...more recent posts
Where Are The Bees, Wait...
I Cannot Remember
I cannot remember now what they were asking. Was it a more cheerful rendition or something less vague, less query inducing, a world populated not so much by retired DEA agents and multi-lingual computer savvy FBI agents but instead petite Chinese ballerinas dancing on their knees across the knots of our backs? I kept offering them fresh over priced chunks of watermelon and was mostly met with disdainful indifference so it must not be organic produce they were hoping me to deliver.
Does anybody really care about my bountiful needs? Do they care that heading that list is an airy and creamy delicious pistachio cupcake which now sits inches away from me in its tissue paper lingerie giving me on an empty stomach all that come-hither I know I'm bad for you but you want me anyway noise. How loud is a cupcake? I have never seen it listed on a decibel count with those other standards--the crowded football stadium, a jet plane taking off, or your neighbor's stereo at three in the morning. I would tell that cupcake to shut up but then I would have to listen to more noise, about what a misogynistic bastard I am, how I would never talk to a cheeseburger that way.
It was only after he had left, and after I had exchanged email addresses with the friendly professor at the nearly empty bar in a semi-remote tropical mountainous region of Puerto Rico, that the bartender told Bernadette and I the recently exited "professor" was really a retired FBI agent of 32 years, who spoke five languages (including Arabic) and had a computer room at his house resembling a miniature version of a NASA control room or NORAD command post. And while the bartender mumbled Say-EE-Ah under his breath I said, gee that sounds more like CIA to me. That in profile I may look like an Arab terrorist expertly disguised as an aging beach hippie is perhaps, in this case, or all cases, unfortunate, but on the other hand, what kind of self respecting Spook would pretend to be an FBI agent pretending to be a college math/physics professor? This is all just another one of those enigmas inside a conundrum inside a pretty pickle.
I remember now, it was some fleshing out, a bit more clarity that was requested. Well I'm sorry, there is none of that. There is now only the one tissue wrapped wax paper panty wearing cupcake on the counter.
I cannot remember now what they were asking. Was it a more cheerful rendition or something less vague, less query inducing, a world populated not so much by retired DEA agents and multi-lingual computer savvy FBI agents but instead petite Chinese ballerinas dancing on their knees across the knots of our backs? I kept offering them fresh over priced chunks of watermelon and was mostly met with disdainful indifference so it must not be organic produce they were hoping me to deliver.
Does anybody really care about my bountiful needs? Do they care that heading that list is an airy and creamy delicious pistachio cupcake which now sits inches away from me in its tissue paper lingerie giving me on an empty stomach all that come-hither I know I'm bad for you but you want me anyway noise. How loud is a cupcake? I have never seen it listed on a decibel count with those other standards--the crowded football stadium, a jet plane taking off, or your neighbor's stereo at three in the morning. I would tell that cupcake to shut up but then I would have to listen to more noise, about what a misogynistic bastard I am, how I would never talk to a cheeseburger that way.
It was only after he had left, and after I had exchanged email addresses with the friendly professor at the nearly empty bar in a semi-remote tropical mountainous region of Puerto Rico, that the bartender told Bernadette and I the recently exited "professor" was really a retired FBI agent of 32 years, who spoke five languages (including Arabic) and had a computer room at his house resembling a miniature version of a NASA control room or NORAD command post. And while the bartender mumbled Say-EE-Ah under his breath I said, gee that sounds more like CIA to me. That in profile I may look like an Arab terrorist expertly disguised as an aging beach hippie is perhaps, in this case, or all cases, unfortunate, but on the other hand, what kind of self respecting Spook would pretend to be an FBI agent pretending to be a college math/physics professor? This is all just another one of those enigmas inside a conundrum inside a pretty pickle.
I remember now, it was some fleshing out, a bit more clarity that was requested. Well I'm sorry, there is none of that. There is now only the one tissue wrapped wax paper panty wearing cupcake on the counter.
Fish Eating Bats
When I learned we weren't going to Mexico and were heading instead for Puerto Rico I dispensed with even the pretense of learning more Spanish. Or adding to the three page internal phrase book that best describes my understanding of the Spanish language. Also I gave up on good manners, positive attitude, belief in an afterlife and that right wins over wrong and that some fish can fly and that some bats do eat fish.
In the Aguadilla Airport the taxi drivers hanging by the baggage carrousel all hawked their services eagerly in English. And the young woman behind the rental counter also spoke perfect English and I would guess Spanish as well, although there is some doubt as to whether she was aware of the fish eating bats from Isla Mona. No extra nada I said and got assigned a Kia Rio at the cheapest price possible, a white one, and after signing and initialing and receiving back my paperwork I headed off with Bernadette into the early morning heat of Puerto Rico. The wheels of my carry on luggage clicking over the pavement made enough noise that Bernadette commented on it. That's on account of I have the all terrain wheels I explained to her. This baby can go anywhere, through sand or mud or wet concrete.
The rental car parking lot was small so we were not immediately concerned that we had forgotten the rental woman's exact directions. We both knew she said fourth row after the guard booth but whether left or right after that....?, we really could not say with any amount of certainty. No matter really, the car was not anywhere. This we verified after three young guys, from three different car rental agencies, none of whom spoke English by the way and made me regret the careless abandonment of my studies, searched the lot for us. No big deal. The one youngster loaded up our luggage and drove us the short drive back to the terminal and we tried again. This time the woman gave us a car that had not even been checked in properly, and was right outside the door in a much smaller lot, and this one also a Kia Rio compact, but a blue one. She even told us exactly what slot (number 8) the car would be in.
