Anticdote

Castiglioncello, Livorno

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 22:19:27 -0500

Castiglioncello, Livorno

I have now lived in Heidelberg, Germany for a bit over a month...

Sat, 27 Oct 2012 16:39:24 -0400

I have now lived in Heidelberg, Germany for a bit over a month and I feel like I know the city well. I’ve gotten to the point where I can give people directions and talk intelligently with residents about the area. But I was certain I knew Heidelberg well when I can talk about the “characters of Heidelberg” and the residents know exactly about whom I am speaking.

There are such “characters” in every busy city – the strange people who sort of have their own trademark behavior or look. Well, by walking down Hauptstraße everyday for a month, I have unavoidably observed each and every one of these “characters of Heidelberg.”

My first day in Heidelberg, I met, well more like encountered, this tiny, senile, old man, I lovingly refer to as “Herr Klatschmeister” (“Mr. Clapmaster” for those of you who don’t speak German). This hunched over, joyful man hobbles slowly up and down Hauptstraße every day. He walks up to people loitering on the street, he stands in the doorways of shops, he interrupts people’s conversations and looks people right in the face, smiles, and begins clapping his hands together in his own little rhythmic pattern, whilst cackling in a jolly sort of way. He continues to engage people in this manner for a good two to three minutes, not saying a coherent word, just laughing and clapping, and when he is finished, he utters a last goofy hee hee, waves a dopey wave, and shuffles away.

Another interesting “character” is the one dreadlock guy. This assumedly homeless man has amassed the entirety of his hair into one beaver tail-like dreadlock which goes down to his waist. I had the misfortune of sitting next to him on a bus and let me tell you, that dreadlock reeks!

Understandably, a lot of these sorts of “characters” are street performers; street performers frequent particular spots and make their presence obvious. There are some good street performers here in Heidelberg, but I am going to venture to assert that the vast majority of street performers here are rather awful. For example, there is a man who sits on his stool and plays this one song on his accordion day after day after day for the entirety of the day. The first time I heard his song, I thought it was rather nice and I may have even considered this musician talented; but when I realized it was the only song he ever plays, my opinion changed rapidly. I want to pay him to stop playing. The song is so grating for me now, that I have to suppress violent urges that stir inside me as the music passes through my ears for the umpteenth time. He is not the only one-hit-wonder musician on the street though. There is a woman who also has but one ditty to play on her accordion. I don’t think it is cruel to say that if these musicians have all this time to sit on the street playing the one song over and over, they can take a little of that time to learn at least one new song.

And while we are still on the topic of terrible musicians, I need to complain about him, who is without a doubt my least favorite musician on this street: The One-Armed Halo Drummer. The Halo Drum is not a commonly known instrument; it is a round, steel, UFO-looking structure that has flattened areas around the domed surface which, when struck, emit a tuned note. A remarkable instrument, really – a melodic percussion instrument. Well this One-Armed Halo Drummer has not grasped the melodic part of his instrument yet. This young man sits on the ground with his three halo drums and beats on them with sticks. He has no rhythm and no tune. He just beats on them like a five year old who found the five pound bag of sugar and greedily consumed it all. What upsets me most about this is that people actually give him money. I don’t know if it is because they pity his handicapped state or because they actually think the music is good. I am afraid that people are just not educated enough about the halo drum to know what a big disgrace he is making of the instrument, and so their first exposure to this fine drum is a bad one. I want to just make a general announcement to all musical performers: learn to play your instrument before you inflict your “music” upon the masses.

Playing a statue is a popular form of street performance in Europe, I’ve noticed. The best ones are those that you have to carefully inspect because you aren’t entirely sure whether they are people or just statues. We have one statue performer on Hauptstraße, but it is painfully obvious that he is no statue. Firstly, his costume isn’t very convincing, though not the worst I’ve seen. Secondly, he won’t stop moving for more than 20 seconds. He harasses passersby! I once saw him flick the hair of an old lady walking past him. Thirdly, he has a little bird-tweet whistle in his mouth that he uses to squeak at people. It emits a terrible sound and ruins the whole statue façade.

And finally there is a woman who dresses up like a tree and creepily smiles and slowly moves to wave at people. I don’t know what she is doing, but it is downright creepy.

Also, what is the obsession with dreadlocks in this city? I see at least ten people with dreadlocks a day! Men and women!

As I said before, I employed a variety of methods of...

Fri, 10 Aug 2012 19:58:00 -0400

As I said before, I employed a variety of methods of transportation whilst living in Russia. One of the most interesting trips I took, however, was on a bus…alone.

