I have noticed that lots of people who go to Julius Meinl Café bring their dogs with them. The café keeps a couple of dog dishes outside the door -- one full of dog treats, one full of water. I often leave the café to find a pooch or two tied to the short fence that contains humans inside the outdoor seating area of the café.
When I left the café last week, only one dog was patiently waiting outside for its owner. The dog was sitting and slowly wagging its tail. While sitting, the dog came up to my chin. It was the largest St. Bernard I have ever seen. Ever -- in life or in a picture or in a formula-storyline Disney film.
Now this is saying something. In December of 2001 I thought I had encountered the largest St. Bernard I would ever lay eyes -- and a cautious hand -- on.
I was spending Christmas with David and his German relatives in their hometown, Ostentrop, Germany. I had known David for all of two and a half months and agreed to go with him to a town in Germany that was accessible only after a few trains, a one-car train, a bus, and then a gracious ride home from a relative. Or, one could take a train to Cologne and sit outside the train station and gaze upon one of the most beautiful Catholic churches ever built while waiting for a super-gracious ride home from a relative.
David’s relatives were wonderfully generous. They gave me a glimpse into the life of a German family, welcomed me as a family member, and helped me improve my fledgling German with teaching lessons in the kitchen, on walks through town, and while playing a Simpson’s board game that required me to count out bucks.
One morning I came into the kitchen to find Lisa (the mom of this branch of the family) preparing to go out to run errands. While she worked hard to get me to use my German, her English was great and we often used it as means of easy communication. She told me that the men were out “to steal a Christmas tree,” (I later learned that her use of steal was not a translation error) and asked me if I would like to go with her.
While I was a little envious of the men out tree hunting, I quickly agreed to go along and help with the food errands. As soon as we had pulled out of the driveway, I remembered the trip into Ostentrop. It is such as small town that there were no businesses -- at least not the traditional storefront or modern Try-N-Save businesses that you or I are used to.
Lisa drove past a house that had a small building attached to it. She explained that her cousin lived there (she seemed to have a cousin in every other house in town). Her cousin in this particular house was the town baker. The smaller building attached to the house was full of shelves on which he cooled his bread before packing the loaves up to deliver them.
Our particular mission that morning was milk and eggs. We were headed to a woman’s home where we could do one-stop shopping. We approached a house that had a barn attached to it. Yes, attached to it. I had seen many home-barn combinations like this in that part of Germany. A similar house down the road from this one had a couple of horses tied to a wagon full of hay in front of it. The horses were the size of Clydesdales (the only breed of horse with which I have any familiarity).
As we pulled up to the barn side of the milk and eggs house, it appeared as though a horse was tied in front. It was no horse. Lisa cautioned me before we left the car -- this was a very large and extremely protective St. Bernard.
Lisa told me that the dog was chained to the house because the dog could become overly affectionate or overly aggressive depending on the visitor. She assured me that our caution was in the dog becoming overly affectionate. She was convinced that the dog had learned to recognized license plates since he often started reacting before visitors had exited their car. This was most problematic for the town butcher (one of Lisa’s cousins). The dog was as protective of the farm animals as he was of his owners and consistently pitched a raucous fit each time the butcher came to slaughter some of the dog’s charges.
The dog was indeed chained to the house. He got up from his snoozing position to lumber towards Lisa and me leaving ropes of drool nearly as long as his chain. Lisa offered a hand to the dog and a couple of affection rubs behind the ear. She suggested I let the dog get to know me as well. I successfully left my introduction to the dog (whose name I am sad to admit I cannot recall) with all of my digits and limbs intact, albeit a bit more moist.
While the St. Bernard was the original point of my story, telling the story reminds me of two other things. One, the purveyor of eggs and milk was a lady right out of National Geographic. She was a collection of circles: round knot of hair, round face, round glasses perched in front of smiling round eyes, round figure. She had on what appeared to be about thirty skirts and aprons of various colors and lengths. Her cheeks were rosy and chapped from the wind. She had a pair of very large hands that had clearly seen many years of work.
When we went in the door, we were in a kind of barn foyer. It was a workspace with long benches and stacks of empty egg cartons and various types of milk containers. If you walked straight ahead, you would come upon the kitchen. If you looked to the right, you could see the cows in their stalls through the Dutch door to the barn.
