When in my late teens I worked as a camp counselor, I learned that children do like bold colors, big jewellery and anything jangly. So when a friend invited us over to her house for an afternoon in order to introduce us to the newest addition to the family, I decided to put on my peacock-feather earrings and strut for the older girls. They are 6 and 3, and are frikking adorable.
Tintin was great with the newborn, but I prefer them when they start stringing sentences, and so ended up sandwiched between the girls and loving it. I had the 6-year-old blond princess on one side and the cute-as-a-button 3yo tomboy cuddled up on the other, pushing dark bangs out of her eyes and trying to get a word in edgeways. The princess was chattering away, and there's no interrupting the princess. At that moment, she was gushing over my earrings.
Princess: They're great. I'd love earrings like that.
Me: When you're older, I'm sure your mum will let you pierce your ears, and then I'll happily get you a pair, if you still want them.
Princess: What's that made of?
Me: Peacock feathers.
Princess: Like the bird with the big tail?
Me: Exactly.
Princess looked at me quizzically, while the little one sat up in expectation. She knew her sister better, and must have sensed something was brewing. I, obviously, remained clueless.
Princess: So those belonged to a bird?
Me: I guess so.
Princess: Do they cut them off?
Me (growing uneasy): I don't think so.
Princess: They don't?
Me: I really don't think so.
Princess: How do they get them, then? Do they... kill the bird?!
She had tears in her eyes, and the tomboy looked ready to start bawling, too. I panicked.
Me: No no no no! I'm sure they don't! I'm sure the birds just lose the feathers and grow them back.
Princess (suspicious): You're sure?
Me (not a liar): Sweetie, I'm not sure-sure. But I'm absolutely positive nobody would hurt a bird just to get some pretty feathers. I'm totally sure of that. Okay?
I guess she won't want those earrings now. But I've checked, and yes, peacocks molt, and live through the ordeal of providing us silly girls with flashy earrings. Phew. But next time, I'll try to go better prepared into the perilous den of childhood inquisitiveness. Or get an iPhone, I guess.
Sunday 19 June 2011
Thursday 2 June 2011
Boutique hobo strikes again
Today made me wonder. I was sitting at a bus stop, minding my own business, when a homeless man strolled over, picked up an empty beer can from underneath the bench, and put it in the rubbish bin, explaining that if the police chanced by, I'd get in trouble for even sitting near that particular piece of incriminating evidence. He was nice. Polite. He guessed I was from England, he was sure it was from Manchester. He wanted to know if I saw the Royal Wedding, but said he himself didn't watch it. He much preferred the prince's mother, Princess Di, getting married. That was a wedding.
The bus arrived and I got on, and that was that. But it made me wonder. Living in Seattle the way I have thus far - safe, but with little to do and precious money to spend - my social interactions seem to consist mostly of this city's soft underbelly. A few times, as I got into the elevator, I've been followed by my equally time-rich neighbour. I suspect she's on benefits. She looks forty but talks like a five-year-old. She's lovely. She completely ignores my London mannerisms and chatters away a mile a minute, for as long as our mutual confinement allows.
Another day, while I was still getting used to how laid back Seattle actually is, a homeless woman stopped me in the street to compliment my shoes. I didn't wear white leather brogue oxfords out again, but the experience itself wasn't unpleasant. The woman seemed genuinely impressed with my footwear. And yes, I did agree they were super comfortable. When she asked where I got them, I said Value Village. I figured it was easier than explaining in England we have those lovely little charity boutiques that pretty much serve the same purpose.
Truth be said, I spend enough time in Value Village as it is to make the above true-ish anyway. It's cheap entertainment. Like a treasure hunt with the added benefits of people watching and, occasionally, finding a real gem (a $.99 ballgown, for one - at that price, I can wear it to take out the trash). And as I usually go during the day in the week, I get to mingle with people who know how to get excited about little things. Last time, a middle-aged woman an aisle over squealed with pleasure as she riffled through the dress rack. Her social worker told her to pipe down, and reminded her that they had a couple of hours, so she should take it easy and make it count, because she was only allowed one dress. So she should choose wisely. I hadn't seen a person's eyes get this big with anticipation and gravity of their position in a long, long time. And then I giggled, because save the social worker, I was in the exact same position.
Maybe I just spend too much time on foot, and not in the most desirable parts of town. In London, it was normal not to own a car, and to snub people begging in the streets. There were posters everywhere telling us we were doing more harm than good by giving those people money, and to donate to dedicated charities. And we did. But when somebody asks flat out, it's difficult to say no. A bit easier in this day and age, as often I could honestly say I didn't have any change. Why would I? Most shops in London were happy to take my card for the smallest purchases, and I had my Oyster card for getting around, be it by bus, tube or train. There was no need for me to handle any cash. But, they said, one could always give something in kind. So when the usual man stopped me on my way back from the shops, and as usual I said I had no change, I had no heart to refuse when he asked if I could give him some food instead. I just let him dive into the bag. I was at uni still, then, so the money was tight. I bought what I needed and just one treat: a mango smoothie. I was really looking forward to that. Well, one guess as to what he picked out.
