Give Me Noise…But after Nine

29 September 2015

There is a human space before the clank of the day that allows us time to enjoy and gradually build up to the hubbub we’ll eventually have to deal with. It is the calm of Tai Chi between dawn and the day; the quiet of factory towns before a call-to-work whistle; the tranquility of a suburban backyard; and the hope that callers will stifle the urge to call before nine. (How Neanderthal of me, thinking days begin cordially after nine.) But I got up early…earlier than some, later than most… to enjoy a cup of coffee on the deck surrounded by neighborhood drowsiness with time to think and read a digital newspaper before work…not even the crinkle of turning newsprint pages. So latte in hand this morning, I slid the deck door open.

And wham, the day unloaded an assault of 8 a.m. noise that rivaled Verdun. A neighbor’s lawn was being cut by a massive gas-engine riding mower without a muffler. Another gardener was at work with a string trimmer. A neighbor to one side let his dog out and it responded to the mower by trying to bark it to death. A second huge gas-engine mower started in on another lawn. (These houses, by the way, are on lots that are less than a quarter acre…talk about bringing a howitzer to a spelling bee.) At that point a faint cocktail of exhaust fumes began wafting over to me, ensuring a wonderful morning’s coffee.

Adding to the mix, a school bus was backing up on the street in front of the house, emitting piercing pings of warning. A helicopter, probably keeping track of traffic, hovered overhead. Thousands of feet above that was a jetliner, seen but not heard because of the ground noise. You think I’m finished, but I’m not. A caller did break the unwritten code of decency and called at 8:05. Amazingly I heard the ringer, as I did the door bell five minutes later. Fortunately by 8:15 all of these noises had disappeared…all except the dog that was rattled for the whole day and kept barking at the memory of combustion engines. Birdsong could once again be heard as the noise subsided and so, faintly, could the jets in their regular approach patterns to LaGuardia Airport 10 miles away.

Oddly enough, though, I realize that 24-hour-a-day tranquility would drive me as crazy as overwhelming noise. Thoreau might have treasured the absence of distraction on Walden Pond, but for the occasional otter or wind whistling through trees. But I don’t mind the resonance of life…the scrape of garbage trucks, crowd noise at a baseball game, a bit of traffic, neighbors talking, helicopters gathering traffic information.

Yup, I’m a creature of modern living…Now if I only could figure out the differences between Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Pinterest, much less how to use them.

Laughs Among the Chop Sticks

15 August 2015

The unexpected is among the first laws of drama and comedy. Clever surprise…what you don’t see coming… either deepens the plot and adds mystery or can be laugh aloud funny. So it was in the last place I’d expect a laugh, a Chinese restaurant, where waiters are usually dour and predictably humorless. Like many immigrants, they seem unfamiliar with the nuances of conversational English. So catching on to New York humor and using it, are perhaps, the most difficult tasks of assimilation.

Anyway, five of us walked into a Chinese restaurant…sounds like the start of a joke. But, no, it’s a yearly tradition, when a friend comes up north for vacation, to have dinner at a very unpretentious, but very good Chinese restaurant in New York City (Szechuan Grand by name, on 24th Street and Ninth Avenue). We were early enough to get a table that was being set up as we sat…but with no linen table cloth, nor linen napkins that adorned the other tables (we got an uncovered table and paper napkins). An inchoate grumble from the five of us sent the waitress to the linen closet. Back she came with a linen table cloth draped over her arm, ostentatiously displaying it to us…with a cheerless look that bordered on annoyance. And as she spread it on the table, she said seriously, “This cost extra”. No, no, said one of our number, take it back. Along with the table cloth on her arm were linen napkins, and those she set about, putting one in front of each of us. “These cost extra, too,” she said. At that point her face lightened slightly and we realized we’d been hoist on our own western petard.

