tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68956532024-03-06T23:04:19.396-05:00Simple StoriesThis blog is a collection of true stories from everyday life. Stories that mark or color a day. They could take place anywhere, happening to anyone. Hundreds of stories just waiting to be told and remembered.
(all stories ©)Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.comBlogger381125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-91323332650999196862007-02-12T19:46:00.000-05:002007-02-12T19:46:52.033-05:00Freedom of speech.The grey car in front of me. Maryland plates.<br />They read "4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">SHAHID</span>".<br />For the martyrs, the suicide bombers, the terrorists.<br />If only it could only be on a licence plate...Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-46221015080227351682007-02-12T19:41:00.000-05:002007-02-12T19:41:03.085-05:00Quit!On my way to work in a cold morning. A couple is walking toward the "Grill Fish" place on Florida Ave at the corner with North Capitol Street. The woman is visibly pregnant. Probably 8 or 9 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> month. She is smoking.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-5402927911538186922007-02-12T19:21:00.000-05:002007-02-12T19:55:20.750-05:00Last flightI'm in Dulles. I got a pass to the gate to accompany my mother who is flying back to France.<br />We are sitting, silently, each thinking of all the time spent together. We don't see each other very often so each of her visit is precious.<br />I noticed behind us a couple also silent. The man is in a uniform. I can't tell if he is a pilot or any other member of the flight crew. The woman is dressed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">impeccably</span>, her face is made up with care and she looks very <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dignified</span>. Both seem to be in their 60s.<br />The man goes away after a while and she stays seated erect, looking straight ahead.<br />My mother and I are still waiting. I want to get her a better seat and go to the gate where the flight attendants are just arriving. A large group of laughing women, joking about the upcoming trip (and work!) that awaits them. One of them is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">asking</span> something to the United employee at the gate. "Come on" she says, "It's his last flight!"<br />The employee looks up as the flight attendant explains: "He is retiring after this flight. Taking his wife to Paris for the occasion. You have to make this a bit special".<br />I realize immediately who are they talking about and after securing a nice seat for my mother, I come back to tell her the new story I got. She loves stories.<br /><br />The pilot is back now. He came back with drinks ("diet <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Pepsi</span>" for both) and he is giving his wife a small glass before sitting down next to her. They drink slowly and then walk up to the gate and I see them taking a picture in front of the panel that says<br />"5:45 PM" "Flight 914" "Paris".<br />Soon afterward he is gone to the plane and his last trip in the pilot's seat.<br />His wife boards a bit later with the first and business classes.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-39203305183185147142007-02-12T19:15:00.000-05:002007-02-12T19:19:23.808-05:00English spelling is weirdOn a window of a dirty building near Mt Pleasant street. A small note taped to the glass.<br />It says "Please don't knock on may window".<br />The spelling makes sense in Spanish...Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1170118026746244472007-02-12T19:10:00.000-05:002007-02-12T19:55:55.778-05:00PersonalThanks for all the regulars who checked the blog while I was away from it.<br />It will be a bit irregular at first but I'm back.<br />I've written up some of the stories I could not write earlier.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1166587556244709362006-12-19T22:55:00.000-05:002006-12-19T23:05:56.270-05:00Garbage truckOn my way to work on route 193. There is work going on and the road has been reduced to one lane.<br />As I near an intersection a garbage truck makes a right turn on to the road. It is too big to negotiate the turn gracefully and it strickes one of the orange cones that closed the other lanes. The truck stops, backs up and keeps going.<br />I honk. Only to let the driver know that he could have just waited for me to pass before attempting the turn in a hurry, a maneuver which was so clearly a mistake.<br />The driver honks back, a clear signal to get lost. I am following it for another 20 meters when I notice that the orange cone is actually stuck underneath the truck and is being dragged down the road.<br />The truck is flagged down by the workers on the side of the road and forced to stop. Someone crawls underneath and grabs the cone. We are all watching.