That time, it was a bitter-sweet charity for me. It actually hurt a little. But I got my explanation for the man's fussiness not long afterwards, on an evening underground ride back from the campus. It was late, the carriage was full of people obviously coming home from work, tired, hungry, bored. Suddenly, a bedraggled man stepped in from an adjoining carriage, and loudly said his spiel. It was good, to the point, a little self-deprecating. He said he was happy with food as well. When he stopped in front of me, I said the truth. I only had a couple of apples. He laughed.
"With those teeth?" he asked, grinning. All he had in there were two rotten stubs. I couldn't help myself, and laughed and apologised.
The day my mango smoothie and I parted ways, I realised then, there was nothing else easily consumable in my bag. That will teach me. McDonald's milkshakes all round.
And here I am, aimlessly walking for miles, wasting my time at bus stops, wondering at how nice homeless people are whenever I get to talk to them. And how scary everyone seems to paint the police. Have they actually strolled by me in a similar situation in England, our conversation would go something like this:
"Hullo there. Is that your beer?"
"What? Where? Oh, no. I haven't noticed that. No, not mine."
"Would you mind being a good citizen and putting it in the litter?"
"Not at all, ma'am."
"Thank you, have a nice day."
"And you."
Crazy, I know. Some of my best friends are in the force. Or else I'm getting a skewed view, seeing as I'm a generally harmless daytime hobo who likes her comforts and the rule of law.
Found this sign a few days after posting the above. Ditto.
The bus arrived and I got on, and that was that. But it made me wonder. Living in Seattle the way I have thus far - safe, but with little to do and precious money to spend - my social interactions seem to consist mostly of this city's soft underbelly. A few times, as I got into the elevator, I've been followed by my equally time-rich neighbour. I suspect she's on benefits. She looks forty but talks like a five-year-old. She's lovely. She completely ignores my London mannerisms and chatters away a mile a minute, for as long as our mutual confinement allows.
Another day, while I was still getting used to how laid back Seattle actually is, a homeless woman stopped me in the street to compliment my shoes. I didn't wear white leather brogue oxfords out again, but the experience itself wasn't unpleasant. The woman seemed genuinely impressed with my footwear. And yes, I did agree they were super comfortable. When she asked where I got them, I said Value Village. I figured it was easier than explaining in England we have those lovely little charity boutiques that pretty much serve the same purpose.
Truth be said, I spend enough time in Value Village as it is to make the above true-ish anyway. It's cheap entertainment. Like a treasure hunt with the added benefits of people watching and, occasionally, finding a real gem (a $.99 ballgown, for one - at that price, I can wear it to take out the trash). And as I usually go during the day in the week, I get to mingle with people who know how to get excited about little things. Last time, a middle-aged woman an aisle over squealed with pleasure as she riffled through the dress rack. Her social worker told her to pipe down, and reminded her that they had a couple of hours, so she should take it easy and make it count, because she was only allowed one dress. So she should choose wisely. I hadn't seen a person's eyes get this big with anticipation and gravity of their position in a long, long time. And then I giggled, because save the social worker, I was in the exact same position.
Maybe I just spend too much time on foot, and not in the most desirable parts of town. In London, it was normal not to own a car, and to snub people begging in the streets. There were posters everywhere telling us we were doing more harm than good by giving those people money, and to donate to dedicated charities. And we did. But when somebody asks flat out, it's difficult to say no. A bit easier in this day and age, as often I could honestly say I didn't have any change. Why would I? Most shops in London were happy to take my card for the smallest purchases, and I had my Oyster card for getting around, be it by bus, tube or train. There was no need for me to handle any cash. But, they said, one could always give something in kind. So when the usual man stopped me on my way back from the shops, and as usual I said I had no change, I had no heart to refuse when he asked if I could give him some food instead. I just let him dive into the bag. I was at uni still, then, so the money was tight. I bought what I needed and just one treat: a mango smoothie. I was really looking forward to that. Well, one guess as to what he picked out.
That time, it was a bitter-sweet charity for me. It actually hurt a little. But I got my explanation for the man's fussiness not long afterwards, on an evening underground ride back from the campus. It was late, the carriage was full of people obviously coming home from work, tired, hungry, bored. Suddenly, a bedraggled man stepped in from an adjoining carriage, and loudly said his spiel. It was good, to the point, a little self-deprecating. He said he was happy with food as well. When he stopped in front of me, I said the truth. I only had a couple of apples. He laughed.
"With those teeth?" he asked, grinning. All he had in there were two rotten stubs. I couldn't help myself, and laughed and apologised.
The day my mango smoothie and I parted ways, I realised then, there was nothing else easily consumable in my bag. That will teach me. McDonald's milkshakes all round.
And here I am, aimlessly walking for miles, wasting my time at bus stops, wondering at how nice homeless people are whenever I get to talk to them. And how scary everyone seems to paint the police. Have they actually strolled by me in a similar situation in England, our conversation would go something like this:
"Hullo there. Is that your beer?"
"What? Where? Oh, no. I haven't noticed that. No, not mine."
"Would you mind being a good citizen and putting it in the litter?"
"Not at all, ma'am."
"Thank you, have a nice day."
"And you."
Crazy, I know. Some of my best friends are in the force. Or else I'm getting a skewed view, seeing as I'm a generally harmless daytime hobo who likes her comforts and the rule of law.
Found this sign a few days after posting the above. Ditto.
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