Then she set about taking food orders. Four of us got through that process unscathed, but our fifth had trouble deciding which peppery, gingery, lotus laced entrée to have. Asking her about a particular shrimp dish, she looked at him like a doctor assessing a skin rash and said, pointing to his very Caucasian arm…”no, no, you not yellow enough for that.” Who knows where that came from, but talk about comedy coming from unexpected places. Somewhat later, when everyone, but me, was chop stick deep in their food, I motioned to her and with a shrug asked, nu…where’s mine? The chef, she told me, had trouble catching Kevin (the chicken) in the alley behind the restaurant. But don’t worry, it’s coming soon. Thanks, I thought, for the FYI, but intimate details of kitchen goings-on I didn’t need.

I suppose it’s nice knowing that a new generation of ethnic waiters and waitresses will take the baton from the irascible, galling breed of Jewish deli waiters whose number has been downsized because of $20 pastrami sandwiches. Maybe humor will be the Szechuan waiters’ shtik. I hold out little hope that on next year’s visit to Szechuan Grand our waitress will still be slinging hash, as it were. I’ll just check headliners at comedy clubs to find her.

By the way, we never checked to see if the linen cost extra.

On the Plane…Off the Plane, the Denouement

18 June 2015
Once, we were regularly scheduled passengers, ready to fly home from Barcelona, with the usual runway jitters, but buoyant and jokey, greeted by crew like we were new best friends. But now, twice-cancelled, we were nomads, ghosts in the airport, folks the airline had to deal with, but wished it didn’t have to…like relatives, who promise you’ll always have a place to stay, but now’s really not a good time.

Today started in Castelldefels, a half-hour down the coast from Barcelona. At Sunday’s check-in we were told of a 7 a.m. Monday bus back to the airport, which cleared the rooms well before 7 a.m. There was a breakfast that most passed up in favor of lining up for a place on the first bus. And if it weren’t for a 92-year-old man in a wheelchair, the first seat would have been mine. Third day and the gloves were off.

The airport was a study in contrasts. On Sunday, just yesterday, an avalanche of humanity from Bilbao was going home after a Saturday night championship match in Barcelona. They brought the chaos and disappointment of Bilbao’s losing effort to the airport. And Barcelonans wanted nothing more than to shepherd the Bilbaons back home. Today it was our turn to be shepherded. But no shepherding was needed…the airport was eerily quiet…at 8 a.m. I was second on line at the check-in…aced out again by the 92-year-old in the wheelchair. Then to security for an x-ray and a quick frisk and…conformity to security norms once again established…we were cleared to roam the passengers-only part of the airport. It was 9 a.m. and our new just-posted departure time was 11:30.

Ritualized behavior clicked in; an attempt to use the airport’s free WiFi failed; then the usual breakfast of café con leche, croissant and orange juice. A couple we recognized from the cancelled flights ambled over to chat, telling us, in triumph, that they got rescheduled on a flight first to Frankfurt, then to Newark. It would take a few hours longer, but no way they were going to set foot on “that” plane again. We smiled a brave “what do they know that we don’t” smile and said auf weidersehen as they walked away.

It was then time for a third chance in three days to leave Spain…our passports were metal-clicked, making us emigrees once again in the “limbo” of the airport gate. “Only passengers beyond this point.” “Did anyone else have control of your luggage?” “Did anyone else pack you luggage?” A last passport and boarding pass check, and with pre-analgesic grimaces, expecting the worst, we lined up to board, group by group, one to five. One of our number, experienced with artful airline shenanigans, had taken a picture of the tail fin of yesterday’s plane and definitively announced that this, indeed, was a different 767. There was no catering issue, no crew legality issue, no cargo door closure issue.

The plane took off nearly on time, landed nearly on time (+48 hours, of course). “Piece a cake” as a trainer at the gym used to say, counting reps.

On the Plane…Off the Plane, Part Two

11 June 2015

In Tarragona, Spain it’s 7:am Sunday and United, in full “We’re Sorry” mode tried tranquilizing us would-be travelers with an extravagant buffet breakfast. It was tantalizingly brief, though, since by 7:30 we had to be herded onto buses for the return trip to the airport, an hour away, and a flight home, although there was no indication that a plane was ready or that there was, indeed, a flight home for us, since the regularly scheduled flight was full and our “special flight” would have to be shoe-horned in.

