Cats

Strangers in the Night

there once was a man from western mass
his room young women would trespass
she showed up in a thong
he knew nudity was wrong
so with long johns he covered her ass

Are we there yet?

On my last day in Europe, my final travel itinerary was a bit stressful. My flight home was scheduled out of Amsterdam on a Sunday, and the Saturday before I was traveling from Grenoble, France. I got on a train at 7 am in Grenoble, teary-eyed as I watched the beautiful mountain passes that had been home for me for two months fade away. I arrived in Paris three hours later, and had to switch train stations to catch my connection train to Amsterdam. To avoid an expensive taxi fair, I braved the RER line in Paris to get to the right station. For those of you who are not familiar, the RER is kind of like the commuter rail in Boston, except you can't read the monitors for where next train is going, it's filthy, and it stops in places that are about as safe as downtown Trenton (not to mention it picks up grade-A travelers along the way). Lugging my 70-pound suitcase, a backpack, and a heavy shoulder bag, I finally reached the right station.

I heard that my train was being called, and I hopped on the train that read "Amsterdam" on the side. It must have been a combination of my traveler anxiety along with the glass of wine I had in the "Gare du Nord" that didn't make me realize how it was strange that no one was getting on the train I was on. As I was sitting alone in the train, an employee asked me in French if he could help me. I said I was going to Amsterdam, and he said "you mean that train?" as a train was pulling out of the station on the track next to mine. As I was gathering my things and shedding a few tears, the employee proceeded to yell at me in French saying I was stupid for not realizing I was on the wrong train (looking back it wasn't the smartest thing I've done, but at least wait until I'm not crying, buddy). I was able to exchange my ticket for a later train, and a few hours later I was finally on my way to Amsterdam.

I made friends with the business man next to me on the train, who was a Netherlands native, and he suggested I lock up my huge suitcase at the train station instead of taking it with me through the city, and grab it the next day when I was leaving for the airport. I'm pretty sure if an angel has ever been sent to me, that was the time. Before arriving in Amsterdam, I figured as a seasoned European traveler, I could just glance at the trolley map that ran through the city to take to my hotel. As I was exiting the station, however, a lot of colorful people were passing me by. I finally determined that a gay festival must be going on in the city. Perfect. I hopped on the trolley, and was planning to take it to "Rembrandstadt" station, which was supposed to be about two blocks from my hotel. A bunch of drunk Brits were on the trolley with me, and they said "hey! Why aren't they stopping at Rembrandstadt?” The train kept going, and I got off at the next stop with them. I had no map, no Dutch, and was the only sober person in the city. After walking around for 2 hours through crowds of intoxicated gay people, I decided to hop in a cab and announced the street that my hotel was on. He said he couldn't take me there--that's where the concert was being held and the street was closed. I couldn't really think of another barrier that would keep me from my hotel, and after 13 hours, I finally found my hotel haven. Looking back, it is easy to laugh, but now I'm pretty sure I can handle any travel woes that come my way in the future. Bring it on.

JUST RUN

October. 2003.
A dark knight guards his fortress and all who reside within.
Dare I challenge this master of his domain?
I must. For I am a nomad.
My comrade steals ahead, I catch a final glimpse as he retreats on the way to his chamber...
...But not before he turns, and whispers those wise final words: JUST RUN.
With the grace of a maniacal gorilla I rush past, the Knight calls out - He knows of my name, my place
I cannot look back, I am too far gone
I begin my ascension. stairs two, three at a time, heart racing, at last I reach my place of solitude.
Tonight I sleep with one eye open
For this Knight is omniscient
And I am Caroline Claire O'Donnell and this is not my MF-ing place of residence.

The No Thank You Note

After receiving a wonderful cable knit sweater (turtleneck) for my past birthday, I sent the following to my ninety year old aunt living in upstate NY:



Dear Aunt Linda,

I am writing this note to express my discontent with the social norm that is the "Thank You" note. Please do not be confused. This is by no means a "Thank You" note even though the Hallmark provided words written across the front might suggest so. In fact this is a "No Thank You" note. If your gift requires a reciprocal act, a handwritten letter, to express my thanks (which I believe I communicated quite eloquently and articulately at my birthday party less than one month ago with a direct and heartfelt "Thank You") than I would like to duly return the aforementioned gift.

This might seem a bit harsh and forward of me, however, I am a man of my principles and cannot justify forsaking my beliefs to conform to such a society and the expectations of said society. In fact, if we are being completely honest with each other, which I feel we are right now (well at least I know I am), it was your sister (my mother) which suggested writing you a "Thank You" note in the first place. If she were not standing in front of me right now watching my every move, I would not even be writing you a "No Thank You" note, nor would you be apprised of my revolutionary views on social norms/etiquettes and would in fact receive no note (Thank You or No Thank You) whatsoever.

I do not believe that gratitude must be expressed via written word when we are both fully capable, vocal, human beings. If you are unable to remember and retain my verbal "Thank You", that is your own problem. The weight should not be on my shoulders to provide you with a written testament of my appreciation.

Please do not mention the content of this note to my mother. You and I are both grownups and do not need her to be the mediator of this situation. Ultimately, I do not want to incur her wrath (she inserts herself into my life enough as it is and is hell bent on the fact that because I am forty, single, and living at home, I will never provide her with the grand kids she so longs for) and quite honestly, if you do take issue with my philosophy you can contact me directly. Please call my cell phone (565-4311) and not the house phone. I do not want to run the chance of my parents answering your call (if you do in fact call).

I must get going before my mother becomes suspicious of the length and content of this note and requests to read it. I cannot risk another subversive maneuver on her part to quell my writings and revolutionary spirit. My voice will be heard, beginning with you.

Your nephew,

Jack

Condensation.

It goes by in a blur. Grey trains, in a grey yard, framed by the grey sky and the grey rain. The windows inside glisten with moisture. It reminds me of a cold beer left stranded on a hot summer day. Condensation. My arch enemy. These little beads of water or sweat or whatever the hell is now lining the inside of the bus, drip, drop, and roll with each lurch and acceleration. I am trapped inside three walls of glass, prespiring and twinkling with the reflection of the city lights. All the paper towels in the world couldn't dry this balmy beast.

My eyes dart from window to window. I am sitting in the direct center of the bus as far back as physically possible. My back against the only surface in the bus without a window. Surrounded. I take off my coat and use it to dry the window to my left. I slowly slide to the right and start drying the next window. As my eyes look back to my left to admire my victory, I am met with a surprise. The beads are reforming. Rapidly reassembling their army, ready to continue their downward march. A flow of fluids, falling faster and faster with each breath. It must be a cheap parlor trick, some elemental slight of hand. I scan the crowded bus. The air outside is too cold. Inside, too many mouths breathe, hot, warm air.

Something has to give. I take off my shirt and start to dry another window. The beads keep forming. They will not surrender. Neither will I. I take off my undershirt and dry another window. My damp wet clothes now line the floor of the bus. The people that sat close to me have moved. I am now alone. Outnumbered. Desperate times, call for desperate measures. If these walls of condensation keep forming and falling, the bus will flood. We will be up to our necks in it.

I stand up and calmly advise my fellow passengers of the dire situation. My words are met with looks of confusion and disgust. Not exactly the reaction I expected. I decide to ask for a favor. "If you could all limit your breathing for the next two bus stops, maybe don't breath at all, I would greatly appreciate it. The levels of condensation have reached their apex. If we all pitch in we can limit the damage. Who is with me?"

The driver slams on his brakes. I pitch forward and land on my bare stomach, sliding to the top of the stairs. I look up. The police. Finally, someone else understands, just how serious, condensation truly is.