California Dreamin' [part XIII - fin]

This is the last chapter of this story. Continued from part XII. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Jack took me to a place called Birk's which, in our country, is a jewellery store. Here, it's a very upscale steak house in a dot com park next door to McAfee.

"This is where all the power lunches used to happen, back in the boom days," said Jack. "The place would be packed all the time. You'd see people like Scott McNealy and Larry Ellison and Sergei Brinn, and you'd have a hard time getting a table if you weren't with one of them."

So, romantic it's not, is what you're saying?

I had a flash of my friend Darp, who is married and has three grown children, telling me, Don't try so hard to figure us out. Men aren't really that complicated. You just have to learn to ignore what we say, and pay attention to what we do.

Jack ordered a bottle of most excellent Shiraz, a spicy wine that inspired me to order the peppered sirloin. When Jack ordered his steak, he asked the waiter to prepare it "medium rare plus."

"I've never heard that term before," I said, "What does it mean?"

"You know that rare is cold on the inside, and warm on the outside, and medium is pink but warm in the middle, and hot on the outside? When you order it plus it's just slightly warm in the middle, and hot on the outside."

I took a moment to consider all the ironies and double entendres presenting themselves to me in that paragraph, but expressed none of them aloud to Jack. Instead, I asked him to tell me about life in California. "What is it that you like most about this place? Why have you stayed for so long?"

Jack was quiet for a minute or so, no doubt turning over all the data he has imparted to me thus far in his eight years of living among the Americans. Turning over the implications of living in Silicon Valley, in a world we both know so very well, in so many ways, and yet which is so different from where we were raised.

"They're the opposite of risk averse," he said slowly. "You know how Canadians are, on the whole, risk averse? How we evaluate each situation carefully, and then decide... Let me back up."

He backed up.

"These people, when they evaluate a situation and decide that the chances that if we do this we will be sucessful are greater than the chances that we won't, and so they go ahead and do it and they fail, it never stops them from believing it, not for one second."

My father would say, that makes them fools, but I understood what Jack was telling me. There were many more things, however, that I did not understand, and so, much later, as we stood in the deserted darkness of the courtyard of the residence square, smoking, I asked him, "Do you care whether I move here or not?"

"No," he replied without hesitation, and then he hesitated, "At least not in the way you mean. I won't run off to Australia."

That's not what I meant, you bastard.

"That's not what I meant."

"I'm not going to do this," he said, and then he kissed me, and then he walked away.

"Hey, remember that thing." It was a statement, not a question.

"I remember."

the end

In the next story, Postmodern Sass writes a letter to her mother, and reveals her decision.

California Dreamin' [part XII]

Continued from part XI. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Friday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
not long after midnight

My cell phone rang as I was touring a building called La Paloma, in a pretty residential neighbourhood in San Jose, a long walk or a short bike ride from the USJ campus. Alex, the new professor who's living until the end of the summer in the residence in which I'm staying, has a car and offered to show me around.

He showed me a tiny two bedroom condo he's thinking of buying when his wife moves here — she stayed behind to wrap things up in Wisconsin, which is why Alex is living temporarily in the student residence. The condo is half the size of my place in Toronto, and he seemed excited that it was only $550,000.

They're insane, these Silicon Valley-ites.

The apartment in La Paloma is a large one bedroom, with a dining room alcove that would be perfect for my desk. This is the model suite, it's furnished, and the bedroom is plenty large, even with a queen size bed and a dresser in it. There's a small private patio, a washer and dryer in the closet, and a back door that goes directly into the indoor parking lot. There are two pools (one for laps, one for lounging), a community patio with gas barbeques, a party room with a large screen TV, and a 24 hour fitness centre. And the rent, all in with utilities, would be $1,500 a month.

I could live here. It reminds me of the building I live in now; low-rise, spread out, lots of doors and private patios. In fact, this seems to be typical of the style of California condos and apartment buildings.

I despise high rises.

When the phone rang I excused myself from Alex and the building manager, and ducked into the bedroom to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you." It was Jack. "How'd it go yesterday?"

"I think it went well but can I tell you about it later? I'm looking at an apartment right now, if you can believe that. I'm not sure I can."

"Of course," he said, and I wasn't sure whether he meant of course I could tell him later, or of course he could believe I might actually be moving to California, eight years after he asked me to.

"I have a place I'd like to take you for dinner," Jack said, "Unless you have your heart set on Gordon Biersch."

I told him I had Gordon Biersch covered yesterday.

"Good," he said. "I'm in Oakland right now but I'm going to try to bust out of here early. I'll call you when I'm on the road so you can explain to me where you are, exactly."

"I'll be waiting."

A few hours later he found the campus's Residence Square, and called again to say he was outside. "I'll come down," I said, "It's too complicated to explain how to find me in this maze. Which street are you on?"

He told me, and when I came outside into the slowly setting sunshine, it was Beauty, not Jack, that I saw first. She was parked just outside the gate. He was leaning against the brick pillar, for the moment out of sight.

I think he wanted me to see her first.

"Hello, sweetheart!" I exclaimed, and ran to hug Jack's car.

We drove north on the 101 to the next silicon city, and along the way Jack regaled me with tales of the Valley. No mention was made of Australia, at least not in the context of his fleeing there. I was puzzled, but happy, and I reminded myself, silently but firmly, to stop trying to figure this man out and just let it be. When I'm able to do that is when things seem to go the best between us.