For all their culinary thoughtfulness, United provided no one to tell us what plans they had for us and no Moses to hand hold us through a sea of Sunday passengers crowding the airport and guide us to the special check-in area, they pressed into service for us displaced persons. It was on a different floor, a furlong away…and if I didn’t mention it, we were dragging the luggage we crammed onto the bus in Tarragona, then pulled off the bus at the airport. Once there we had the luxury of a full two check-in lines for 230 passengers and stood, inching our luggage forward for a mere two hours to be weighed, measured and authenticated. Then with boarding passes, we lined up, another furlong away, for a security check and finally surged across the finish line to the gate only to wait another hour and a half to be loaded onto buses (the airplane wasn’t at the terminal gate). We had to be driven to the other side of the airport to the fix-it area, where our craft stood awaiting us. Up the gangway we emplaned, exuding hope, but with reticence…knowing a plane is only as good as the people fixing it.

Music played, the air conditioning was on and the overhead bins were closing…and we sat. The captain said we’d be moving shortly, after catering supplies were brought up to required levels. Then, after another hour, with the larder stocked, the captain told us we’re in a delay, because the other cargo door (not the one from yesterday) was not closing…but they were working on it. An hour later, he reassured us that they got the door to move a little and the hope was they’d be able to move it the rest of the way. Hope? Hope. This is an airplane, it operates with read-outs and instrument panels and electronic certainties. Hope is not a course they teach at pilot school. Hope went out with goggles, leather flight jackets and open cockpits.

Hope, or whatever, ran out an hour later. The door, supposedly, was fixed (I didn’t for a minute believe it), but now we were up against “crew legality issues”. Crew members can’t be on a plane past a certain number of hours, including the time spent in delays. And our crew was nearing the limit. Then the pilot, whose voice was drowning in sorrow, told us, word was from corporate, that this flight was cancelled again. Get your luggage from carousel six, we’re told, drag it to bus slip 29 for a trip to a hotel a mere 30 minutes from the airport, where you can wait on another line of 230 folks to check in. Of course, we had to go through Spanish immigration, again. I’ve now left and arrived back in Spain for two days running.

There’s more. This is cathartic.

On the Plane…Off the Plane

3 June 2015

The least pleasing part of a trip abroad is the coming home…not the return (to your own bed and a comforting routine), but the departure… having to pack a reluctant suitcase that can’t accommodate the clothes you came with and maybe a few small “chachkies” acquired along the way. Eventually, not caring what breaks, you sit on it so one side of the zipper touches the other just enough to close…a potential ‘Jack-in-the-Box for any customs agent assigned to get a ‘look-see’ into your belongings. Then there’s leaving early, how early is too early, in this case from Barcelona and its narrow, convoluted maze just off Las Ramblas. What if there’s traffic and long check-in lines and hundreds waiting for a security check and…missing the plane. In grim foreboding, I imagine hearing the PA system, ringing down the airport hallways…”Passenger William Scher, you’ve got 30 seconds to get to Gate 74, the plane is preparing for take off.” I’m running, dragging my stuff, but where is Gate 74? Somehow, magically, it all gets done. Not only that, but there was no traffic, no lines at check-in and only five minutes to get through TSA. Belt and shoes back on, x-rayed to a crisp, I relax, contemplating the two and a half hours to boarding. No rushing…ain’t that great.

So now there’s time for a little breakfast, one more croissant, a café con leche and a small orange juice…all for only 10 Euros ($11.40). What the hell, I had Euros to get rid of anyway. Then there’s time to read the newspaper on my iPhone, taking advantage of the free airport Wi-Fi. Only in my phone window is the message that the web site I want cannot be accessed because I’m not connected to the Internet. I shake the phone, but it still won’t accommodate. Now, though, it’s only two hours to boarding, I can daydream and people-watch for two hours.