With my minimal German, I could understand as Lisa explained to the woman who I was and where I was from. The lady smiled at me, took two steps closer to me, and screamed in my general direction in German, “DO YOU HAVE SNOW WHERE YOU COME FROM?” Though my German vocabulary at that point in my studies was very limited, I happened to know all of the words she used. I politely answered that we were in fact familiar with snow in my part of the world, “Ja.”
Lisa handed her a couple of egg cartons and two huge containers for milk. The farmhouse lady (whose name I also cannot recollect) left us briefly to go get eggs and milk.
Perhaps my most vivid memory from this experience in Germany of just over twelve years ago revived by a large St. Bernard in Chicago last week, is what happened next. The milk and eggs lady said good bye to Lisa and then thoughtfully shouted a good bye and Merry Christmas in my direction. I got in the car and Lisa asked if I would hold the milk containers so that they wouldn’t spill on the way home.
Now I do not necessarily consider myself to be a city woman, and yet by no means I am a country woman either -- here, my second memory. Being a child of an old bedroom community suburb, I am used to milk being 2%, homogenized, pasteurized, and cold. And though I am intelligent enough to understand that milk does not come out of a cow 2%, homogenized, pasteurized, and cold, the warmth of the fresh milk on my lap during the ride home was something of an unappetizing surprise.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Travel Companions
I hate flying. I'm not afraid of take offs or landings. I’m not afraid of turbulence or terrorists. I just don't like the chaotic crush of humanity that is always the case when flying.
At the end March I had to fly from O'Hare to LAX. I was heading out to Long Beach for a conference (TESOL) that I attend every year. I realized as I was packing that the last time I flew was for this conference last year -- that time in Baltimore. I also realized that this would be the first time in a long time that I would be flying out of O'Hare.
I rarely fly. But when I fly, I often fly Southwest. They usually fly to where I'm going -- with just a couple of stops -- they are frequently cheaper, and they fly out of Midway in Chicago which is a much more manageably-sized airport for me.
This time I flew United. United is great for flying to major cities at about any time you could want. I had my pick of flights to LAX. My sweet husband drove me to the airport giving me plenty of time to make it through the gauntlet that is security.
The whole process was actually very smooth. I used an ATM-like check in for the first time. It worked quite well. A very nice security guard inspected my bag and a helpful airline employee checked it for me and confirmed my boarding pass. I proceeded through security taking off minimal items of clothing and was on my way to the gate.
I flipped through a magazine at my leisure and waited for boarding. The only glitch at the gate was the fact that the signs posted in the terminal and over the gate desk said Tokyo. The employees frequently reassured us that we were in fact going to Los Angeles.
As I waited, I realized that this was the first flight I've taken in a long time that has assigned seating. Flying Southwest made me comfortable with the prospect of choosing my own seat, and often therefore, my travel companions. On this flight I would be at the mercy of the United computer system.
I would board with the middle group. As I made my way onto the plane and greeted flight attendants who looked oh-so-happy to be serving me today, I quickly learned that I had gotten a window seat. Slowly I worked my way back to my seat. I finally spotted my row -- two elderly people were already seated there. I had to wait for a man to stow all of his worldly possessions in the overhead bin before I could politely ask the couple to let me in. They seemed a little surprised at first.
I got settled in my seat. I got my magazines and my new PDA with a very cool game on it at the ready. The woman was seated next to me -- she gestured toward my rings and said "pretty." I said thank you. She then said something to her husband. I realized in that moment that I had the best seat on the plane. Not only was I seated next to a friendly older couple -- but they spoke Italian and had very little English!
Please don't think me terrible. I have met many complete strangers and ended up having many wonderful encounters with people -- but sometimes I just want to sit on the plane and read or sleep or play Bedazzled and not have share anything with my seatmates other than the intimacy of our hips being wedged in together.
We arrived at LAX without incident. I smiled a good-bye to my travel companions and made my way to the restroom (I hate going on the plane), baggage claim, and then the shuttle vans.