But the thing is, Gentle Reader, that I can understand why he would be apprehensive. Many years ago, too many to think about, I made Jack a promise, and it was this: I will never show up on your doorstep. What was understood at the time was that I would never show up at his house, packed bags in hand, and announce that I'd just left the X. But it implied more than that, and we both knew it.

I have always kept that promise, and I always intend to, and the fact that I might show up, metaphorically speaking, on the doorstep of his adopted state, packed bags and cat in hand, has nothing to do with him being here and everything to do with my academic career, and yet I can see how it looks and I didn't expect him to believe me. When Jack feels betrayed he either shuts down, or runs, or both.

As he went on, happily pointing out dot com campuses and listing all the powerful people who once lunched at the restaurant we were going to, I tried not to think about the fact that he hadn't commented on the Chanel. And no, Gentle Reader, it is not possible that he didn't notice I was wearing it.

In part XIII, Jack and Sass have dinner, and Sass learns what medium rare plus means.

California Dreamin' [part XI]

Continued from part X. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Thursday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
not long after midnight

The Director invited me to sit in on a graduate seminar this afternoon, and afterwards some of the grad students and I went to Gordon Biersch to watch the Sharks game. I'd been to this brew pub on previous trips to San Jose, and so it was on my must do list.

What a great group of students they were. And talk about diversity! One girl, Tamara, was born in Syria and raised in France. José looks Mexican and is from Mexico City, but Juan, who looks Puerto Rican, is from Massachussetts, speaks with a broad Boston accent, and only knows a few words of Spanish. There was Felicity, a beautiful Chinese girl who spoke English with no discernable accent (I asked her whether she was Canadian. She was not.), and Temma, who was Indian with hair down to her knees.

They teased me because I drank pints of beer and because I was the only one of the group interested in the hockey game, but that was OK because I'm sure I wasn't the only person in the bar that night who knew what a touque was. Most of the patrons were watching the game, and there was enthusiastic hooting and hollering at each appropriate moment. No one would have needed to explain to that crowd what offside means.

This is California. It doesn't snow, no one yells "Car!" and they call it ice hockey — yet their team is in the playoffs. I'm so embarassed.

But the Sharks are a good hockey team, and I like the beer at Gordon Biersch. I think maybe I could live here.

Most interesting of the student bunch was Donna: six feet tall, hair like Billy Idol, a fantastic deep voice that was a joy to listen to, and boy, did we listen to her, because she told a lot of stories, mostly about her baby. She asked me for advice about job hunting, and I learned that she's about to graduate with a master's degree in advertising and has never heard of Goodby Silverstein.

Maybe I can be of some use here, I'm starting to think.

We stayed until closing, then we went to a late-night pizza joint and had one last pitcher, and the kids told me about their ad campaign projects and what it's like to be a newcomer to la la land.

Tomorrow night when I see him I'll tell Jack, "If I get offered this position by the time I move here these kids'll have graduated, and so they won't ever know how much they're going to influence my decision."

In part XII, Jack calls.

California Dreamin' [part X]

Continued from part IX. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Thursday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
midnight

It's been another long day.

Today, I had my formal interview with the entire faculty of the School of Business Communications at the University of San Jose. The entire faculty is nine professors, and eight of them were there: The Director, who threw me to the lions yesterday; the professor named Clive, whose lions they were; Candace Barker, who looks like a tiny bird. A canary, actually. Doris Stickler, who it's quite clear is not in favour of my appointment; Alex Farber, the only member of the faculty who's under the age of 50; a cool professor named Tom who teaches in the journalism program and who is also the staff advisor for the student newspaper; a woman named Christine who teaches public relations, and who didn't ask me any questions.

And then there was the Diversity Guy.

He was a professor of broadcast journalism; a black man of about 55. He'd been sitting there, smiling, and I'd been getting a good vibe from him, right up until he asked me, "What is your experience with diversity?"

I didn't know how to answer that question. What I was thinking was, I'm Canadian, for fuck's sake. My country didn't do that to you.

I honestly didn't know what to say. It's not that I was trying to figure out what I should say, in the sense of what's the "right" answer, it's that I was baffled.

In Canada, everyone's family came from somewhere else, whether it was Scotland 200 years ago or Sri Lanka 2 years ago. I live in a city of three million people, where every person you see on the street is a different size, shape, and colour and speaks a different language from the next one. What I wanted to say was:

"What kind of diversity, specifically, are you referring to? Race, religion, language, or skin colour? Most of my closest friends are Jewish; of the others one is Indian and regularly wears a sari, one is from Mexico, one is Filipino, one is from Newfoundland, though we never hold that against him, and one is Iraqi. I've taught students from just about every country on the planet, including Afganistan, and I taught in China for six months. I speak English, German, and enough French to understand the commentary at a Canadiens game. Or shall I tell you about the diversity in my family? My grandparents, the peasants, who came here not speaking a word of English? My cousins who are native Indian? My three (that I know of) gay relatives? Or would you like to know how many married-in black people there are in my extended family? You'd have to give me a minute to count."

But I didn't.