And, finally, boarding begins and the 250 or so passengers are, eventually, boarded, belted and bonafide (a fourth passport check at the gate). The air conditioning is on, the music is playing, the luggage bins are closing…take off is moments away.
But minutes later, we’re aware that the plane is still at the gate. It hasn’t moved and there are strange scraping noises beneath the plane. The sooth-voiced captain switches on the PA and tells us there is a maintenance issue with a cargo door, being resolved. We’ll be taxiing to a runway any minute now. A plane with a maintenance issue…do I want to be flying on a plane with a maintenance issue? It’s okay, I tell myself, if the captain is comfortable flying it, it must be fine. He’s got a wife and kids to get home to, right?

Two hours later, after a few intermittent updates, a grim-voiced captain tells us the cargo door issue has not been resolved…the flight is cancelled.

There’s, obviously, more to come on this saga.

From the ‘You Can’t Make This Stuff Up’ Department

6 April 2015

In  a 120-seat movie theater on a holiday night…a film of limited-audience appeal at the end of its run…so all seats in the movie theater were empty…but for the two we got comfortable in for ten minutes, warming up. The theater’s half-lit high-hat lights thankfully dimmed, after an assault by the usual string of previews, refreshment reminders, exit door directions and cell phone turnoff requests. We were ready, at long last, for the film. But just as the film was about to begin, four more movie-goers shambled in, eating popcorn and scanning the theater and debating noisily about where to sit…in a virtually empty theater with a luxury of possibilities. They pointed and pondered. Consensus finally reached they, of course, slid into the row of seats directly in front of us. They didn’t skip a row, didn’t sit in a row behind us, not in the same row on the other side of the aisle. They didn’t move in two extra seats, so they wouldn’t be directly in front of us. The whole theater and those were the only four seats that made any sense.

There are times in this life, when you’re too flabbergasted to speak and the only thing that makes sense is to mutter that you can’t fricken believe it and change your seats. But next life, I’m coming back as a knit-brow psycho with a short fuse.

My Friend Forever…the Rug Merchant

29 March 2015

He was the worst thief in the bazaar and would bump up the price of a three-legged dog, claiming all the best dogs have three legs.

He was a rug merchant, after all, who inspired the advice as far back as the Silk Road never to buy at retail from a man who smiles like a cherub. The full price, writ large on a price tag means nothing; the sale price, though written in red below it means nothing, either. The former was $10,000 for a rug I liked, but feigned no interest in; the sale price beneath was $4,000; the former was fiction, the latter was the best he thought he could get and that’s when he brewed more espresso, so talk for the rug, I didn’t want, could began. I told him up front I wasn’t buying, but wouldn’t mind some espresso.

Yes, yes, he said, I know you’re not interested. To needle him a bit, I pointed out a leashed four-legged dog walked by a lady in a tiara. She merely feigns royalty, he said. Were she truly royal, she’d have a three-legged dog. Au contraire, I said, a three-legged dog is a faulty dog, not its fault, but faulty. No, no he said, sipping thick coffee, it’s bred for kings…like this rug spread out before you that graced a sultan’s summer palace. And though you are not royalty, I want you to have it. Listen to me, he said, I am your friend. You come into my house…I treat you like a brother. It’s true. I want to be your friend forever. I swear it on my father’s ring…a precious ruby, set in gold. Here, I’d like you to have it.

I couldn’t…and with talk of three-legged dogs and ruby rings, we’re straying from talk of the rug. Oh, yes, he said, the Royal Kerman that you don’t want. By the way, I said, I noticed three tiny holes, where winged intruders must have indulged, as it graced the Sultan’s floor. His rejoinder, without breaking stride, I told you, it is made of the finest wool. Now because you are my friend, he said, I will sacrifice clothes for my daughter and take $100 off the price. It breaks my heart, but I want to see you happy. I, too, I said, would like to see your face radiant as a pasha’s blush, so in honor of all three-legged dogs, I’ll give you $2000.

