirror.
“Did you shave it with a Bic?”
“Yes”, I sob, “What am I going to do?”
“Dad is going to kill you, Sunny!” Diane was not offering any comfort whatsoever.
“No shit, Diane! Shut up! Help me, god!” I snap.
“What do you want me to do, Sunny? I can’t fix that shit. Cover it back up with your hair, they might not see it.”
I pat my hair flap back over the side and spray some Aqua Net to hold it in place. “Does it look normal?” I keep patting my hair down. “Does it look okay?”
She cocks her head. “I don’t know, Sunny. It’s pretty bad. Just don’t show them that side…”
Hairtale 3 (Note: Even family members who love you could have The Curse)
Around 18 years old, my mother decides my hair is too dark. I am no longer her golden-haired little girl. Why not add some highlights? My mother buys a DIY highlight kit at Target. It comes with a scary rubber white cap punctured with miniscule holes. She puts it on my head and pulls hairs through the tiny holes with a plastic hook. I look like a cancer victim suffering chemo. We wait for the bleach to do its magic. We take off the cap and rinse my hair. Yellow strings hang randomly around my head. My mother studies my hair, “I think we need to add more highlights around your face,” she says and smears a bunch of highly toxic white cream on my hair around my face, especially above my forehead.
Being the trusting soul I am, I busy myself with more important things like talking on the phone. After a while, my mother tells me to rinse my hair. I rinse it and look in the mirror. I have a thick white stripe down the top of my head.
“Oh, my god!” I scream, “Mom, I look like a fucking skunk! What did you do?”
My mother panics. This means she begins laughing, crying, and coughing at the same time. She can’t speak. She tries to cough up a few words, “Ohh.I’m.sorry. Maybe.it.will.look.better.when.we.dry.it.”
I am not convinced. We dry it. Do you think it looks better dry? My mother speeds back to the store and buys some brown hair dye. We dye my hair back. It is fine for several months, but then the brown begins to fade and the white stripe reappears. (At least it has considerably grown out and it looks kind of SJP Sex in the City-ish but this was pre-Sex in the City days.)
Hairtale 4 (Note: If you have The Curse, you can expect at least one standing-ovation performance.)
Fast-forward to myself at 30 years old. My husband and I are living in Brussels. My sister is about to get married. Two days before I am flying to Arizona, I decide to get caramel highlights like Jennifer Aniston. (And you all know the color I’m talking about.) Just down the street is a hair-salon. A petit pretentious male has me sit down in a sleek black swivel chair. He brings out a book with different highlight colors. “So, show me which color you like?” He opens the shiny book. There are strips of different colored hair with fancy names underneath.
“Oh, I like that one, Honey Caramel,” I point to the hair strip. It is a beautiful warm color. I imagine how great my hair will look in this golden shade.
“Perfect”, he says. He takes the book away and starts to prepare my selection in a black plastic bowl. Very hip music is playing in the salon. Very hip people work there. I am going to leave looking very hip. My hairdresser sets a little timer on the shelf behind me. I wait while the chemicals do their magic.
“Ding, ding, ding,” rings the timer. It’s time to rinse my hair. Oh, I’m so excited. He rinses and rinses and then he dries while I look in the mirror. Do you think my hair is Honey Caramel? I don’t think my hair is Honey Caramel. My hair is Burning Bush Red. He finishes drying my hair.
“All done,” he says and walks over to the cash register.
As I’m paying, something is just not right. Should I say something? I hesitate. I finish paying. And then I say it. “It looks red.”
“Red?” he shakes his head, “No, it’s copper.”
“It looks red,” I repeat. “This is not the color I chose.”
“Yes, you chose this color,” he says quite confidently.
I begin to boil inside. “No. I chose Honey Caramel. Show me the book. I’ll show you,” I say.
He looks very hesitant. “Look, Madame, this is the color you chose.”
The two of us are standing in front of the mirror looking at my hair. By now, the other hair-dressers stop what they are doing. Everyone is listening. Everyone is looking at me and my red hair. He goes over to the book shelf and brings the hair samples to me. He opens the book. It is not the same book he initially showed me.
“This isn’t the book I looked at. This book doesn’t have the color I chose.” Now I am livid and shaking. He is trying to deceive me. It is unbelievable.
He smiles wryly, “This is the only book we have,” he says while making eye contact with all the other hair dressers. This is his cue to them, “Go along with what I say.”
“No. No. There is a different book with Honey Caramel.” I shake my head. My voice is getting louder. I’m still standing in front of the mirror. Customers are looking at me. “This is red. My hair is red!” I scream.
“Madame. Please calm down. Your hair is not red,” he says, “It’s copper.”
This is when I lose it. I look at the customers. “Does this look like Honey Caramel to you?” I scream while pointing to my head. I make eye contact with each customer. They avert their glances. No one wants to acknowledge me.
“Madame. You are going to have to leave. You are making a scene.”
“This is not Honey Caramel!” I bellow, “You are lying! You’re lying! My hair is red!” I scream on the top of my lungs. My throat hurts. I am losing control. Mustering up the last of my energy I look at the customers again and say, “This man is a liar! He’s a liar! I wanted Honey Caramel hair and he made it red! Don’t come here!” I leave the salon shaking. My breath is irregular. I make it back home.
My husband doesn’t understand what is happening. I am trembling. I am pacing back in forth in our apartment. I am acting crazy. I explain to my best ability what happened at the salon. My husband is upset. He leaves our apartment in a hurry and goes to the salon. I continue pacing back and forth. My husband is back within minutes.
“I can’t get your money back, Sunny. The man refuses but if you go back, he will fix it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Go back? Go back?” I holler. “I made a fucking scene in there. I can’t ever go back there…EVER!”
“Well, I don’t know what else to do,” my husband says.
The next day, I go to a different salon. They make my color better. In fact, everyone at my sister’s wedding comments on how great my hair color was, some auburn shade that is impossible to recreate considering it was two different hair colors from two different salons. To this day, that is my worst case-scenario regarding my behavior. So, imagine the fear in my husband last night when I come home with Hair Catastrophe Number 5!
Hairtale 5 (Note: At some point, we the cursed need to accept our destiny.)
Let’s fast forward to the present. I am now a mother of two little girls. Three years ago, some woman hacked my hair into a mess of two layers, one very short, one very long. I never went to her again. I have been, ever since, re-growing my hair. Yesterday, it was pretty long and almost layer-free. I was feeling happy that my hair was finally long again. I have been going to the same hair salon for two years now without any drama.
Yesterday, my little girls wanted to get their hair cut. I needed a hair-cut too. We arrive at the salon and it is virtually empty, no waiting! The hair dressers know us very well. We know them. They know how picky I am. I never want a style, just a trim. I always leave with wet hair. I am the simplest of customers. What could go wrong? A thin young black man with a lisp and a lopsided afro is going to cut my hair. He has cut it before. But, I remind him again, “So, you know I am growing-out my hair, right?”
“Yes,” he mumbles and rolls his eyes, “Just a trim”, he adds, “You’ve told me before, if I cut one inch, it shrinks up 5 inches. I remember.”
Pleased with his response I smile and say, “Okay…”
And we are off. Snip-snip here and snip-snip there. I pay little attention. Soon he is done. “How does it feel?” he asks me.
I quickly run my fingers through my hair. Something is off. Towards my scalp it feels very thick but as I get closer to the ends, it feels dangerously thin, almost stringy. As my hair is wet and there is no way in hell I am going to let anyone dry my hair into a shameful cotton candy bliss, I pull my hair up with an elastic band and pay. We go home.
My girls are happy with their haircuts. I begin to dry mine. Something is not right. I dry it a little more. My hair is all different lengths but can be summed-up as follows: there is one short, dense and curly top layer and one long, thin and stringy bottom layer.
This can’t be! I look in the mirror. I apply some fancy hair products and try to even it out a little. The top layer shrinks and becomes very bulbous. The bottom layer hangs there like broken violin strings.
