Glory Ho

Recently, when on the topic of buffets (I have no idea) with a couple friends, we learned that a friend of theirs had recently seen Mike Shanahan at Souper Salad. This news was disturbing. I’ll even call it disappointing.

Why is it that I cared? Why is it that I have such disdain for the all-American “buffet”? Well, let’s see. Germs and obesity are at the top of the list. I could go on. But I happened to have written a blog about buffets awhile back. And I think there’s a little connection. . .

When I was young,  a day at Southpark Mall with my Mom meant Foxmoor, Benetton and if we were feeling luxurious–a little Mark Henri. A paper-wrapped pixie from Fannie May was sugarcoated elegance and Orange Julius seemed to be the early version of a Starbucks Frappucino. Lunch was another important decision. While Chinese made me feel international and Riverside Cafe seemed intellectual beyond my years, when I was no more than ten, when I still had hair down to my butt, a trip to Bishops, the buffet, the one where blue-haired ladies with big pocketbooks bragged about the BookIt accomplishments of their grandchildren, was like attending a Broadway Show. And I guess I’ve just figured out why.

It was always dark–the clang of chatter and silverware mysteriously emerging from its shadowed maze of swiftly moving chefs and stainless steel surfaces. The neatly wrapped marshmallow salads and compact bowls of cole-slaw, each screaming “pick me!”, rested in rows before my empty tray. And the chocolate-shaving-topped-cream-pie, saran-wrapped to perfection without a smudge or smear in sight, seemed like a special delivery. At Bishops, I could see everything, inspecting for secretly inserted onions or nuts, before making a commitment. From its own pure white china plate, my gravy didn’t know how to get near my bread and my corn could never creep into my tapioca pudding.  While some of these preference speak to the early stages of my neuroticism, Bishops buffet was plainly and simply about endless variety and protection of the commitment-phobic. And especially at ten, when jello flavor was a high priority,  Bishops Buffet empowered me.

During our time in Bulgaria, right after we were asked about our favorite Bulgarian food, the subject of American food would arise. After we denied that McDonald’s hamburgers were our national dish, they wanted to know, if not fast food, what DID we eat? Well, um, usually Indian, Mexican, Thai, Japanese or Italian, which  left us with no answer at all. When we considered holiday meals, mashed potatoes came quickly to mind, but what else? Barbeque ribs seemed American, but very regional. What about hot dogs? Macaroni and cheese? We eventually decided that the beauty of America is the variety–that because of our many immigrant ingredients, you could find endless ethnic culinary possibilities on any major metropolitan avenue.

As we travel, we notice how little tolerance we have for the same song, the same shirt or the same sandwich. It’s no wonder because America is the ultimate buffet. Our nation, like so many others, still embodies centuries-old traditions. We just have so darn many of them. And if our immigrants still cook, bake and celebrate with their own native traditions from Ireland, Germany, Mexico or Italy, all the better.

Bishops is long gone from Southpark Mall, but I guess we need not worry, ‘cuz Souper Salad is all the rage now. Even for Denver’s millionaires.

We’ve been back for over four months now. Before we left, we met with Returned Peace Corps Volunteers and asked them questions about readjustment back in the States. One girl said:

“I don’t see what the big deal is. Everything here is easy and convenient. It’s a life you’ve known for years.”

Overall, she’s right. But there are a few things which surprised me.

Friends Close, Strangers Closer (so this is a long story, but its important)
On the first day of my new contracting gig, a member of my soon-to-be team was assigned to show me around. Let me say that this person is a very, very nice indivdual. I would call her both kind and sensitive. Which is why I can say with such certainty that her actions that morning were driven not from a poor decision or a personality flaw, but directly from American culture.

She asked me if I wanted to go down to the cafeteria in about an hour. I said yes. In the cafeteria, we separated, choosing our meals. When finished, I looked everywhere for her, but no luck. Eventually, I sat at one of the tables and ate by myself, assuming she’d had to run upstairs or perhaps was chatting with a friend. After about 10 minutes, she approached my table, but didn’t sit down.

She said with an apologetic smile: “Oh, I’m so sorry I lost you. You don’t have a badge to get back up.”

At that moment, I realized that she never had any intention of eating lunch with me. Even though it was my first day. Taking half an hour to get to know me or answer my questions just didn’t fit into her schedule.  Even though our office is a fairly laid back place. This just isn’t what Americans do.

