Blink of an Eye

I was turning five or six and waiting for my birthday party to start. I remember watching the clock proceed glacially toward 1 pm. Staring.  Closing my eyes. Staring. Groaning when the hands hand only advance a few seconds. It was interminable. Seconds, minutes, days. They lasted forever.

Decades later, I meet up with a friend.

We celebrate birthdays twice a year with a drink- a limoncello frizzante. Can't quite recall how it started. It was a fancy drink and we pretended we were movie stars. I was Danny and she was George. Or was I George and she was Danny. It was a tasty way to mark the years.

Now we gather when we can. Birthdays, now, are a figment.

And then this week we sat down to figure out how long we’d been marking. The bartender, the one we’d nicknamed Deputy Dog, had been there for 11 years. The Limoncello Frizzante had been off the menu for 5. We’d met to talk of frustration and pride in our children and grieve out losses. Surely, it couldn't  be more than 5 years.  Was it 8?  Nay, 10 years?! 

Spring break 1987. Before the internet.  Before the proliferation of travel books. We loaded up the car, grabbed a map and headed south. Making our plans along the way. We'd camp in the Everglades. We'd drive down and explore the Keys each day.  No problem. 

Note to others, this is stupid. It's hundreds of miles. By the time you reach the end, it's time to come home. But we made it then, in time to play lacrosse on the beach and rinse off in the rain and have a drink at Captain Tony’s. Before driving back.

31 years onward, we reunite on Key West. “Welcome Spring Breakers” crow the signs.

'Tis the season for flip flops and reggae. Captain Tony's is still going strong. Thousands more dollar bills tacked to the wall. This has to be some sorry of fire code violation, right?

A young musician (Sharese Nicole) with the voice of an angel. Just started playing music in bars. Tied off madras shirt, cut-offs and mirrored sunglasses. She tunes and adjusts her capo. She takes a request for some Pearl Jam.  

She squeaks, “I learned the words to this song in my car seat!”

My God. Where has the time gone. We miss most of the new wave of spring breakers who are likely just waking for the day. We're home in bed by 11:30, destined to wake once or twice to the toilet.

That clock, so glacial when I was a kid, leaps ahead. Each blink a mile marker. A birthday. A limoncello.  

Tick, tick, tick. 20 drinks becomes a decade. And “Boom” someone's grandkid is crooning out Pearl Jam or some other golden oldie.

Secret Asian Man-There Are Better Ways To Die Than With A Needle To Your Neck

I am a bit of a hoarder.  I like things that are useful. I like to be prepared.  So, when I go to fancy hotels and they have free toiletries, I take some.  

My favorite are sewing kits. They are incredibly useful.  You never know when you might need to sew on a button, fix a hole, darn some socks. There is a tiny box with a couple buttons, a variety of thread pre strung onto needles. When I find one, I chuck into my baggage, to be ready for a fashion disaster. In my carryon there are multiple sewing kits rattling around at any one time.

Flying in the world has become more and more of an ordeal. Nowhere more so than Jordan. Because of its proximity to people who don’t like us, Jordanian flights to the US must undergo extra scrutiny.  For a short time, laptops and Ipads were banned carry-on items. Then, under threat of losing all flights to the US, they had to promise to be extra careful with flights headed directly there. 

So, they did.

Now, after you’ve had your bag scanned at the entrance to the airport, and after you have your bag scanned to get through normal airport security, one must line up and have all your bags hand searched by real-live people.  Men are searched by men. Women are searched by women. It easily adds an hour to the boarding process. They’ve walled off one section of the airport just for these American flights and their searches.

I’ve flown to the U.S. three times now recently.  I go extra early.  I stand in line. I get my belongings rifled through. Each time, they open my bag, pocket by pocket. And each time they pull out my sewing kits and give me a finger wag and throw them in the trash.  

This latest time, I laughed and said, “For sewing” mimicking sewing on a button.  They just shook their head. One of the guys took his finger and poked it into his neck.  

