"Flying"

I laughed at dinner with a friend this week while recounting a trip I took to New York City.  I went on that trip with a coworker who told everyone at work about the "New York Linda".  I smiled and quietly went to my cubicle.  "There's a NY Linda?" another coworker asked incredulously.  I smirked behind the cubicle wall as I listened to my travel mate recount the tales of my exploits.

There was the marriage proposal from my Turkish taxi driver, the girl I adopted at the Broadway theater who ended up in the show, the fascinating conversation I had with the owner of Diebold, not to mention the even more fascinating conversation I had with the conservator of the Metropolitan Art Museum.  I got an entire bar singing show tunes in the middle of the day.  I had a blast throughout that trip.

I talked with anyone and everyone while I was in New York.  It made my coworker crazy, which is funny in itself since I'm the introvert and she's the one who usually charms people.  My coworkers had a hard time believing the tales because I barely interacted with people in that toxic environment.  I just put my head down and worked.

Conversation is becoming a lost art.  My cab driver didn't propose right away.  It was after I asked him about where he came from, what it was like, identified with him about spending time in the woods.  He told me about his mother and about being Muslim.  I listened and learned.  He shared, I shared.  We explored our similarities instead of our differences.  It was a long cab ride, but not quite long enough.

When I met the Diebold owner, I asked about his business.  He didn't seem enthused about it, or maybe he was just tired from a week of boring meetings.  I asked why he didn't retire?  He must have plenty of money to do other things he'd rather do.  He told me about his grandfather, or maybe his great-great-grandfather who made cash registers.  He lit up like a Christmas tree when he was talking about that, and I was enthused by his enthusiasm.  Who knew I'd be interested in cash registers and safes?

The art curator was my seatmate on the plane home -- which was parked on the runway for hours.  They were some of the shortest hours I've ever known.  I didn't have to search for a conversation topic with her.  Art?!!  Yay!  Tell me everything you know!!!

Maybe the greatest key to conversation is being open and curious?  Everyone has something to say, and we can learn something from them, even if when we don't agree with some of them.  I don't plan on converting to Islam to actually marry my cab driver, but my world view is greater and better for learning about it.  I think of the Diebold guy whenever I use an ATM.  There's a person behind the machine.

There's something incredibly freeing about flying somewhere where nobody knows me and I'm not expected to play the roles people have become accustomed to having me fill -- though there are precious people who completely understand my love of show tunes and aren't surprised I can get a bar full of mid-week businessmen to sing them with me...

"I gotta fly once, I gotta try once, only can die once, right, sir?
... Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade."

Don't Rain on My Parade, Bob Merril/Jule Styne

"Wealth"

Did you know a fortune cookie has 27 ½ calories?  That's ridiculous.  A ½ cup serving of Sylvia's turnip greens is 50, which includes actual food value and bacon bits.  I was sidelined with migraines this week and had some extra time to contemplate my food labels.  After some careful consideration, I decided 27 of the calories in a fortune cookie is in the fortune, so I didn't eat that part.

(...drumming my fingers on my keyboards trying very hard not to type anything about my traitor-filled, racist, misogynist government passing a bill to rob the poor and middle-class to give more wealth to the wealthy since I just ranted about sexual harassment last week.  The news may have been a contributing factor in my migraines?)

I've been privileged to live near or with wealthy people even though I never had any of that wealth myself.  It's nice to share their perks.  They have cool toys, great food, more land, house, privacy, and other stuff.  The thing is, they don't seem very happy.  They're often very lonely.  They don't trust anyone likes them for themselves, just for what others are trying to get from them.  They can feel guilty and inadequate for being over-blessed.

I sometimes call my childhood home "the slum of Willoughby Hills" because flood plain houses are often inexpensive, converted summer cottages while the uphill areas are generally middle to upper middle class, and my nearest neighbors had extreme wealth.  As a lonely child, I often visited the lonely old people ensconced in their mansions surrounded by their manicured and spacious estates.  I picked flowers for the old man with the golf cart.  I drank tea with the old lady amongst her doilies and fragile figurines.  I listened to their stories because nobody else listened to them anymore.

I made my rounds to the old people in The Glen too.  I wasn't particular about perks.  I enjoyed perks when I got them, didn't miss them when I didn't.  In some way I thought my rounds were my charity work.  In another way, I was getting friendship and attention.

I don't want to portray myself as somehow sainted for my charity visits.  I was bored.  When my childish energy couldn't take the echoing halls of mansions anymore, I ran around the grounds and I petted sheep and goats and fed apples to horses.  I liked being privileged enough to have the freedom to enjoy these special places that were worked by hired hands and admired only through windows.

Maybe the lesson I received from all my old people is patience?  Maybe it was the art of conversation?  To listen, to try to understand, to find common ground?

I hate seeing people ignoring each other while texting garbage on their phones.  Talk and listen with each other.  Share cookies.  Find ways to bridge differences and explore common ground.  I'll try to remember that when I'm incensed about the news.