Masako relieved me of four inches of hair Thursday evening after work. I look presentable again, instead of like the world's oldest, fattest junior high school student. She was very sweet and stayed late for me despite the blasted Giants game running late and bollocksing up the train schedule. I waited on the platform for half an hour before dashing back to work and placing a quick phone call to her. I hate needing to make a phone call once I've left the office. It's two blocks and one traffic signal away, just that much too far from the train station to catch a train that pulls in as I walk out the door. Believe me, I've tried several times. The phrase "GoddammitI'mgettingcellphones" went through my head several times.
For Masako fanciers I will report that she was wearing a short, tight, ivory-colored shirt of some kind of manmade fabric which had been sewn into tiny air-filled squares. She looked like she was wearing a waffle. The rest of her outfit consisted of knee length overalls, very tight fitting, in brown cotton with huge patches of gingham everywhere -- the kind of thing you imagine Karl Lagerfeld would whip up if he were doing the costumes for Li'l Abner. I was so stunned I didn't even look at her shoes.
Friday was so busy I felt like I couldn't do anything right, much less on time. At least I got the second-to-last large (11 people!) Italian group on their way knowing that everything was as perfect as could be without my actually going over there myself to turn down their beds at night. There's only one big family trip to Italy left this year, though I do still have several couples left. Since January I have planned 18 trips to Italy. Unbelievable. And you know, it's been fun as hell, but I am so very glad we went to Japan instead going to Italy ourselves.
It's been pretty international at my desk lately. I'm setting up a surprising number of trips to Tahiti. There's a sudden increase of interest in the Tahitian wedding ceremony. Understand that even from the West Coast Tahiti is an expensive proposition, and it's not cheap when you get there, either. The wedding ceremony is extremely cool, what with several semi-naked nubile Tahitians done up in traditional outfits bearing you and your loved one on ceremonial chairs through the cerulean waters to a flower-bedecked arbor where you'll say your vows. The catch is it's not legal in the U.S. so you're no more married than Jerry Hall and Mick Jagger were with their Balinese nuptials. This kind of bums out the newly engaged who were hoping to do the deed in an agreeably remote tropical setting which most of their relatives couldn't afford to visit. Still, they can't resist those glossy brochures and the thought of how jealous everyone will be when they tell them they honeymooned on Bora Bora. Lucky for me, the travel agent.
By the end of the day I had booked two Tahiti packages, taken deposits on four Hawaii packages, called in final payment on three Mexican vacations, invoiced one Nile cruise and Red Sea tour and one "Lawrence of Arabia" Jordan tour, faxed France, Italy, and Spain, and set up a particularly tricky Australian tour combination. I also issued tickets for a very nice Norwegian couple who helpfully wrote down their names for me under the assumption that I wouldn't know how to spell Arne and Inga. Little did they know I do the travel for our multinational neighbors who work for the local restaurants. The only names that throw me are the ones with more consonants than vowels.
I sailed off to the train station an hour after closing to meet Michael at Borrone's. John was going to meet us there at 8:00pm. I got to the platform at 6:40pm. I figured I'd have time to eat before Michael and John showed up, maybe even browse in Kepler's a bit. Unfortunately, I didn't know that ten minutes before I arrived an old man had walked in front of my train a few stations up. It was fatal, and the southbound trains were held up for over an hour. There were no announcements, so no one knew how soon the trains might be coming. The crowd built up. At 7:50pm I was contemplating calling a taxi even though I couldn't really afford it. The phrase "GoddammitI'mabsofreakinlutelygettingcellphones" went through my head several times. Just at that moment a big old SamTrans bus pulled up and the driver said over his speaker, "Attention, southbound suckahs."
"I didn't hear him say that," I thought, head craning around to stare at the bus.
"Now that I've got your attention, this is a free bus to Palo Alto," the bus speakers boomed. "Trains are late, come on and ride the bus."
I abandoned Caltrain without further thought. The crowd duly surged up and around the construction fencing separating the train station from the bus platforms, and climbed aboard. The driver announced every stop fairly humorously, drawing out syllables, making snide comments about Atherton to everyone's pleasure, and thanking us for "flying SamTrans." If I'd been in a bad mood I would have hated his attempt to be funny, but I was so thankful to be released from that miserable train station I was kind of amused.
And finally I got to Borrone's, and there was Michael, and food was obtained, and alcohol drunk, and Bill showed up, and Michael's friend John the Sicilian, and my John, and we talked about the different types of Bridge, and the excellent-sounding Oz Squad comics, and diverse amusing conversation as well, after which I drove home and it was time to walk my dog and fall, at last, into my bed for a richly deserved night's sleep albeit liberally dotted with cats wedging up against our legs restricting free movement or comfortable positions.
But the best part was my hair no longer gets in my face when I sleep because it's four inches shorter.
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