“Really?!”  He smiled and shrugged, all the while overlooking the following…

my eyeglass repair kit

a rubber-tipped dental pick

a mirror, a razor

a charging block

a cord

nail clippers

wire rim glasses

keys

I believe I would have a better chance of beating one to death with my Ipad than killing someone with a needle to the neck. Breaking off a piece of glass and shimming in betweens someone’s ribs.  

But took the needles they did.

You may be shivved, stabbed, bludgeoned or strangled, but be rest assured, America, your necks will not suffer the tiny pricks of terrorists.  Thanks Al Qaeda!

Secret Asian Man: Speaking of School Safety.

Spawn of S.A.M graduated from an undisclosed school in Asia. It was a beautiful campus for 2000 kids or so. Rooftop water garden, covered amphitheater, snack bars, a couple sports fields, smoothie bar.

It was also a fortress. It's not just schools. Cars are searched before entering most shopping malls.  Metal detectors and frisking takes place at all the doors. Even IKEA!  Who hates the Swedes for God’s sake?

The school grounds had 20 foot fencing surrounded the place.  Topped with razor wire or spikes. There were two entrances for cars and people. Every car was searched on entry. Trunks were opened, mirrors were thrust underneath. Each and every car. Large metal gates and barriers raised and lowered all day long.

Classroom doors were all rated to stop an AK-47 round.  Whether they would stop two rounds was another question.

They painted the walls with bright colors and positive affirmations to disguise the fact that they were walls.

Guards were posted by the score at the entrance. Each equipped with a panic button. A few had guns. They all smiled at the kids. Maybe that was part of the training. Maybe the kids were just funny.

No one got in without a photo ID. There were checkpoints within the school. Cameras were pervasive. It would be hard to find a blind spot there.

Guns were restricted as they are in most countries. Getting a paintball gun required a permit. There were always more guards than the capacity of a magazine, in the hope that the last one standing could hit the panic button.

Prior to spawn’s attendance; someone did toss a grenade or pipe bomb over the wall one day. No one was hurt. They raised the wall by a foot or two.

That's how they harden schools abroad. It's a huge infrastructure investment . It's a huge labor cost.  One might even call it a jobs program.

“What's your profession?”  

“I'm a doorman and a target.”

How hard should the walls and doors be?  How many bullet stoppers can we afford?  

   

Schools can be protected. If there are no limits to resources, then the walls can be as high as you want them to be and the guards can out number the bullets. But if there are limits...

Secret Asian Man- The Difference in Economy Classes

Emirates and Etihad are some of the world’s top airlines.

FlyDubai is not. It is a budget airlines. Low frills. All one class. No free service.

If you’re flying to Kabul, you can take either option.  The difference is stark.  

At the top end are moist towelettes to freshen yourself when you sit down.  1000 channels of entertainment. There are little stickers you can stick on your seat to tell the staff not to wake you for a meal, or to wake you if you’d rather.  A reasonable meal.  Fuzzy blankets. Free water. Free wine or beer.

The passengers are those that can afford the top end ticket. Nicer clothes. Gold jewelry. Smart phones.  They are at least bilingual, maybe more.

FlyDubai has one class of service; Economy. They’ve sometimes got TV screens, sometimes they work. No meals unless you pre-ordered. No drinks, not even water unless you want to pay.  

The clientele is totally different. From Kabul, anyway, many may not have flown before. Watching them board the plane is entertaining.  The attendants on the plane seem steeled against the boarding passengers.  Stationed strategically, they greet each person, check their ticket and then point at the seat numbers and count and send the person down the aisle.

The passengers advance until the meet someone else, passenger staff, it doesn’t matter. They show their tix and look pleadingly for help finding a seat. They stop searching and plop down into the first empty seat they come upon.  

Confusion reigns, then, when the rightful owner approaches and finds their seat occupied. They look at the number, their ticket and back again.  They ask for help. An attendant approaches and tries to shoo the person to their proper seat. 

Sometimes they go. Sometimes they shrug. They remark that they found an empty seat next to their friend, so they'll just sit here if no one minds. 

Speaking no Dari or Pashto, the staff is left with raising their voices and gesturing. If someone doesn’t move, they plead with the other person to just sit in the other person’s seat.  

