the parking lot

Ever have one of those days? November 26th, 2007 is one of those days. I like to think of it as a trifecta of bad decisions. Let me set the scene.
This morning I realized half-way on the drive to work that my cell-phone was gently cradled at home on the charger - no worries, i say to myself, after all, I won't need it at the office today (or so I thought). My second killer move, that will later play a pivotal role in my day, is my piss-poor choice of footwear. But I blame this on some defective female chromosome, one that programs us to continuously select style over substance. Who cares if my Nine West boots have a heel 1/16 of an inch wide? They are smokin'! My third, and perhaps worst decision was when I left the office at a reasonable time and decided to hop on the bus home . But wait, there's a freebie I'll throw in for good measure. The Wild Card! Although not relative to the story, I did sigh on the mirrored elevator ride up to the office when I realized that not only had static electricity been horribly unkind to my already frizz-ease resistant hair, but I had forgotten to put a stitch of make-up on. I am not so vain to think make-up makes a huge difference, but in my pale-faced case, it does help with pigmentation deficiencies. But I digress.
It was a decent wrap up time at work - only a 9 hour day! I told Smiley that I would spare him driving across town and would catch the bus home. After all, I had a great novel to help the commute fly by (or so I thought). As the wheels on the bus went round and round through Marpole, I drifted off to sleep - for some reason I can never keep my eyes open in Marpole. After what felt like hours of sleeping (and I'm sure drooling and sleep-talking) - I awoke with a startle, and disbelief to find that we had only travelled what should take 15 minutes. It had been two hours. The bus was at a crawl. I'd put it at 10 kms/hr tops. A dump of snow was hitting the ground - so much so, that the guy sitting behind me kept wiping the window every five minutes, uttering the phrase, "aw come on!" or mixing it up periodically, and eloquently with "fuck me!" Sometimes he'd throw in an "are you kidding me!?!" for good measure.
I listened carefully over the crowd of passengers talking on their cell phones (yes, I was jealous) -and i could hear bits and pieces of the bus driver's cell conversation - enough to extract the key phrase "we'll never make it".
"Aw, come on!" I thought. Then, "fuck me."
The bus driver couldn't maneuver the bus along a sloped stretch of the King George Highway, so he pulled over and let us out.
"Are you kidding me?"
I couldn't believe it. The option was, for some reason, to get out or to catch a lift with him back to Richmond.
Wasn't there some kind of bus driver oath like thou shalt get thee passenger to his or her desired stop?
I smiled to myself (even after the two and half hour bus ride) and thought, and so it begins.
I was that girl. That girl you shake your head at as you drive by and see her running through the snow in piss poor shoes with no sign of a hat or umbrella. I was that girl slipping and sliding crossing the highway trying to find a pay phone, which by the way, don't exist in large quantities anywhere anymore.
I saw the golden arches, the ones I usually avoid at all cost. But today they called to me like heavenly gates. I ran inside, dripping from head to toe and asked the tweenager behind the counter if I could use the phone.
"Nope." She said. "Sorry."
Sweet.
I ran through a construction yard and felt the stares and tuned out the laughter from the men driving by in snowplows. I didn't care, I was miss-Kelly-stupid-shoes on a mission to find a payphone.
I made my way to Winners and the woman behind the customer service counter, god bless her, let me use their phone. I dialled up Smiley, but he was still stuck in traffic in Burnaby. I would wait for him in the cozy comforts of the small ma-and-pa start-up biz, Starbucks.
I sat down with my pumpkin spiced latte - yes, that's right, none of the fancy half caf this, extra hot that, bone dry this, extra skinny that - none of that crap - i was going for straight up fatty comfort.
I was sitting down for five minutes when a forty-ish year old man sat down at my table. "I'm bored and you've got beautiful hair" he says. I almost spat my drink in his face with laughter. He couldn't be serious. Was the poor man blind? Was he really referring to the hair plastered to my head from all the snow? Is the drowned-rat-look all the rage these days?
He gave me his card, he was an artist. Perhaps he saw my hair as some kind of work of art. Medusa?
I kept smiling as he talked and glanced out the window, trying to will Smiley to my side. I was using so much energy to will the sight of my car to Starbucks that my eyeballs were probably totally protruding from my head.
I made my way to Save-On Foods and found another courtousy phone. I would wait for Smiley somewhere between the magazines and frozen food.
Although it ended up being four hours to get home, all in all, you've got to love a good curveball. Even if it is made of snow.