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1165079838698537752006-12-02T12:13:00.000-05:002006-12-02T12:17:18.716-05:00Dangerous kidsOn my way from work yesterday. The woman in the school yard that was surrounded by young kids. Probably 10 of them, about 6 or 7 years old. They were jumping on her from all sides. She is bent forward trying to get one of the kid off her back. I can see her laughing from the pleasure of the game.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1164165262559850792006-11-21T22:04:00.000-05:002006-11-21T22:14:22.560-05:00French cheese and American mice.Guest in the garbage. An uninvited furry guest that I wanted to kill but could not. I just stayed there, watching in disgust as it jumped on the floor of the kitchen and hurried behind the dishwasher. In two seconds, it was gone.<br />The traps I bought are for "catch and release" so I don't have to kill them.<br />"Mice are not an endangered species" my mother remarks calmly when I show her the traps. She gave me French cheese for the bait. The cheese was still there this morning. I'll try peanut butter if the traps are still empty tomorrow. After all, these are American mice...Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1163130723842767342006-11-09T22:48:00.000-05:002006-11-21T22:04:09.936-05:00GentrificationIt's gone. <a href="http://simplestories.blogspot.com/2005/05/graffiti.html">The sign</a> that greeted me every day on my way to work.<br />Painted over to please the new neighboors. The end is near.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1162876048409618522006-11-06T23:55:00.000-05:002006-11-22T22:12:11.903-05:00Swimming Pool (IV)At the pool tonight after a relatively short swimming session. I was getting dressed when the aquaerobics class came back in the locker room. About 10 women between 50 and 80 years old, talking of anything but Michelangelo.<br />I hear a compliment on a swim suit and the answer comes "Well, thank you. I found out since I bought it that it is a mastectomy swimsuit, so I feel like I am taking it away from someone who really needs it".<br />I can't help but taking a peep at the woman who just spoke these words. She is among the youngest of the group. Maybe around 50. She is holding as a demo, a wet swimming suit, showing the part of the breast-cup that is designed for women who have had mastectomies. I can see something that look like a double slit, extra clothes. It is not quite clear how it is supposed to work and how it looks on a woman who still has her two breasts large and hanging.<br />I hear another woman saying "Be happy you don't have to wear these for that reason".<br />I walk out of the door to enjoy the cold but refreshing air that greets me.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1161517213967203602006-10-19T19:31:00.000-04:002006-10-22T07:40:13.970-04:00Japan (III) -- Women onlyThis is it. I’m on my way to the airport, My week in Japan is over. I am looking forward to sleeping into my own bed “tonight” (after a 20 hours travel).<br />My suitcase is loaded with Japanese "stuff" ranging from food to small souvenirs. The train from Machida to Shinjuku is crowded with commuters. I see one express train come and the rush to get in it that follows. It is impossible to fathom. I see a blond woman filming the scene. There is no way I am getting on a train as crowded as this and I use an old Parisian trick: going to the end of a train to avoid all the people who cram into the middle cars to be nearest to their exit. As I arrive at the end of the track, the announced train is a semi-express, another safe bet to avoid crowding. Sure enough when the train arrives, there is enough room and I board. It is only after two or three stops that I realize that something is strange: I am surrounded by women. There is no one man in sight. Not a single one. I immediately start formulating hypothesis on why it should be so. My first guess is that most of the women in this train have come to the same conclusion as I did: it’s better to board a semi-express than an express, losing a bit of time in the process but wining space and peace of mind. Knowing the sexism of the Japanese society, I also suspect that this way, the woman are trying to avoid being “pinched” in the anonymity of a crowded train. I’ve experienced this and know first hand how disturbing this can be.<br />I’m there formulating all these hypothesis when I notice a large green sign on one of the window of the train car. The sign says “Woman Only” and explain that between the hour of 7:30 to 9:30 in the morning the first (or last) car of each train en-route to downtown Tokyo is reserved for women. This is true for express and semi-express trains.<br />A woman only car! This is such a brilliant idea. No problem of rush hour “encounters”, no hassle. If only they could implement this in Paris! So there is some good in some imposed rules after all. The imposed rest at the swimming pool bothered me but it is coming from the same philosophy of the society that triggers this rule about women-only cars that I find so appealing.