Flatterer, he said, but on her deathbed, I promised my sainted mother, that never would I sell this rug for less than $3750. It was her favorite. Was that $2500, I just heard, I asked him. No, no, that was the sound of tears, falling into my cup…$3600 and I’ll put in my own money to bring it up to $3750. The bargaining for this rug that I claimed no interest in went on through four cups of espresso and sugar cubes. And the talk was of knots per square inch, the wildflowers the sheep grazed on, the royal vats that dyed the wool, the house where it was weaved and the aged weaver…this, his last rug…the money from which would have to last him until called to Paradise.

I have a check, I said, already made out for $3000, my last check until new ones come in next month. Although, as you know, I have no interest in this rug, I do want to show my gratitude for the coffee and your pledge of friendship. Well, he said, I will lose money on it, but better to make a friend happy. Here, he said, take my father’s ring, too. Ah, the guilt I have, showing him how a real pro gets bargaining done. I’ll have the ring appraised next week.

I did go into an oriental rug emporium last week, thus this blog. The folksy profession of friendship, the offer of espresso hasn’t changed, since I bought an oriental 40 years ago. But the rugs now are made in India and China.

Life in the Twilight Zone

7 February 2015

I’m beginning to believe there is a supernatural Conspiracy of Coincidence…a connectedness of random events…one random event influencing another random event. Seemingly disparate things happening in a reasoned way. Let me explain.

I bought an airline ticket to Florida to spend a few days with cousins and escape…well, you know…shiver and glove weather. I also engaged a spot at an off-airport parking lot, since I drive to the airport. Nothing odd, so far.

At that same time, the furnace in the house shut off. But I’m savvy enough to check the glass water gauge, finding the level was low and had turned off the automatic on-off switch. So I turned the water valve, water crept up the gauge and the furnace turned on. Strange, I thought, I’ve never had to do that before. Over the next month I had to fill it several times and began realizing I couldn’t go away, leaving a furnace that would run out of water and, thus, not heat the house.. Visions of burst water pipes danced in my head.

I called my oil supplier and asked for a solution and got a flip, “don’t go away”. I finally got hold of a plumber who looked at the now purring, but ancient, beast and proposed a new automatic, digital water feed. But time was close to my departure date and, indeed, the work was done the day before I was going to leave. Of course, I’d be uncomfortable leaving without vetting the new part to make sure it wouldn’t be rejected by the host furnace, especially with temperatures hovering between teens and twenties. So I postponed my trip for three weeks.

Next day, the day I would have left, I ran to the super market for coffee. It was 8:30 in the morning and 12 degrees. Back to the car with coffee, I clicked the remote key, but the lock wouldn’t open. I put the key in the lock to open it manually. It turned (not frozen), but wouldn’t open. Long story short, I walked a mile back home, got a second car key and called a friend to drive me back to the car. That remote key didn’t work either. But somehow, manually, (without popping the button back up) it opened. Quick as a spark I drove to Honda. They replaced the batteries in both keys and, like magic, both came to life. The furnace, knock wood, and the car keys now function.

Which brings me to the coincidence. If the furnace had not delayed my trip, I would have driven to the airport ready to travel, but with a battery-weak key. At some point the car would have locked…inadvertently at the entrance filling out paperwork or in its parking space or somewhere in between. And a then-dead key would been powerless to open it, start it and move it…a misery, either before my trip or coming back from it. The possibilities for inconvenience in the middle of Queens in winter at rush hour (the time of my return flight) seemed endless.

Don’t tell me the furnace and the car key weren’t somehow connected. There is some kind of “woo-woo” at work here.

To Shovel, Then Melt and Shovel Again

24 January 2015

Just as civility from all reports seems to be rusting away from the body politic, comes this story from…well, from the block where I live. A well-forecast snow storm over night dumped half a foot of snow…just as predicted…a heavy, wet, ready-to-turn-to-slush snow. I took a leisurely time over a latte, knowing the snow would be there for shoveling, when I licked the last of the latte from a spoon. Donning snow gear, I threw open the door to discover my next door neighbor, heaving the last shovelfuls of snow from my driveway.

