Sunday, March 8, 2015

Well, I almost made it.

I'd been proud that I'd managed to not blow my stack at my sister the entire week. I love my sister. I worry for her. She also drives me right up the wall at times. Much of it she can't help, some of it she can. Sometimes I'm not sure which is really which.

Tonight the hotel left letters under our doors letting us know of a taxi strike taking place tomorrow, at about the time we'd need to get to the airport, and offering to help with alternate transport. I was in the room when my sister came in. She was dropping off her purse before going back out for a walk.

"Uncle J -- is at the Blackjack table. He freaked out when I told him about the taxi strike," she said.

"Here. Bring him this letter, so he can read about the hotel's offer to find alternate transportation."

"I don't want to interrupt his game."

"You won't interrupt his game. Just hand him this and he'll read it when he wants to, and since the desk is right there, he can take care of it."

"He probably has one in his room." She was balking.

"Yeah, but he's not in his room, so he can't read it. Just bring this so he can read it sooner rather than later, so he can address it earlier."

Head shaking. "I don't wanna."

"You will not be bothering him. Is Ma with him?"

"Yeah."

"Then give it to Ma."

More rapid head shaking. "I don't wanna."

I'd had it. I'd had it not with the inability to problem solve, but with the lack of empathy for all the pain-in-the-assness it was causing, and the lack of appreciation for how her unwillingness to do things she was perfectly capable of doing was inconveniencing others. Me. The ease with which she switches from capable adult who demands the right to have her own choices accommodated to emotionally volatile (and therefore manipulative) scene-maker, insisting on her inviolate right to avoid discomfort, even at the expense of others. She is so very difficult to describe accurately, and it's so hard to explain why she's frustrating in spite of being lovable, without sounding like an asshole.

A good friend of mine who works for an agency that serves mentally-challenged adults did warn me that empathy is not a quality often found in the mentally disabled, but my sister does appear to have empathy, and takes pleasure from pleasing people, although that may be more a case of her being pleased at finding ways to receive positive feedback, learning how to elicit good responses and avoid bad ones, but I don't think so. I've sen her complete 20-mile fundraiser walks "for the hungry children," despite getting tired to the point where she cried the entirety of the last three miles, and despite ending up in an ER after puking uncontrollably after one. And when the supermarket she works for asked for volunteers to load donated food on a truck, my sister was the only one who answered the call.

Today she brought us free snow cones at the pool, and keeps reminding my uncle that she owes him a drink. She's not completely selfish or without sensitivity. I firmly believe this, and see evidence of it all the time. The trick is to find the line where you aren't holding her accountable for things she's inherently unable to deliver, while at the same time not conditioning her to think she gets a pass just because something strikes her as difficult, unpleasant, or unappealing.

At any rate, I'd had it.

"I AM NOT GOING DOWN TWELVE FLOORS AGAIN WHEN YOU ARE ALREADY WALKING RIGHT PAST HIM."

Her face started to crumple, which happens with reallyreallyreally irritating speed and ease. "But he has one in his room. He can read it."

"IS HE IN HIS ROOM?"

"No."

"SO HE CAN'T READ IT NOW, CAN HE? WHAT IF HE DOESN'T COME BACK TO HIS ROOM UNTIL 1AM? WHAT IF HE WAITS TOO LONG AND WE CAN'T GET A RIDE TO THE AIRPORT? BRING. HIM. THE. LETTER."

She went into the bathroom, managed to pull it together, came out, and in a perfectly normal voice told me she'd give the letter to our mother.

"Perfect. Enjoy your walk, and be careful."

"I will."

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Saint Francis. Give me strength.





Alone at Last

Yesterday I walked alone to Old San Juan, and spent the day browsing, chatting with people, and generally decompressing. Alone, with nobody to look after, no decisions to make on behalf of anyone  but myself, I felt free and relaxed. I do better on my own, am more social.

I went into a sort of junk shop, with warrens of old books, tea sets, clothing, and yes, a bust of Adolph Hitler (?!?)