“I don’t like my hair cut.” I repeat this several times to my girls. My husband arrives late that evening. I look at him and say, “I think I got a super bad haircut.”
He slaps his thighs angrily, “Oh, God! Again? Why? Why do you get your hair cut? I don’t understand!”
“Never mind,” I say. He doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s my fault. I try and forget this massacre. Maybe in the morning it will be better. I get a great night’s sleep and when I wake-up, I go to the mirror. Strings of hair dangle in random places. A thick top layer has shrunk and formed a toupee on top of my head. I go downstairs. “Look!” I say with desperation. “Look at my fucking hair! What is this?”
My husband looks at my hair. He tugs at a few pieces. “Why is it all uneven like this? It’s all different lengths.”
“I know!” I scream. “I have to go back! I’m going to have to chop it all off! Why can’t I have long hair? Why? Is there a fucking law out there posted at every hair salon? Why is it so hard for people to just let me grow my hair long?”
“Sunny, you can't go back there acting like this. If you go, you have to be calm!” he says.
“I know! I’ll be calm!”
“It doesn’t look like it,” he says.
I hurry back upstairs after quickly swallowing a cup of coffee. I have no appetite to eat. I put my make-up on with a shaky hand. I try to breathe in and out slowly. I grab my coat and head back. “Stay calm. Stay calm” I say to myself all along the way. No scene today, that will get me nowhere.
I arrive at the hair salon. I spot the guy who cut my hair. I gesture for him to come over. I stay calm. “Hi,” I say smiling. I explain the dilemma. He leads me over to a chair. He stands behind me. He doesn’t see the problem. He doesn’t understand why I don’t like the “cottage cheese meets string cheese” look he gave me. He says he barely cut my hair. He smiles and condescendingly says I’m just not used to having my hair cut. He repeats this phrase several times. I have no response to his utterly dumb statement so I just stay quiet.
He gets his manager who knows me very well. The manager says he will cut my hair again. The other hairdresser stands alongside us. The manager wets my hair and combs through it. “You layered it too much,” he says to his colleague. “She likes a more natural look”, he adds. He begins to snip. “You want me to even this out, right?” he asks me.
“Yes, but I don’t want short hair. I have been growing it out for two years,” I say staying calm.
Ten more minutes of snipping. It’s getting short. “It’s short,” I say in a panic. He glances up at me but keeps cool. He has no choice. Obviously there has been too much damage. He finally finishes. “It’s much shorter than I wanted,” I say sadly combing my fingers through my very short locks.
“Yes, yes, I know” he agrees, “but this is the only way for your hair to recover.”
The young hair dresser comes over to me, “I’m sorry,” he looks me in the eyes. No one ever apologizes in France so this actually makes me feel better, it does. The manager tells me he is sorry. He gives me a coupon for a free haircut. Everyone says goodbye to me. I walk home thinking, “This is just my fate. I need to accept it. I shouldn’t feel so shocked.”
I walk inside our home. “So? Let’s see,” says my husband.
I walk into the room. He looks at me and smiles but says nothing. My daughters come and look. “What do you think?” I ask. My eldest gives me an apologetic smile. She thinks hard and says, “Now you have short hair like me.”
My little one says, “And like me!” My poor little girl has curly hair like me. Yesterday, I witnessed her going through the same agonizing afro-blow of shame. Unlike myself, when the hairdresser asked her if she liked her round hair-do, she replied, “I don’t like it!” She looked over at me sadly. I knew what she was feeling and it broke my heart. There she was, my little sweetie sitting so innocently with her light brown cotton candy head. “I don’t like it, Mommy”, she repeated trying not to cry.
I said the only soothing words one can say in her situation, “Do you want the lady to straighten it?” (I think my little one might also have The Curse.)
Support lines are now open. Call us for more information on support groups in your area. You are not alone.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The Drive-by Pedicure
This is a sad story. I don’t mean the year 2000 definition of “sad” like something you’d say to your friend who leaves his house wearing tube socks. “Oh, dude, that’s just sad.” I mean a truly sad story.
Most of you are already well-aware of the level of respect you can find in Marseille from my other tales or from your personal experience here. I have now experienced, on a scale of 1 – 10, Level Minus One (-1). Because the Marseille Respect Scale (MRS) does in fact reach into the negatives.
The other morning, I was walking in a neighborhood called Cours Julien. This area is as dirty as Rue des Héros, however, it is much bigger. It contains many little streets which serve as open sewage canals as well. They are semi-pedestrian zones, because the pedestrian concept is incomprehensible in Marseille. All pedestrian zones in Marseille accept several arbitrarily parked cars so that all pedestrians literally have to climb over them or scrape their bodies against a wall to get passed.
All semi-pedestrian zones also include scooters whizzing buy, loud motorcycles, dogs without leashes, a couple “gypsies” in long dirty skirts holding half-naked babies begging for money and unconscious people talking on their phones (but the latter is normal everywhere in 2012).
The only difference between Marseille and third world cities is the lack of goats and cows roaming around. But, maybe I’ll distribute a few and see how that works out.
Getting back to Cours Julien, it is also home to the homeless who sit in large groups drinking all day and peeing in the streets. It is home to loads of “Bio” (organic) restaurants, unique clothing boutiques, and used book stores. It has lots of cafés as well and draws crowds at all hours.
And just a side note, in Marseille most people who eat organic food are unemployed or actors and they in general smell and think capitalism needs to die. I know I’m generalizing and stepping over the line, but this is my time to express myself, so, too bad.
Getting back to my story, I had just finished teaching a yoga class and was feeling very calm and peaceful while walking down the semi-pedestrian street that had huge mounds of orange dog shit every couple of steps. But, I was fine with it. Acceptance is the key to life anyway, isn’t it?
I was crossing a tiny road and heard a scooter to my left. I turned my head to see how close it was, it was not very close. I had plenty of time to cross the path that was no more than three feet wide. I crossed it in less than one second and heard the scooter speeding up.
All of a sudden, he swerved to hit me and sped away. He ran over my toes. It didn’t hurt but my adrenaline was pumping and I kept my head down and kept walking, a natural instinct I have adopted here as people like to provoke each other. A woman on her cell phone who was a couple steps ahead of me turned around alarmed, “Did that scooter just hit you on purpose?” she asked.
I looked up at her and slowly answered, “Yeah. He did.” I don’t know why, but I felt like a total loser. I felt like someone who gets picked on in high school for no reason. I felt embarrassed someone had seen that happen to me.
She turned back around and cried into her phone “People here are sick! Some guy just ran over a woman on purpose!”
After she said those words, it dawned on me the cruelty and heartlessness of such an act. I suddenly filled with sadness. My toes hurt a little but I was too nervous to look down. What if they were broken or worse, not even there anymore? I slowly looked down. A thick black greasy line marked all my prettily painted red toes. I wasn’t bleeding. It didn’t hurt. I was okay. That dude was a fucking asshole. Why did he swerve to hit me like that? I wasn’t in his way. I didn’t understand. He just felt like being a dick. That made me sad. I silently made it to the metro and went home.
As I walked through my neighborhood almost back at our house, I tried to call my husband, but he didn’t answer his phone. As soon as I heard him on voice mail, I felt like crying. I started to leave my message, “Hi. It’s me. Something bad just happened to me. I’m okay. I’m fine. But, a motorcycle…ran…over…me (sob sob sob) and and I’m okay, but I’m just (sob sob sob) really sad (sob sob sob)…” And I hung up and tried to stop crying.
I don’t know if the crying was just energy being released after the motorcycle adrenaline rush. I was fine, why was I crying? I felt ridiculous. Was I wallowing in self-pity or was it all justified? Minutes later, I got home and Jeeves arrived to work on our translating project.
“Jeeves,” I said while preparing him one of my infamous Nespresso lattes with a little bit of cream and some whole milk. “I was kind of aggressed today.”