I was reminded that every time I visit the United States I feel like Mr. Peabody's sent me back to the 1950s.

To be continued in part XI, after Postmodern Sass finishes reading The Da Vinci Code.

Mona Lisa

I'm reading The Da Vinci Code because I want to know what all the fuss is about. Same reason I read The Satanic Verses, back when.

Big deal.

Yes, the story is full of fascinating factual detail, like the fact that if you walk around the perimeter of the Louvre it's three miles. Reading this book will no doubt improve my score next time I play Trivial Pursuit. But it's a novel. You know, fiction.

Not unlike this blog. Lots of true facts and accurate historical detail, around which a story is told. Reminds me of Anne Rice's Memnoch The Devil, — The Da Vinci Code, that is, not Postmodernes Sprachspielen — which is similarly full of accurate historical and Biblical detail, but I guess the Catholic Church didn't freak out so much about that book because, well, when you've got vampires as your main characters it's easier to distinguish the fact from the fiction.

A distinction I've never cared to make, myself. I couldn't care a pack of twigs whether it's real-world-true that Da Vinci named his masterpiece as an anagram of the male and female gods of fertility, or whether it's real-world-true that he never named it at all.

Dan Brown's skill with the written word is one or two levels above those who write Harlequin romances for a living. Make that one. But I'll grant that it's a compelling story and that Brown's genius for scandal has made him a well-deserved rich man.

Still, I'd rather watch any old episode of Alias in which they hunt for Rimbaldi artifacts. Especially tonight's series finale.

Next: California Dreamin' returns with parts X and XI

Games People Play

Snippets of conversations from Maria's party last night, during which a Guinness record was set for the longest game of Trivial Pursuit involving the most people.

* * *
"Which New York borough is home to an organization called the (something Korean sounding) Mafia?"

"Queens?"

"No way! Staten Island."

"Hey, where I come from we've got more mafia than your ass!"

"Oh yeah? I grew up in a neighbourhood with all electric fences and guard dogs!"

"That's the one good thing about the mafia—they keep the crime rate down."

* * *

"Which cartoon character has a dog named Snert?"

"Oh oh oh oh oh — shit, The Viking!"

"The Viking! What's his name?"

"You don't know The Viking's name?"

(Laughter)

"Fuck off!"

* * *
"Jello?"

"Yes, please."

"With or without teddy bears?"

* * *
"What was the title of the last Dune novel written by Frank Herbert?"

"Hmn. The Dune Something?"

"They're all called that."

"No, no, the titles are more epic, you know, like Doomed Peasants From Dune."

"Debbie Does Dune."

"Desert Storm of Dune."

"Shock and Awe on Dune."

"Teabaggers From Dune?"


Next: California Dreamin' returns with parts X and XI

Oh, Give Me A Home

"Where do the buffalo roam? I asked Duncan, the bartender at The Bow and Arrow pub on Yonge Street.

I was perusing the menu, waiting for my buddy Darp. This is his local, and sometimes we meet here, instead of at The Banknote. Especially when I need a favour of him, which I do today. So the least I can do is buy him a couple of pints.

I'm borrowing his digital camera, so I can take pictures of some furniture I want to sell, and shop them around the antique markets on Queen Street. Earlier this afternoon I'd stopped in at the Dufferin Mall, on my way back from picking up my car, to see whether I wanted to buy a digital camera for myself. Thing is, I have two real cameras, and no real desire to own a digital unless it's a 35mm Canon EOS body that I can use my lenses on, but I don't have $1,200 to spare, especially not today, because my car blew up on Spadina Avenue yesterday and I just paid $800 to have it fixed.

At least Hans always returns it detailed.

"You know, that's a good question," replied Duncan, "I think it comes from buffalo farms."

The Bow and Arrow pub is famous for its bison dishes—bison is buffalo, for those of you, Gentle Readers, who live in countries where they didn't roam—including the Woodsman Pizza, which I'm planning to order tonight; Bison Maple Chili, made with ground bison meat and maple syrup; and Bison Chili Nachos. Oh, and, all the burgers on the menu offer your choice of beef, chicken, vegetarian, or, you guessed it, bison.

So Duncan understood that what I was asking was, where do you get your bison meat. I've heard of ostrich farms in Ontario; I've even seen a couple on drives out in the country, but I've never seen buffalo roaming in a field. And the thing about buffalo is, they're big animals, and they need roaming and grazing land, just like cattle. Cows, I see all the time. Buffalo, not so much.

Chicken wings are also on the menu.

"You should call them 'bison wings,'" I suggest. "You know, instead of buffalo wings?"

Duncan likes that one, and pours me a Moosehead.

Buffalo wings are named after the city of Buffalo, not the large furry animal. They're battered, fried chicken wings served with a hot red sauce, and are common fare at bars across Canada these days, but when I first moved to Montreal, to go to university, I was routinely made fun of for being from Ontario, "Where they eat the garbage we throw out: chicken wings and potato skins." I grew up right near Buffalo, as I told you here.

My Oma used to make the best chicken wings. They weren't like Buffalo wings, though. She cut up the wings into the mini-drumstick part and the flat part—the teeny tiny tips went to the dog—and roll them in flour spiced with salt and pepper, and sometimes garlic; then line them up side by side like soldiers on a cookie sheet, and bake them at pizza degree heat.

