Elizabette's

This is a break from my usual type of post. I was stuck in a traffic jam yesterday, and my mind sort of just wandered, and this is where it went. It's very clear in my mind - I don't know if I am a skilled enough writer to draw the picture this deserves in your head...but I hope so. I would love your feedback on this.


The very first time I went to Savannah was in 1989 to visit my best friend. She had moved there after school, accepting a minuscule salary, no benefits or job security for the chance to work in her chosen career. We went to River Street, the gem of that lady of the south, and walked for hours on cobblestone streets meandering under old oak trees. We talked as if our very lives depended on getting everything said in that one very short night...It was January, and it was cold. Realizing we were hungry, we searched for a restaurant or pub, but time had wisped away under cover of our happy voices, and so the only place open was the big hotel on the river. Practically schoolgirls still, we were hardly dressed for dinner at the Hyatt, but in we strolled, graciously accepting the small table squished near the kitchen door. We paused our conversation long enough to look at the menus, and realized in an instant that we were out of our league...between the two of us, we had about enough money for a bowl of soup, and that was only if we had enough guts to not leave a tip for the waiter. So, out we went, back up to the river, not really distressed at our situation. After all, we had survived many nights of insufficient funds, back at school. We found another open door; down a half set of stairs, set into the basement of one of the big tourist places. We walked in to a blast of heat, and music - the jazz being played by the musicians on the tiny stage was the kind that sets every hair bristling...the kind of music girls like us had only heard in the movies we had snuck in to see. A very fat woman eased herself off a stool in the corner and approached us. We asked in timid voices if they served food there, and if we were too late to order something to eat. The fat lady didn't say much, but she sort of nodded, and slid an arm around each of us, and shepherded us to a table, right in front of the piano. The musicians looked at us briefly, without interest. A man in shiny pants brought us some coffee - unasked for, but very much appreciated because we were both feeling cold. We sipped our coffee, pungent with some unknown liquor, and assessed our surroundings. We were in a very nice place. Remembering the Hyatt, we began to get a little nervous, but no one had even brought us a menu yet. We figured we would have enough for at least the two coffees, if we couldn't afford to eat. The band played, the few other customers - women in elegant dresses, the men in suits with narrow colorful ties- danced in the small clearing near the stage. We listened and watched, silenced by the warmth, the coffee, the music, the comfort we had found in this little place. After a half hour or so, we had still not been brought menus, but the fat lady appeared at the table with two plates, mounded high with delicious smelling food. We looked at one another; my friend and I worried we wouldn't be able to pay. We started to ask how much for the dinner, but she shushed us and put a plate in front of each of us, and waited for us to start eating. It was meatloaf, hot and tangy and ambrosial with mashed potatoes that were salty and somehow sweet at the same time. Gravy floated on everything, except for the fresh strawberries and grapes that were nestled next to the pile of meatloaf. It tasted as delicious as it smelled and we ate it all. Warm, a bit tired now, but with full bellies, we enjoyed the rest of the band's final set. The fat lady once again came up to our table. She said that she was ready to close up, and asked if we had come by car or did she need to call us a taxicab to get home. We looked at her blankly, and my friend told her that we had walked there from her apartment on Whitaker Street. The woman sighed and shook her head; " You can't walk all that way now. It's 2 o'clock in the morning. I'll call a car for you." We were worried - we hadn't thought of getting back to the apartment, and we still hadn't paid for dinner. We asked how much we owed her for the dinner and coffee, and she surprised us by asking "Well, how much do you have?" "8 dollars", I said. She smiled and said that would be just about right. We handed her the 8 dollars but she took only two. "You'll need the rest for your cab ride home." She shooed us out the door and waited with us in the cold until we were ensconced in a battered taxi. She stood and watched as we were driven away, the old car bouncing heavily on the rutted road.

Airplane!

Just the other day, a friend shot some video of his flight landing at a major US airport. The footage was spectacular, stunning, awe-inspiring and outright beautiful. The video was enhanced by his addition of wonderful, exciting music; something famous, I think. He put his artistic endeavor on his Facebook page and shared it with the world (or, at least people who are linked in as his FB buds). I watched his video and sighed - it was truly magical. Alas, when the screen showed his 'out the window' view of the planes very final descent, I had to look away - my stomach knotted, I began to perspire and I had an insane desire to run out of the room. Yes, you know my dirty secret - I am afraid of flying (Hah! That's putting it mildly!). And, it is TOTALLY a control thing with me. For years, I flew in tiny, laughably small planes, swooping over vast expanses of the southeastern US for my work. As long as I could reach over the pilot's shoulder and take charge of the aircraft at a seconds notice, I was fine. See, in my head, as long as I was watching the pilot and approving their every move, we were good. Case in point: Once, I was passenger in a puddle jumper that STALLED IN MID-FLIGHT. Did I panic when the dash light emblazoned with ENGINE STALL WARNING flashed on and off? Which I could plainly see because I was less than 2 feet away? Did the excruciatingly loud buzzer alerting us that the engine had stalled cause me duress? You betcha. But, I knew I could 'will' the pilot into fixing the situation, or 'yell' the pilot into fixing the situation, or if needed, SMACK the pilot 'upside his head' to get the situation fixed. And, if none of that worked, I could ruthlessly shove the pilot out from behind the controls, and I could take over; restart the engine and safely fly us to our destination. (cue applause: Yippee... Penny has once again saved the day!) Do I know how to fly even the least sophisticated airplane? Absolutely not. Hell, I can't even fly a kite. But you see, that's how I know I have control issues. Because if I am in a small plane, I'm okay. Whereas, if I am a passenger on a large jet, where I can not even SEE the pilot, much less SMACK them if they begin to screw up, I am seriously a mess. So, I don't know how to fix my control issue, but it's pretty bad and getting worse. The other day, my girlfriend was driving us to a restaurant for lunch and she took a wrong turn. It was all I could do to stop myself from smacking her 'upside the head'.