I was happy to spend about five days in Long Beach with two friends with whom I share a hotel room every year at TESOL. I attended some paper presentations, a couple of colloquia, and strolled more than a few times through the exhibitors hall to flip through and buy some of the latest publications in my field. I saw long-lost friends and colleagues and stayed up way too late and woke up way too early.
I was scheduled to return on Saturday. I was hoping that the return trip would be smooth. I was hoping that there wouldn't be millions of travelers. I realized as I sat in the shuttle van that a couple of hundred people from the conference made the same plan I did (the conference actually continues through Saturday). I spent the ride to LAX talking with a group of ladies from Texas who were all decked out in perfect running suits that looked like they had to be dry cleaned. Each of them had on more jewelry that I will probably own over the course of my life.
The last stop at LAX was for United. The shuttle driver started apologizing as we pulled up. Then he said, "I'm sure glad I don't have to deal with this today." There were lines outside of the terminal that made it look like the place had been evacuated. We asked a 4 foot 11 lady in a uniform and orange vest where we should go. She blew her whistle "You need to cross through the line (whistle) then get in line inside to check in (whistle) don't get in the line to come back out here until you check in (whistle)."
I was immediately sure that checking in at LAX would not be nearly as smooth or quick as checking in at O'Hare.
I got in line inside to check in using one of the ATM-like machines. The machine recognized me via my credit card (that still really kind of spooks me), checked me in, asked me if I had bags to check, and then denied me a boarding pass. What? I calmly waited for the one employee who was working six different machines. She came by to check my bag. I asked her about the boarding pass. She gave me my gate information and told me to go there and try to get one. I booked this flight in January.
I was directed to take my checked bag back outside the terminal to get in that line. (I'm sorry, how is this safer?) I waited in that line for about 15 minutes until my favorite lady with a whistle directed a group of us back into the door we came out of (and had not moved past) to get in a short line right inside the door to have our bags inspected. The inspection didn't take very long.
Once my bag was deemed safe and taken from me, I was directed into another line just adjacent to the bag inspection line. About three of us moved over into the line. Another short woman (is there a height limit for this job?) told us that this security section had been closed and we were to cross through another line and then walk across the terminal to the other side to go through security there. (Again, I ask you, is this safe?)
I won't bore you with the circus that was this security checkpoint. Once it was finally my turn, I again got through turning on only a few appliances and taking off only a little bit of clothing. Whew.
Now I had to get myself a boarding pass. I found my gate. The plane sitting outside the gate was the size of trans-Atlantic planes. The gate area had about 20 seats and about 200 passengers -- most of them Japanese(?). I got in line at the desk. The woman working the desk got on the speaker to make sure that as few people as possible could understand her announcement that if you were waiting for boarding pass or flying standby you should get out of line and wait for your name to be called. If you were hoping to change seats you should get out of line because it was not going to happen because the flight was full. Only two of us got out of line -- what were those other people doing?
I found a comfortable spot against a support column and started flipping through the papers that I bought for Dave. I noticed off to my right a lady looking at me. I quickly glanced up and determined that I knew her but that I didn't know from where. I stared at the paper without reading it -- did I know her from the conference? Was she someone I spoke with after a presentation? Maybe she is from Chicago and I know her from the neighborhood or church. It really bothered me until my name was called and I scampered up to get my boarding pass just as they were doing the final boarding.
Since I was one of the last people on the plane, I naturally had a seat in the very last row. The plane really was a big one -- there were two aisles with two seats along each side and a set of three seats in the middle. I was in the last row, middle section, middle seat.
I really just didn't care at this point. I battled my way back to my seat down the left-side aisle. I politely asked the young woman on the outside seat to let me in. I got in, got my magazines and PDA and bottled water at the ready and buckled up. I noticed that there was an elderly lady on my left -- she gestured to my rings and said "Pretty."
The lady from the gate area was the same travel companion as on my flight out! What are the chances? She and her husband were flying this time with a younger woman who was seated with the man in the seats across the aisle from the woman I had sat next to on the way to LAX.
Again, the flight went without incident. I read and slept and read some more. When we touched down at O'Hare I waited for most of the plane to clear before gathering my things. I walked out with my travel companions and then smiled another good-bye before heading to the ladies room and then baggage claim.
