I can hardly wear any more accessories than absolutely required; my German arm-band is the only exception. Precisely the reason why I have never worn hats, rings, chains and what have you.
Living in California, I have repeatedly debated adding a Hat to that exception list. No Luck yet.
Walking around at the Union Square, I found myself in a Hat shop, looking at a couple standing next to me try hats on. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
He would put a hat on and look at her and the mirror. She would tilt her head sideways and then straighten it, pout her lips and then nod. So it went on until he ran out of hats to try on and they left.
That incident was enough for me to picture my little romantic hat shopping escapade. Simple things about settling down, going shopping together, valuing other person’s opinion, normally buying more expensive items than you otherwise would, attaching a story or an incident …essentially a memory to most of the pieces of clothes you pick up. All of it just seemed too romantic to ignore.
Ever since that day, I have worn that foolish romantic hat that has driven me to live that hat shopping experience. The other day, walking down on Height, I couldn’t resist the temptation to walk right into the shop and try a few hats on.
It may be extremely insignificant and fade away in the avalanche of new experiences, but
When you pointed at the pink hat and asked me to try it. Then you adjusted the black hat I was trying on and nodded. Looked at me as I tried a few more and smiled.
I just lived that one moment; I had been looking for all along.
I believe the life hardly ever sets up a dinner table for you with a neat clean white table cloth, pristine silverware, dinner plates and wine glasses. You have to assemble one single item at a time by yourself for that dinner with someone. As aware and cognizant I am of this reality, it won’t stop me from a being a die-hard romantic.
And if nothing else, I would have had almost bought that hat with you.
Neo
An average evening, in fact a below average one - with an initial misunderstanding about tasty Indian food in a crummy little Indian restaurant versus a fancy mediterranean place on the waterfront. Not hard to imagine we ended up at a crummy little Indian joint. Then a fumbling walk by trapped sea water in Foster City and eventually by the bay in San Mateo. A little later, while I sat down staring at the bay and she preferred to sit in car, the evening wasn’t looking up either.
But then we roll into this desserts place which sells super high calorie sweets but absolutely delicious if I may add. This place is just by the movie hall and I say, “So do you want to catch a movie.” One thing to the other and we end up at the movie hall. Midnight in Paris is the only one we can watch. Woody Allen and set in Paris, I think twice and then she buys the tickets. Least I could do was to get the popcorns. (They are extremely high priced but I refrained from commenting and am glad that I did. Because I know, perhaps you do too, where that would have gone)
Walk into a completely empty movie hall as if it were a personal screening. I can’t decided if I am happy that a few more folks walked in before the movie started or I would rather have it other way round.
This is a movie set in Paris, where a successful Hollywood script writer begins to search for his inspiration to complete his novel while he is out freeloading with her fiancée’s family. .The family is there on a business visit. He has a poetic aspiration of living in a French attic with sunlight glazing through the roof top and she wants a Malibu mansion.
Every night the protagonist (Own Wilson) slips into his illusional golden era of Paris, where he spends time with Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Picasso. He meets a woman in his figments of imagination – Adriana, who one day travels to even older Paris… one that existed in 1890’s. In search of a more surreal, and poetically beautiful Paris.
That is where perhaps I realized, Romanticism flirts with the denial. At times in my mind, denial always takes my romanticism to the bed. Only to wake up next morning for that walk of shame….some times just until the door, sometimes until that phone call, a blog post or a long hard stare at the horizon.
Sitting in this tiny little, ill ventilated studio of mine, in one of the vibrant cities in the world, I think of my time in Paris and my depreciating capital of memories…. And I wonder
Oh well. This is life. It is a bit dissatisfying and probably because it is now and it is a present. My Present, a choice that I make or perhaps made…
I don’t want to look back on my time too quick too soon
Neo
8:13am : Colin drops me off at the Mountain View caltrain station
8:16am : I briskly walk towards the ticket vending machine
8:16am : I am interrupted by this graceful old man, wearing a hat, overcoat and gold-rim glasses, with a big suitcase on his left and his wife to his right.
“Exkhuse me, can I buy tickets for the airport from this machine?”
He asked a question, and I heard
“Oh, you look like one of them. Locals! Who spend half their life either waiting for the caltrain or on the caltrain. Maybe you know something about this overpriced Californian public transport system.”
On your day-5 in a fairly new place, being asked for help as if you were a local (although, I see how he could mistake me for a local – there a ton of Indians in the bay, a bit too much for me as well), is like an honor, is like a certification. I felt a sense a obligation and pride to help the man out. Emm and also, the fact that he was old and was with his wife and spoke in a strange language with her.
So, I tried helping them, the machine won’t accept the bills.
(cutting all the mundane details out > we move to a different vending machine) The train is expected at 8:23am
8:20am : I am third in the row to get my tickets. Old man doesn’t seem in a hurry at all. I wonder when his flight is leaving.
8:21am: Old man taps me on my back and shows me a woman trying to buy ticket from the same machine. Makes his point very clear that he wasn’t wasting anyone’s time, the machine is actually at fault. I calmly node in agreement
8:22am: We (myself, old man and wife) get our tickets and now we wait for the train.
“What language did you converse in earlier on?”
“French” …. “But we are NOT French”
“Oh, so you are Canadians ehh”
“Oh, no no, not at all. We are Swiss.”
It is that oh my God, I am so sorry moment. I can’t do much but just deflect my embarrassment by asking some other question…one of my favorite … “So you must know German as well”
“Man nodes, in pride. Naturlisch, Ich kann ja Deutwesch” (Offcourse, I speak German)
“Na ja, schweiz Deutch oder Hoch”(oh well, Swiss German or High-German)
He looks at me surprised and amused and leans back a little and proudly say “Bidas” (Both)
He mentions how he speaks a lot languages, how he is headed to Vegas for the weekend and so on.
8:23am
Train approaches and I ask, “Soll ich mit dem gepack hilfen?” (Should I help you with the bags)
Perhaps I should have said “Darf Ich?” (May I) or “Lass mich hilfen” (allow me to help you)
Anyways, he respectfully denies help. And as the train approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers
“Wir sind schon Alt aber noch nicht so alt” and Laughs, while tapping my back
“We are already old but not so old”
Neo
Up until a century ago, the word didn’t even exist. Even if it did, I wonder how many were aware of its meaning. And then slowly it gained momentum. Earlier on it was a fad, crazy hippies and poets believed in recycling and rest just made fun of them. And now, let us just say masses are taking it seriously or at least trying to.
The whole concept of Recycling is based off of a fact that resources are limited and they will run out sooner rather than later. Therefore, recycle used articles in order to conserve the restricted natural resources.
I say why not apply the fundamental to our emotions. Let us recycle. Let us recycle those emotions for more than their worth to make the best out of what life has thrown at us. If in some strange philosophical way it is true that each heart has a certain number of beats assigned to it before it stops, what is to stop us from concluding that human mind is programmed only to feel a certain kind and number of emotions. Say n and then..what happens after that…
How often have you felt betrayed, cheated, annoyed, helpless, frustrated, scared, worried, beat….. and how often have you felt victorious, thrilled, charged, excited, motivated, doubtless, satisfied, contend, happy. Why not recycle our emotions for more than what they are worth. I know you can’t make a premium bond paper out of a trash of newspaper material. However, shouldn’t it be possible to go from frustration to calm, from neutral to contend and from emptiness to a smile?
Why don’t we recycle? Why can’t we recycle?
Neo