In a case an antique woman's watch caught my eye. It was unusual and, for some reason, I was drawn to it. After explaining that it didn't work, the man got it out for me. Neither he nor I could make out the name on the face. The body and clasp, which was small like for a child, was gold, including pink gold, and there was a stone of some sort on the winding knob. He estimated it as being made in the '40s. I bought it, wondering whether this was my Antiques Road Show moment. ("And how much did you pay for it?" "Sixty Dollars." "Well, I can tell you that, properly restored, at auction I'd expect this to go for about one hundred thousand dollars!" "Wow, who'd have thought that a watch from a junk shop in Old San Juan would be such a find!")

When I got back to the hotel I saw it was missing a hand, so maybe this was just a dumb purchase.

I went into the Church of St. Francis. St. Francis has always been my favorite saint because of his love of animals.

I walked and didn't get lost. I bought some cheap earrings from Velma at a great vintage shop. I walked through a small book fair at what looked like a parochial-school courtyard, and came out to a street where at least a half-dozen cats were lying around. There are a lot of street cats in PR; at the visitor center at the Camuy Caves, two sweet cats were lying around, full of fleas and ear mites. Not neutered. It kills me.

These cats were well-fed and very friendly, including one large black guy who let out a long "MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEow!" before sauntering over to have his back scratched. A sign on the door to an upscale house asked for donations to help "fix" and care for the cats. As  I was rubbing my third cat, a man came out of the building. We started talking -- he's born and bred Puerto Rico, full European blood, by the looks of him, perfect English. He talked about how they took care of the cats, and how people were starting to drop theirs off, knowing they'd be cared for better. The downside of success.

"That's Paz," he said, when an orange-and-white guy flopped down in front of me. "His name means 'Peace.'" He also pointed out a cat who was 14 years on the street. The cat looked ancient, and as the result of an ear infection (since cured), his ears looked like two kettle-cooked potato chips on his head. Didn't stop him from being a love.

We talked about cats and their unfortunate lesser status, I gave him a little money, and got his email and address to give to friends who might also want to help. He continued on to do his errands and I hung out with the cats a bit more before, with a final scratch to each one, I was on my way.

I had a homemade popsicle, found another snow-cone vendor and had my coveted Anise-flavored ice, wandered to a book store, practiced my Spanish, then headed to Cafe Berlin, the only place I'd found that had a full vegetarian/vegan section that rocks out loud. ("Authentic Puerto Rican Food" is not vegan-friendly. On our tours, at the roadside eateries to which we'd been brought, my option was basically fried plantains. I love fried ripe plantains, don't get me wrong, but when it's 85 and humid, fried carbs don't really work.)

I parked myself on a bench in Christopher Columbus Square with a book, and read peacefully while a pigeon who'd adopted me rested in the shade at my feet.

I then walked back, and was addressed by a middle-aged woman who asked whether I spoke English, and when I said yes, explained that she was "a native New Yorker lost my husband two years ago thank you V.A., and I haven't eaten in two days I go to the beach to talk to God and my dead husband and collect things to make these out of (indicating a conglomeration of shells and sea grass), sober fourteen years do you think you can help."

I sensed the entire story was a fabrication, but she was tiny, well-dressed, in great shape, and the gravelly voice, New York accent and cigarette dangling from her hand only underscored the theater of her story, so I explained that I feared her creation wouldn't make the trip in my suitcase, but I had a couple of dollars I was happy to give her, and we both parted a little happier. The exchange felt all "Treasure of The Sierra Madre."

Back to the hotel, where I met up with my family, had a sandwich in my room, then -- as promised-- went with my sister to the casino where she showed me her favorite slot machine, a Bally-created device called "Better off Ed," Ed being a cute cartoon zombie who shows up to bestow wild cards and free spins. There are lots of lights and music, and various bonus exercises ("pick three graves!")  Music plays and bells ring, which is fun, even though it happens when you win ten cents. So entertaining is the machine that you don't mind going basically nowhere.

Then my uncle bought my sister and I drinks at the bar (her selection of pina colada is as predictable as her orders of burgers, french fries, and Sprite), and I had a chocolate martini. My uncle had a dirty martini, and we listened to the live Salsa band in the lounge across the way and shared our opinion that there is, in fact, only one salsa song, played over and over.