Gluttony
One of my primary questions to the universe upon arriving home, which I whispered at random intervals into the no one in particular, was:  “How did I find justification for the purchase of so many scarves/purses/make-up bags/flip-flops/hoodies/?” It seemed that instead of one of everything, I had seven or eight of everything. And as I’ve tipped over boxes, dismantled temporary wardrobes and discovered the importance, a little too late, of airtight garment bags, everything we’d lived without for three years, I found duplicates of so many other things too: hair gel, spoon rests, hot-roller sets, spatulas, throw pillows.

The Spices of Life (Plural)
Do you get it? Do you realize how many choices we have? That there are 29 varieties of rice to choose from in Aisle 9? That milk comes in 18 different styles? That we’re the ONLY place on earth with such options? When Boudreaux and I entered a Jamba Juice on our first day in the United States, we looked at the menu, looked at each other and walked out. It was just too overwhelming. Since then, I have felt similarly about the menu at CPK and just about every other restaurant but Jimmy John’s.

Trampoline Effect
Remember bouncing through the air on that blue-rimmed, silver-banana-curl-spring thing for a few minutes and then jumping onto the backyard grass? At that moment, your physical being is jolted to a stagnant reality, you feel electric currents zigzaging up your shins and inertia keeps your mind in motion.  We’ve been on a trampoline for three years. The whole time, a small voice kept explaining: Oh there’s a ground Monty, you just want me to think there aint no ground. But we just found the ground. It’s called America. Everything is still. Predictable. How else can I explain why it seems odd that when I come home at night, my Arizona Iced Tea bottle is exactly where I left it and my socks are still in the same drawer it was in last week?

Other Random Observations

Priceless: Sitting around chatting with tortilla chips and Coronas and effortless communication.

Annoying: The fact that I cannot buy birth control without a prescription.

Bizarre: The idea that four way stops totally work. I mean people pay attention so they have an idea when to go.

Expensive: Um, healthcare. Sugar snap peas. Almonds. Avocados. Anything at the mall!

Neurotic: All the planning Americans do.

Amazingly Comfortable: Our bed and our comforter.

On the Possibility for Change
I am changed. It’s clearer now than ever. To think I made progress in Bulgaria. Ha! To think I could have gone on in this life without the last three years of self evolution is a what I now term a close call. I might even say it was a near-death experience. I could have stayed here. Continued to find the red suede pumps I’d been looking for. Continued cursing traffic, customer service agents and checkout lines when they did not cater to me, me, me. Continued to hold grudges for lateness and inefficiences. To have been nervous about the salad I brought to the latest in-law gathering. (Shoud have I used ruby reds instead of spinach? Surely i overdid it on the vinegar.  And this inappropriate salad bowl!)

But thank God, thank the universe, thank anyone and anything, that i didn’t.

Andrea: What about a vegetarian eggs benedict with tomatoes and avocados? Eh? All that protein and vitamins with some buttery fat drizzled on top?

Stomach: Are you kidding?? I HATE eggs benedict! You’re gonna have to go to the bathroom before you’re even out of the restaurant!

Andrea: Okaaayyy, let’s try a turkey sandwich with mustard on whole wheat with some baby carrots, sugar snap peas and a grapefruit cup? Is that better? A little fruit, a little vegetables, a little meat? Nice and balanced?

Stomach: I’ve never liked vegetables or fruit, to be honest. I’ve only been pretending all this time. You’ve really messed up now. This afternoon of meetings is going to be filled with the need to pass gas. Have fun.

Andrea: Right. Tonight I’ll have a nice Tortilla-crusted tilapia fillet with some sauteed spinach and a little rice pilaf cooked in olive oil. God, I’m being so healthy, someone please pass me a Dorito. But maybe this will make me feel better.

Stomach: She cannot get it right. Let’s see, tonight’s line up includes some minor cramps before bed time, then some major cramps around 2:30 AM, followed by an hour of constipation.

Andrea: Okay, fine. Fuck you. If a turkey sandwich makes you angry, then why not just go for it. I’m going to Lori and Gary’s for chili tonight. There will be cheese, sour cream, tortillas, beans, the whole shebang.

