It proceeds very slowly, so as not to alarm the tourists.
I sat in a single seat facing awkwardly directly at a small and elderly woman who seemed to be not looking my way on purpose. So I carefully turned away, to give her a break.
At the second stop, she got up and left. In comes an artistic looking young woman in all black, even her skin, even a black hoodie, and she’s carrying a clear plastic glass half-filled with pink something. Pink soda pop, maybe. She seemed very at home as she sat directly facing me and placed her glass on the molded plastic hip of the car — which didn’t seem like a stable place to set a glass, but she acted self-sure.
After a bit, she started saying quiet sentences, one at a time. These sentences were not obviously directed at me, and she spoke without looking at me but not while wearing an earpiece or looking at a phone, no. Maybe she was disturbed, but my gut reaction was that she was an art student messing with me. I really think she was. She said:
“You are worried about your choices.”
“You don’t have to look at me.” (I am not looking at you.)
A few minutes later, while a gregarious stranger who was standing near us was busily telling some cute girls that he worked for the company that installed the railine:
“You don’t have to look at me, it’s OK.”
“You don’t have to talk to him either.”
“It is OK that you settled for an ordinary life.”
“You needed an ordinary life.”
I thought about looking at her directly and giving her my best I Am A Harmless Old Lady smile, but what if she actually was nuts?
Soon enough she got off, and I forgot she ever was there. And I did not obsess over the words she had said, either.
After hiking past intriguing but closed shops and touristy restaurants, I ate on the uncovered patio at The Farmhouse, about which I know nothing except they offered more than one option without cheese or meat. Taylor, my server, pleasant to meet despite the visual violence of her nose ring, said she’s vegan, too, and pointed me to the squash ratatouille. We skipped the bread and instead gave me a java stout.
My solo table for two was flanked by two tables for two, each occupied by two and backed up to a hip-high metal fence and light shrubberies.
On my right was an elderly woman with a stilted manner of speech (confession 1: I eavesdrop). She was trying to keep herself looking healthy via rouge and hair dye; that was not working well for her. But when her also elderly, male companion arrived, their conversation left me wondering about the relationship. They seemed too interested in one another to be married for as long as they both looked like they might have been married, and yet they were talking about “our plumbing” and “our dishwasher.”
On my left were two women, late 20s or early 30s. Natural looking blondes, large bright eyes, nondescript noses, slim ankles — pretty. The one I had the best view of (confession 2: I have possibly abnormally good peripheral vision) wore a sleeveless, dark blue, “I am sexy" dress affording an undesirable view of the underside of her cleavage. A black-and-white, diaphanous, unstructured shoulder drape helped her feel covered, I feel. I mean, the dress had a breastbone cut-out. Also, she wore fancy shoes, the type that is a liability in a sudden downpour.
The other wore a sporty but not cheap looking gray ribbed knit, mid-thigh dress, a plain white sweater and pristine white sneakers with those tiny footies that try to hide below the heel counter but can’t quite do so without falling off inside your shoes.
Was it a date?
I tuned in as they began comparing how often they had been proposed to.
“It depends on your definition,” Fancier Dresser said, “but six times.”
“Six, really?”
A list followed, including precious phrases such as “we went to high school together, it was sad, actually.”
Meanwhile, on my right:
“I will be so glad when we get our new dishwasher. Well, you can hear the water swirling around.”
And he said: “You can look in your oven, but I never do.”
Who were these people to one another?
Wait, the women —
“I don't want any of this. I know what I want. They have these warm nuts and marinated olives and they are sooo good.”
“They’re doing the happy hour menu.”
Then their waiter arrived. He was not Taylor.
Fancier: “Is it the happy hour menu?”
Waiter: “Yes, it is.”
Fancier: “Is it possible to —”
Waiter: “No, it's not. It is the happy hour menu.”
Meanwhile ...
“I had no problem parking.”
“There are spaces right there.”
Sporty: “What about Niagara Falls or Vegas. Or you could do Colorado.”
Fancier: “Yeah.”
Sporty: “Have you been to Vegas?”
Fancier: “I think ... yes. But I want to use the winery.”
Right hand:
She: “It’s such a shame. This isn’t half as good as it used to be.”
He: “I wonder what happened. What do you think happened?”
Sporty: “As your older sister I am going to say no.”
Eureka!
No idea what Sporty was ruling out, but she had just explained everything. Fancy under-boob was recently engaged. They were sisters, old enough to have their own funds, talking about where to hold a wedding.
On the way back to the Westin, I stopped in Union Station, which was mostly closed, wandered downstairs and found a gaily painted piano. In honor of my colleague Ginny Monk, I played it for a few minutes. An odd, flabby fellow who had spoken to me on the streetcar walked by and said, “You play really well.” But he kept walking.
Within two minutes I was upstairs and outside on the sidewalk, headed for the security of the hotel.
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| Union Station, from my room in the hotel. |
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