We crashed, and this morning I was awakened by the sound of my sister snuffling and her breath catching. I waited. It continued.

"Jane." (not her real name)

"What."

"Do you realize that there has not been a single morning this week that you have not woken me up?"

It's true. The various ways in which she has woken me up include turning on the light, turning on the TV, and waking me up to ask when i want to be woken up. I wish to mention also that my sister wakes before the sun is up, and that I haven't yet raised my voice or thrown her off the balcony.

My sister snuffled. "I locked the bathroom door and now I can't get in."

This is the kind of mind-bogglingly stupid thing my sister does all the time. She can find her way up and down a busy San Juan Street, remember all the signs, figure out how a slot-machine works while I'm still staring, stupefied, at the screen, but door locks have always been a stumbling block.

"So pick up the phone, press 0, tell them what room you are in, and explain that you locked yourself out of the bathroom. They will come up and open it."

She didn't move. Louder snuffling. I was not going to fix this; it was on her.

"What does Ma say about problems?"

Teary-voiced. "That they can be fixed."

"Right. So call 0 and tell them, and they will fix the problem. You can do it."

"The thing is, I've never used this phone."

"It's like any other phone. Pick it up and dial 0. You've worked in hotels. You know how it works."

She still didn't move. I realized I'd need to take a different tack to get her moving, because I felt my patience, like my sleeping in, reaching an end.

"Or you can go downstairs to the front desk in person and explain it."

Pause. "Maybe I'll do that."

"OK. Put on your Muu Muu and go down."

The sniffling stopped, she went down, and was pleased with herself.

She told me later she was crying because she knew I'd be mad about the lock. She was sort-of right, but what she didn't realize is that it's not the situation that annoys me, it's her refusal or inability to fix it that drives me up the wall, her randomly unimaginative reaction to new situations. And most of all, what annoys me is that I haven't slept in one single morning this trip without being woken several times by her or other members of my family.

But like I said, I haven't lost my temper. Yet. We still have a morning to go.





Friday, March 6, 2015

Puerto Rico: etc.

I don't have the energy to go day by day, so I'll just give a melange of impressions:

Let me be clear: the people here are wonderful. The climate is also wonderful. I mean, hell, it's a tropical island, right? And did I mention the people are beautiful, especially the men? Puerto Ricans are a mix of Spanish, African, and Taino indian.

Mocha. Chocolata. Ya. Ya.

And perhaps it would be a different vacation for me if I had a pal that I grooved with. Perhaps.  The other day my sister and I just walked around -- my sister is of course company, but she's also not company. I have to make pretty much everything happen. Anyway, we found a contemporary art museum with a few small, earnest but not very impressive installations, mostly having to do with the displacement of people from a local neighborhood when developers took over.

 I'm not a touristy person. I can understand why my family loves it: the weather, the casino, the pool and the beach. But I'm not someone who travels to gamble or sit on a beach or by a pool, or to shop. I'm not someone who wants to be surrounded by thousands of my compatriots who marvel over a mango.

I've taken two all-day tours with my father and sister. (Did I mention my father is drinking again? Yessirree Bob. That, and my sister's generally mentally exhausting tendencies have made me a one-woman tongue-biting squad.)

 Let me say a couple of things.

1. If you have kids under 10, leave them home. I don't care what your argument is, you're wrong. Leave them home, or take them to Disney World, where they are less likely to ruin the vacations of other people. If you want them to appreciate other places like the huge underground caves the rest of us wanted to enjoy, wait until they are old enough to focus on the majesty and beauty of the caves, rather than being engaged for three minutes at a time before being demanding and noisy and making it impossible for the rest of us to stay focused. I also don't need to see you breast feed on the tram. I just don't. Wear a loose shirt and try a little discretion, or I'm going to start taking a crap or screwing in front of you to see how much you love watching Nature in action. Read my lips: I. Do. Not. Worship. Motherhood.

2. If you are visiting a place, especially a spot of natural beauty, for the love of God, shut up. Stop turning every corner of the planet into just one more backdrop for a Facebook-bound selfie. That rain forest we just left was a sacred place for people who were slaughtered by greedy, brutal invaders. It's a natural wonder, unique in the world, and I wanted to hear it speak to me, to experience its magic, cripes, hear some birds, but I couldn't because of the nonstop chatter and horseplay and the endless photo-taking. Stop performing and start engaging. Have a little respect.