Baggage claim was chaos. Many flights had been delayed due to storms out east and bags were stacked everywhere. Lots of spring breakers were searching for bags. I found a spot toward the very end of the baggage carousel and waited. I waited a long time. Dave was waiting for me while circling upstairs through the departures area trying to avoid screaming security guards. The board showing which flights the baggage was from started adding flights from places like Omaha and Cleveland. Still no bag.
Just as I was starting to get nervous, a batch of bags came out together. I saw a woman who I thought was on my flight pick up her bag on the other side of the carousel. Sure enough, my bag was there. I positioned myself to grab it. I got my bag, checked that it was mine, and released the handle. I turned to finally leave this airport and end this trip. Just behind me at the baggage claim area was my travel companion who waved and smiled at me as I left.
At the end March I had to fly from O'Hare to LAX. I was heading out to Long Beach for a conference (TESOL) that I attend every year. I realized as I was packing that the last time I flew was for this conference last year -- that time in Baltimore. I also realized that this would be the first time in a long time that I would be flying out of O'Hare.
I rarely fly. But when I fly, I often fly Southwest. They usually fly to where I'm going -- with just a couple of stops -- they are frequently cheaper, and they fly out of Midway in Chicago which is a much more manageably-sized airport for me.
This time I flew United. United is great for flying to major cities at about any time you could want. I had my pick of flights to LAX. My sweet husband drove me to the airport giving me plenty of time to make it through the gauntlet that is security.
The whole process was actually very smooth. I used an ATM-like check in for the first time. It worked quite well. A very nice security guard inspected my bag and a helpful airline employee checked it for me and confirmed my boarding pass. I proceeded through security taking off minimal items of clothing and was on my way to the gate.
I flipped through a magazine at my leisure and waited for boarding. The only glitch at the gate was the fact that the signs posted in the terminal and over the gate desk said Tokyo. The employees frequently reassured us that we were in fact going to Los Angeles.
As I waited, I realized that this was the first flight I've taken in a long time that has assigned seating. Flying Southwest made me comfortable with the prospect of choosing my own seat, and often therefore, my travel companions. On this flight I would be at the mercy of the United computer system.
I would board with the middle group. As I made my way onto the plane and greeted flight attendants who looked oh-so-happy to be serving me today, I quickly learned that I had gotten a window seat. Slowly I worked my way back to my seat. I finally spotted my row -- two elderly people were already seated there. I had to wait for a man to stow all of his worldly possessions in the overhead bin before I could politely ask the couple to let me in. They seemed a little surprised at first.
I got settled in my seat. I got my magazines and my new PDA with a very cool game on it at the ready. The woman was seated next to me -- she gestured toward my rings and said "pretty." I said thank you. She then said something to her husband. I realized in that moment that I had the best seat on the plane. Not only was I seated next to a friendly older couple -- but they spoke Italian and had very little English!
Please don't think me terrible. I have met many complete strangers and ended up having many wonderful encounters with people -- but sometimes I just want to sit on the plane and read or sleep or play Bedazzled and not have share anything with my seatmates other than the intimacy of our hips being wedged in together.
We arrived at LAX without incident. I smiled a good-bye to my travel companions and made my way to the restroom (I hate going on the plane), baggage claim, and then the shuttle vans.
I was happy to spend about five days in Long Beach with two friends with whom I share a hotel room every year at TESOL. I attended some paper presentations, a couple of colloquia, and strolled more than a few times through the exhibitors hall to flip through and buy some of the latest publications in my field. I saw long-lost friends and colleagues and stayed up way too late and woke up way too early.
I was scheduled to return on Saturday. I was hoping that the return trip would be smooth. I was hoping that there wouldn't be millions of travelers. I realized as I sat in the shuttle van that a couple of hundred people from the conference made the same plan I did (the conference actually continues through Saturday). I spent the ride to LAX talking with a group of ladies from Texas who were all decked out in perfect running suits that looked like they had to be dry cleaned. Each of them had on more jewelry that I will probably own over the course of my life.