I miss my Oma's cooking. She's 91 now, and hasn't been her old self for the last year. Her mental quickness is gone; she can't follow our conversations. Cinderella was shocked when she saw her last week. "I'd take the finger pointing criticism any day," she said, which is something, because Oma used to make Cinderella cry.

The furniture I want to sell, for which I'm borrowing Darp's digital camera, is an antique mahogany dresser that my Oma and Opa bought in the 1950s, when they first came to Canada, from an old lady on the Smiths' farm that died. It was in my aunts' bedroom when they were little girls; my mother had it in her bedroom when I was a little girl, and I've had it for the last fifteen years or so, since my daddy sold our farm.

I don't know yet whether I'll be moving to California, but just the possibility has gotten me doing a spring cleaning to end all spring cleaning. I no longer need the Habs photo in my bathroom, and I don't know why I ever needed 57 coffee mugs. I've already taken four boxes of dishes and miscellaneous junk to Goodwill, and tomorrow Liz, my postie, is picking up another four boxes to take to a women's shelter she works at.

And whether I go, or don't go, it's time for the dresser to go.



In the next story, Sass and Maria play sprachspiele.

California Dreamin' [part IX]

Continued from part VIII. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
11:10 p.m.

There's a Mercury News newspaper box in the lobby of the residence and a Starbucks in the next building, and I've already settled into a routine. The thing about spending a few days on the left coast, when you're from the East, is you're wide awake at 6:00 every morning.

Today my horoscope read:

"Guard against being vulnerable. The new moon might mark the start of a new cycle in business or career. Certain relationships can have an impact on your reputation for good or for ill."

Ho, boy.

My horoscope, likely, was of interest to no one but me. The rest of the city was more interested in the front page of today's Mercury News, which showed a picture of the front page of today's Mercury News, and a headline reading, "Extra! Sold!"

How very postmodern.

It's been a long day.

This afternoon the Director of the School of Business Communications at USJ threw me to the lions. A group of fifty or so very bored lions, who looked like they'd just had their fill of gazelle and were settling in for their afternoon naps on this gorgeous, sunny California afternoon. Either that, or it was the last week of the semester and they'd just been informed they'd be having a guest lecturer from Canada in their Advertising 101 class.

"Hello," I began, and I looked them straight in the eyes. The ones whose eyes were open, that is. "My name is Postmodern Sass, and it's true, I'm from Canada. You can probably tell from my pasty white skin. And yes, it's also true that we say "eh" at the end of every sentence, eh, though we try very hard not to when we're in this country, so see if you can catch me doing it."

One or two of them chuckled at this.

"I've only been here for two hours and already a dozen people have told me that this is the first nice day you've had here in weeks." I paused, for dramatic effect, then said, "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

A girl in the back jumps up and exclaims, "Today's the first day all week it hasn't rained!" There are murmurs of agreement from around the room.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I simply refuse to believe that. I saw frost on the ground at the Buffalo airport this morning. I came here because I expected it to be beautiful and sunny. This is California, after all; don't try to dispell my illusions!"

A few more lions have lifted their heads from their desks.

"And I hear you have a hockey team here that actually made it into the playoffs? I'm from Toronto. You know, Original Six, and all that. The Maple Leafs have been the Stanley Cup champions a bunch of times, though not in my lifetime. And here I am in California, where it doesn't even snow and you're the ones with the team in the playoffs?"

I walk toward the front of the room, shaking my head sadly, then raise my arm towards the students in a "stop" gesture, and say, "I don't even want to talk about it!"

I kept talking for an hour and fifteen minutes, the full length of the class. I showed them The Globe and Mail's Web site, and asked them to pick out the advertising. I asked them to explain how they knew it was advertising, and how, in any media, we can tell the difference between advertising and editorial content. I explained a little about how online advertising is bought and sold. They didn't know what CPM meant before I got there, but when they returned to their jungle they did.

Later, the Director and some of the faculty took me out for dinner to a fabulous seafood restaurant in downtown San Jose. I hadn't mentioned that seafood is my favourite, and I felt this made up for springing the teaching the class thing on me.

Being grilled while you're eating grilled salmon isn't as unpleasant as it might sound. I think they liked me. All except for Doris Stickler, that is.

"Sass taught Clive's class today," beamed the Director to the others at the table. "She did a great job, even though she didn't know she'd have to do it."

"Imagine how good I can be when I actually have time to prepare," I said.

They all laughed at this. All except Doris.

Much later I drove back to Westin Hall with Alex Farber, who's also a new professor. He just moved to San Jose from Wisconsin, and is living temporarily in the USJ residences. Of all the faculty I met tonight, he's the only one who isn't over 55. He looks like he might be a year or three younger than me, which would make me only the second youngest faculty member at the School of Business Communications. And I haven't seen thirty for some time, Gentle Reader.

"Doris should have retired years ago," Alex told me. "Don't take it personally: she doesn't like anyone."

* * *
California Dreamin' will continue in part X, and may go on for some time before Postmodern Sass decides whether or not she'll move to California. In the meantime, she's spring cleaning like nobody's business, just in case. You know she already painted her bathroom and posted an ad to sell her Ikea dining room table. Next it's time to sell Oma's antique dresser. But first there's a game of Trivial Pursuit to be played, and a book to be read.