I told him my story and he replied, “You know, Sunny. When you go to the zoo, you walk by the cages and look at the animals…and you say, “Oh, look at the animals” You don’t try to understand the animals. You don’t try to change the animals. That is how I see Marseille. Why would you try and change the animals? You can’t. It’s just impossible. Don’t try to understand them. Because they are just animals.”
Jeeves was right and I was glad he said that to me. At least it made me feel better. Later that evening, I told my husband about my accident. “Was the guy trying to steal your purse?” he asked bewildered.
“No”, I replied.
“So, he just ran over you like that?”
“Yep,” I answered.
My husband shook his head. “I don’t understand people. He could’ve hurt you.”
“I know,” I said, “but he would not have cared. He tried to hit me and ran over my foot. Then he just kept on going. He’s just an angry person. It’s sad that our city is full of people like this. It’s hard knowing that we live in a city like this.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
“Look,” I proffered my lovely black marked toes.
He shook his head again while dragging his fingers across my foot. “Are they black because they’re bruised?”
“No, that’s from the tires.” I replied. And then I thought, “In another city, this would be an act of violence, some kind of aggression. In Marseille, it is nothing more than a drive-by pedicure…”
Most of you are already well-aware of the level of respect you can find in Marseille from my other tales or from your personal experience here. I have now experienced, on a scale of 1 – 10, Level Minus One (-1). Because the Marseille Respect Scale (MRS) does in fact reach into the negatives.
The other morning, I was walking in a neighborhood called Cours Julien. This area is as dirty as Rue des Héros, however, it is much bigger. It contains many little streets which serve as open sewage canals as well. They are semi-pedestrian zones, because the pedestrian concept is incomprehensible in Marseille. All pedestrian zones in Marseille accept several arbitrarily parked cars so that all pedestrians literally have to climb over them or scrape their bodies against a wall to get passed.
All semi-pedestrian zones also include scooters whizzing buy, loud motorcycles, dogs without leashes, a couple “gypsies” in long dirty skirts holding half-naked babies begging for money and unconscious people talking on their phones (but the latter is normal everywhere in 2012).
The only difference between Marseille and third world cities is the lack of goats and cows roaming around. But, maybe I’ll distribute a few and see how that works out.
Getting back to Cours Julien, it is also home to the homeless who sit in large groups drinking all day and peeing in the streets. It is home to loads of “Bio” (organic) restaurants, unique clothing boutiques, and used book stores. It has lots of cafés as well and draws crowds at all hours.
And just a side note, in Marseille most people who eat organic food are unemployed or actors and they in general smell and think capitalism needs to die. I know I’m generalizing and stepping over the line, but this is my time to express myself, so, too bad.
Getting back to my story, I had just finished teaching a yoga class and was feeling very calm and peaceful while walking down the semi-pedestrian street that had huge mounds of orange dog shit every couple of steps. But, I was fine with it. Acceptance is the key to life anyway, isn’t it?
I was crossing a tiny road and heard a scooter to my left. I turned my head to see how close it was, it was not very close. I had plenty of time to cross the path that was no more than three feet wide. I crossed it in less than one second and heard the scooter speeding up.
All of a sudden, he swerved to hit me and sped away. He ran over my toes. It didn’t hurt but my adrenaline was pumping and I kept my head down and kept walking, a natural instinct I have adopted here as people like to provoke each other. A woman on her cell phone who was a couple steps ahead of me turned around alarmed, “Did that scooter just hit you on purpose?” she asked.
I looked up at her and slowly answered, “Yeah. He did.” I don’t know why, but I felt like a total loser. I felt like someone who gets picked on in high school for no reason. I felt embarrassed someone had seen that happen to me.
She turned back around and cried into her phone “People here are sick! Some guy just ran over a woman on purpose!”
After she said those words, it dawned on me the cruelty and heartlessness of such an act. I suddenly filled with sadness. My toes hurt a little but I was too nervous to look down. What if they were broken or worse, not even there anymore? I slowly looked down. A thick black greasy line marked all my prettily painted red toes. I wasn’t bleeding. It didn’t hurt. I was okay. That dude was a fucking asshole. Why did he swerve to hit me like that? I wasn’t in his way. I didn’t understand. He just felt like being a dick. That made me sad. I silently made it to the metro and went home.
As I walked through my neighborhood almost back at our house, I tried to call my husband, but he didn’t answer his phone. As soon as I heard him on voice mail, I felt like crying. I started to leave my message, “Hi. It’s me. Something bad just happened to me. I’m okay. I’m fine. But, a motorcycle…ran…over…me (sob sob sob) and and I’m okay, but I’m just (sob sob sob) really sad (sob sob sob)…” And I hung up and tried to stop crying.
I don’t know if the crying was just energy being released after the motorcycle adrenaline rush. I was fine, why was I crying? I felt ridiculous. Was I wallowing in self-pity or was it all justified? Minutes later, I got home and Jeeves arrived to work on our translating project.
“Jeeves,” I said while preparing him one of my infamous Nespresso lattes with a little bit of cream and some whole milk. “I was kind of aggressed today.”
I told him my story and he replied, “You know, Sunny. When you go to the zoo, you walk by the cages and look at the animals…and you say, “Oh, look at the animals” You don’t try to understand the animals. You don’t try to change the animals. That is how I see Marseille. Why would you try and change the animals? You can’t. It’s just impossible. Don’t try to understand them. Because they are just animals.”
Jeeves was right and I was glad he said that to me. At least it made me feel better. Later that evening, I told my husband about my accident. “Was the guy trying to steal your purse?” he asked bewildered.
“No”, I replied.
“So, he just ran over you like that?”
“Yep,” I answered.
My husband shook his head. “I don’t understand people. He could’ve hurt you.”
“I know,” I said, “but he would not have cared. He tried to hit me and ran over my foot. Then he just kept on going. He’s just an angry person. It’s sad that our city is full of people like this. It’s hard knowing that we live in a city like this.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
“Look,” I proffered my lovely black marked toes.
He shook his head again while dragging his fingers across my foot. “Are they black because they’re bruised?”
“No, that’s from the tires.” I replied. And then I thought, “In another city, this would be an act of violence, some kind of aggression. In Marseille, it is nothing more than a drive-by pedicure…”
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Guess What I Saw
Guess what I saw?
I can barely contain my excitement.
Let’s start with Rue des Héros because I have several tales to share.
It’s best to start out with the dirtiest street I’ve yet to meet: rue des héros. Remember this one?
The other day as I walked uphill to the yoga room, ready to open it for
my morning class, I could see from afar two people seated on the stoop. I could tell they were not yoga students, but most likely some drunks which is common enough and a problem I’ve dealt with before.
“Oh, great” I muttered to myself, “I’m going to have to say something diplomatic and hope they’ll leave.” I continued my walk upwards while inhaling fresh and stale urine smells rising off the pavement. Shit from every species that exists was smeared on the streets and sidewalks. I made my daily eye contact with the older prostitute who is always waiting on the left wearing normal clothes, as normal as a secretary waiting for the first client to walk in the door.
Finally I made it up to the blue stoop. What did I see? Two seated women, one inserting a needle into her arm.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m going to open the room now…soooo” I let my words trail off hoping it was enough to convey some kind of message that meant it was time to leave.
“Okay, okay, no problem,” said the women who didn’t have the needle in her arm. The woman shooting up sat smiling and didn’t say a word. I opened the room and got things ready and then peaked out the window to see if the two women were still there. Yep, they were still there.
Some of my students started to arrive. One walked in clutching her heart, “Did you see those women out there?” she gasped.
“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to get them to leave.” I opened the door again. “Okay”, I said in a somewhat loud voice, “You have to leave now. I have students coming.”
One of the ladies rose and tried to make her friend get up. It didn’t look like her friend could stand so it took a little coercion and the two were soon on their way, arm-in-arm.
My colleague Angelo arrived and heard the other students up in arms about the scene they had just witnessed. So, I said to him “People were shooting up on the stoop…It was disturbing…”
Angelo shrugged his shoulders, “To each his own vice”, he looked unaffected. “It’s not my problem,” he added. “Why should I care what they do?”