I booked a bus ticket from Kazan to Samara so I could go visit a friend. My ticket said the trip would last eight hours. I lugged my suitcase to the bus station in the snow by myself – I would like to point out how great a feat that really was for me to accomplish, because if you know me, you’ll know that I have absolutely zero sense of direction and considering I had only been in Kazan for a matter of days, finding a bus station is a great achievement. Anyway, I got to the bus station, picked up my ticket and waited for the bus to arrive. When it finally did, I dragged my bag over to have it loaded in the luggage compartment.

The bus was a relatively short, drab-grayish-green colored vehicle. I climbed aboard and found my seat on the aisle in the second row on the driver’s side. No one was sitting next to me, but people were still boarding, so I kept my things on my lap. I looked around and noticed there was no bathroom on the bus at all; I wondered if the bus driver would stop for breaks. Fortunately he did stop every couple hours to pick people up or drop them off – many of these stops seemed arbitrary and strange as they were on the side of the road next to open fields – and there were some bathrooms available on stops. I looked towards the front of the vehicle and saw that the bus driver had decorated his little front seat “office” with sports team banners and tassels.

When everyone had boarded, a little, old babushka decided she didn’t like her seat or she was sitting in someone else’s seat, so she came up to me and asked to have my window seat. I was rather looking forward to sitting alone, but I couldn’t very well deny this poor woman a chair. I slid out to let her in, noticing that the back of the bus was empty, but too afraid to not resume my proper seat – my policy while living in Russia was to abide by all the rules so that I wouldn’t get into a situation I wouldn’t understand or one that could escalate into something worse.

The bus started moving and I put in my headphones to listen to music. I was hoping that this woman would not be very talkative because, whereas I am an incredible extrovert, I was very apprehensive to engage in conversation in Russian. For the first six hours or so of the ride, I was left to my own devices.

I wasn’t exactly sure what time the bus was to arrive, so I asked the woman next to me. She too did not know, so she asked the people behind us. We started a huge discussion and the old woman noticed that I had an accent (and probably that my Russian really wasn’t all that great, but we’ll pretend it was only due to the accent so as to protect my ego). She asked me from whence I came and the general questions about my studies. Then she asked why I was traveling to Samara if I lived in Moscow. I explained to her that I was going to visit my friend. Now, as with many languages, Russian included, there is no separate word for boyfriend as opposed to a friend who just happens to be male. She automatically assumes he is my boyfriend. She asks me if he is Tatar because Samara is near Tatarstan and therefore a large number of the population there is Tatar. He is a Tatar, I tell her. She decides to teach me how to say various phrases in Tatar, one of which was how to say “I love you.”

This little babushka is very excited with the idea of me visiting my love. She asks me why such a pretty girl in her twenties is not yet married and when it is I will finally marry my “boyfriend.” I didn’t have the heart to shatter her beautiful, romantic illusion because I could tell she was just overjoyed at this prospect, so I just answered “I do not know” and smiled.

She gave me the Russian equivalent to a hostess cupcake and asked me to tell her all about my beau. So I obliged and described various qualities of my friend; and while telling the story I noticed that the babushkas in the row next to me and the row diagonally behind me were leaning over, smiling, and listening. They all chimed in telling me how wonderful they thought he sounded and complimenting me on my beauty. They stroked my hair and said that I looked like Marilyn Monroe. This was without a doubt the most flattering bus ride of my life.

As we neared the bus station, the babushkas started getting really excited for me to meet with my “boyfriend.” They helped me adjust my coat, scarf, hat, and hair so that I would look perfect when he saw me. When we finally arrived, I saw my friend and rushed to give him a hug. The babushka who sat next to me saw us and smiled. I introduced my friend to her briefly and as we went to find my bag, she grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear “Don’t forget to say [I love you in Tatar].” (Sadly I’ve already forgotten this phrase). I smiled and said thank you. My friend looked at me quizzically and asked what it was she said, I just replied “Oh, nothing” and smiled to myself.

Pushkin looking nonplussed.

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 07:09:34 -0400

Pushkin looking nonplussed.

Photo

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 21:06:35 -0400

I once went to the Moscow Zoo. I strolled around gazing at the...