I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair

My cousin Cinderella's been visiting the homeland this week. She lives in California, though not in the part I'm considering moving to. Eight years ago she married an American and, as she says, allowed him to drag her kicking and screaming into the country. The things we do for love.

"But let me tell you all the great things about living in California," she said, and she did, and there were many.

On Saturday morning Cinderella was planning to stop in Toronto on her drive back to the homeland from Kingston, where she'd been visiting our mothers' other sister's daughter, Kristine. You'd never know the three of us were related. Our mothers were practically triplets, yet we all favour our fathers, physically and metaphorically. It's how girls are.

She arrived in the early afternoon and got the tour of my possibly soon to be ex-home, which she'd never seen before. It was a glorious afternoon, and the sun was shining on the tomato plants on my rooftop patio.

Downstairs, in the guest bathroom, she pointed at the wall and said, "What's this?"

It was a framed picture of the Montreal Canadiens taken during the construction of the New Forum, as it was then called. A black and white photo in a bright red frame.

It's not that Cinderella didn't recognize the Canadiens, and it's not as if she didn't remember I'd lived in Montreal for eight years. It's that she knew that it belonged to X.

The entire bathroom had been decorated around that picture. The towels hanging below it on the rack were bright yellow and bright red. The shower curtain was bright blue, with yellow and red fish, and it hung from primary coloured fish hooks. There were several smaller frames in red and neon green, holding brightly coloured postcards from our trip to Guadeloupe in 2000. The soap dispenser, candles, and assorted items on the counter top also featured fish or tropical designs, in primary colours, and the walls were painted pale yellow.

Cinderella helped me pack it all up.

I don't know whether I'll take it to the Goodwill, or to the X's mother when I see her later this week. You don't have a mother-in-law for fifteen years and then ignore her on Mother's Day; at least in my book you don't. Especially not when you have no more mother of your own.

And then instead of driving on home to her mother's place, as she'd been planning to do that afternoon, Cinderella decided to stay overnight. We went first to the hardware store, then to the beer store, and we spent the evening painting my bathroom. The walls are now light purply-grey, and I dug out my old purple and grey shower curtain and the matching towels. Then Cinderella and I hunted through the house for purple, grey, and silver accessories to finish it off.

Later, she sat at my dining room table with her Mac laptop and a beer, reading my stories while I looked at her portfolio, and her photos from India, Vietnam, and Morocco. It was the best time I've spent with my cousin Cinderella since we were little girls.



Tomorrow: California Dreamin' returns. And later, Postmodern Sass and Cinderella discuss baskets.

Planet Claire

She left this message on my voice mail yesterday, "Hi, my name is Claire. I'm calling about the table you have for sale on the Internet," and she left her number, so this morning I called her back.

"Hello, is this Claire?"

"Yes." She sounded like the phone had woken her up.

"I'm returning your call, about the table."

"Oh!" Now she was becoming more alert. "I forgot; can you tell me what it looks like?"

I'd posted a detailed description on Craigslist, so I began to reel it off again, "It's what you might call "vintage" Ikea. It's black and white and..."

"Can you send me some pictures?" Claire asked.

"No, sorry, I don't have a digital camera." Or I'd have posted them in the first place. "You're welcome to come and see it."

"Where are you, again?"

"Down by the lake, near the Exhibition." Like it said in the posting.

"Oh. Well, I'm in Brampton. I don't have a car, or anything."

"I see," I replied, though clearly I didn't.

"How big is it?" she was asking now, and since she sounded, to me, at least, like she was really interested in the vintage Ikeaness of my table, I described it as enthusiastically as I could, and even told her the story of how I'd had to call all over the country to find this last one, back in the 1980s. It's a cool table. It folds up so it takes up only eight inches of space against the wall. I adored it for 15 years, and now I'm sick to death of the sight of it.


"How much do you want for it?" Claire asked, though this information was also in my posting.

"A hundred and fifty," I replied, though I was willing to be talked down to a hundred, "And I'll throw in the four chairs for free. It's in perfect condition, it's vintage Ikea, and it cost almost three times that much originally."

I must be spending too much time on eBay. I can't seem to speak a sentence these days without saying the word vintage.

"Oh, I don't have any money," said Claire. "I was talking to another woman last night; she had this other table for sale, and she wanted $75. But I don't have $75, even. I can't afford to pay my insurance right now, and I have my baby to look after."

As if on cue, I hear a baby crying in the background.

"Oh, that's too bad," I say, trying to sound more sympathetic than confused.

"All my furniture is so old, I couldn't sell it even if I wanted to. It's so bad no one'd even want it for free. I have a pink leather sofa that used to be nice but now it has two big holes in the cushions."

"Mmn. Hmn."

"My cockatoo chewed it."

Better Man

Jack is in New York City today, on business. I know, because he called me last night. And earlier this morning, I left this message on his cell phone:

"Hey you. It's me. It's early; I know you're in your meeting, but I have a super extra double crazy idea, and I wanted to toss it out there before it vapourizes. My friend that works at the Air Canada Centre just called and offered me tickets for Pearl Jam tonight. Do you want to come up here and go with me?"

California Dreamin' [part VIII]

Continued from part VII. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
2:15 p.m.