“Nice,” I thought to myself even though in reality, it’s true, those people shooting up don’t concern us. Of course, I’d prefer if they did their “vices” elsewhere.
Several weeks later, I was once again walking uphill, stench of pee and poo, hooker to the left, two druggies on the stoop. “Oh, great!” I mumbled expecting a needle or a can of beer. But this time, two women were seated on either side of a little piece of paper filled with white powder.
“Bonjour,” I said to them.
Without a care in the world, one of the women continued her snorting. The other one looked up at me. “Hello” she answered.
“I’m opening the room. You’re gonna have to leave now.” I said a little less diplomatically than I have said in the past.
“Yes, yes, of course. We’re just finishing up,” she said as if I were in-line waiting for the loo. Once again, I prepared the yoga room and went back to see if my little coke-heads were still there. What do you think? Yeah. They were still there. I opened the door and stared at them. “Time to go. This is NOT okay. Time to go,” I said trying to wave them away like flies at a picnic.
“I know, I know…”said the more sober of the two. “I’m trying to get my friend to leave,” she turned to her friend and started pulling on her arm, “Let’s go!”
Her friend hunched over, smiled, but didn’t say a word. Finally she managed to get her friend up and the two weaved their way down the street.
Last but not least is what I saw on this infamous street just last week while with my friend Jeeves. As we walked down, to the left AND to the right, two men were peeing in unison.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Jeeves, “Not one man peeing, but two…and at the same time! Unbelievable! They might as well claim this street a public urinal, we’ll hang a sign! I can’t believe this street is called Rue des Héros. It should be called Piss Alley!”
“It’s beautiful, Jeeves! I love it! The irony is just excellent, excellent! The street has to be called Rue des Héros, it’s perfect!”
“This is no Street for Heroes”, said Jeeves, “this is a fucking urinal!”
“I know, isn’t it great? I love it! This street couldn’t get better and its name is very important, no need to change it at all!”
So, there you have my vignette of Rue des Héroes stories, but there’s more! Yes, there are other great neighborhoods. Take for example the area near La Conception, a hospital. We were all in the car, my husband and I in the front, our girls in the back. While we were stopped at a red light, I looked out the window. We were stopped just in front of the hospital. “What is this hospital known for?” I asked my husband who is in the medical industry.
“I think it’s a mental institute…” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
Just then, as if on cue, an older man in scrubs and white slippers slunk his way down the sidewalk. He was holding his ass, the seat of his pants was ripped open. We watched him in unison.
“Scary,” said my husband.
I burst out laughing. “Do you think he is coming or going?” I asked.
“I don’t want to know,” he said, “that’s just scary.”
Feeling excited, I replied, “I love it! Look at him! It’s perfect. He’s holding his ass and walking past the mental institute in slippers…”
Do I sound demented with all my disturbing excitement at these scenes? I figure, if you can’t appreciate this type of thing, you have no place in a big city, especially Marseille which is definitely the strangest place I’ve ever known.
How about a story linked to nature? A park, for example? Sure, coming right up. Marseille has a very nice park named Parc Borély. We love to take the girls there with their bikes. It’s safe: no cars, no dogs. However, there are tons of bikes even some funky ones made for 4 that remind me of the old buggies from a black and white movie. Often you see parents pedaling in the front, children in the back. These things are so heavy you often hear squeals coming from the parents, typically the mother, who loses control of the steering(women drivers!).
Well, we love to go there when it’s nice and sunny. They have a big pond with a café next to it. There is even a churros stand complete with little cups of Nutella for dipping. (Only in France!) Their cotton candy is bigger than two adult heads side-by-side. (Barbe à Papa which translates as “Daddy’s beard”) They also have nice open grassy areas for playing soccer or laying out a nice picnic. There is even a rose garden and a little corner with a small pond and a rock wall.
A couple Sundays ago, our girls were happily riding their bikes. A crowd had formed around the little pond so we all stopped to see what was happening. Some ducks? Some fish? We peered down into the still water. “Look,” pointed my husband. A small animal was treading back in forth. It was a rat!
My girls stared in fascination as did I. A little boy kept throwing bread but no fish or ducks dared to come in the vicinity. Soon, a tiny splash came from the rock wall. Another rat joined his playmate.
“Look, look!” pointed Claire.
“Oh, they’re so cute”, said Eva.
I watched them, their little legs paddling around, long pink tails trailing behind them. They’d dash back into the rocks only to peek out and jump back into the pond instants later. At one point there were at least four little rats swimming in the pond.
Claire leaned dangerously close over the rocks down below. “Claire!” my husband’s voice boomed. “Get her away from the water,” he said to me.
“Do they bite?” asked Eva.
“They could bite and they are very dirty animals so you could get a serious infection. Never try and touch a rat.” I said.
“Let’s go!” said my husband turning and ready to continue our stroll. Enough rat action for him.
“No!” they pleaded, “we want to see!”
“Let’s stay a little longer,” I told my husband.
The girls watched in awe. Some rats literally swam under the water for seconds at a time.
“Wow, they can hold their breath and swim super well. I totally understand why they like sewers. They are made for sewers!” I said.
My husband looked disgusted. We stood in silence watching. “Only in Marseille...” I said.
My husband laughed and shook is head.
“Only in Marseille do you come to a park to watch rats swim in a pond,” I added.
It was another great demented vision for me to savor. However, that night, little Claire had a nightmare. In the morning she said, ”Mommy, I had a bad dweem.”
“You had a bad dream?” I asked her. “What did you dream about?”
“I dweem that I fell in da watuh (water) and a wat (rat) bite my head!” she told me. (Poor Claire!!)
“Nice.” said my husband.
“Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about her getting too close to ponds and falling in.” I said.
And there you have it, folks: Druggies shooting up, coke heads snorting, men peeing in unison, a mental health patient holding his ass, and a band of rats swimming in a pond. This is what I saw.
I can barely contain my excitement.
Let’s start with Rue des Héros because I have several tales to share.
It’s best to start out with the dirtiest street I’ve yet to meet: rue des héros. Remember this one?
The other day as I walked uphill to the yoga room, ready to open it for
my morning class, I could see from afar two people seated on the stoop. I could tell they were not yoga students, but most likely some drunks which is common enough and a problem I’ve dealt with before.
“Oh, great” I muttered to myself, “I’m going to have to say something diplomatic and hope they’ll leave.” I continued my walk upwards while inhaling fresh and stale urine smells rising off the pavement. Shit from every species that exists was smeared on the streets and sidewalks. I made my daily eye contact with the older prostitute who is always waiting on the left wearing normal clothes, as normal as a secretary waiting for the first client to walk in the door.
Finally I made it up to the blue stoop. What did I see? Two seated women, one inserting a needle into her arm.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m going to open the room now…soooo” I let my words trail off hoping it was enough to convey some kind of message that meant it was time to leave.
“Okay, okay, no problem,” said the women who didn’t have the needle in her arm. The woman shooting up sat smiling and didn’t say a word. I opened the room and got things ready and then peaked out the window to see if the two women were still there. Yep, they were still there.
Some of my students started to arrive. One walked in clutching her heart, “Did you see those women out there?” she gasped.
“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to get them to leave.” I opened the door again. “Okay”, I said in a somewhat loud voice, “You have to leave now. I have students coming.”
One of the ladies rose and tried to make her friend get up. It didn’t look like her friend could stand so it took a little coercion and the two were soon on their way, arm-in-arm.
My colleague Angelo arrived and heard the other students up in arms about the scene they had just witnessed. So, I said to him “People were shooting up on the stoop…It was disturbing…”
Angelo shrugged his shoulders, “To each his own vice”, he looked unaffected. “It’s not my problem,” he added. “Why should I care what they do?”
“Nice,” I thought to myself even though in reality, it’s true, those people shooting up don’t concern us. Of course, I’d prefer if they did their “vices” elsewhere.