Stomach: Well this attitude isn’t going to help your cause at all! Whatever, it’s your funeral.

about being pregnant is that you find out and it’s like SUCH a big deal, right? You can hardly believe it and you want to tell everyone and it’s such big news and you’ve been waiting for this day and it seems like your world will never be the same and you’re right (!!!) but then like a couple days later, you are forced to slip back into your normal routine of real life and work and the reminder to schedule your dentist appointment and packing your lunch and IT actually doesn’t rule every hour of your day and you think: Wait, but shouldn’t it? But you go on anyway and you check your email and hang up your coat and pour the Special K and from then on it’s just sort of like there, around. . .on the bathroom counter, in your purse, reminding you that its not a dream and every once in a while he’ll look at you as though he’s saying: Wait, really? And without saying a thing, you’ll look at him and be like: Yes, really!

And that’s how it goes.

I was so nervous that morning. I’d even cried. Flustered by my slippery hot rollers and the client meeting which had suddenly come up and the fact that my favorite watch of all time had stopped working after seven years. Silly things, you see. But last week it had been sun glare and the absence of a parking lot that did it. I hardly minded. I am much more frustrated by the absence of tears than their sometimes unexpected presence.

At Alpine Access at 11th and Lincoln, I stood waiting for my client, Sonia, a smiling, pin-cushion-skinned, past-hippie graphic designer who lived in Bailey. I had stared through the boardroom toward a Successories-like window frame. There’s Denver, I thought. That’s where I live. The leather-colored buildings of a medium-sized city where the sun was always in attendance and the mountains were always watching . This is where my child will grow up. My daughter’s new college roommate or my son’s friend on that summer trip to Honduras or a beautiful set of eyes in a dark bar will one day ask: So where are you from? Just as I have answered: “I’m from a small town in Illinois” my whole life, my son or daughter will say: I’m from Denver. And there will be at least 18 years of identity and memories wrapped up in that one sentence.

Later, I waited in front of 1245 Franklin Street, a 70′s style building which reminded me of my dot com days in Cherry Creek. The Colorado winter weather was almost warm. I could hear bits of Spanish from the sky. Construction workers were exchanging shouts just a few stories up. Then I saw Michael’s soy-milk-colored 1969 Volkswagen bug coming down the sunny street.

On the 10th floor, we waited.

I think I was secretly afraid that I would go into the room and the doctor would poke around and then say: “Pregnant? What makes you think you’re pregnant?” It just seemed so uncertain without the medical confirmation. Had I missed a period? Yes. Had we taken a home-pregnancy test? Um, three. Had my breasts been hurting? Yep. Had I been extra tired? Absolutely. All the symptoms had added up. Still, I so needed this proof. This heartbeat. This confirmation.

But when I told them I was pregnant, they totally believed me! First Michael and the nurse practitioner examined everything that I couldn’t see. And then they wheeled in the ultrasound and it was my turn to look. There it was.  Our baby.

And we both drew in a breath of air, knowing that we would never be here, right here, again.

And I repeat: It was just so hard to believe.

As one Mother I know put it, it’s a little like taking acid for the first time. (Not that I’ve ever taken acid, Mother, though if you must know, I’ve always wanted to and never had the proper chance and can now see my opportunities slipping out of sight.) Once you pop that sucker in your mouth, there is NO going back, regardless of the wild, sometimes scary, sometimes thrilling ride ahead. It’s just too late.

But speaking of college, there was a time in my life when I went to a bar called R n R’s every Tuesday. (Don’t worry, this story is going somewhere). It became a ritual. The breadsticks, the red bar baskets, the sticky booth, that one Son Volt song, Adam, Reeger, Cleve, the bottles of Zima (which, I’m sure Christy and Michele would like to clarify, was only something I drank), and my good friend Leslie. During these times, when I was still far from figuring out what exactly I was all about, we used to shout the Eagle’s line: “‘Cuz we will never be here again.”

This is one of the truest lines of life, I believe. I’m not talking about being at the London Bridge or the Grand Canyon or the Taj Mahal. Although its true enough you may visit those places just once in your life. I’m talking about the time and mindset of any given moment in your life. For example, no matter where or when I am, I know I will never be “here” again. . . .eight months back on American soil, the first black president of the United States recently sworn into office, fifteen weeks into my first pregnancy, nourished by good friends, so excited about our new house, at a stage of utter engagement with this thing called Facebook, living temporarily in my relatives condo with no couch and no television, excited for Toni’s adventure to Liberia (!) and looking forward to Lost on Wednesday nights. Never will all those random factors and circumstances converge again to sculpt this very existence to case me in this exact emotional state.  And that, if nothing else, is a reason to enjoy every moment. Now, and now, and now. . .and so on.

