On Noticing Things
Vignettes and occasional long-form stories on the tiny moments that make life full.
Breakfast at IHOP
The package of frozen blueberries smelled of weekends and deep purple. I remembered it from childhood.
As a treat Mom and Dad would take my sister and me to the International House of Pancakes for breakfast. I don’t know what we did to deserve it, but there was a whole row of flavored syrups.
I always went for blueberry.
The exchange
Hurricane Katrina had wrecked our plans. Bookstores cancelled the orders for 10,000 guidebooks to New Orleans.
That was the start of the slow unwind. There would be no need for any more PR or book signings. My boss walked me to an ATM and handed over what he had left.
He thanked me and sent me on my way.
She would not bend any further
She demanded a coffee then and there. Her legs were bowed.
But coffee orders were made one register over, and this one was closed. I tried to nudge her into the next queue. While she yapped about the incompetence of everyone, her crinkly eyes wished death upon me.
Again, she demanded a coffee then and there.
Prosecco and satoshis
Summer sat quietly in a chair in the corner. It was her wedding day. Yet she was here team building.
While her new husband slang back Prosecco, talked satoshis and digital shop, Summer sipped mint tea with the grace of a queen.
I wondered if her mind was here or somewhere else.
Vanishing act
The Buddha Bar Hotel in Prague’s Old Town was no place to keep a baby pig. But my boss, the editor-in-chief of luxury travel guides, had no other place to keep his birthday present.
The piglet donned a fashionable harness and leash for his debut walk in Staroměstská náměstí. A crowd of tourists gathered. Was it to laugh at the grown men walking a piglet, or to admire the pig?
Then piglet slipped away. They thought it was an act.
Hold on for dear life
The taxi driver arrived late. He blamed the rain. I swore too much.
He hadn’t lived in Boston long, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt as he sped into the curve at the Mass Ave Underpass.
A stream of headlights. The taxi skidded sideways.
Future perfect
All the other kids watched cartoons. I tuned in to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Every Saturday, Dionne Warwick’s voice lulled us into a world of champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Private helicopters swooped in. Precision German cars wove through Alpine roads.
I still sing the opening theme song.
She was never here
The American girl could be heard from the other side of the tram. The whiny, drawn-out last syllables were the first clue.
I gathered that she was attending university here in Prague. But she couldn’t wait to be back in Portland. There she could get Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups and butternut squash ravioli.
Had she tasted anything here?
Birthday three ways
A gardenful of us were there to celebrate our Golden Jubilarian. Everyone loves Annamária.
The serenade to her started with “Happy Birthday.” The next round with “Hodně štěstí, zdraví.” A sparkler began to crackle over the cake that contained all the gluten.
Then something that sounded like “Bulldog.”
Get me out of here
The sun had set. Downtown Victoria didn’t seem like an island paradise anymore.
A gang of men lined the stairs, drunk and high. Inside my hotel room I propped the chair against the door and clutched my Blackberry.
In the morning I would go get him from the hospital.