3. A beach, no matter how blue the water and no matter how palmy the trees, is still just some sand and water, and unless you have good company to chat with as you walk along it, is boring as fuck.

 So it's pretty clear I'm not digging my trip. Here's the thing: I've lived in major cities, and it is not novel for me to be served by a Puerto Rican at a restaurant; it's just another day in Chicago. I guess if you live in a homogeneous area, if your idea of ethnic food is Italian or Chinese, then this may seem novel or exotic. If, like me, you've lived in a neighborhood where there is more than one person of color and your local market serves Caribbeans and Africans, you are not a stranger to the cherimoya or to plantains. So I put on my Pleasant Face, try to have something positive to say ("I like that, despite being a big tourist destination, they don't try to gouge you." "Wow, this weather is great.") and struggle to find things to do in an area overrun with tourists. At night I watch TY. Yeah. I watch TV. Why? Because it doesn't involve being by the pool or in the lobby bar or in the casino or anywhere else outside crammed with tons of noisy, boisterous people and/or screeching kids.

I'd really like to go back to Old San Juan, sit alone at a cafe and read the horrible book I borrowed from my mother, but it will be Saturday and even more overrun with tourists. I have no idea where I'll find refuge. Normally, I'd rent a bike and go somewhere, but three words: Puerto Rican drivers.

You know what PR is like? It's like a cruise ship on land. That's the best way to put it. It doesn't feel like a real place.

And now we seem to have new people in the room next to us who have brought a baby. A baby that cries loud enough to be heard through the wall. And my sister is back and watching "Glee." And the next circle of hell has opened.



Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Puerto Rico - Day 1: Departure

My uncle lives not far from an express bus to the airport. The plan was that friends would pick up my uncle, sister, and me from my uncle's house, and another friend would drive my parents.

The bus left at 6:15 am, and the station is bout a ten-minute drive from my uncles, so I set my alarm for 5.

Everyone else was up at 4. Loudly.

The friend who was driving, "Dan," had to be reminded to slow down so as not to miss the turn, which he of course did, meaning we had to go to the next exit, where he got back on the highway and began speeding again.

I wanted to smack Dan. Wanting to smack someone before 6am is not a good way to start the day.

We all got to the airport. My uncle and parents had apparently never used anything but curbside check-in, so I had to show them the very complicated process of waiting in line to hand over your ID and be handed a boarding pass.

I'd had a bagel before I left the house, but everyone else wanted to grab a bite. All but my father and I were headed for the restrooms, so they told us what to get them.

The choice of eateries was: a Sbarro, a Japanese place, Burger King, and a burrito place.

They wanted coffee cake.

coffee cake?!?

"Where are we going to get them coffee cake?" asked my father.

"I have no idea," I replied.

My father began to get agitated. Have I mentioned that I have a neurotic family?

"Dad, we'll just let them decide what they want when they come back," I said. A headache was starting already.

When everyone arrived, they got blueberry muffins from the Sbarro. We went through Security fairly easily (one of the friends called my cell at this point to make sure we'd gotten there OK and safely (as opposed to what? The bus getting lost in the half-hour it took to get there? A Logan Express hostage situation?) and on the other side was a refreshment cart. With coffee and coffee cake.

The passengers at our gate were comprised of an alarming percentage of young couples with kids and babies.

Our plane had been diverted at the last minute when it arrived from an international flight, and they needed to clean it first. We finally got on the plane, which smelled like ripe cold cuts, and there was a delay because we had too much fuel, which meant too much weight. They resolved that, then they had to have the wings de-iced. I recalled that this procedure seems to be mentioned frequently in news recounts of pre-takeoff events when talking of planes that plummeted to earth.  I thought about The Day The Music Died. The constant irregular CLUNK-CLUNKCLUNK below me in the fuselage did not ease my mind. My headache was getting worse.

