Hear me out

I am an eavesdropper; always have been.

My earliest memories include listening to adult conversation, trying to piece together what it was they were talking about. I listen to nearby conversations in airports, at the doctor's office, in convenience stores and while riding the bus.

I have even been known to listen to a single side of a conversation when I catch someone else on the telephone, and with the wide-spread use of cellular telephones, that is becoming easier and easier to do, whether I want to or not.

This week, Rachael and I had a late lunch in the swell neighborhood restaurant in our building -- it's Mexican and serves great chicken flautas -- and we both got hooked on the cell phone conversation in the next booth.

A fellow in his twenties took a call from his grandmother, at least he referred to the caller as Grandma, and they gabbed for almost fifteen minutes. Have you ever heard Abbott and Costello do Who's On First? This was funnier.

He apparently did some sort of sales work; what he sells never came up, but he was telling Granny about an upcoming business trip. She wasn't talking loud enough for us to hear her side of the conversation. He was talking loud enough for both of them.

"I'm leaving Friday for ten days, Grandma."

"I don't know. Paraguay or Uruguay, one of those two."

"I don't know. In South America, I think; maybe Central America. I'm not sure. They speak Spanish."

"A little bit, and the company is paying for an interpreter."

"Yeah, I'm flying. Uh huh. It's too far to drive."

"No. My boss said my commissions are lower than anyone else's and so I have to be the one to go."

"I'm not going to get fired, Grandma! But I may quit; I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm not even making five thousand a week!"

I thought Rachael was going to choke on her refried beans on that last one; it was the funniest thing he said during the entire conversation. The saddest, too. I suspect the fellow is not the only twenty-seven-year-old who expects to make five thousand dollars a week.

Nor the only one uncertain where Uruguay is.

It's about the small things

What a glorious day yesterday was; the sort that makes me glad we moved to Seattle.

No wind, clear skies, lots of sunshine and mid-afternoon temperatures in the mid fifties. What more could someone who enjoys four seasons ask for in a winter day?

It was Rachael's "Sunday", too, so we stopped by Easy Street for breakfast. Easy Street is a local landmark, often billed as the best little record store, coffee bar and diner in West Seattle. They also have a small performance space and Eddie Vedder still drops by, now and then, when he's in town.

We stop in a couple three times a month because the food is tasty and plentiful, the wait staff is attentive and friendly and people at other tables join in your conversations. The visit yesterday was no exception.

At home, we settled in to watch Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, the third entry in The Mummy series. It doesn't hold a candle to the first one. The actors were trying too hard, even Brenden Fraser, whom I usually enjoy. But it was fun; particularly when served up with a nice bottle of white wine we got at Christmas.

I sneaked in a nap after the movie, and just before three p.m. we went for a walk, down by the Fauntleroy ferry landing, on to Lincoln Park, then up the hill, nattering on about houses that we liked.

And what a grand view of the Olympics from my bench above the ferry landing! Picture postcard perfect.

Home again, we grilled fish for supper, decided it was too warm to throw a log in the fireplace, and then I wrote for a couple of hours while Rachael fiddled with a video game. Bedtime came early, just like darkness does this time of year.

Another day in the life, don't you know. Not very excited business, but it's the little things that make a difference, isn't it?

Fun for one and all

Yesterday was the sort of day that makes all the rest of life worthwhile.

It was Rachael’s birthday; I won’t say how old she is. It doesn’t matter to me that she can’t run up stairs anymore, two at a time, or that the eyeglasses she used to wear upon occasion are now permanent fixtures. But she is sensitive about such things, and so I try to keep my lip zipped.

We took the bus to downtown Seattle in mid-morning. Rachael had a list of reasons to do it. She is not the sort that usually makes lists; I am and she knows it. And so it was funny to hear her tick them off, because when she does, it is almost always the last item on the list that is the true reason.

She said that it would be an adventure, it was, the sort of simple little trip those of us who were raised according to the gospel of the automobile don’t think much about. She also said it would be cheaper than driving, it was; that it would save wear and tear on the X-Terra, it did, and that it would avoid the potential for accidents, so true. And then we came to the final reason.

“Besides,” she said. “If I don’t have to drive home, I can have a drink or two with lunch.”

There is that,” I said.

And so, we found our way downtown on one of the double-section buses that Metro Transit runs, with accordion pleating between the sections. We sat near the pivot point and laughed at how the floor spun as the bus turned, and played tourist, pointing out the window at the seaport sights, something we don’t get a chance to do, driving the Route 99 viaduct.

Off the bus, we bumped along, peering into display windows, poking through shops that looked interesting and enjoying our favorite joint pastime—people watching. We wandered around Pike Place Market for a time, too, bought some whole-bean coffee for the espresso machine and watched the curds being stirred at Beecher’s Cheese Shop.

Then we strolled over to Etta’s, on Western Avenue north of the Market, for lunch. It was our first time there, but we agreed, on the way out, that it won’t be our last. Melissa was our waitress; if anyone from Etta’s reads this, she was an absolute delight. So was the food.

Crab cake appetizers, with a tart green cocktail sauce, clam chowder at just the right temperature, deep-fried cod and cornbread pudding for me and grilled king salmon for Rachael. She wet her whistle with a beer, brewed at the Market by the Pike Brewing Company, and I had a couple of Harvey Wallbangers, a drink most bartenders don’t know how to make these days. Mine were just right.

After lunch, we strolled back to the bus stop on Third Avenue, and stopped along the way at a candy shop for some after-lunch sugar – a couple of caramels for me; Rachael had dark chocolate filled with raspberry cream.

A good time together with someone you love is what life is all about.

-kc-

Today’s superfluous fact: the use of bus to define a mode of public transportation comes from the Latin word, omnibus, which means “for all, for everyone”.