The last stop at LAX was for United. The shuttle driver started apologizing as we pulled up. Then he said, "I'm sure glad I don't have to deal with this today." There were lines outside of the terminal that made it look like the place had been evacuated. We asked a 4 foot 11 lady in a uniform and orange vest where we should go. She blew her whistle "You need to cross through the line (whistle) then get in line inside to check in (whistle) don't get in the line to come back out here until you check in (whistle)."
I was immediately sure that checking in at LAX would not be nearly as smooth or quick as checking in at O'Hare.
I got in line inside to check in using one of the ATM-like machines. The machine recognized me via my credit card (that still really kind of spooks me), checked me in, asked me if I had bags to check, and then denied me a boarding pass. What? I calmly waited for the one employee who was working six different machines. She came by to check my bag. I asked her about the boarding pass. She gave me my gate information and told me to go there and try to get one. I booked this flight in January.
I was directed to take my checked bag back outside the terminal to get in that line. (I'm sorry, how is this safer?) I waited in that line for about 15 minutes until my favorite lady with a whistle directed a group of us back into the door we came out of (and had not moved past) to get in a short line right inside the door to have our bags inspected. The inspection didn't take very long.
Once my bag was deemed safe and taken from me, I was directed into another line just adjacent to the bag inspection line. About three of us moved over into the line. Another short woman (is there a height limit for this job?) told us that this security section had been closed and we were to cross through another line and then walk across the terminal to the other side to go through security there. (Again, I ask you, is this safe?)
I won't bore you with the circus that was this security checkpoint. Once it was finally my turn, I again got through turning on only a few appliances and taking off only a little bit of clothing. Whew.
Now I had to get myself a boarding pass. I found my gate. The plane sitting outside the gate was the size of trans-Atlantic planes. The gate area had about 20 seats and about 200 passengers -- most of them Japanese(?). I got in line at the desk. The woman working the desk got on the speaker to make sure that as few people as possible could understand her announcement that if you were waiting for boarding pass or flying standby you should get out of line and wait for your name to be called. If you were hoping to change seats you should get out of line because it was not going to happen because the flight was full. Only two of us got out of line -- what were those other people doing?
I found a comfortable spot against a support column and started flipping through the papers that I bought for Dave. I noticed off to my right a lady looking at me. I quickly glanced up and determined that I knew her but that I didn't know from where. I stared at the paper without reading it -- did I know her from the conference? Was she someone I spoke with after a presentation? Maybe she is from Chicago and I know her from the neighborhood or church. It really bothered me until my name was called and I scampered up to get my boarding pass just as they were doing the final boarding.
Since I was one of the last people on the plane, I naturally had a seat in the very last row. The plane really was a big one -- there were two aisles with two seats along each side and a set of three seats in the middle. I was in the last row, middle section, middle seat.
I really just didn't care at this point. I battled my way back to my seat down the left-side aisle. I politely asked the young woman on the outside seat to let me in. I got in, got my magazines and PDA and bottled water at the ready and buckled up. I noticed that there was an elderly lady on my left -- she gestured to my rings and said "Pretty."
The lady from the gate area was the same travel companion as on my flight out! What are the chances? She and her husband were flying this time with a younger woman who was seated with the man in the seats across the aisle from the woman I had sat next to on the way to LAX.
Again, the flight went without incident. I read and slept and read some more. When we touched down at O'Hare I waited for most of the plane to clear before gathering my things. I walked out with my travel companions and then smiled another good-bye before heading to the ladies room and then baggage claim.
Baggage claim was chaos. Many flights had been delayed due to storms out east and bags were stacked everywhere. Lots of spring breakers were searching for bags. I found a spot toward the very end of the baggage carousel and waited. I waited a long time. Dave was waiting for me while circling upstairs through the departures area trying to avoid screaming security guards. The board showing which flights the baggage was from started adding flights from places like Omaha and Cleveland. Still no bag.
Just as I was starting to get nervous, a batch of bags came out together. I saw a woman who I thought was on my flight pick up her bag on the other side of the carousel. Sure enough, my bag was there. I positioned myself to grab it. I got my bag, checked that it was mine, and released the handle. I turned to finally leave this airport and end this trip. Just behind me at the baggage claim area was my travel companion who waved and smiled at me as I left.
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