FlyDubai.. We can take a reservation, we can’t keep a reservation.

The people who eventually sit next to you, illiterate and innumerate though they may be, are the kindest you may meet. There is singing. They talk. There are no strangers.  The second the wheels are up, they pull out bread and cheese and cookies. Maybe some chocolate. I haven’t been offered so much food by strangers ever. 

Adding value to a budget flight.     

Secret Asian Man: Infatuations

This is something about me. I'm infatuated by buttons. It's really hard not to press them or try and figure out what they do.

In a hotel in Athens, I found a string connected to a switch high on the wall. A string that had to be pulled, so I pulled it. Nothing. Hmmm

Until 45 seconds into brushing my teeth, the phone rang with a concerned-sounding clerk asking if everything was ok.

Yes, everything is fine.

Oh, because we received notice that the emergency cord was pulled in the bathroom.

No, no.  Just brushing my teeth.

My firs time in Baghdad, I found a switch in my kitchenette with an orange light that was on. Wondering what it did, i flipped it. Nothing again.  So, I left it off.

The next morning I woke to a cold shower, but didn't make the connection. I figured I got up late and missed my chance at hot water.

The next day I got up earlier no still had a cold shower, so I called maintenance.

Apparently, there are others like me, because he asked immediately if I'd switched off the light in the kitchen.

Yes.

Well, turn it back in. My next time through Baghdad. The switch had been labeled.

Which brings me to the Louvre.

Having acquired vast sums of wealth and built cities in the desert, the emiratis have taken to trying to stock them with things to do.  So, they made a deal with the louvre to make an Abu Dhabi branch.  They've spent millions on creating a very interesting space and borrowing louvre treasures. T really is something to see. They've put it together in such a way as to tell the story of civilizations and their intersections using art. I highly recommend.

In a corner of the modern art gallery is the sculpture you see at the top. It may represent just how far civilization has fallen, but that's a different matter.

Look hard. Do you see that big read button?  It beckoned me like a siren’s song. And I wandered over. That button, that big lovely button.

There was a security guard standing next to it, so I lunged quickly.

Just kidding.  I asked if one could press the button. He said, they press it once per hour. The next time would be in 25 minutes. 20 minutes later, and I was back, having finished seeing the remaining works.

A small group was gathering. Others were asking about the button. Kindred spirits.

Slowly, the guard sauntered over and depressed it with his foot…. Nothing.

“What’s wrong?”  I tried not to shriek.

“Well, sometimes it works, sometimes we have to wait a few minutes.”

“What do you mean? Is that part of some modern artistic message? We can’t always get something when we push a button?  Cause it’s bullshit if it is!”

He shrugged.  He was a security guard from Kenya  in a museum far from home. He wasn’t a professor, a docent or even an enthusiast. He did kind of giggle, though.

So, I waited around.  Pretending not to care too much, but staying in the same general area.  5 minutes went by, then 7.  He sauntered over again.  Click. Nothing

It was such a let down.  He smiled and shrugged again.  “I don’t know.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

Yeah, whatever!

I fumed off.  Back to my hotel. I pressed every button on the elevator and went to sleep.

S.A.M.- Lines Are For Democracy

Travelling, ever travelling, this week. On the way to Kabul.

Was waiting in line, preparing to board a plane.  The door hadn’t opened yet and the line and the line was about 70 people long. I was a third of the way back.

There had been a group of women sitting nearby. I don’t know where they were from. Let’s say they were from the planet Baru. They had been talking and twittering loudly.  When one can’t understand the tongue, it all sounds like twittering.

At one point, a Baruvian picked up her bags and walked my way. Her eye scanned the length of the line while she dropped her bags next to me. I caught her eye and then wandered my gaze back slowly toward the end of the line. She nudged her bag forward an inch or two with her foot. Still next to me, but the message was clear. She wasn’t going back there.

The doors opened and the line lurched forward. She was watching her friends, so I pulled my suitcase forward, ahead of hers, staking my claim. She kicked her bag into mine. Bump. 

With each movement, I felt a tiny bump.  Message received.