When I met my Mother’s morning eyes, despite the fact that Christmas drama had blanketed every snow-crusted surface, I saw only a question.

When I spoke to Michael from the the passenger seat of the Rendez Vous,  blind to the waves behind every wheel, my voice confirmed the unbelieveable.

When I ran down the stubby, carpeted stairs of my childhood every evening, I held my breasts.

I can’t say I was the point of prayer or longing yet. I hadn’t had time to mourn the passing of weeks or months. And for this I am grateful.

But this meant my emotions hadn’t had time to mature either. They did not walk passionately and dutifully between definitive yellow lines of a paved road toward the blind curve. But wove between potholes, sometime veering off the crumbling blacktop, slipping between the Queen Anne’s lace and the redneck roses of a soft ditch like that Mazda MX6 had once done. They didn’t know the way.

And neither did I.

It seemed perfectly synchronous to meet the crimson of Christmas eve. Yet, clean and white was how the porcelain bowl of water remained. The red of Christmas stood alone.

It was just so hard to believe. A mere month of making love on the right days? It’s frightening to think how close I must have been all those birth-control-pill-popping years. All those days across a decade praying for the blood to come, that if it just came this one time, God, I swear, I wouldn’t ask for anything ever again.

But this time was different.

So I laughed and read to my little cousins and held my nephew and sipped my beer and did a poor job of hiding my impish smile and emphatically nodded and looked at my watch when people asked me about kids, like there wasn’t one already growing inside me. Right there in my belly.

I had decided to drive home for Christmas. And once I put all those images of me stranded in a cornfield and then approached and kidnapped by Asgrow O’s Gold-logo’ed-mesh-hatted trucker in a locked drawer at the back of my head, it started to sound like the perfect idea. There would be pit-stops at interstate-side Subways with slow customer service. Cheap Caseys gas at the Mall of the Bluffs.  The home of Marion Morrison and the bridges of Madison county waving me on.  Signs for camping at Exit 25.   Country countdowns with Bob Kingsley. The icy Mississippi just a few feet over the edge of the I-80 bridge.

Some people find this drive one of the worst in America.  But I have found that while its so easy to see the snow-sprinkled poetry in the craggy peaks and canyons of the West, a place where image overcomes imagination, the Midwest calls for more work. It takes an ear for a story and a deeper life lens to sift through the wheat, corn and clapboards of the plains. This land made me who I am. It is my friend.  And I am secretly sweetened by the fact that it remains largely unchanged.

At home, however, while the soft corners of my hometown’s collage looked just like they always did–memories that aren’t meant to ever pass away–most everything else had changed. And at every counter, out every window, in every closet, I would undoubtedly find suddenly-grown children, a pasture no longer empty, drawers with items I didn’t recognize.  I needed that 12 hours to go home at my own pace. To watch the gradual shift from clear sticks of sun to a soft white haze. For the same reason walking the seventeen blocks from Christopher Street Station to Madison Square helps you understand New York City so much better than a subway ride, I needed to drive these roads myself.

So I filled up my Craig’s List Ford on the 19th, and in a 15 hour pocket between unpredictable ice storms, like a pioneer turning ’round, I drove back to my past.

Home was all I hoped it would be. This is significant. Because over the years, I have come to appreciate the longing and the anticipation of what’s to come rather than the object of my desire. As Rebecca Solnit says in the Field Guide to Getting Lost, “If you can only look across the distance without wanting to close it up, if you can own your longing in the same way that you own the beauty of that blue. . .”

Perhaps this strategy, which I learned from being away so long, eases your expectations.  When I stayed overnight in Omaha, after I met dear Betty and Owen, but before I saw Warren Buffet’s house, my friend Patrick also presented a wise gem. He said he’d learned to “accept love however people show it”. I thought that was important.

I made the return trip in just one day, perhaps needing a little less transition time as I headed back to the future or perhaps just eager to get back to my Michael. I lived in the present, marveling at the signs and communication that American infrastructure provides, admiring the cattle’s self-constructed still life, driving into the Colorado sunset and wondering what sign would appear on Ella Pierce Turner.

It was a +.

“And after and for a long time to come he’d have reason to evoke the recollection of those smiles and to reflect upon the good will which provoked them for it had power to protect and to confer honor and to strengthen resolve and it had power to heal men and to bring them to safety long after all other resources were exhausted.”

From All The Pretty Horses