Mon, 06 Aug 2012 22:43:00 -0400

I once went to the Moscow Zoo. I strolled around gazing at the creatures they had pent up. I saw many intriguing animals: there was a light pinkish-white walrus, seals in trees, and – most interesting of all – this dinosaur bird (pictured above). I have never seen a creature like this before. His cage had no label, so I have no clue as to what sort of bird he is. He was about three feet tall; multi-colored, but predominantly blue; he had a three inch, bone-hard horn on his head; and an eight inch long wattle hung from his neck. A very profound creature; sort of reminds me of a dinosaur. I’d be interested in knowing what kind of bird this is if anyone is able to enlighten me.

Thanks to perpetualartistsblock, I now know this creature is called a cassowary.

St. Basil’s Cathedral is my favorite piece of architecture...

Sun, 05 Aug 2012 23:17:12 -0400

St. Basil’s Cathedral is my favorite piece of architecture in the world. The beautiful colors and design are very unique.

I don’t believe people realize how colorful Russia really is. I remember before I left for Russia, people asked me why I wanted to go to such a cold, drab country. I hope this photo I took changes the minds of these people. Russia is a beautiful, colorful, interesting country – it is truly one-of-a-kind.

St. Basil’s is unique in and of itself. When one enters most cathedrals, she is faced with a large room with rows of seats and a large alter or pulpit at the front; this is not the case in St. Basil’s. When I entered St. Basil’s for the first time, I was speechless. I entered through a small room with golden, painted icons. This room led to a series of stone passageways. The walls of some of the passageways were painted with simple floral patterns. They led to tiny rooms with tall, ornate icons and high ceilings. St. Basil’s is a cathedral like no other. Entering this holy place is entering a beautiful adventure. Truly an amazing experience.

Russia is a very traditional country. There are so many...

Sat, 04 Aug 2012 22:43:51 -0400

Russia is a very traditional country. There are so many holidays, customs, and beliefs unique to Russia. One tradition, which is not be entirely unique to Russia, is as follows: when a couple gets married, they sign their names and anniversary on a padlock, lock it to the railing of a bridge, and throw the key into the water below. I find this custom beautiful. Not only is it sweet to see all the locks covering the bridge, reading the names, and imagining their stories, but this tradition is so incredibly symbolic. The couple locks their love together on a bridge, which represents crossing into a new stage of life, and they throw away the key, vowing to never unlock the love, try to escape and leave the other, and they never look back. Love is beautiful.

Photo

Fri, 03 Aug 2012 22:13:00 -0400

I toured Kazan, Russia for a week back in March. I was with a...

Fri, 03 Aug 2012 21:05:00 -0400

I toured Kazan, Russia for a week back in March. I was with a group of my peers, walking through the bitter cold, touring mosques, cathedrals, and monasteries. We were standing in the courtyard outside the Мечеть Марджани (Marjani Mosque). I was taking the picture, which is featured at the top of this post, when I heard some shuffling behind me. I turned around to see a group of very well-dressed people carrying a pallet. I looked closely to see what was on the pallet: it was a dead body covered by a blanket. This group had pulled the deceased from the trunk of a car, nonchalantly carried him past our tour group, set him on the icy bricks covering the courtyard floor, and began holding a funeral service. The juxtaposition of our loud, American tour group and the funeral service was certainly absurd.

We entered the mosque, once our tour guide finished her spiel, and were asked to remove our shoes – as is customary when visiting a mosque. But one of the girls in our group did not have adequate socks and admitted she would have to stay in the foyer and not enter the mosque. A tiny, shriveled, old babushka understood that this girl would not be able to see inside her beautiful, beloved place of worship due to her footwear; so she stooped down and pulled off her own pair of socks to give to the girl. The babushka graciously handed her the socks, insisting that she keep them, as she was wearing multiple layers of socks herself. However, these socks were definitely the best pair she was wearing. They were thick, fuzzy, rainbow-colored socks. All her other socks were drab colors and made of thin material. This old woman had selflessly given away her best socks. I marveled at the kindness this woman showed to a complete stranger, a stranger not from her country, a stranger who did not practice her religion. Those rainbow-colored socks were love.

Public transportation is something that America has yet to fully...

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 19:18:00 -0400

Public transportation is something that America has yet to fully embrace. I’ll be honest and admit that I have mixed feelings about public transportation. In general, I do not like it; but that is mostly because it is not very convenient where I live and I absolutely love driving, so I wouldn’t want to replace my car.

In Russia, however, I had no car, so it was necessary for me to resort to public transportation. I took advantage of many various methods of transportation: walking the icy streets in my high heels, маршрутка (marshrutka), taxis (well more or less taxis…they were not officially taxis, but that is a different story entirely), a bus, and the metro.