Several weeks later, I was once again walking uphill, stench of pee and poo, hooker to the left, two druggies on the stoop. “Oh, great!” I mumbled expecting a needle or a can of beer. But this time, two women were seated on either side of a little piece of paper filled with white powder.
“Bonjour,” I said to them.
Without a care in the world, one of the women continued her snorting. The other one looked up at me. “Hello” she answered.
“I’m opening the room. You’re gonna have to leave now.” I said a little less diplomatically than I have said in the past.
“Yes, yes, of course. We’re just finishing up,” she said as if I were in-line waiting for the loo. Once again, I prepared the yoga room and went back to see if my little coke-heads were still there. What do you think? Yeah. They were still there. I opened the door and stared at them. “Time to go. This is NOT okay. Time to go,” I said trying to wave them away like flies at a picnic.
“I know, I know…”said the more sober of the two. “I’m trying to get my friend to leave,” she turned to her friend and started pulling on her arm, “Let’s go!”
Her friend hunched over, smiled, but didn’t say a word. Finally she managed to get her friend up and the two weaved their way down the street.
Last but not least is what I saw on this infamous street just last week while with my friend Jeeves. As we walked down, to the left AND to the right, two men were peeing in unison.
“Look at that!” exclaimed Jeeves, “Not one man peeing, but two…and at the same time! Unbelievable! They might as well claim this street a public urinal, we’ll hang a sign! I can’t believe this street is called Rue des Héros. It should be called Piss Alley!”
“It’s beautiful, Jeeves! I love it! The irony is just excellent, excellent! The street has to be called Rue des Héros, it’s perfect!”
“This is no Street for Heroes”, said Jeeves, “this is a fucking urinal!”
“I know, isn’t it great? I love it! This street couldn’t get better and its name is very important, no need to change it at all!”
So, there you have my vignette of Rue des Héroes stories, but there’s more! Yes, there are other great neighborhoods. Take for example the area near La Conception, a hospital. We were all in the car, my husband and I in the front, our girls in the back. While we were stopped at a red light, I looked out the window. We were stopped just in front of the hospital. “What is this hospital known for?” I asked my husband who is in the medical industry.
“I think it’s a mental institute…” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
Just then, as if on cue, an older man in scrubs and white slippers slunk his way down the sidewalk. He was holding his ass, the seat of his pants was ripped open. We watched him in unison.
“Scary,” said my husband.
I burst out laughing. “Do you think he is coming or going?” I asked.
“I don’t want to know,” he said, “that’s just scary.”
Feeling excited, I replied, “I love it! Look at him! It’s perfect. He’s holding his ass and walking past the mental institute in slippers…”
Do I sound demented with all my disturbing excitement at these scenes? I figure, if you can’t appreciate this type of thing, you have no place in a big city, especially Marseille which is definitely the strangest place I’ve ever known.
How about a story linked to nature? A park, for example? Sure, coming right up. Marseille has a very nice park named Parc Borély. We love to take the girls there with their bikes. It’s safe: no cars, no dogs. However, there are tons of bikes even some funky ones made for 4 that remind me of the old buggies from a black and white movie. Often you see parents pedaling in the front, children in the back. These things are so heavy you often hear squeals coming from the parents, typically the mother, who loses control of the steering(women drivers!).
Well, we love to go there when it’s nice and sunny. They have a big pond with a café next to it. There is even a churros stand complete with little cups of Nutella for dipping. (Only in France!) Their cotton candy is bigger than two adult heads side-by-side. (Barbe à Papa which translates as “Daddy’s beard”) They also have nice open grassy areas for playing soccer or laying out a nice picnic. There is even a rose garden and a little corner with a small pond and a rock wall.
A couple Sundays ago, our girls were happily riding their bikes. A crowd had formed around the little pond so we all stopped to see what was happening. Some ducks? Some fish? We peered down into the still water. “Look,” pointed my husband. A small animal was treading back in forth. It was a rat!
My girls stared in fascination as did I. A little boy kept throwing bread but no fish or ducks dared to come in the vicinity. Soon, a tiny splash came from the rock wall. Another rat joined his playmate.
“Look, look!” pointed Claire.
“Oh, they’re so cute”, said Eva.
I watched them, their little legs paddling around, long pink tails trailing behind them. They’d dash back into the rocks only to peek out and jump back into the pond instants later. At one point there were at least four little rats swimming in the pond.
Claire leaned dangerously close over the rocks down below. “Claire!” my husband’s voice boomed. “Get her away from the water,” he said to me.
“Do they bite?” asked Eva.
“They could bite and they are very dirty animals so you could get a serious infection. Never try and touch a rat.” I said.
“Let’s go!” said my husband turning and ready to continue our stroll. Enough rat action for him.
“No!” they pleaded, “we want to see!”
“Let’s stay a little longer,” I told my husband.
The girls watched in awe. Some rats literally swam under the water for seconds at a time.
“Wow, they can hold their breath and swim super well. I totally understand why they like sewers. They are made for sewers!” I said.
My husband looked disgusted. We stood in silence watching. “Only in Marseille...” I said.
My husband laughed and shook is head.
“Only in Marseille do you come to a park to watch rats swim in a pond,” I added.
It was another great demented vision for me to savor. However, that night, little Claire had a nightmare. In the morning she said, ”Mommy, I had a bad dweem.”
“You had a bad dream?” I asked her. “What did you dream about?”
“I dweem that I fell in da watuh (water) and a wat (rat) bite my head!” she told me. (Poor Claire!!)
“Nice.” said my husband.
“Well, I guess we won’t have to worry about her getting too close to ponds and falling in.” I said.
And there you have it, folks: Druggies shooting up, coke heads snorting, men peeing in unison, a mental health patient holding his ass, and a band of rats swimming in a pond. This is what I saw.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut
The first time I visited The Evolution Center, I knew it was a little nutty. I met with the original owner who opened this yoga and tai chi studio in 1973. The place was worn down and the mats were made from dirty black foam. The owner asked me about myself and gave me the okay to start teaching at his place though he was handing the ropes over to Frieda, another teacher. She would be taking over the center so he could retire in the Alpes full-time.
The second time I went was for a teacher’s meeting. My friend Katrijn was going to start teaching there too. She was dressed nicely and looked clean and organized. It was our first interaction with the other teachers. We arrived and the old dirty black mats were on the floor with bolsters on top and a make-shift table in the middle. It was an attempt at “cozy” I imagine.
All the teachers sat barefoot on the bolsters. Since Katrijn and I were the newbies, we had to introduce ourselves but no one else told us who they were. One man with a big honker and a short silver beard tried to talk about India. He later introduced himself as Olivier.
Frieda cut him off. She was the woman in charge. Tall, big-boned and bug-eyed she spoke quickly. She made it clear she was running the show. Frieda began to talk about the process for signing up new students. She gestured to the wall behind her. There was a sort of exposed card catalog that would have made a librarian’s head spin. A metal rack held little cards in alphabetical order. The entire wall was filled. Each card belonged to a student. It was like the Dewey Decimal System and probably created in 1973 when the room opened.
“Now,” Frieda held up a card showing us as if we were children, “when a student comes to your class, you will need to get their card from the wall and stamp it. Then you will need to write their name on the attendance sheet. You need to make sure you fill out the attendance sheet every time you teach or we will have no way of knowing who came to your class.”
Frieda showed us the different cards and repeated the important stamping process at least three times as if this was one of the most important things ever. It sounded like it would take us longer to take attendance then to give a class.
A young pregnant woman who had wavy blonde hair explained how she wouldn’t be able to give massages much longer, she gestured to her stomach. Just then, the door opened and the third new teacher, who was very late, strutted into the room. She wore loose black jeans and a flannel shirt. She had shaggy hair. She climbed onto a pillow and sat with her legs apart. “Sorry I’m late” she smirked with a rough voice. She was sitting close to me. She had a faint blonde mustache and very thin lips.