Her Baruvian friends stood up as a group and brazenly marched to the front of the line. No one seemed to bat an eye.

Bump from behind. All the way down the ramp.

Was talking with some people who remarked on how they lost a long distance bike race to someone who passed them in a car with their bike on the back. The other racer got out a mile or so before the finish and won. They lamented that some people do whatever it takes to get to the front. It was something that they’d gotten used to.

 “Lines”, they said, “are for democracy.”

I wondered if that were true or not.  I mean, sure, America is a representative democracy and we do pretty well with lines.  The British, though, are a monarchy, and they love lines.  The Germans seem very orderly and they’re democratic.  The French, home of liberty, fraternity, and equality, could use some remediation. 

I’ve thrown elbows at Greek grandmas, trying to make the last bus.  Greece is the founder of democracy.

India touts itself as the largest democracy in the world, but in a crowd, it’s chaos! 

And speaking of India, how is it that the British exported queuing to colonies, like Singapore and Hong Kong, but it didn’t take hold in India?

I grew up seeing photos of Russians in the Soviet era queuing for food at the store, but last year I had a group of Russian tourists walk through me like I was a ghost. They’ve got some democracy in ‘em now, right?

I wonder if it is more about scarcity. If there’s enough, I don’t have to fight. I can wait. I’ll get mine eventually.

I wonder if, as China or Russian gain strength, they will queue more politely?  As there is a widening income gap in the US, will we need to sharpen our elbows?

On my next leg, a group of Afghan men did the same thing even though there were stanchions set up for a queue.  Three of them moved as one, hand on the shoulder of the man in front.  Well orchestrated. Precision ditching. Shuffling ever forward. Grinning politely all the way. They could not be stopped.  

That’s okay.  I’ll guess I’ll still get my seat.

Secret Asian Man- Lumpy Old Dog

I developed a lump. This is not to alarm the reader. It is just part of the story.

I’ve actually had it for a while. A few years, really. Lately, though, it seemed to be a little bigger.  I’ve read stories and seen pictures of other peoples lumps that grew to the size of basketballs. They said they never noticed it.  Denial is such a powerful force.

I didn’t want to be that person, so I went to get it checked out.  This is my encounter with the medical system here.

I got a referral to a surgeon who spoke English and found the office. Because this office caters mostly to locals, though, all signage is in Arabic. There aren’t even Pictograms to guide you.  No photos of lungs or intestines or scalpels. In a small cramped hallway with four Arabic-scripted doors, I chose door number 3.  Success!

“You’re the American.  Please, come in.”  The Receptionist spoke terrific English.

They handed me a form to complete, entirely in Arabic.  “‘I’m gonna need some help with this.”

“That’s okay.  We will help you”  It looked pretty daunting, there were some 20 or 30 blanks on the form. “First, what is your name?”  I entered it.

“What is your phone number? I wrote it in.

Then they pointed to the bottom of the sheet and asked, “How many children do you have?”

“Really?”

She nodded, so I entered a response and then she said, “Okay. Thank you. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

I looked at the rest of the form.  I imagined, it asked for my address, or emergency contact info or drug allergies or family history.  But, they didn’t need any of that. Just name, phone and number of children.

I saw the doc within 45 seconds of opening an Arabic MotorCar Magazine. He took me back to his office. I told him briefly about my lump.  He walked me across the hall. I exposed my lump.  He felt around. “ I think you’re gonna be okay, but let’s take a look under ultrasound.”

So, he traipsed me, half clothed, down the hall to a third room, slapped on some goo and his magic wand and pointed to the flat screen on the wall. He showed me this and that.

“I wouldn’t do anything unless it starts to hurt, or unless you start to worry about it. And, I would encourage you not to start worrying about it.”

I got dressed and said, “Some dogs grow lumps when they get old.  I guess, I’m becoming a lumpy old dog.”

He laughed.  “I guess so.  Have a good day!”

  

I asked for his bill, since I’d taken up 15 minutes of his time and soiled two exam rooms.  He just waved and smiled.

I hope he doesn’t come for my children.