The method of transportation I used most frequently, second only to my own two feet, was the metro. As aforementioned in a previous post, I lived near the metro stop called Выхино (Vykhino). It was about a 15-20 minute walk from my university – very convenient. So, I rode the metro almost every day.

The Moscow Metro is grand. That is the best word I can use to describe it. Not only is it huge and very convenient, almost every station is decorated very beautifully and ornately – especially on the brown line. The Moscow Metro infrastructure is far superior to that of ours in Washington D.C. In central Moscow one needs only walk 5 minutes before he happens upon a metro stop. One needn’t calculate his fare for each trip based on the number of stops or the time of day he is traveling; every ride, no matter the distance is a flat rate of 28 rubles (which is less than a dollar). The Moscow metro is so cheap! Honestly, any foreigner can figure out the Moscow Metro without knowing a word of Russian. I repeat: the Moscow Metro is grand.

Another great aspect of the metro is that so many people ride it, there was hardly a day I didn’t see something interesting happen on the metro. I have a multitude of stories from the metro. I often saw drunk men spilling about, sloshing their beverages around in their hand; couples entirely too passionately making out, pressed up against the doors; beggars playing music on the metro cars; people selling rabbits out of a box at a metro station.

The metro was particularly crowded before and after hockey games. Police patrols would be tripled in metro stations and even on the cars. Fights would often break out between fans of opposing teams. I saw at least two fights that I remember. One was in a hallway in the metro station – I had to sprint my way through the middle of that one to get away unscathed. The other was on the metro car in front of mine. Some Russian women on my car had to call the metro operator to send someone to handle the incident because about 7 men had cornered and were beating up this one poor fellow.

Rush hour was always fun because we would have to pack in like sardines. Just when you thought no one else could get in the car, someone would press his way in. People were surprisingly nice during rush hour though; they would move out of my way so I could get to the door. I, without a hint of grace, would often grab a stranger to help me stay vertical when the train started or suddenly jerked to a stop. Most people didn’t even glance at me when I seized them to keep balance.

I used to use the hand railings to make my way safely down the icy steps to the metro stations, until one day I saw a man climbing the steps, stop, turn towards the wall of the staircase, and urinate against it. My friends and I sort of stared in amazement and disgust at this man. Then suddenly he turned his head and noticed us watching him and he yelled “Не смотрите!” We awkwardly turned around and all vowed to never again touch a metro railing.

One thing about the Moscow Metro that I found intriguing is that no one looks at anyone. Russians, in general, don’t like it when you make eye contact with them, they will think you want something from them. So on the metro, people generally just stare at their feet or read a book. Well one night I was riding the metro talking to some friends, when the man next to me fell asleep and his head lolled over onto my shoulder. I nudged my shoulder up a bit to try to gently encourage him to vacate my personal area…but to no avail. I jerked my shoulder a little higher. Still no movement. My friends were laughing and staring at me. Then I noticed this one Russian man, standing against the door, was trying his hardest not to stare and laugh. He was suppressing a huge smile and continually averted his eyes from my gaze; but eventually we made eye contact and he finally spoke to me. He told me to shove the sleeping man’s head off my shoulder with my hand, but I didn’t want to be so harsh and rude. So after a few more attempts with the shoulder nudging, the Russian man by the door authoritatively walked over to me, grabbed this man’s head, and rather forcefully threw him to the side. The sleeping man cracked his eyes open, but then shut them again, resuming his rest. The Russian man smiled at me and I thanked him profusely and then he went back to his position by the door and did not look at me again.

But the metro ride that probably topped them all was this: I entered a metro car to be immediately pushed against a wall by a crowd of people. I looked at the other half of the car and it was completely empty. I couldn’t figure out why everyone was crowding up to the one side. So I waded my way through the people to investigate and when I am halfway through the crowd, I get slapped in the face by the most rancid stench. It was awful – perhaps the worst thing I’d ever smelt. I stood up on my tiptoes to see over the crowd and I found the source of the scent. There was a homeless man passed out on the bench. Actually, I am almost certain he was dead – I don’t think a living creature could produce such an odor as that.

Perhaps I don’t ride the DC Metro enough, but I’m going to assert that the Moscow Metro is more entertaining.

The language barrier. One of the most difficult aspects of...

Wed, 01 Aug 2012 17:20:08 -0400

The language barrier. One of the most difficult aspects of travel…but also one of the most amusing. Conversations can be very frustrating when hindered by a language barrier, or they can become extremely entertaining – what with the charades and caveman speech. I study foreign languages, and I have for many years, but the language barrier is still an issue for me every so often.