Inspiration

I just finished watching a wonderful film called Paris, je t'aime. It's a series of short films about little moments captured in the different quarters of Paris. I loved the fact that each writer/director found a unique way to capture a slice of life set against the unifying backdrop of Paris. It just goes to show you that for each individual, inspiration comes in many translations.

I feel lucky lately -somehow I've come across the right mix of circumstances to draw a lot of inspiration from.

For me, it all starts with a great cup of coffee - rich in aroma, awakening the senses, warming the belly. It commands your attention and needs to be shared; shared with a great book, shared with the morning paper, shared with a gathering of friends, shared with sweat while writing a late night essay.

It's the joy of finding a wonderful book. You want to carry it with you everywhere to read in stolen moments. You want to dive into it, consuming every page with great fervor and yet you don't want it to end. It wakes up your imagination and puts you in the directors chair, conjuring images frame by frame.

Inspiration comes from a film that stays with me long after the final credits roll. One that makes me look at life with a fresh new take. One that makes me laugh out loud, one that makes me want to run out and tell everyone about it, one that provokes my comfort zone, one that makes me go into the ugly cry, one that I can't forget. Paris je t'aime inspired me to write this mini essay because it reminded me why I always walk away feeling so enriched by foreign films. The storytelling isn't formulaic. It is a celebration of quiet moments, flawed characters, paired nicely with a glass of ruby red wine and the right piece of cheese.

As I grow older, I am finding inspiration in food. Ever since joining the yaya sisters at work, and being treated monthly to ush and lynny's gourmet cooking, I see the art in their creations. This is a big change for a girl who can get lost in a White Spot veggie burger. I love watching the effort that goes into planning a beautiful meal. The kitchen conversations, the thoughtful addition or omission of ingredients, the taste testing, the dizzying arrangement of colours and blending of spices. I hope to learn from these women so one day I can treat my friends and family to the same wonderful cuisine.

I am inspired to be in a room full of friends or family, which really are one and the same. After losing my beloved friend Scott a short few months ago, I have come to appreciate every moment with loved ones. There is tangible energy in a room buzzing with conversation, big laughs and real hugs. I like to be in the moment, look around me and mentally release the shutter, to capture the image. How did I get so lucky to have found so many quality people?

Of course, nothing can compete for my inspiration's attention like nature. It is the greatest piece of artwork that offers up the biggest spiritual payoff. It is the vastness of a hike through the mountains, the serenity of a quiet paddle down a meandering river, the pure pleasure of photographing animals in their natural environment, the perspective reminder you get from falling asleep under the stars, the hidden beauty of snorkelling through pristine turqoise water, the joy of watching your garden push through the soil, the cozy pleasure derived from being under a blanket indoors while a symphany of sound erupts from the perfect storm. It is dew on a blade of grass, fog blanketing a farmer's field, waves pummelling themselves against a rocky shore, sunshine warming your face.

It is the simplest things where the greatest joy can be found; starting a new journal, my dog licking my face, riding my bike down a hill, finding a new song that I can't get enough of, holding a baby, taking a photo that totally captures the moment right, yoga, dancing, making people laugh, swimming, a hot shower with substantial water pressure. Gestures. As I grow older, gestures mean the most. People can talk up a storm, but it's through gestures that they show you who they are and show you love. It's little things like how Smiley will drive out of his way to drop me off at work, how he will cook me my favourite meal if i've had a long day. It's his way of putting the coffee on early so it's made when I wake up. It's countless little surprises that make their way into our days - look for them because I have a feeling, when all is said and done, it's the littlest things that will mean the most.