Can I just say, the mayor of San Francisco is hot!

I'm in my room in the residence hall—not the freshman hall but the new building, where they put up visiting faculty; really, it's a small suite—and I've turned on the TV. It keeps me company, and tunes me in to the local scene. So far I've learned that San Jose is the tenth largest city in the United States, and that USJ is the oldest state university in northern California, and has the largest business school west of the Colorado River. Or something like that. Americans' need to superlatize and rank every piece of information they impart will never cease to amuse me.

The big news today, according to this San Francisco NBC affiliate, is a fire that gutted a circuit board manufacturing company in Santa Clara, and the rumour that The Mercury News is being sold to some big corporate media company.

The big news to me was, I'm teaching a class at 3:00.

This news was imparted to me by Candace Barker, the tiny, birdlike professor of advertising who picked me up at the airport an hour ago.

She thought I knew.

I did not.

So now I'm rushing to wash the nine hours of travel grit from my body and make my hair and face presentable. No easy task in light of their activites last night.

My formal interview isn't until tomorrow, and I only brought one suit.

* * *
California Dreamin' will continue in part IX, and may go on for some time before Postmodern Sass decides whether to move to California. In the meantime, she's spring cleaning like nobody's business, just in case. She's painting her bathroom, and you know she posted an ad to sell her Ikea dining room table. Next it's time to sell Oma's antique dresser, but first she's going to see Pearl Jam.

California Dreamin' [part VII]

Continued from part VI. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26
on board United 719 to San José

"United 7-1-9 contact Denver centre on 1-2-0 point 5-7-5."
"United 7-1-9, 2-0-5-7-5, good day."

Jack's told me more than once, with little boy excitement in his voice, that when he's on a United flight, which is several times a week, normally, he listens to channel 9 on the in-flight entertainment system. Chanel 9 is the cockpit. You can hear the pilot's conversations with air traffic control. Not just the pilot of your flight, but the pilot of every plane within range, and the range is several hundred miles.

"United 5-0-2 request level 3-5-0."
"Salt Lake, United 5-0-2, good morning."
"United 5-0-2 descend to level 3-5-0."
"5-0-2 Salt Lake, roger."

The calls to and from Denver are decreasing in frequency, and I'm starting to hear from air traffic control in Salt Lake City.

Jack is on his way there today, to visit a client company. Everyone at the client company is Mormon. Everyone in Salt Lake City is Mormon, so that's no surprise. Jack used to tell me stories about them: the way they dress, the way they speak, their bizarre culture that, for example, requires you to become a "member" of a bar before you can have a drink there.

Once, he told me the story of how he told Peter the story of what happened in Salt Lake City on a day when the client was very happy with Jack's work: "So I was talking to Peter and I said, hey man, you'll never guess what they let me do, and Peter replied, Their wives?"

Peter is a master of the one-liner.

"They let me play their organ."

The clever Gentle Reader will imagine Peter's riposte.

"Air Canada 5-7-5, require level 3-2-0."
"Air Canada 5-7-5, Salt Lake, good morning."

While I understand perfectly why Jack would want to listen to this—he has a love affair with planes— I couldn't imagine why I would. But today's in-flight movie is The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, a film which I could not possibly be less interested in watching, and the too-loud conversation of the passengers directly behind me has prompted me to put on the headphones and search for something to drown them out.

Soon, I become fascinated with the challenge of decoding the air traffic control language.

"mumble...mumble... unintelligible... clear direct sage"

I hear the phrase "clear direct sage" several times, but cannot discern what it means.

"November seven two hotel golf, clear direct Iowa City."
"Roger, two hotel golf."

Then I realize Sage must be the name of an airport, and air traffic control was telling the flights they had a clear path, and should proceed directly to it—in as few words as possible.

The movie I'm not watching is showing a scene in which the children appear to be having dinner with Frank and Gordon, the new spokesbeavers for Bell Canada.

"United 5-0-2, traffic at twelve o'clock, two miles east on 7-2-0."
"Denver Centre, we have them in sight."

"Have you ever seen the movie Pushing Tin?" I asked Jack, once.

"Of course."

Jack owns nearly a thousand DVDs. They've been in storage since January, when he decided to sweep his life clean and get out of his South San Francisco apartment. He's been living in hotels all over Silicon Valley since then, and shopping for a house on one of the hills in the City. When he finds one, he'll be commuting down to the Valley, to Big Ass American Software Company, half way to San José. But none of that matters, you see, because Jack's been closest to me emotionally when he was 3,000 miles away, and farthest from me when we lived ten blocks apart. He'll keep me exactly as far away as he chooses, regardless of where my GPS is.

On Friday night Jack will pick me up in Beauty, and I'll tell him that I listened to the air traffic controllers, and he'll laugh, and say, "What's great is when one of them does something really stupid, or really nice. Then they use ten words instead of seven."

"November five four foxtrot tango tango, contact Salt Lake Centre."
"Tango, tango, Salt Lake."
"Tango, giving you lats longs to avoid military airspace."
"Go ahead, Salt Lake."
"Proceed direct Wilson Creek 0-9-5 at 0-4-0."
"Thank you, Salt Lake."
"You have a good day, Tango."

