Papusas and Dow
Whenever there is a "moment with a stranger" that ends in me getting asked out by a man, it does not make the cut to get recorded in this blog. Those moments with "courters" make me so grumpy, I've never equated them with my happy/funny/interesting moments with strangers I do write about.
Whenever I'm in the U District, I get pupusas. The only other pupusas in Seattle that I know of are at a Latin Folklore shop in Capitol Hill.
This is my experience with Capitol Hill pupusas:
"Can I have a zuchinni pupusa?"
"We're out," says the server.
"Can I order the pork and cheese without the pork?"
"Oh...we can't make it without the pork..."
...because they are pre-packaged, frozen pupusas? To be fair, this is predominantly a coffee shop.
But Juanaco's Tacos is a different story. They're all about the pupusas. You see them being made by hand in the kitchen while you order. This is the thing I miss most about D.C.
"You're from D.C.?!" exclaims Carlos, one of my newer students, a refugee from El Salvador. "There are lots of El Salvadoreans there!"
"Verdad, eso es comó yo sabe hablar español."
Carlos laughs and is forgiving with my rusty Spanish because he's glad I try. He and I have decided that everyone should know a few conversational phrases in Spanish, but as a teacher, I should learn how to speak it fluently.
So, I go to Juanaco's Tacoas and hope someday I'll be brave enough to practice Spanish here, but it always feels too presumptuous for me to start.
There's a crowd of novices in front of me, who seem to be reading each and every item on the menu a foot back from the counter. I fidget a little. "Are you all in line?" I finally ask, as sweetly as possible.
They shuffle forward with lots of questions. I'm doing my best to look super patient. "So, you must know what you're doing?" asks one of the group members.
I smile and nod as patiently as I can.
"Tell me," he says, "what's good?"
"Well, pupusas, obviously."
"What's a pupusa?" he asks.
Why are you here?! I respond in my head. But out of my mouth comes, "It starts as a ball of dough. They poke a hole in it and stuff all the fixins in there, whatever you want. Meat, beans, cheese."
"My favorite things! I love it already," he says.
"Then, they flatten out the ball and deep fry it, it's kind of like a tortilla but with all the good stuff inside already. You dip it in the spicy coleslaw or salsa."
This, of course, is the description of the proper way to make pupusas. Not the description of how Laura Beth and I made them for her school project. I came into the kitchen and she had already dissolved to rolling out a circle of dough, laying down a layer of cheese and beans, then putting on a top layer of dough, and pinching the sides together. It was creative, I'll give her that.
"Wow," he says, eyes wide. He hands me his menu, "Can you order for me?"
"Oh...I don't know." This has all the suspicion of turning into a pick-up ploy moment with stranger, and I just want some lunch.
"Please," he says.
It's our turn to step up to the counter and arguing will only increase the time it takes to get my pupusas.
"He'll have the #7, one pupusa with meat and cheese, one with loroco."
"What kind of beans on the side?" the guy behind the counter asks.
I look at the orderee but he smiles and holds up his hands.
"Black," I say, not wanting this to take any longer than it has to. I put the menu down. "I'll also have the #7, two pupusas with beans and cheese, black beans on the side."
We pay separately, neither acknowledging any other option. He thanks me and sits with his friends. He really just needed help ordering lunch. A truly nice moment with a stranger.
My other recent moment with a stranger was sitting next to the King County Executive at a fundraiser. "I just voted for you," I told him.
"That was nice of you," Dow said. Then he told me to pour him more wine. "Please," he said as an after thought. At least he's been good for transportation.
Showing posts with label strangers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strangers. Show all posts
Friday, November 29, 2013
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Moments with Strangers #2
Airports
I'm feeling good in the moment. Airports will do that for me. So many people with so many stories. So many opportunities for plans to change at a moments notice. So much time to spend reading, writing, chatting, calling people, going for walks, observing from coffee shops.
The stout wrinkled woman comes up to me smiling. "Pasco?" she asked.
"Pasco?" I repeat stupidly.
"Washington?" she asks next.
"Washington?" I say, feeling like a parrot.
"Va a llegar Pasco..." is all I catch as she says something to herself, thinking over how to translate it to English. (I've done this myself many times, the opposite way.)
"Yo no se," I offer. "Lo siento."
"Ah! Ok." She laughs in delight at my attempt to communicate with her in Spanish. We smile and go our separate ways.