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1161512887794785342006-10-15T18:18:00.000-04:002006-10-22T07:31:33.943-04:00Japan (II) -- Swimming Pool (III)I decided to go for a swim. Nothing unusual except that I am in Japan and my knowledge of the language is rather limited. What I know is that somewhere near the “Sagamiono” stop station (one stop away from where I am staying) there is a public swimming pool. I got the information from a Japanese colleague who forwarded me a website address in Japanese. All I can understand on that website is the picture of a nice pool. I go down to ask the front desk. I am not staying in a hotel but in a “weekly appartment building”. They do not catter to tourists (which is a good thing as there are hardly any tourist here in Machida) but to Japanese travelers, renting studio appartment at a cheaper rate than an hotel. The front desk woman does not speak a word of English, nor French.<br />I try the few words I know in Japanese. She tells me to wait. About 10 minutes later, she is back with a printout from the web, showing a private health club that seems to be nearby. The price is outrageous. Something like $30 for an entrance pass valid twice. I decide to go exploring the Sagamiono station.<br /><br />Once there, my first stop is a private health club that I saw marked on the orientation map at the train station. About 10 minutes of exploring walk, I end up in a lounge with soothing music and massage chairs. Everything around me looks like in the US. The big “Whey Protein” containers for sales with pictures of diformed people looking proud of themselves, the TV above the counters, the TVs above the treadmills that I can see in a corner of the next room. After a very short discussion “No pool. Members only”, I am sent to the other side of the train station, the other side of the tracks to look for another private club “Live” where, I am told, I can find a pool.<br />I get there to find that “Yes pool. but sorry: members only”. Fortunately, not only a young staff member speaks English perfectly, he is eager to practice and after sending his colleague to print out the directions to the public pool, he keeps asking me if there is anything else I want to know. I ask him about Japan, how he came to speak English so perfectly (a very rare occurance here) and after bowing and enough “arigato goisamasoo-ing” (about 5 on my count), I’m on my way to the bus station where, armed with the printout of the directions, it is easy to board the correct public bus for the pool.<br />We pass an American base on the way. I see houses with a lot of green around, signs to keep out, and a large wire fence around.<br /><br />The pool is all I expected a Japanese pool to be: clean, clean and clean. The entrance fee is about 3$ but the charge is only valid for 2 hours. Any additional time has to be paid for. I don’t plan on staying that long. Just wanted to shake off the long flight in and relax in prevision of an heavy week of work.<br /><br />There are lockers available (1$) and private stools to change (never seen in the US) and then I am in water. The deepest end is about 5 foot deep and lap swimming is done by changing lane on the back and forth. There is one line to swim one way and another line to swim back. Efficient way to minimize the number of lanes reserved for lap swimming. I am the only westerner in a pool.Most of the people came in with kids (it is Sunday after all) and there is a large number of older people (there is what looks like a communal restaurant for old people at the entrance of the pool). So I swim back and forth, bowing in the water with a “dozo” to allow someone to pass me (I am not a fast, nor a good swimmer). I am starting to relax fully when I hear a witsle. I ignore it thinking it is directed to one of the kids playing in the nearby lane but as I am readying to swim back, a woman taps on my shoulder. She is about 60 with a very kind face and a soft smile. “Rest now” she says. I look at her, uncertain of what she means. “Rest now. No swim”. I look around. Everybody is getting out of the pool. It is rest time for everybody. Every hour, from 10-off to the full hour, everyone and the pool take a 10 mn break. It does not matter that one just arrives and does not need to rest. It’s mandatory rest time. I look at people standing around the pool and some who are walking toward a small room on the side. Japan is a smoking country. Smoke is everywhere so my first thought is that this is the smoking room but then it just does not make sense. Even in Japan, people just don’t swim and smoke. So I have a closer look and realize that it’s a sauna. Nice dry heat. People sitting in silence, enjoying this imposed rest time.<br />I slowly gets the heat enters my body, completely relaxed now. A nice break indeed.<br />Still I cannot get over the irritation to have it imposed on me by some rules. I am all for taking breaks when swimming, I just don’t see why it should be imposed by the pool rules and be the same for everyone.<br />I laught at the thought of such rule in the US or in France and again realize how lucky I am to live there rather than here.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1161516650715866642006-10-14T06:19:00.000-04:002006-11-22T22:13:55.706-05:00Japan (I) -- The first timeThis was my first time. 6:35 AM in the morning. I was awake because of the jetlag, standing in this small hotel room in my PJs and it happened. The hotel moved. As if it were a paper construction. The potential strength of that earthquake was palpable. Like the touch of a giant who has decided not to hurt you but whose "caress" still sends you across the room.