To be continued in part VIII

California Dreamin' [part VI]

Continued from part V. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

April 26
Still on board United 719
12:35 by my watch
9:35 a.m. San José time

Time to change my watch.

I love my Esquire watch. It's stainless steel with gold trim. Gold coloured, I mean, not real gold. It's not digital; it has arms. It also has a small date display, so small I can't read it without my glasses, but I don't mind, because it's never right, anyway. Today it's displaying 23. I last remember setting it to the correct date on New Year's Day.

It was an expensive watch. I bought it back when I had money. Back when I worked for Internet companies that had lots of it, and an X who also earned some. When I didn't have to walk dogs to supplement my income.

Come to think of it, I bought it the first time I was flown out to California for a job interview, when the X and I were still together and he made me promise that I wouldn't contact Jack while I was there. I kept that promise. It was 1999, and the company that was interested in me was called Geocast. They were considering me for the position of VP of Marketing. They put me up in a fancy hotel and paid for me to rent a car for the weekend, so that I could explore the South Bay area.

They were keen to get me out there, so I thought I'd better dress the part. I bought a new suit in that year's hottest spring colour, pale blue; new sandals—this was California, after all—and a matching purse; a trendy yet professional-looking necklace and matching earrings. And when I tried on this outfit at home with my narrow, gold, bangle-style very 1980s watch, I went back to the mall.

I didn't get the job. No one did. The company went bust instead.

The second time I was flown to California for a job interview was last summer, just before my birthday. I didn't get that job either, though the company didn't go bust. They just didn't want me.

This time, it's not a company that's flying me out for an interview. It's a university: The University of San José. And I'm hoping that three times is the charm.

So you see, Gentle Reader, this trip has nothing to do with Jack.

To be continued in part VII

And the sky is grey

Over at Ongoing, Tim Bray tells a story of fog, Lee Levin, and Hell.

Tim is my friend and mentor, and the fact that he works for Sun, even though he doesn't live in Silicon Valley, is a point on the pros page as I try to decide whether to move there. Lee Levin is a man I briefly worked for years ago. So briefly, he probably doesn't remember me. But everything I understand about sales, the selling process, and the incredibly tough job sales people do, I learned from him.

Hell, I assume you're familiar with.

Go to California Dreamin' part VI, or read California Dreamin' from the beginning.

California Dreamin' [part V]

Continued from part IV. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006
10:00 a.m., Chicago time
on board United 719 to San José

I can't help but notice that the thinnest person in the dozen first class seats is only 40 pounds overweight, and I wonder whether I can live in this country. They speak the same language, they dress the same, they drive the same cars. It's the mundane matters that differ: the lack of French on packaged goods; the way they talk too loudly in public; their money that all looks the same; their incessant flag waving, both literally and figuratively.

And then there's the fucking guns. How proud it makes them; how free it makes them feel, knowing that any one of them, any ordinary citizen, on a day that he's feeling particularly pissed off, or she's PMS-ing, has the god-given right, sanctioned by the government, to walk into a Wal-Mart and buy a gun. Of course they don't have the right to shoot up the nearest McDonald's, but when they do, the rest of the country still acts like they're shocked.

We—Canadians—just don't get that. Never will.

"So what are you going to do if they offer you the job?" asked Markus on Tuesday night as he and his wife Amy and I were having a couple of pints at Wrigley's Field in St. Catharines. "Would you move to California?"

"So fast your head'll be spinning like the Tasmanian Devil in my dust," I had replied.

"Good! 'Cause Amy and I will come visit you. We've never been to San Francisco."

"Well, I'd be in San José, not San Francisco," I told them, "But the city's not that far away." And then I sketched a map of the Bay Area on the brown paper tablecloth in our booth.

"Does Jack know you're coming?" blurted Amy.

Markus looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Great job! You managed to hold it back for an hour and a half!" Then, to me, he added, "She's been dying to ask you that since I told her you were coming here."

Amy and Markus had scrutinized Jack last summer, when he came for my birthday.

"He knows," I told her, and he does, "But I don't know whether I'll see him while I'm there."

That was the truth.

"In fact, I'm not even sure I want to," I added.

And that was a lie.

To be continued in part VI, but first, a brief stop in Hell.

California Dreamin' [part IV]

Continued from part III

Wednesday, April 26, 2006
10:25 a.m. by my watch
but really it's 9:25 at
O'Hare International Airport, Chicago

I'm sitting in a Berghoff Café, wondering how the extra F got on that name, and whether I should be accenting that E. Having lived in Montreal for eight years, I tend to write café and resumé. Both of which I've been writing frequently, of late.

I recognize the name of this restaurant because Dave took me there when I was in Chicago in December. The plan was to eat some wonderful German victuals, but when we arrived we found the queue was around the block. That's why we ended up eating at the Hard Rock Café, a decision I'll regret for eternity.

This morning I'm sitting with my second coffee of the day at the bar at this airport Berghoff's (no hard rolls on the menu, but there's something called a weck) but it's not the kind of bar that has a bartender behind it; it's the kind that forms the boundary between the restaurant and the airport concourse, and sitting here you look out at the airport foot traffic. I like observing other people. Guessing at their names and where they're going. Making up stories about them. Like James Leer in Wonder Boys.

Besides, you never know when Chris Noth might cross your path in an airport. Or Jack. He travels a lot.