We took off, there were no babies behind me, and I managed to sleep a bit, which gave me a stiff neck and amplified the headache. My sister kept turning up the volume on the TV screen on the back of the seat in front of her and sticking her face close to it before I explained three times that you need a headset to hear it.  She finally got one, and relaxed.

At one point I used the restroom, and to give you an idea of how old this plane was, it had an ASHTRAY in the door.

At San Juan, we debarked, got our luggage, and caught a taxi at the stand. I don't recall the formal name of ours, so let's just call it Not The Cleanest Taxi taxi. It was driven by Not The Slowest Non-Heart-Attack-Inducing Driver.

I was in the back, and I had a speaker literally next to my arm, so during the entire 20-minute ride my headache was bathed in amplified merengue, followed by the rapid-fire Spanish of a demented raving DJ whom I quickly wanted to disembowel.

The hotel is lovely, as is the staff, and they give you rummy fruity drinks as you check in. My sister and I are in one room, and in a connected room next door are my parents and my uncle. Our room balcony overlooks the front, which is a main street and pretty noisy, but the glass doors are pretty sound proof.

We split up and my sister and I took a walk up the main drag, which is very touristy (thank goodness the Hard Rock Cafe planned across the street is not yet there) and oddly shabby. My headache was worse, so we stopped for food at a small indie burger joint that had a delicious black-bean burger. As we sat eating, I saw my uncle walk by. He had a smile on his face and was clearly happier than a pig in the most fragrant, creamiest of ordure. I ran out and surprised him. He was just out "checking things out," and I could tell he was so happy to be back here.  That look on his face, the one he had when he thought no one was watching, made me determined to enjoy this trip as much as I can, although frankly, beautiful weather and beaches aside, I can't see what the big deal is about. Chicago in summertime has hot weather, gorgeous beaches, and all the Spanish-speaking people you want. Although here they speak English, too. Unlike Chicago.

After eating, my sister and I walked about a mile to the bridge that leads to Old San Juan, and then came back. My head was hurting very badly so I took a couple of pills, a hot relaxing bath, and was in bed by 6:30. I slept pretty much to the next morning.


Saturday, February 28, 2015

Card Night

Please let them all go home soon. 

It's not even my house, and I hate having people over.


I got the job, by the way. First step: a car.

Friday, February 27, 2015

He was, and always shall be, our friend.

Leonard Nimoy died today.

I have loved Leonard Nimoy since I first saw him as science officer Spock on "Star Trek" when I was six. Many have speculated on Spock's appeal: we wish we could be more logical; we wish were were more in control of our emotions.

None of this was ever true for me. What I loved most about Spock was that you could trust him. With Spock, there was no subtext; he was loyal, principled, honest, wasn't mean, and didn't gossip. He told it like it was, and the human side of him gave him humor and compassion.

I know that one is the actor and the other the character, but I love the actor for bringing me the character. I loved Nimoy for staying a class act and for not ruining the character of Spock for me, and for being a good actor who knew how to mock himself.  Who remained someone who deserved our love.

When we played the "who would you have dinner with, if you could have dinner with anyone?" game, Nimoy was always on the list.  I knew it was extremely unlikely, but I did  harbor hopes of one day meeting him in person to thank him for everything. That is, if I could speak at all.

Goodbye, Leonard. You are not dead if we find a way to remember you. And we most certainly shall.




Waiting for go,Houston.

Had my interview with the Big Cheese I'd be supporting, and I loved her. Absolutely loved her. Met privately with the current admin who, unless she is a world-class lair, seemed very sincere when she said, "My new job will be walking distance from my house. But I'll really miss this job. It really is a great job."

They also loved me, so I expect an offer once the reference thing is done. No problems expected there -- one of my colleagues emailed me and said, "They want three areas of improvement -- I can't think of any. Can you?"

"I talk too fast?" I suggested, after thinking a bit.

So she put that I can sometimes talk too fast when I'm passionate about something. Oh, the humanity.

From conversations with The Boss and and their HR person, I have every confidence I'll get the pay I want, and I hear the benefits are very good. We're trying to get things wrapped up today before my family trip next week, although I said I'd take my laptop to be on email, just in case.

This could be the job -- the job that incorporates my strengths and allows me a variety of real responsibility. Lord, let it be.