I approach Gate 80 cautiously. My flight was supposed to leave from Gate 64 at 2:00. When I got to the airport, it had been moved to Gate 84 according to the Departure Boards, but Gate 84 wasn't publicizing that it was home to flight 6337 to Colorado Springs yet. When it finally claimed the flight, it was delayed by half an hour. Within half an hour, the flight was moved to Gate 80, hence my hesitation.
I hear one of the people sitting in the waiting area remark "...not leaving until 2:30 now." I approach them, "Is this the flight to Colorado Springs?"
They shrug their shoulders with a smile, "We hope so!" The gate has yet to own the flight, but I decide to sit down with this crew, because at least we're in this together now. I warned my mother, I should never fly United.
I was about 12 when the curse started. My dad was supposed to fly from the cabin to KC for a Goodman family reunion, and then drive my Blythe grandparents back to the cabin. My mom asked my sister and I to get my dad a paper to help his nerves while he flew. The front page had a story about a plane crash, a bad omen, but my mom said give im the paper anyway.
We hung out in Denver all day because Aunt Diane and Ryan were flying in later that day. We went back to the airport to pick them up, and my mom called the Blythe grandparents from a pay phone, who were grateful to hear from us! They had been hoping we would call, and told us not to leave the airport, that my dad was still at the gate, where he'd been for hours, and his plane was going nowhere.
Since then flying United for me has resulted in lost luggage, delayed flights, and any mix-up you can have in an airport. I still shudder when I think about trying to get myself and all my baggage to the Sierra Nevadas.
An agent appears at our gate. "Where'd she go?" he asks us, inquiring about the last agent who has left. We smile blankly.
"She went to find us a plane!" someone jokes.
"So she just left you all here, all alone," he shakes his head and smiles.
People have their smart phones out, checking statuses. The plane has left its last location one mom informs us all, so its running behind but still moving along.
"You all could have driven to Colorado Springs by now," our agent points out to the mom.
"I think about that all the time while I'm in Denver," she replies, still with a smile on her face.
For however temporary, it is refreshing to be in a group of people that so easily bonded together to share this travel experience, with smiles on their faces and light laughs when we're supposed to be boarding and there's no plane in sight. I can't remember being surrounded by such a stress free group of travelers before.
I'm feeling good in the moment. Airports will do that for me. So many people with so many stories. So many opportunities for plans to change at a moments notice. So much time to spend reading, writing, chatting, calling people, going for walks, observing from coffee shops.
The stout wrinkled woman comes up to me smiling. "Pasco?" she asked.
"Pasco?" I repeat stupidly.
"Washington?" she asks next.
"Washington?" I say, feeling like a parrot.
"Va a llegar Pasco..." is all I catch as she says something to herself, thinking over how to translate it to English. (I've done this myself many times, the opposite way.)
"Yo no se," I offer. "Lo siento."
"Ah! Ok." She laughs in delight at my attempt to communicate with her in Spanish. We smile and go our separate ways.
I approach Gate 80 cautiously. My flight was supposed to leave from Gate 64 at 2:00. When I got to the airport, it had been moved to Gate 84 according to the Departure Boards, but Gate 84 wasn't publicizing that it was home to flight 6337 to Colorado Springs yet. When it finally claimed the flight, it was delayed by half an hour. Within half an hour, the flight was moved to Gate 80, hence my hesitation.
I hear one of the people sitting in the waiting area remark "...not leaving until 2:30 now." I approach them, "Is this the flight to Colorado Springs?"
They shrug their shoulders with a smile, "We hope so!" The gate has yet to own the flight, but I decide to sit down with this crew, because at least we're in this together now. I warned my mother, I should never fly United.
I was about 12 when the curse started. My dad was supposed to fly from the cabin to KC for a Goodman family reunion, and then drive my Blythe grandparents back to the cabin. My mom asked my sister and I to get my dad a paper to help his nerves while he flew. The front page had a story about a plane crash, a bad omen, but my mom said give im the paper anyway.
We hung out in Denver all day because Aunt Diane and Ryan were flying in later that day. We went back to the airport to pick them up, and my mom called the Blythe grandparents from a pay phone, who were grateful to hear from us! They had been hoping we would call, and told us not to leave the airport, that my dad was still at the gate, where he'd been for hours, and his plane was going nowhere.
Since then flying United for me has resulted in lost luggage, delayed flights, and any mix-up you can have in an airport. I still shudder when I think about trying to get myself and all my baggage to the Sierra Nevadas.