In fact, he's on his way to Salt Lake City right now. He might be back in the city—San Francisco—on Thursday, but he's not sure, he told me in an email yesterday; he might have to go to Mexico City. Or Melbourne. I understand that he's afraid to see me, and so I told him, look, you know—for fuck's sake, the whole Internet knows—it would make me very happy to see you and Beauty, but I'm not expecting anything. You know where I'll be. You have my cell phone number. Call me, or don't call me.

You're the one that makes the rules in this relationship.

Me, all I have is a silver charm on a bracelet, a tiny San Francisco cable car, that came with a note that read, "Leave your heart." You bastard.

To be continued in part V.

California Dreamin' [part III]

Continued from part II

I'm on United 599 to O'Hare where I'll transfer to United 719 to San José, and I'm getting all verklempt.

(Sniff.)

Tawk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic:

Is it San Jose, or San José? Discuss.

To be continued in part IV

California Dreamin' [part II]

Continued from part I

Wednesday, April 26
Still in the Buffalo airport

At security I count 18 signs warning that no lighters are permitted on planes. Mine is in my cigarette pack, in my purse, as it always is. If they find it, they can have it. I can always pop into the newstand as soon as I'm on the concourse and buy another one.

They don't find it, but they do make me take off my light jacket, which has no metal on it, and my shoes, which have small metal buckles. My belt, which has a much larger buckle, is allowed to remain undisturbed — and does not set off the metal detector. Neither does the row of metal snaps on my shirt. There's no logic to it. Once, at a Canadian airport, a small, decorative, metal ring in my bra set off the alarm.

Soon, they'll be making us strip down and walk through a decontamination tent before boarding a plane.

I remain baffled by most changes in security procedures at American airports in the last five years. There's one that makes sense: They used to allow anyone to go onto the concourses. Remember that? So when you'd be coming off a plane there'd be three hundred smiling relatives craning their necks and trying to get as close to the jetway door as possible, and when they recognized their loved ones they'd all stop in place to greet and slobber all over each other. There were always ten times as many people in the airport as there needed to be.

No, it was never like that in Canada. No one goes through security without a boarding pass. It just makes plain old good sense. Not only that, but our airports are designed so that arrivals and departures are on separate floors, so when you're de-boarding you don't run into boarding traffic.

The changes that don't make sense to me are everything else. The extra scrutiny and time spent considering whether to allow my nail clippers to remain in my purse. Making us take our shoes off. Look, if I really wanted to smuggle something small, thin, and sharp in here, there are fifty places in my carry-on that it could be. Don't you people watch Alias? A pen could be concealing an icepick. For that matter, a pen, weiled by a person of upper body strength and nefarious intentions, could be a weapon. And someone with those same qualities, plus training and determination, doesn't need my nail clippers to take over the plane.

Between the time I check in and the time I'm seated on the plane, I have to show my I.D. to three people. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't check my I.D., but why three times? I remember September 11, 2001. Vividly. They were showing the photos and names of the terrorists on CNN while the towers were still burning. Clearly, they had I.D., too.

In the first few weeks after September 11 all the American airlines stopped accepting e-tickets. That's the other one that baffled me. E-tickets, purchased electronically with a credit card that, presumably, had to be verified, was suddenly considered risky. But you could walk up to a ticket counter and pay cash for a ticket, no I.D., no problem.

Why don't you just stop allowing people to carry suitcases onto the plane? Not only would it improve security but it'd speed everything up. I've rarely had to wait more than five minutes for my suitcase to arrive at baggage claim, but I've frequently had to wait 15 minutes or more beyond scheduled takeoff while the passengers and the harried flight attendants try to find space in the overhead bins for everyone's suitcases. I always check my bag, even my small one. It's just polite. Not to mention the fact that it's easier negotiating O'Hare without it.

But I won't be at O'Hare for another couple of hours. I'm still in Buffalo, looking for coffee. I find it in one of the airport's restaurant/bars. I like to sit at the bar in a bar, even when it's too early to drink beer.

"How much is a bottle of water?" the woman in front of me asks the cashier. What I hear is: battle of watter — rhymes with matter. Americans are immediately identifiable by the first vowel they enunciate.

The breakfast menu reads:

Bagel with cream cheese
Breakfast sandwich on a hard roll

The concept of a hard roll sounds only slightly more appetizing than the bagel, which I have no doubt will be of the doughy grocery store variety, and untoasted. Besides, I'm curious about this hard roll thing.

Turns out a hard roll, at least the airport variety, is neither. At home I'd call that a hamburger bun.

But the coffee is huge—just what I need. I take it and my breakfast sandwich to the bar, sit where I can see the TV screen, and pull out my notebook.

As I'm writing this I'm listening to the early morning news on the local ABC affiliate. As I take my first bite of my breakfast sandwich the anchor is introducing a story about a "dot com" firm. What I hear is: dat cam.

I grew up watching Happy Days and The Mary Tyler Moore Show on these very same Buffalo affiliates of all the American television networks. Yet when I pronounce Lackawanna, Tonawanda, or Cheektowaga — which is where the Buffalo airport is actually located — I use twice as many vowel sounds as Americans do.

I've only been in this country for an hour, and already I'm having second thoughts about moving here.

To be continued in part III