He had just finished, when a kid with a snow-blower, who had just cleared my neighbor’s sidewalk, went by. The kid, who I had never seen before, started clearing mine as well, an endless seventy-five-foot stretch with a Ben-Gay chaser. I’m standing on my stoop, slack-jawed in disbelief, but the kid never looked up, likely too embarrassed to accept thanks. A man with a snow shovel, who I also had never seen before, came after, clearing bits of snow the snow-blower had missed. At that point I made my way down to the man to shake his hand and ask him what quadrant of heaven he had come from. His son, manning the snow-blower, by that time, had disappeared around the corner on an evident quest to do all the sidewalks of all the houses on our block. It turns out that this family of snow clearers lives around the corner…funny how insular we get in our houses…but we had never met.

My next door neighbors for the past two or three years, when snow has been heavy, both footage and weight, have been shoveling, first a little bit over the line from their house to mine and now ever more, afraid that at my age…though, I feel young…I should be cutting back on the shoveling. Last year I opened the door, after an overnight snow, to find their daughter polishing off my stoop and the sidewalk up to the house. Just in case we think we can make it in this life without the help of others, we should think again.,

As a speaker at one daughter’s sixth grade graduation said, We live in the shade of trees other people planted. How true is that.

A Night on the Town…New York, That Is

11 January 2015

A night in New York is not that simple. Going to a concert or a play or a restaurant is always magnified by chance encounters along the way. A ticket to a play isn’t just two hours in a theater, but a bazaar of unexpected encounters, getting there and back. And sometimes the little things add up to more than the main event.

A friend and I went to a play last weekend. I parked uptown, where parking is possible and subways run. The setting for this opening act was a parking space next to Columbia and the Jewish Theological Seminary, with the spire of Riverside Cathedral a couple of blocks away. The elevated 125th Street subway platform overlooks an inspired new Columbia research, business and arts campus, Manhattanville, sprouting on once-scruffy acreage from Broadway to the Hudson on 125th Street. It was a raw New York late afternoon and we rode the subway to West 42nd Street and emerged from underground into a scrum of humanity.

Fading light at 125th Street became night by the time we got to 42nd and the earnestness of those New Yorkers with reservations and those just trying to find something to do, injected some drama and impatience into the scene. Saw horses funneled people into some venues: Madame Toussaud, Ripley’s, McDonalds as we walked west to pick up our tickets on Theater Row and then crossed the street to the West Bank Café for dinner. No tables were available, of course…you can’t be too casual in New York. But a few minutes wait at the bar and one man paid and left and another patron moved her stool for us, so we could fit in a second stool. And what is New York if not a cradle for casual conversations with strangers. She schooled us on the best offerings at the bar…she, a regular at West Bank, a house manager for Broadway shows and an Emmy voter. There had been a protest march nearby about the events in Ferguson, so grist for talk. On our way out after dinner, Lewis Black came in. I find it interesting, seeing someone up close, you’ve been entertained by. They’re ‘just folks’ for those who work around them, but I admire their courage to perform…so I’ll give a second look.

The play we saw was Wiesenthal about the Nazi hunter, a one-man show set in his office on the day he finally retired. It was written and performed by Tom Dugan, a 40-ish New Jersey Irishman, who played the 90-year-old Polish Jew, comfortably throwing around  bits of Yiddish. In a conversation with the audience afterwards, he introduced his two sons (it was Christmas vacation). One was thirteen and just had his bar mitzvah. Go figure. The evening was still young enough, so we traced steps back to the West Bank for dessert and then re-entered a still-vibrant scrum on 42nd Street, getting back to the subway. But the New York night wasn’t yet finished.

A laughing, boisterous group of kids got on our car with their ice skates, buzzing like fresh batteries. They bounced up and down, traded seats, laughed, spoke English and Spanish easily. Seated next to them was a seemingly sedate, older couple in tweeds and camel’s hair…he with a tie and a vest and a watch pocket with chain, she in an opera dress. No surprise if the posh couple had leaned away. But, no, the fobbed gentleman asked one of the girls about skating and a lively conversation started. There was probably a 60-year and 60-street difference between their worlds, one brash and one staid, but they laughed together. It’s New York.