Frieda stared and then said, “Why don’t you introduce yourself to us?”
“Okay,” she wore a sly grin, “I’m Rhianna and I’ll be teaching a style of gym and stretching that is a mix of yoga and Tai Chi. I created my own routine with traditional Western movements for people who find yoga scary or too hard.”
Frieda stared at her and then at the group. No one said a word. Rhianna’s appearance frightened me. I couldn’t imagine going to her for any class of any sort.
Frieda spoke about the cards and stamps again. She put down her pen and said “Okay, for those of you who want to stay and eat, the meeting is over.”
Each person ruffled in his or her bag and brought out little salads, cheeses, cakes and we passed out plates. Olivier began speaking about India again. “I go every year. It is such a magical place.” He said while scooping some kind of grains onto his plate.
A teacher in her late 40’s with curly reddish hair and huge glasses said, “I just did China and it was such a hard country to visit…the language, getting around, it really was difficult. I prefer India.”
“India is filled with so much culture and history,” he added.
I thought back to my trip in India with my husband. Images of open sewage, a woman lighting cow dung and then waving the vapors into her face, lepers, half-naked skinny children tugging at our clothes…but my favorite image of all is of me hanging out the side of a moving rickshaw and puking.
“Holy Shit,” my husband had commented at the time, “you looked like a fucking alien!” We had laughed but it wasn’t so funny when I puked another ten times, (though my stomach looked damn good for about 24 hours). I made a comment about my dislike for India. I don’t know why I said this in a room full of India lovers. Everyone stared at me.
Luckily, Katrijn piped up and said she had met her boyfriend in India and that is why she is now in Marseille. That was a good transition and Frieda then announced, “Baba Gunji is coming to Marseille. Are any of you going to go see him?”
“Oh, he’s amazing. I’ve heard him before,” said Olivier nibbling on his rice salad mixture.
“So have I! He is so real, no masks, he’s just himself and he makes you feel like you can be real too. He helps you get closer to yourself.” Frieda was always so intense.
“Yes. I don’t know how he does it. Just being in his presence makes you feel like it’s okay to be who you are,” continued Olivier.
“Exactly,” she picked at her bread and cheese, “he helps you accept yourself, know yourself better, get closer to yourself…” she said waving her bread in the air.
I listened to all this feeling like an outsider when Rita covered her mouth and said in my direction, “Get closer to yourself? I wanna get distance from myself. Heh heh heh.”
The voice of reason had spoken. I burst into laughter. She started laughing too, her eyes all squinty like someone who had just smoked a doobie. I liked her.
Two weeks later we had the Open House. Basically this was our biggest chance of the year to attract potential students. It was a sunny September morning. Frieda was going to make Chai that morning.
I say this because it had been decided that Chai would only be served in the morning, not in the afternoon. Also, the tea cup was to be filled to a certain level.
She was really into her Chai and had even printed it on the flyers as part of the Open House. She spoke about it during our meeting: The Chai in the morning, how she would offer Chai to people…in the morning. How people would come to our Open House, and if they came in the morning, they could have their cup of Chai.
Well, I arrived around 9:15am to help set-up the place. Random objects were on the shelves in the entry way, bathroom deodorizer spray, for example, which made no sense and was a total turn off. I mean, the first thing I think of when I see deodorizer spray is, "Cool, if I need to take a fucking shit, no one will know because I can spray this fantastic spray!"
Getting back to the Open House day, a massage therapist, Anne, was also helping set-up. She had short brown hair and was putting out flyers on the table in the entrance. The big yoga room had some tables and flyers too but was mainly empty so that we could give workshops.
“How can I help?” I asked looking around.
“You can help me hang these pictures,” Frieda wanted to hang pictures. I don’t know why it was a priority when so many other things needed to get done. She handed me three brand new canvases still in their plastic wrap.
“Okay, just tell me where.”
She came over and handed me a hammer and nails and then pointed to three spots on the wall that were way above my height. When she realized I couldn’t reach that high, she handed me the nails and I become her nail holder servant. It was a very inefficient way of using an extra set of hands. And then the two of us hung pictures.
“You’re hanging pictures…now?” asked Anne. We were expecting loads of people and it was just the three of us getting the place ready.
“Yes! Yes! Now!” she said as if this made perfect sense.
Soon a horrible burning smell began to enter the hallway. “Oh, no! Is that my Chai?” Frieda shrieked.
“I don’t know. It smells like incense,” I remarked.
Frieda fled to a little room in the back. “Oh, no! Oh, no! My Chai. It’s boiled over onto the wood floor.” She ran to get some towels. I followed and did the same. She started slopping up the mess that had boiled over from the electric kettle. “I forgot this kettle needs to be watched or this happens…” Then she disappeared before cleaning the floor properly to do something inefficient again. I took my time cleaning up the mess and wondered if I was on Chai duty or if she was coming back.
Soon Katrijn and a couple other teachers arrived. Katrijn took a look around and smiled at me. “So,” she asked me, “what are we supposed to do?”
I looked over at Frieda and then back to Katrijn, “Just do what she says.” I said somewhat under my breath. The two of us giggled.
Soon the door rang. It was our first potential student. A thirty-something woman, pale and chubby, stood in the doorway holding a plastic bag and her Open House flyer.
“Come in! Come in!” Frieda said over-enthusiastically with her bug eyes.
“Hello!” everyone chimed in.
“Hello,” she paused and looked at each one of us slowly. “I’m here for the Open House.”
Frieda made her way quickly over to our potential student. The woman held the flyer in her hand. Frieda towered over her, “Okay, which workshop interests you?” Together they studied the flyer in utter concentration.
Frieda left for something else and the lady approached me in slow motion and spoke to me in a monotonous tone, “Can yoga hurt me? I have some problems…” She asked me lots of questions, the same question just worded differently each time. “Will yoga help me?” I tried to comfort her and told her soft yoga would probably be good for her. Nothing I said seemed to soothe her, she just stood there looking lost.
I went back to Chai duty and moved some random objects into the back. Each time a student would arrive, Frieda would monopolize the conversation and none of the other teachers would get in a word.
“I might as well leave,” mentioned Katrijn with wide eyes, “she isn’t letting us talk to anyone.”
As 10am approached, people started gathering around for a Soft Gym class that Rhianna was going to lead, however, she was nowhere to be seen. Frieda’s eyes starting shifting left and right. She kept looking at the round clock on the wall. At least 4 people were waiting for Rhianna. Frieda started thinking out loud. “Where is Rhianna? It’s 10 o’clock. These people want to try Soft Gym. We have to start. What should I do? It’s 10 o’clock…”
Katrijn offered her help, “I teach Soft Yoga so I could give the workshop if you want?”
“No! No! No!” Frieda started pacing the hallway. “I’ll do it. It can’t be just anything. It has to be something similar. I know what she does.” Katrijn looked shocked at her response.
Frieda brought the people into the big yoga room and Katrijn turned to me, “Wow! This woman is really awful. I’m trying to help and she acts like that? She really wants to do everything!”
Then we spied on Frieda who was leading a group in auto-massage. She briskly rubbed her arms up and down, then her legs. She encouraged the workshop students to do as she was doing. The others began to rub their arms too. Katrijn and I looked at each other and started laughing.
“What is she doing?” Katrijn asked me.
“I think it’s Do-In a type of auto-massage…” They were in fact doing something quite legitimate, but it looked ridiculous and Frieda teaching something that is supposed to relax people just made it even more absurd.
About ten minutes later, Rhianna entered. Her hair was matted on one side and sticking out on the other. She must have literally rolled out of bed and thrown on her jacket. Her eyes were tiny and sunken into her head. The sight of her made me start laughing. “Tired?” I asked.
She raised her eyebrows at me, “Why? Do I like tired?”
“Yep.”
“Do I normally look energetic?”
“Nope,” I answered and we both laughed again.
“Frieda started teaching your class, did you want to do part of it now that you are here?” asked Katrijn.
“Nah, let her do it,” She chuckled.