I had an interesting encounter on my first night living in Russia. At this point my spoken Russian was still very weak and I had a hard time understanding everything the natives would say to me.

I went out with two of my new American friends to a restaurant called ПирО.Г.И. in Moscow. We had been sitting at our table for an indecent amount of time waiting to be served – serving the Americans was definitely not high on the priority list of the waitresses there – and I had to use the restroom. My one friend had been to this restaurant before so he pointed me in the direction of the bathrooms. I went around the corner and found two unmarked, black doors. There was a man standing outside the doors, waiting. This guy looked to be in his early twenties. Probably about 6’2”, but he slouched. He had a goatee, a sort of Rastafarian hat, black clothes with chains and spikes, and 1” gauges in his ears. I asked him in my broken Russian if these were the bathrooms. He replied that they were and then cracked some joke (or so I thought) about how they were unlabeled, so I just smiled and nodded in agreement – the classic response to any situation when you don’t exactly understand what was said. He continued to talk to me rapidly in Russian. I still had no idea what he was saying so I just said: “Я не понимаю. Я американка.” – the best way to tell Russians “look, I just don’t understand anything you’re saying!” After admitting this fact, he said “ah” and put his hands together as if he were praying, touching his fingers to his lips. He rocked forward a bit, like he was bowing. He knit his eyebrows together and looked as if he was thinking really hard, perhaps trying to conjure up any sort of English he had stowed away in his brain. He stood up and opened his mouth a few times, inhaling like he was about to say something, but then he just shut his mouth and bowed down again.

We stood there awkwardly for a moment before, I suppose, he gave up trying to have a conversation with me and instead reached into his pocket to pull something out. It was a walnut. He didn’t say a word as he held it out for me. I took it from him quizzically and stammered “Это…walnut…я не знаю как по-русски walnut…” He still didn’t say anything. I turned it over and saw a red streak across it. At first I thought it was an ink smudge from a stamp or label that used to be on the shell; but then I saw his hand. His palm was covered with numerous shallow cuts. I held the bloody walnut a bit more gingerly as I gave it back to him. Then, thankfully, one of the bathrooms opened and he let me go before him.

To me this was a very strange encounter. I’ve never been handed a bloody walnut while waiting in line for a bathroom; and giving a foreigner a nut isn’t exactly my solution for language barriers. But perhaps to this poor guy, whom I just slighted by not accepting his blood-stained gift, it was probably the most sincere and common of encounters.

Part of me wishes I’d been in this situation after I’d improved my Russian so that I could have understood him better, but then the beauty of the absurdity would be lost, yielding far less great a story.

People-watching is one of my favorite sports. Everyone does it,...

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 22:12:00 -0400

People-watching is one of my favorite sports. Everyone does it, however some people-watch more consciously than others. I strongly suggest everyone adds a bit of conscious people-watching to his or her day because people are the strangest creatures and a lot of amusing stories can develop from observing those around you.

I am a coffee addict. I have a gold member card at Starbucks. One of my favorite pass-times is purchasing a favorite Starbucks beverage, going outside somewhere, and observing the people passing by. Doing this with a friend is more fun because you have someone to whom you can make comments on what you observe and – especially enjoyable – speculate as to what certain people are doing, where they are headed, why they are so rushed, whether or not they dressed in the dark this morning, etc.

But the very best way to people-watch is by wandering the streets of a foreign country.

I was just recently living in Moscow, Russia and, being without a car, I did an obscene amount of walking on the streets. I lived near Выхино (Vykhino), which I was told is essentially the ghetto of Moscow; as such I saw some very interesting people and occurrences.

It is true that the women wear stilettos and dress like supermodels even just to check the mail. It is also true that a significant number of the men are drunk during a significant amount of the day. Even though drinking in public has recently been deemed illegal in Russia, people still carry around bottles of beer and vodka and imbibe whenever and wherever they please and no one seems to care.

One day as I was walking to the metro, I saw, on the opposite side of the street from me, a woman running down the sidewalk, carrying 2 bulging grocery bags, throwing glances back over her shoulder. I looked down the road to see at what she kept looking. Once the truck blocking my view had passed, I saw that a man was pursuing her. He looked very angry and she looked very scared. I started to think of what I could do for her, to help her or distract him…but then I noticed that the man was so incredibly intoxicated that he could hardly lift his feet, let alone run to keep up with the woman, so she easily sped around a corner and escaped before he fell down into a snowdrift.