But getting the hang of things now, we took no time at all to come to the conclusion, all by ourselves, that the blue Kia was not around either. There were no Kias at all in this lot so when I saw a car of similar size, a Mazda 3, arguably an upgrade, but as it and the Kia both only have four tires I could not see that it was a huge upgrade, I suggested to Bernadette that while she waited in the not exactly sweltering heat, I would copy the license number and see if we could just take the Mazda. I did not, but thought about saying, but hey, you keep an eye on this one.
Walking up to the counter and trying my best not to project a frustration which I truly did not feel, I apologized to the woman with two words in Spanish (from page one of the internal phrase book), and then continued in English to explain that the blue Kia was also absent. I felt not happy to be the one bringing to attention that many of their cars were seemingly disappearing into thin air.
I tried to joke with the woman a little and after signing and initialing all the forms for a third time, and after which she made her own little joke by saying--we'll try not to charge you three times, I smiled, said see you in two weeks, and then Bernadette and I drove off in the Mazda, only briefly concerning ourselves with the ramifications inherent to the fact that because we were taking the car from the unofficial lot, we were therefore not exiting through a guard booth, so that our papers could be checked. Also, although the license on this car matched the one on the paperwork, the color listed was gold. I cannot really describe what the color of the Mazda is (if forced I would say green) except to say that it is not gold.
After finding this place on the beach and realizing that the waves were crashing barely a hundred feet behind the comfortably sized backyard, we entered the house with the key a trusting owner had left under the mat, rifled through our bags and after quickly putting on our bathing suits, jumped into the ocean.
The unhappy ending to this day was that later in the evening, pulling shit out of a musty and polluted thin air, an air that was also possibly inhabited with a slew of missing rental cars, I started and then continued to carry on a nasty fight with Bernadette. It took me awhile, too long for sure, but I did eventually come to the conclusion that on this particular occasion I was, rare as it might seem, completely wrong, about everything, and this morning after finding not one single blunt and rusty machete wedged into my flesh, I felt fairly certain that possibly I had been forgiven, and so today was a new day.
When I learned we weren't going to Mexico and were heading instead for Puerto Rico I dispensed with even the pretense of learning more Spanish. Or adding to the three page internal phrase book that best describes my understanding of the Spanish language. Also I gave up on good manners, positive attitude, belief in an afterlife and that right wins over wrong and that some fish can fly and that some bats do eat fish.
In the Aguadilla Airport the taxi drivers hanging by the baggage carrousel all hawked their services eagerly in English. And the young woman behind the rental counter also spoke perfect English and I would guess Spanish as well, although there is some doubt as to whether she was aware of the fish eating bats from Isla Mona. No extra nada I said and got assigned a Kia Rio at the cheapest price possible, a white one, and after signing and initialing and receiving back my paperwork I headed off with Bernadette into the early morning heat of Puerto Rico. The wheels of my carry on luggage clicking over the pavement made enough noise that Bernadette commented on it. That's on account of I have the all terrain wheels I explained to her. This baby can go anywhere, through sand or mud or wet concrete.
The rental car parking lot was small so we were not immediately concerned that we had forgotten the rental woman's exact directions. We both knew she said fourth row after the guard booth but whether left or right after that....?, we really could not say with any amount of certainty. No matter really, the car was not anywhere. This we verified after three young guys, from three different car rental agencies, none of whom spoke English by the way and made me regret the careless abandonment of my studies, searched the lot for us. No big deal. The one youngster loaded up our luggage and drove us the short drive back to the terminal and we tried again. This time the woman gave us a car that had not even been checked in properly, and was right outside the door in a much smaller lot, and this one also a Kia Rio compact, but a blue one. She even told us exactly what slot (number 8) the car would be in.
But getting the hang of things now, we took no time at all to come to the conclusion, all by ourselves, that the blue Kia was not around either. There were no Kias at all in this lot so when I saw a car of similar size, a Mazda 3, arguably an upgrade, but as it and the Kia both only have four tires I could not see that it was a huge upgrade, I suggested to Bernadette that while she waited in the not exactly sweltering heat, I would copy the license number and see if we could just take the Mazda. I did not, but thought about saying, but hey, you keep an eye on this one.
Walking up to the counter and trying my best not to project a frustration which I truly did not feel, I apologized to the woman with two words in Spanish (from page one of the internal phrase book), and then continued in English to explain that the blue Kia was also absent. I felt not happy to be the one bringing to attention that many of their cars were seemingly disappearing into thin air.
I tried to joke with the woman a little and after signing and initialing all the forms for a third time, and after which she made her own little joke by saying--we'll try not to charge you three times, I smiled, said see you in two weeks, and then Bernadette and I drove off in the Mazda, only briefly concerning ourselves with the ramifications inherent to the fact that because we were taking the car from the unofficial lot, we were therefore not exiting through a guard booth, so that our papers could be checked. Also, although the license on this car matched the one on the paperwork, the color listed was gold. I cannot really describe what the color of the Mazda is (if forced I would say green) except to say that it is not gold.
After finding this place on the beach and realizing that the waves were crashing barely a hundred feet behind the comfortably sized backyard, we entered the house with the key a trusting owner had left under the mat, rifled through our bags and after quickly putting on our bathing suits, jumped into the ocean.
The unhappy ending to this day was that later in the evening, pulling shit out of a musty and polluted thin air, an air that was also possibly inhabited with a slew of missing rental cars, I started and then continued to carry on a nasty fight with Bernadette. It took me awhile, too long for sure, but I did eventually come to the conclusion that on this particular occasion I was, rare as it might seem, completely wrong, about everything, and this morning after finding not one single blunt and rusty machete wedged into my flesh, I felt fairly certain that possibly I had been forgiven, and so today was a new day.