On Noticing Things
Vignettes and occasional long-form stories on the tiny moments that make life full.
Easier then
Mom made us go to swim practice. I hated it. But she was convinced that we would drown otherwise.
We’d head off to the public pool in our wood-paneled station wagon. My favorite place to sit was above the armrests between the front driver’s and passenger’s seats. Not only could I see everything from there, but I could play with the buttons on the radio.
Sometimes Mom would suddenly brake—only because of other drivers. Her right arm would immediately lock in place to brace me.
Code of conduct
It was a blessing that the tram’s air conditioning was working—and that it wasn’t overfilled for the afternoon commute.
Two university-age passengers were seated diagonally across from each other in the four-pack section. They gave the appearance of nice people, despite their loud Americanness. One was talking about wanting to go on a missionary to Kenya. The other’s ambitions were nowhere near as big.
Then I noticed his foot resting on the empty seat in front of him. I thought to myself, “why did I expect so much better?”
Swiss industrial
It was our first trip to Europe. Folks didn’t want to travel because the war had cast smoke over the Alps. Tickets to Zürich dropped to $338 round trip.
Fear and excitement kept us up through the short night on the plane—so we were ready to get to our hotel. I helped Dad navigate checking us in at the Mövenpick. After all, I had studied six weeks of German.
In the lobby, cigarette smoke curled around Edison bulbs. The smell made me feel like I had arrived.
All dried up
My son had just dropped me off at the Terminál station. I wanted to buy a bottle of Mattoni to take with me for the onward trip.
Inside the station, roller shutters covered the Relay stand. The Chinese buffet looked like it had gone out of business. The note on the window in the outside kiosk read back at 13.00, but it was already 14.00.
I spotted a drink dispenser tucked under the staircase. It didn’t have what I wanted.
Cooler in the courtyard
Johnny and I sat in the courtyard at Osada with our iced green and jasmine teas. The cold hurt my teeth, so I sipped mine much slower.
It was full of young Holešovicites looking professionally trendy. Girls at their laptops strategically revealed their tattoos—and sneaked peeks to catch who was admiring.
A waitress stacked ice coffees and overpriced desserts in the arms of the girl on a Oneboard. She leaned in and zoomed off. Johnny and I looked at each other puzzled.
On different paths
It was the kind of hot that makes you think twice about doing anything at all. I took a shortcut through the Franciscan Garden where the trees bring shade and cool.
The homeless man lay sprawled across the park bench, snoring. His sun-darkened face looked like dried tobacco.
Teenagers sat on the bench across from him debating love over DMs. I wondered if the man ever had those worries.
Caught off guard
It was my freshman year at university. I missed my sister and wanted to surprise her.
Mom and Dad picked me up at the airport and stowed me away at their house. No one else could find out about our clandestine operation.
I sneaked through the cluster of cars in the carport with flutters in my chest. Kim stopped mid-sentence and let out a loud scream.
At the gates
I wanted to get David and the kids through first. They were the priority.
I handed my passport to the officer at the checkpoint at Tunis-Carthage airport. He raged at me in Arabic—about “Qaddafi” and “USA”—over something that happened decades ago.
David and the kids watched from the other side.
And then there was one
He came to me through an advert. In the photo he leaned against his brother and sister.
The village babička passed him to me through the car door in the parking lot where we met. He fit in the palm of my hand. His ears were almost as big as his head.
She wanted us to take two. But we only planned for one.
Sugar highs
I was no fan of mayonnaise. That’s all that came to mind when we drove for an hour to Henri’s Deli: sandwiches slathered in mayonnaise.
Atlantans called it “Andre’s.” The silent French H and throaty r required acts of contortion for any proper southerner.
But I loved the ladies behind the glass cases. They gave me free shortbread cookies with colored icing.