<br />My first reflex is to grab my pants and get dressed. I don't want to stay in my PJs. Don't want to linger in bed. I want to be entirely dressed in case it happens again. Then I look for my passport and green card and decide to carry them at all time. I won't let them in my hotel room as I usually do. I can't risk it.<br /><br />I check the net and the monitoring of earthquakes and sure enough, I find it: a 5.3 magnitude quake off the <a href="http://neic.usgs.gov/neis/bulletin/neic_tucb.html">coast of Japan</a>. Nothing really but enough to make me think that I don't want to die here, that I want to be back home as quickly as possible, surrounded by friends and familiar faces. I've checked. There has been no earthquake recorded in Washington DC for the past 100 years.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1161515823566527962006-10-07T23:05:00.000-04:002006-11-09T22:37:27.616-05:00San Francisco (III) -- No to NapaJust don't go. It's a waste of time and waste of money.<br />We decided to take a day off from the conference and bike Napa (well part of Napa at least).<br />Our first stop is "Sterling" which greets us with a large parking lot filled with SUVs and limos. That's enough to make me suspicious but the worst is the $20 fee to take a cable car to access the wine tasting area. $20 to "taste" wine? When did this happen? This is like paying a contractor for an estimate. You should not. Estimates are part of their cost for doing business. Tasting wine is the same thing. This should be part of the cost of doing business. If the wine is good, we buy a bottle and everyone is happy. We decide to pass on the $20 wine tasting experience.<br />The place next door ("Twomey") is much more low key (still $5 for a tasting but the wine is excellent) but the first impression is the one that stays for the whole day. It is a rip off. Wine places are selling "chocolate Riesling", "wine coasters", napkins. Each place looks more like a supermarket than a winery. I still buy a couple of bottles. One is for a friend that was pissed at me (and my entire fault). I ask the guy at the counter a wine to restore a damaged friendship. No wine is too good. I hope this would do the trick. The other bottle is for the concierge at the hotel who got us the rental car. We could not find one and he saved our Saturday. Later, when I give him the bottle he laughed at my description of the places and tells me that next time he'll give me the list of places that I should visit. That there are still nice, low key places in Napa. They're just a bit more hidden than the big names on the tourist circuit. There will be no next time. Napa once is one too many...Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1161515060329635622006-10-06T22:50:00.000-04:002006-11-09T22:40:01.753-05:00San Francisco (II) -- Don't shoot the pianistThe hotel I am staying in is a posh hotel right off Chinatown, at the top of a steep hill.<br />There is a piano in the lobby and at certain times during the day, the piano is playing. By itself. The keys are going up and down as if an invisible player was sitting there. Nobody to shoot at.<br />This proves irresistible for a kid about 4 year old who has jumped on the seat in front of the piano and is trying to follow along the song and the keys going up and down. He is really "following along" although the sound produced does not improve the music that much. His mother is sitting nearby, letting him enjoy a big, new toy.<br />This is when a woman employed by the hotel comes to the kid. It is very clear that she would like nothing better than grab him and put him somewhere as far as possible from the piano, but she can't and she is trying to bring him to stop in a falsely smooth voice. The voice, most adults use when they speak to children, as if speaking to an inferior intellect. Slowly, smoothly and higher pitched voice that they would to adults.<br />"Do you want some milk?" I hear her say. "Maybe some cookies?" she adds as it is clear that the milk won't do the trick. The child is unflappable. He just loves that piano and no milk and cookies are going to make him leave it. The voice gets a bit higher in pitch. "Look! I have some toys over there!" The kid is still pounding on the keyboard. The woman turns to the mother and with a very low and severe voice tells her that kids are not allowed near the instrument. I'm not sure if the milk, cookies and toys are still part of the deal.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1160141753041906432006-10-03T21:34:00.000-04:002006-10-22T07:17:46.660-04:00San Francisco (I) -- Swimming Pool (II)I am in San Francisco for a meeting. I arrive early to set everything up and discover that the room is occupied until 5 PM so I decide to go for a swim in the local pool. Not a long walk from here, just a lots of hills. This is San Francisco after all.