An agent appears at our gate. "Where'd she go?" he asks us, inquiring about the last agent who has left. We smile blankly.
"She went to find us a plane!" someone jokes.
"So she just left you all here, all alone," he shakes his head and smiles.
People have their smart phones out, checking statuses. The plane has left its last location one mom informs us all, so its running behind but still moving along.
"You all could have driven to Colorado Springs by now," our agent points out to the mom.
"I think about that all the time while I'm in Denver," she replies, still with a smile on her face.
For however temporary, it is refreshing to be in a group of people that so easily bonded together to share this travel experience, with smiles on their faces and light laughs when we're supposed to be boarding and there's no plane in sight. I can't remember being surrounded by such a stress free group of travelers before.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Moments with Strangers #1
6/10/2012 - Moving in
As I pulled into Ken's Market, the small neighborhood grocery store, for the first time, someone in an apron smiled big at me. "Zipcar!" he said. Later I found a Safeway around the corner that google maps didn't show on my search. Maybe it knew I was moving in, and needed a local moment to get me started.
I get home from the market and my neighbor across the street emerged from under his car. "I'm Wally." He welcomed me to the neighborhood and invited me to a 4th of July barbecue with his roommates, after knowing me for less than 5 minutes. This could be a special place.
6/15/2012 - Elevator Pitch
We were all waiting for the elevator. I got there first and pushed the up button. The woman with the cart got there next and jabbed at the (already lit up) up button several times, as if she felt with each jab the elevator would feel her urgency and hurry itself. The last woman arrived to witness the rest of the scene.
An elevator finally arrived, going down. The woman with the cart let out a big sigh. As soon as the door closed, she pushed the down button with as much vigor as she had pushed the up button. That's when the other observer and I made eye contact. The next elevator that came was also down, and empty this time. The woman with the cart got on and as soon as the doors closed behind her, the remaining two of us couldn't help but laugh.
"Someone was in a hurry!" she said as we boarded the elevator that had come to take us up. "That first elevator was going down too. Why didn't she get on it?"
"It's Friday," I offered. "We're all a little off."
"Ain't that the truth!" she said. "I've been here for four hours. I come four days a week and help an older woman with her dialysis. I'm ready to get out of here now, but I didn't want to go wherever she was heading!" I could understand that, since the very aura of that woman exuded stress.
"That's nice that you help someone with her dialysis," I said as we reached my floor.
As I got off the elevator, who had materialized but the same woman with a cart, now smiling broadly and asking, "Going down?" I stared in awe as I stepped out of the way of this magical transporting mail woman.
As I walked away, I could practically hear from the elevator the sound of my friend trying not to laugh.
As I pulled into Ken's Market, the small neighborhood grocery store, for the first time, someone in an apron smiled big at me. "Zipcar!" he said. Later I found a Safeway around the corner that google maps didn't show on my search. Maybe it knew I was moving in, and needed a local moment to get me started.
I get home from the market and my neighbor across the street emerged from under his car. "I'm Wally." He welcomed me to the neighborhood and invited me to a 4th of July barbecue with his roommates, after knowing me for less than 5 minutes. This could be a special place.
6/15/2012 - Elevator Pitch
We were all waiting for the elevator. I got there first and pushed the up button. The woman with the cart got there next and jabbed at the (already lit up) up button several times, as if she felt with each jab the elevator would feel her urgency and hurry itself. The last woman arrived to witness the rest of the scene.
An elevator finally arrived, going down. The woman with the cart let out a big sigh. As soon as the door closed, she pushed the down button with as much vigor as she had pushed the up button. That's when the other observer and I made eye contact. The next elevator that came was also down, and empty this time. The woman with the cart got on and as soon as the doors closed behind her, the remaining two of us couldn't help but laugh.
"Someone was in a hurry!" she said as we boarded the elevator that had come to take us up. "That first elevator was going down too. Why didn't she get on it?"
"It's Friday," I offered. "We're all a little off."
"Ain't that the truth!" she said. "I've been here for four hours. I come four days a week and help an older woman with her dialysis. I'm ready to get out of here now, but I didn't want to go wherever she was heading!" I could understand that, since the very aura of that woman exuded stress.
"That's nice that you help someone with her dialysis," I said as we reached my floor.
As I got off the elevator, who had materialized but the same woman with a cart, now smiling broadly and asking, "Going down?" I stared in awe as I stepped out of the way of this magical transporting mail woman.
As I walked away, I could practically hear from the elevator the sound of my friend trying not to laugh.
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