California Dreamin' [part I]
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
7:00 a.m., Buffalo airport
Everything is different here. It's like a whole other country.
Buffalo is only a 45 minute drive from the small town where I grew up; from the university where I teach. Not very far, in the grand scheme of things. And we speak the same language.
Sort of.
"Where were you born?" barked the U.S. customs agent on the wrong side of the Peace Bridge.
I hestitated because I didn't know whether to say Canada or Beamsville. And because it was 6:00 in the morning and I hadn't had a cup of coffee yet. Not to mention the fact that I'd only had four hours of sleep because I'd been out drinking with my cousin Markus the night before. I spent the night at his house so I'd be closer to the airport in the morning.
Hesitation, to a customs agent, means you're thinking up a lie, which, in turn, means woe is you.
"Uh, Beamsville," I said, eventually.
"Where are you going?" he barked again.
"San José," I replied, this time without a nanosecond of hesitation.
"California?"
Is there another San José somewhere? is what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Yes, sir."
I parked in the Preferred Long Term Parking after having literally stopped my car on the airport road to consider my parking options: Short Term Parking, Short Term Parking International, Long Term Parking Lot A, Long Term Parking Lot B, Long Term Parking Lot C, and Preferred Long Term Parking.
There were two shuttle buses lounging at the end of the lot closest to the terminal, and lots of empty parking spots near them. The sun had been up for a few seconds; the darkness was beginning to fade, and so as I stepped out of my car I could see the grass edging the lot.
It was frosted. Frost! At the end of April! Fuck.
Yesterday, before I left Toronto, I had agonized over whether to bring my tomato plants inside, as my daddy had instructed me to do at night until May. There are three tiny plants, in three very large clay pots, on my rooftop patio. If I bring them inside, they are protected from the cold but they get no light. And since I was planning to be away for several days, they'd get no light and no rain, either. So I opted to leave them outside with burlap wrapped around their cages, and hope for the best.
Poor little things. They're surely dead now.
The shuttle bus driver was cheerily inquiring as to which airline I would be using this morning.
"Uh..." I hesitated again. "Sorry; haven't had any coffee yet. United."
"Well, it's quiet this morning," he said, and it was, "You'll have lots of time before your flight to find some coffee and maybe have a nice hard roll, and then you'll be good as new."
Hard roll?
I recall that Americans say "roll" instead of "bun," so perhaps a hard roll is what we would call a crusty bun. But describing it as "hard" does nothing to make it sound appetizing. Stale bread is hard.
Half an our later I learn that what Buffalonians designate a hard roll is, in fact, neither, but first I have to walk the gauntlet of airport security.
To be continued in part II.
7:00 a.m., Buffalo airport
Everything is different here. It's like a whole other country.
Buffalo is only a 45 minute drive from the small town where I grew up; from the university where I teach. Not very far, in the grand scheme of things. And we speak the same language.
Sort of.
"Where were you born?" barked the U.S. customs agent on the wrong side of the Peace Bridge.
I hestitated because I didn't know whether to say Canada or Beamsville. And because it was 6:00 in the morning and I hadn't had a cup of coffee yet. Not to mention the fact that I'd only had four hours of sleep because I'd been out drinking with my cousin Markus the night before. I spent the night at his house so I'd be closer to the airport in the morning.
Hesitation, to a customs agent, means you're thinking up a lie, which, in turn, means woe is you.
"Uh, Beamsville," I said, eventually.
"Where are you going?" he barked again.
"San José," I replied, this time without a nanosecond of hesitation.
"California?"
Is there another San José somewhere? is what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Yes, sir."
I parked in the Preferred Long Term Parking after having literally stopped my car on the airport road to consider my parking options: Short Term Parking, Short Term Parking International, Long Term Parking Lot A, Long Term Parking Lot B, Long Term Parking Lot C, and Preferred Long Term Parking.
There were two shuttle buses lounging at the end of the lot closest to the terminal, and lots of empty parking spots near them. The sun had been up for a few seconds; the darkness was beginning to fade, and so as I stepped out of my car I could see the grass edging the lot.
It was frosted. Frost! At the end of April! Fuck.
Yesterday, before I left Toronto, I had agonized over whether to bring my tomato plants inside, as my daddy had instructed me to do at night until May. There are three tiny plants, in three very large clay pots, on my rooftop patio. If I bring them inside, they are protected from the cold but they get no light. And since I was planning to be away for several days, they'd get no light and no rain, either. So I opted to leave them outside with burlap wrapped around their cages, and hope for the best.
Poor little things. They're surely dead now.
The shuttle bus driver was cheerily inquiring as to which airline I would be using this morning.
"Uh..." I hesitated again. "Sorry; haven't had any coffee yet. United."
"Well, it's quiet this morning," he said, and it was, "You'll have lots of time before your flight to find some coffee and maybe have a nice hard roll, and then you'll be good as new."
Hard roll?
I recall that Americans say "roll" instead of "bun," so perhaps a hard roll is what we would call a crusty bun. But describing it as "hard" does nothing to make it sound appetizing. Stale bread is hard.
Half an our later I learn that what Buffalonians designate a hard roll is, in fact, neither, but first I have to walk the gauntlet of airport security.
To be continued in part II.
Labels: Americana
4 Comments:
There's San Jose Costa Rica and San Jose Mexico
Poor muffin, all alone in Buffalo at 6 a.m. with no coffee. That shit is not right, I tell you.
Frost...Eff. That's just wicked. You need a friendly neighbor with a green thumb!
Hey, I am going to Calif. this week too!
I can't believe my best friend in public school wrote this. (no real names I assume) I can't wait to read more......maybe I'm in one of these stories!
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