<br />I have my first surprise arriving there: it's free. Apparently it's free on Tuesdays. Or maybe it's free only today. In any case, I'm in without having paid a dime and the pool is OK, if not incredibly cold. The water is a least 5 degrees colder than my local pool. I can swim for 20 minutes and still feel the water fresh on my body. As I am nearing my usual kilometer swim, I am seized by crippling cramps. I decide to stop and head back in. The place is quite dirty and not really welcoming so I get dressed to go back to my hotel for a hot shower. A woman enters the dressing room. She was the one sharing the lane with me. She smiles and asks me how I am and I realize she saw me struggling out of the pool with my cramps. I explains that my right calf was killing me. She listens and then with a smile tells me "too bad I didn't know it was cramps. The remedy for cramps is very simple." She points to somewhere between her mouth and her nose and she continues "all you have to do is push somewhere there". "You have to find the correct point though. But it's somewhere here". She is pushing here and there, tracking an invisible "mustache" with her finger while explaining the principle of this point and its importance in acupuncture.<br />I love California.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1159293975302052932006-09-26T14:05:00.000-04:002006-10-22T06:37:53.376-04:00Swimming Pool (I)I've resumed swimming a couple of time per weeks. I used to swim a lot and then stopped. I realized recently that I missed it and with a bit of a nudge from a friend, has gone back to it. So it's about 7:30 AM and I am arriving at the pool near where I work. The morning is already beautiful and I am looking forward to the relaxation of the water. A family passes me by as I am walking toward the entrance. There is what I assume to be the mother and her two sons. All of them on bikes, all of them pedaling with enthusiasm. I can't help but feeling the joy of the scene. The health, the good habits instilled so young, the relaxed way to bring the kids to school. As I am reflecting on how lucky these youngsters are to have a mother who understand these things, I hear her scream. She is yelling at the youngster who didn't stop at the stop sign in front of the parking lot. She screams at him to "STOP RIGHT NOW" and he, as a 8 years old would do, is pushing her to the brink by not stopping "right now" but stop and then go some more, and then stop and go some more. She is hysterical now and gets to him quickly, swinging at him and knocking him out of his bike. I've seen enough. I turn to enter the poolJusthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1158716588088975032006-09-19T21:40:00.000-04:002006-09-19T21:44:16.076-04:00Junk them!In front of a Funeral House on Florida avenue, a sign asks:<br />1-800-GOT JUNK?Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1158633298989146492006-09-18T22:18:00.000-04:002006-09-19T21:47:15.426-04:00Good deed and bad karmaIn Baltimore for a meeting, which has meant long drives and long hours for the past 4 days. Today, I am coming home relatively early and I'm happy to have "escaped". At the last light before the beginning of the highway I see a man coming to my car with a small cardboard that reads "Homeless. Please help". I honk , open my wallet and my window to give him money. The light has just turned green and the car behind is getting nervous honking to get me moving faster. I start and get on the highway, feeling good to have helped him even if only with a dollar.<br /><br />Only back in DC that I realized that I had given him a $10 bill instead of the intended $1.<br />Now I am annoyed at myself to not having looked more carefully. No more of feel good and just thoughts about checking more carefully next time.<br />Doing and feeling good on the cheap.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1158632285245767072006-09-18T22:01:00.000-04:002006-09-18T22:18:05.273-04:00Motorcycle disappointmentAlmost every day I would see it on my drive to work. A pale green motorcycle on the sidewalk at the intersection of Florida and W Street. It's a "vespa", an authentic Italian motorcycle, like the one in "Roman Holidays". I grew used to seeing it, day after day. Used to imagine the type of person that would have a pale green motorcycle and park it all the time at the same exact spot. Man or woman? Young or not so young? Used to look for it every time I'd cross the intersection.<br />And then it happened. One morning last week, I saw him. A man whose face I forgot, about 30 years old. Maybe older. He was just about to leave, on the pale green Vespa. I slowed down to get a better view but he went the other way, up Florida as I kept going on W street. So now I know and the "vespa" has already lost its appeal. I should have closed my eyes.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1157689636686044632006-09-08T00:12:00.000-04:002006-09-08T00:27:16.710-04:00Car dialoguesOn the Beltway, completely trapped in traffic. The guy in the car next to mine started a conversation. A simple hello, transformed into a discussion with our two cars crawling in traffic.