Another day I was walking down the road – a very busy road, mind you – when I saw a little girl (about 7 or 8 years old), across the street, drop her britches, squat down, and proceed to urinate on the snow on the side of the road. As I mentioned before, this was a very busy road. My friends and I were thinking “who would let her child do that?” Well, evidently her babushka would. This little girl’s grandmother was standing right there next to her just looking around as if nothing strange was going on and all was well with the world. Then the girl pulled up her pants and skipped along with her grandmother as if they never stopped.

It’s probably only because I am an American that I found these encounters so surprising; because all the other Russians walking down the street watching these two events take place didn’t even blink an eye!

WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 16:59:09 -0400

I’ve traveled a fair amount (it’s one of my most favorite things to do) and I plan to...

Starbucks. The classic place to meet up with friends, chill,...

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 22:35:00 -0400

Starbucks. The classic place to meet up with friends, chill, and have some of the most intriguing encounters. I’ve made memories in many a Starbucks: from reading the most diverse transcriptions of my name on the side of my cup to discussing with a transvestite the acrobatics required to defecate into one of those industrial-sized trash cans. But the encounter I had yesterday at my regular Starbucks without a doubt takes the cake as the most peculiar experience I’ve ever had at a Starbucks.

My very best friend and I were sitting at our usual table, sipping our beverages, and having a very deep conversation when the woman sitting at the table caddy corner to ours leans over and asks me:

“Excuse me, is that a computer?” (I had my new tablet out at the time because I was looking up something on the internet.)

I replied that it was and she asked if I would look something up for her. Not a strange thing to ask someone in a coffee shop, people are studying and need to know facts and the like. I agreed. She wanted me to look up all the countries that are part of Europe. I asked her about which specific country she was inquiring since there are many countries in Europe and it would be easier to search for the one country’s whereabouts than read through an exhaustive list. She was confused about England. Not only did she not know it was a part of Europe, but she did not know that England is an island. She also expressed confusion between the United Kingdom, Great Britain, and England – but that is confusing, I’ll give her credit. However, when she asked me to explain the concept of a continent to her, because she hadn’t the foggiest idea what they were, I was dumbfounded.

By this time she had moved to our table and left all her belongings and her coffee sitting at her former table. She sat and talked to us for probably 30 minutes. To spare you from having to read our whole conversation – though I wish I had recorded the whole thing – I will write out some of the most intriguing points she made:

“So the United States is its own country except when it is allied with Canada; and Mexico is not a country.”

“Africa should not be a continent. It should be one country with 54 states because all Africans are the same and of the same descent.”

“Europe should also just be one country because they all think the same way.”

“The world should not be divided by countries; it should be divided by developed and undeveloped areas.”

Nearing the end of our discussion, she told us she comes from New York, she is unapologetic for the person she is, and – most bewildering – she has 3 Master’s Degrees.

The barista begins mopping the floor in our general vicinity. He pushes in the chair at the lady’s former table so he can more easily maneuver his mop. This gesture apparently offended the woman and sparked in her an unreasonable amount of paranoia. She began complaining that she was unwelcome in this Starbucks as she angrily pointed out people in the shop whom she believed wanted her to leave. In her opinion, everyone wanted her to leave except for the one lady talking on her phone in the corner who was smiling “which we all know is not because she is on the phone.” (She lost me on that rationale). She continued to prattle on about how she liked the way she was and people just had to accept her for how she is because she isn’t going to change. Then she admitted to us that she is very selective with whom she speaks and even to whom she smiles and that my friend and I should be honored that she judged us good enough to strike up conversation with us.

At this inopportune moment, the barista returns with his rag to wipe down the tables. Since the woman was still not sitting at her table, he lifted her coffee cup to wipe underneath it. This woman whips around in her chair with an unexpected fury and tells him to take his hands off her coffee. She exclaims that no decent human being would ever touch another person’s coffee. She cries out that she knows when she is unwanted and that perhaps she would leave and drive off to get lost in the city – threatening to do so “saying her prayers.”

At this point my best friend and I were glancing at each other with the let’s-get-out-of-here look, so we began to gather our things. And then the strangest thing happened: the lady stood up rigid, turned around to face the window and began talking loudly to herself or something that just wasn’t there… It was incredibly strange, but my friend and I didn’t hang around to listen—we bolted for the door. As we were about to exit, the woman snatches up her belongings and runs out into the street, then turns around and runs back into the Starbucks to talk to a man behind the counter. My friend and I really didn’t want to get involved with a violently crazy person, so we left immediately.

I only wish I had asked her in what subjects her 3 Master’s were…