Ten thirty was coming up. It would be time for my workshop, Dynamic Yoga with Suny. Yep they spelled my name wrong on over 15,000 flyers, I was disappointed with that. Frieda was to blame, but what are you going to say to that broad?
As Frieda and her students left the room, she said to the next group, “Now for Dynamic Yoga with Sunny.”
I scanned the crowd of about 8 people. The slow chubby lady was part of my group! She began asking me a bunch of questions again and I noticed a wart on her finger. Not just any wart, a mushy dangly one. Eww. I made a future mental note: Do not adjust her hands.
I entered the yoga room and began to set-up mats, people just kept on pouring in. A tall man in a bright blue construction suit, the kind you have to zip up, was one of my students. A red-eyed man who probably found our flyer in the dumpster he sleeps in was also part of my little posse. He had whiskey breath and was wearing black jeans and a black long sleeved shirt that reeked of nicotine. (Sound like a potential yoga student to you?) A couple women looked dressed for a marathon and a couple others looked like yogis who were just seeing if I was any good which made me nervous.
My class was full so I shut the door, ready to begin. Supposedly, Frieda panicked and repeatedly said in an ugly tone of voice, “What? She closed the door? This is an Open House... The doors stay open in an Open House.”
It was a hot day in Marseille. Our room had no fans and no open windows. I began the class and it heated up a little too quickly. I hadn’t anticipated any sweating during a 30-minute yoga workshop and thus I had put on make-up and worn a normal non-absorbent bra. But soon, sweat was running down my cleavage and my face was dripping. I had to sneak a couple peeks in the mirror to make sure I didn’t look like Alice Cooper with mascara melting down my face. I looked out at all the workshop participants, people whom I’d most likely never see again: slow wart lady, construction man, and drunken dude. One or two people’s yoga practice was almost too good. I felt like they must have been there specifically to investigate me on behalf of some undercover yoga teacher committee. Would I pass their test?
I watched the clock and timed the class perfectly. We were just coming out of our relaxation when Frieda burst open the door and banged on a bronze bowl repeatedly, “Time’s up!” she chimed like one of the evil step-sisters from Cinderella. Could she possibly be any more obnoxious? The truth is, she is an unaware obnoxious person so you kind of feel sorry for her. I do not think she knows she is so awful but…still…I kind of wanted to slap her.
As we exited, steam left our room and drifted into the hallway. The next big group filed into the room for the Tai Chi workshop. Katrijn was standing in the hallway. She told me she was leaving. For a while, I stood alone feeling invisible and uneasy. With the other workshops going on and Frieda talking to everyone, there was little for me to do. Luckily, I had to participate in another Open House on a different side of town. I glanced around the room one final time.
“I have to go,” I said to Frieda while opening the door.
“Oh…you’re leaving already?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without any explanation, “Good bye,” I closed the door behind me and exited the building. I smiled as I felt the city air and sun on my face. I felt relieved. It was as if I’d managed to escape a different dimension. I was back in my world again. I was safe now. I exhaled a sigh of relief. And I happily walked down the street, leaving the nuts and the squirrels behind.
The second time I went was for a teacher’s meeting. My friend Katrijn was going to start teaching there too. She was dressed nicely and looked clean and organized. It was our first interaction with the other teachers. We arrived and the old dirty black mats were on the floor with bolsters on top and a make-shift table in the middle. It was an attempt at “cozy” I imagine.
All the teachers sat barefoot on the bolsters. Since Katrijn and I were the newbies, we had to introduce ourselves but no one else told us who they were. One man with a big honker and a short silver beard tried to talk about India. He later introduced himself as Olivier.
Frieda cut him off. She was the woman in charge. Tall, big-boned and bug-eyed she spoke quickly. She made it clear she was running the show. Frieda began to talk about the process for signing up new students. She gestured to the wall behind her. There was a sort of exposed card catalog that would have made a librarian’s head spin. A metal rack held little cards in alphabetical order. The entire wall was filled. Each card belonged to a student. It was like the Dewey Decimal System and probably created in 1973 when the room opened.
“Now,” Frieda held up a card showing us as if we were children, “when a student comes to your class, you will need to get their card from the wall and stamp it. Then you will need to write their name on the attendance sheet. You need to make sure you fill out the attendance sheet every time you teach or we will have no way of knowing who came to your class.”
Frieda showed us the different cards and repeated the important stamping process at least three times as if this was one of the most important things ever. It sounded like it would take us longer to take attendance then to give a class.
A young pregnant woman who had wavy blonde hair explained how she wouldn’t be able to give massages much longer, she gestured to her stomach. Just then, the door opened and the third new teacher, who was very late, strutted into the room. She wore loose black jeans and a flannel shirt. She had shaggy hair. She climbed onto a pillow and sat with her legs apart. “Sorry I’m late” she smirked with a rough voice. She was sitting close to me. She had a faint blonde mustache and very thin lips.
Frieda stared and then said, “Why don’t you introduce yourself to us?”
“Okay,” she wore a sly grin, “I’m Rhianna and I’ll be teaching a style of gym and stretching that is a mix of yoga and Tai Chi. I created my own routine with traditional Western movements for people who find yoga scary or too hard.”
Frieda stared at her and then at the group. No one said a word. Rhianna’s appearance frightened me. I couldn’t imagine going to her for any class of any sort.
Frieda spoke about the cards and stamps again. She put down her pen and said “Okay, for those of you who want to stay and eat, the meeting is over.”
Each person ruffled in his or her bag and brought out little salads, cheeses, cakes and we passed out plates. Olivier began speaking about India again. “I go every year. It is such a magical place.” He said while scooping some kind of grains onto his plate.
A teacher in her late 40’s with curly reddish hair and huge glasses said, “I just did China and it was such a hard country to visit…the language, getting around, it really was difficult. I prefer India.”
“India is filled with so much culture and history,” he added.
I thought back to my trip in India with my husband. Images of open sewage, a woman lighting cow dung and then waving the vapors into her face, lepers, half-naked skinny children tugging at our clothes…but my favorite image of all is of me hanging out the side of a moving rickshaw and puking.
“Holy Shit,” my husband had commented at the time, “you looked like a fucking alien!” We had laughed but it wasn’t so funny when I puked another ten times, (though my stomach looked damn good for about 24 hours). I made a comment about my dislike for India. I don’t know why I said this in a room full of India lovers. Everyone stared at me.
Luckily, Katrijn piped up and said she had met her boyfriend in India and that is why she is now in Marseille. That was a good transition and Frieda then announced, “Baba Gunji is coming to Marseille. Are any of you going to go see him?”
“Oh, he’s amazing. I’ve heard him before,” said Olivier nibbling on his rice salad mixture.
“So have I! He is so real, no masks, he’s just himself and he makes you feel like you can be real too. He helps you get closer to yourself.” Frieda was always so intense.
“Yes. I don’t know how he does it. Just being in his presence makes you feel like it’s okay to be who you are,” continued Olivier.
“Exactly,” she picked at her bread and cheese, “he helps you accept yourself, know yourself better, get closer to yourself…” she said waving her bread in the air.
I listened to all this feeling like an outsider when Rita covered her mouth and said in my direction, “Get closer to yourself? I wanna get distance from myself. Heh heh heh.”
The voice of reason had spoken. I burst into laughter. She started laughing too, her eyes all squinty like someone who had just smoked a doobie. I liked her.
Two weeks later we had the Open House. Basically this was our biggest chance of the year to attract potential students. It was a sunny September morning. Frieda was going to make Chai that morning.
I say this because it had been decided that Chai would only be served in the morning, not in the afternoon. Also, the tea cup was to be filled to a certain level.
She was really into her Chai and had even printed it on the flyers as part of the Open House. She spoke about it during our meeting: The Chai in the morning, how she would offer Chai to people…in the morning. How people would come to our Open House, and if they came in the morning, they could have their cup of Chai.