<br />He notices my accent. "French" I tell him and at the next "stop" of our cars, he shows me a CD. "They're French too!" he is yelling at the top of his lungs. "I had never met a real French but they're French". I cannot read the title or the artists name on the CD but I can see the image cover of scantly clad women with large breasts. I change lanes to lose him.<br /><br />On Wisconsin Ave, at around 9 PM. The car behind me has no light on. It is practically invisible. I slow down to let him pass me and put myself behind him, trying to get his attention by turning my lights on and off but to no avail. It's a convertible and the outside light is enough to allow the driver to see the dashboard and the road. A unlit car in the night is a big danger to all the drivers around so I accelerate to his level and shout through the window. "YOUR LIGHTS!".<br />Finally success. The lights appear and I hear a loud "Thank you!" Before I have the time to shout back a "You're welcome", the car accelerates and it is gone in a minute..Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1156823082302081502006-08-28T23:32:00.000-04:002006-08-29T22:18:08.830-04:00Silent recessOn my way to Chinatown this morning, I pass a small kindergarten playground. There are a couple of swings in a large patch of grass but all the kids are ignoring them, looking at the sidewalk though the metal fence that encloses the garden. There is a giant hole in the sidewalk and a crew of two is repairing some water pipes. The kids are clearly fascinated by the spectacle and all of them are completely still, silent as far as I can tell. Ten kids, all about 3 or 4 years old, boys and girl, looking at the work these men are doing. It must look like a giant playground, complete with mud and white pipes. A playground for adults. Irresistible for kids at any age.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1156822341667184832006-08-26T19:31:00.000-04:002006-08-29T22:36:37.253-04:00Young capitalistsOn a bike ride this weekend, I am planing on biking up to the lake at the end of Rock Creek Park. I've made my way to Meadowbrook Stable, readying myself for the upcoming 15 miles. It is quite hot and humid and there are only few people out. A small kid is standing on a picnic table, with a large sign advertising lemonade. She is very cute, smiling and looking at people passing by. Hard to resist indeed. I stop to buy a 25 cents glass of lemonade. Her mom presides over the transaction. I give her 30 cents, explaining that this includes the tip. The child is confused but the mother smiles and thanks me. She blames the weather for the lack of foot traffic. Clearly, not many people are out in the sun today. In any case, it looks that she will soon run out of supply. The business will probably close early.<br /><br />The ride ended up with a flat tire after mile 35. I did the last 5 miles by bus. The next morning I make my way to the bike shop to get the tire fixed. The road is empty but two kids are there selling lemonade and cookies, sitting in front of their house. "How's business?" I ask, thinking of yesterday's girl that had set up shop on the bike path, clearly looking for costumers. The two boys seem happy "We had 3 people coming already!" The fact that this street is only used by locals living within one block is of no concern to them. Their lemonade is more expensive (a whooping 50 cents a glass) but nice and cold.<br />Already two completely different business models.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1155699351736955072006-08-15T23:15:00.000-04:002006-08-15T23:35:51.760-04:00I'm saving your life, bitch!On my way back from work. It is getting dark, a mixture of black and red that makes things and people almost invisible. <br />I'm driving, hungry and eager to be home. I saw some movement in the middle of the intersection in front. The light is green and there are no car.<br />I flashed my lights to high beams to see better and I can now see a woman pushing her bike. She is crossing, dressed in dark color, probably en-route to the nearby club.<br />Another flash to warn her that she is totally invisible to traffic but that flash is misunderstood and she raises her hand to give me the finger. I gave it back to her resisting the urge to think that I should have zoomed by her and her bike.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6895653.post-1155698093901220812006-08-14T22:56:00.000-04:002006-08-15T23:14:53.920-04:00Superman does not want to dieI saw him jogging in the street in the middle of the morning traffic. He was approaching the "ID-crisis" intersection where all the streets change their names: U Street becomes Florida Ave and Georgia Ave becomes 7th Street. An oddity with a poetic charm. <br />He seemed confused but his path was clearly aware of the cars zooming by. He made his way across the intersection avoiding collisions after collisions. As the light changed, and on the point of fighting traffic coming in a different direction, I saw him jumping on the sidewalk, smiling widely in celebration of his victory. He had won the DC equivalent of the Pampluna's running with the bulls. His torn and dirty T-shirt underlines the futility of his uncelebrated battle.Justhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02774459002802653314noreply@blogger.com1