Well, I arrived around 9:15am to help set-up the place. Random objects were on the shelves in the entry way, bathroom deodorizer spray, for example, which made no sense and was a total turn off. I mean, the first thing I think of when I see deodorizer spray is, "Cool, if I need to take a fucking shit, no one will know because I can spray this fantastic spray!"
Getting back to the Open House day, a massage therapist, Anne, was also helping set-up. She had short brown hair and was putting out flyers on the table in the entrance. The big yoga room had some tables and flyers too but was mainly empty so that we could give workshops.
“How can I help?” I asked looking around.
“You can help me hang these pictures,” Frieda wanted to hang pictures. I don’t know why it was a priority when so many other things needed to get done. She handed me three brand new canvases still in their plastic wrap.
“Okay, just tell me where.”
She came over and handed me a hammer and nails and then pointed to three spots on the wall that were way above my height. When she realized I couldn’t reach that high, she handed me the nails and I become her nail holder servant. It was a very inefficient way of using an extra set of hands. And then the two of us hung pictures.
“You’re hanging pictures…now?” asked Anne. We were expecting loads of people and it was just the three of us getting the place ready.
“Yes! Yes! Now!” she said as if this made perfect sense.
Soon a horrible burning smell began to enter the hallway. “Oh, no! Is that my Chai?” Frieda shrieked.
“I don’t know. It smells like incense,” I remarked.
Frieda fled to a little room in the back. “Oh, no! Oh, no! My Chai. It’s boiled over onto the wood floor.” She ran to get some towels. I followed and did the same. She started slopping up the mess that had boiled over from the electric kettle. “I forgot this kettle needs to be watched or this happens…” Then she disappeared before cleaning the floor properly to do something inefficient again. I took my time cleaning up the mess and wondered if I was on Chai duty or if she was coming back.
Soon Katrijn and a couple other teachers arrived. Katrijn took a look around and smiled at me. “So,” she asked me, “what are we supposed to do?”
I looked over at Frieda and then back to Katrijn, “Just do what she says.” I said somewhat under my breath. The two of us giggled.
Soon the door rang. It was our first potential student. A thirty-something woman, pale and chubby, stood in the doorway holding a plastic bag and her Open House flyer.
“Come in! Come in!” Frieda said over-enthusiastically with her bug eyes.
“Hello!” everyone chimed in.
“Hello,” she paused and looked at each one of us slowly. “I’m here for the Open House.”
Frieda made her way quickly over to our potential student. The woman held the flyer in her hand. Frieda towered over her, “Okay, which workshop interests you?” Together they studied the flyer in utter concentration.
Frieda left for something else and the lady approached me in slow motion and spoke to me in a monotonous tone, “Can yoga hurt me? I have some problems…” She asked me lots of questions, the same question just worded differently each time. “Will yoga help me?” I tried to comfort her and told her soft yoga would probably be good for her. Nothing I said seemed to soothe her, she just stood there looking lost.
I went back to Chai duty and moved some random objects into the back. Each time a student would arrive, Frieda would monopolize the conversation and none of the other teachers would get in a word.
“I might as well leave,” mentioned Katrijn with wide eyes, “she isn’t letting us talk to anyone.”
As 10am approached, people started gathering around for a Soft Gym class that Rhianna was going to lead, however, she was nowhere to be seen. Frieda’s eyes starting shifting left and right. She kept looking at the round clock on the wall. At least 4 people were waiting for Rhianna. Frieda started thinking out loud. “Where is Rhianna? It’s 10 o’clock. These people want to try Soft Gym. We have to start. What should I do? It’s 10 o’clock…”
Katrijn offered her help, “I teach Soft Yoga so I could give the workshop if you want?”
“No! No! No!” Frieda started pacing the hallway. “I’ll do it. It can’t be just anything. It has to be something similar. I know what she does.” Katrijn looked shocked at her response.
Frieda brought the people into the big yoga room and Katrijn turned to me, “Wow! This woman is really awful. I’m trying to help and she acts like that? She really wants to do everything!”
Then we spied on Frieda who was leading a group in auto-massage. She briskly rubbed her arms up and down, then her legs. She encouraged the workshop students to do as she was doing. The others began to rub their arms too. Katrijn and I looked at each other and started laughing.
“What is she doing?” Katrijn asked me.
“I think it’s Do-In a type of auto-massage…” They were in fact doing something quite legitimate, but it looked ridiculous and Frieda teaching something that is supposed to relax people just made it even more absurd.
About ten minutes later, Rhianna entered. Her hair was matted on one side and sticking out on the other. She must have literally rolled out of bed and thrown on her jacket. Her eyes were tiny and sunken into her head. The sight of her made me start laughing. “Tired?” I asked.
She raised her eyebrows at me, “Why? Do I like tired?”
“Yep.”
“Do I normally look energetic?”
“Nope,” I answered and we both laughed again.
“Frieda started teaching your class, did you want to do part of it now that you are here?” asked Katrijn.
“Nah, let her do it,” She chuckled.
Ten thirty was coming up. It would be time for my workshop, Dynamic Yoga with Suny. Yep they spelled my name wrong on over 15,000 flyers, I was disappointed with that. Frieda was to blame, but what are you going to say to that broad?
As Frieda and her students left the room, she said to the next group, “Now for Dynamic Yoga with Sunny.”
I scanned the crowd of about 8 people. The slow chubby lady was part of my group! She began asking me a bunch of questions again and I noticed a wart on her finger. Not just any wart, a mushy dangly one. Eww. I made a future mental note: Do not adjust her hands.
I entered the yoga room and began to set-up mats, people just kept on pouring in. A tall man in a bright blue construction suit, the kind you have to zip up, was one of my students. A red-eyed man who probably found our flyer in the dumpster he sleeps in was also part of my little posse. He had whiskey breath and was wearing black jeans and a black long sleeved shirt that reeked of nicotine. (Sound like a potential yoga student to you?) A couple women looked dressed for a marathon and a couple others looked like yogis who were just seeing if I was any good which made me nervous.
My class was full so I shut the door, ready to begin. Supposedly, Frieda panicked and repeatedly said in an ugly tone of voice, “What? She closed the door? This is an Open House... The doors stay open in an Open House.”
It was a hot day in Marseille. Our room had no fans and no open windows. I began the class and it heated up a little too quickly. I hadn’t anticipated any sweating during a 30-minute yoga workshop and thus I had put on make-up and worn a normal non-absorbent bra. But soon, sweat was running down my cleavage and my face was dripping. I had to sneak a couple peeks in the mirror to make sure I didn’t look like Alice Cooper with mascara melting down my face. I looked out at all the workshop participants, people whom I’d most likely never see again: slow wart lady, construction man, and drunken dude. One or two people’s yoga practice was almost too good. I felt like they must have been there specifically to investigate me on behalf of some undercover yoga teacher committee. Would I pass their test?
I watched the clock and timed the class perfectly. We were just coming out of our relaxation when Frieda burst open the door and banged on a bronze bowl repeatedly, “Time’s up!” she chimed like one of the evil step-sisters from Cinderella. Could she possibly be any more obnoxious? The truth is, she is an unaware obnoxious person so you kind of feel sorry for her. I do not think she knows she is so awful but…still…I kind of wanted to slap her.
As we exited, steam left our room and drifted into the hallway. The next big group filed into the room for the Tai Chi workshop. Katrijn was standing in the hallway. She told me she was leaving. For a while, I stood alone feeling invisible and uneasy. With the other workshops going on and Frieda talking to everyone, there was little for me to do. Luckily, I had to participate in another Open House on a different side of town. I glanced around the room one final time.
“I have to go,” I said to Frieda while opening the door.
“Oh…you’re leaving already?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without any explanation, “Good bye,” I closed the door behind me and exited the building. I smiled as I felt the city air and sun on my face. I felt relieved. It was as if I’d managed to escape a different dimension. I was back in my world again. I was safe now. I exhaled a sigh of relief. And I happily walked down the street, leaving the nuts and the squirrels behind.
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