People They Come Together. People They Fall Apart

It's the first week of August at Macatawa, and the sun is setting.  We rent a cottage up here for one week nearly every summer, and we lucked out this year by getting into one right on the waterfront.  As we gather on the front porch to watch the sun dip under the horizon, someone says, "The Perseids start tonight."  The meteor shower.  We've been here almost a full week - we know how dark it gets out here on the beach, when the only light for ages is Big Red, the lighthouse at the end of the channel.  We scurry upstairs to grab our sweatshirts, pillows, and extra blankets, and run out onto the sand.

Well, most of us run.  I put a stick through the heel of my bare foot almost immediately, and hobble after the rest of them, trying to keep the stinging sand out of the wound.

We spread our blankets out half-way to the water line, away from the row of cottages lining the beach front, and especially away from Party House next door, their CD player, and their endless supply of Pearl Jam albums.  The sand swallows most noise - all we hear is the gentle brush of water against the shore.  We lose the light quickly out here, where there are no street lamps or traffic lights, just the steady flash of the lighthouse above our heads.  The lake is empty as far as our eyes can see - most of the day sailors have called it quits for the night - but Big Red spins dutifully on.  You never know what might come ambling in or out on this clear summer night.

It's cold out here, and we pull our blankets tighter around our shoulders while we wait.  And wait.  And wait.  

"Are we sure this is tonight?"

"That's what the paper said."

"If they don't show up soon..."

"Is that one?"

"That's a plane."

It's like that for a while.  The group of us smooshed together on the blankets, one of us with her foot stuck in the air, staring into the night sky, waiting for something, anything, to happen.  And then: 

"There's one!" someone cries, excitedly.  And the rest of us twist our heads around on our blankets, asking, "Where?" and they who saw the star points their finger up at the night sky as if to say, "It went that-a-way!"  

It's a silly thing to do, really.  The star's not there any more, and it's certainly not coming back, but our eyes are fixed on that spot as if maybe, just maybe, it might double 'round and surprise us all.

"There's one!"

"Where?"

"There."

"Where there?"

"Well, it's not there now."

"Then why am I - ooh!  There's one!"

And suddenly, it's as if the night remembers that we're down here, all of us.  The stars come quickly and freely, blue-white fire burning hot trails across the sky and disappearing into the dark blue after.  It's the closest thing to magic I've ever seen.  

We stay there, watching and pointing, until it gets too cold, even for stars.  We pack up and wander back to the cottage, where there are band-aids, and s'mores over the barbeque.

It's Time to Go; I Hate to Leave-I Have to, Though.

It's almost the beginning of every teen slasher flick ever made.

We've just come from Mauthausen, and some of us haven't quite recovered from the experience, and when the bus stops in the city center of this tiny Austrian town, we'll be shuffled out of our seats and into the cars of complete strangers and expected to spend two nights in a foreign house, totally isolated from everyone we've come to know in the previous two weeks.  It's just a home stay, nothing to be scared about (I did two weeks of home stays when I went to Japan, so I have a little experience in that area), but it's been an emotional day, and the last thing anyone wants is to be away from their friends tonight.  I've lucked out - there are more kids than host families, and I end up sharing a family with another girl, Erica.  I think she's more relieved than I am.

Brigitte is a year ahead of us in school.  Tomorrow is her last day in class (all she has to do is pick up her grades), and tells us that she and her classmates are having a party tonight to celebrate.  It's been a long day, Erica and I are exhausted, but we pretend to be excited.  

We stop at the house long enough to put our suitcases in our room and use the facilities before we're back in the car.  Brigitte's mom is driving, which I don't understand until later in the evening when Brigitte starts drinking.  She tells us that the party is at her friend's "little house," but the street lights of the town are melting away in the rearview mirror as we drive deeper and deeper into the woods.  I almost lean over to Erica to say "This is the part where we all get killed," but by the look of her face in the dashboard lights, I don't think she'd find it funny.

There's a light up ahead, flickering between the trees.  The little house turns out to be a two-room wooden cabin ten miles outside of town, and there are close to twenty of Brigitte's friends packed into the tiny great room.  Her mom drives away; Brigitte promises to call her when we're ready to come home.  I'm amazed she can get cell phone reception out here.

There's a boy at the door handing out bottles of beer.  He tries to press a bottle into my hand, but I politely wave him off.  I never could get a taste for alcohol.  Erica shyly takes the offered bottle, looking around as if she thinks someone's waiting to bust her for underage drinking.  She forgets that we're miles from the nearest chaperone, and everyone in the cabin is legally allowed to drink.  A chorus of excited squeals sings out from the long table in the corner - a handful of girls from our group are also at this party, and they also have a growing collection of bottles and plastic cups spread out in front of them.  They wave when they catch our eyes, and we slide down the bench next to them. 

When I go with to school with Brigitte tomorrow to get her final grades while Erica stays behind sleeping off her first hangover, these girls will corner me in the back of the classroom with worry in their eyes.  They want to know if I'm going to rat them our to the chaperones when the group comes back together.  We did all sign the agreement not to drink on the trip, but I won't tell.  If someone had gotten hurt that'd be a different story, but hangovers notwithstanding, everyone woke up fine this morning, so their secret is safe with me.  

Later, riding the bus across the boarder into Italy, the line of gossip up the aisle reveals that everyone went to a bar with their host family, and nearly everyone spent at least one evening drunk off their asses.  My Morman friend practically glows when she describes her first taste of Red Bull and Vodka.  One boy ended up in Hungary, and has no idea how he got there without his passport.  When we ask about it, he just shakes his head and smiles wryly - clearly, we don't want to know.  

I'm sure the chaperones knew - I don't know how they couldn't.  Or if they didn't know for sure, they must have suspected that a group of unsupervised American teenagers would relish the opportunity to bend the rules a little.  They must feel the same way about this sort of thing as I do - out of sight, out of mind, and as long as everyone stays safe, there's no harm in turning a blind eye.  

Back in the cabin, there's a fairly drinking game working it's way around the table, and the American girls excitedly take sip after sip.  I feel like an old duck when I think, "They'll regret that in the morning." A young man and woman duck into the side bedroom; as he pulls the wood paneled sliding door shut, I see her reach for the top button on her pants, and in a stunning moment of naivete, I assume they're getting changed for school tomorrow.  (Seriously, it was at least three years later when I finally realized that Oh My God, they were having sex back there.  I don't have a good reason for being this dense.  Sorry.)  

One of Brigitte's friends squeezes onto the bench next to me.  I don't remember her name any more - I don't know if she ever gave it to me.  She offers me a cigarette.

"I don't smoke."

"I should quit," she says, and takes another drag.  She starts to ask me about America, about Indiana, my school, my friends, my family.  Everything I tell her is pretty commonplace, there's nothing particularly exciting about my small town home, but she hangs of my every word.  She tells me about how hard she's studying her English, because she wants to move to American to work someday.

"What do you want to do?"

"I have no idea," she says brightly, waving cigarette smoke away with her hand.  "I just want to be there." It's a familiar feeling.

It's past midnight now, and while there are no official classes tomorrow, everyone still has to be up early tomorrow for grades.  Brigitte's mom is on her way.  Something quiet and contemplative falls over the party, and a girl in the farthest corner begins to sing.

"Life!"  She calls, and the boys and girls around her join in the chorus.  "Life is life!  Bam ba, ba da daaaaa..."  They're all a bit drunk and charmingly off-key.  It's the beginning of a different type of teen movie now, the kind that starts off too maudlin and ends with lots of tears and feelings.  I know this song, but I don't remember why.  It's not my place to sing, but I hum along on my own.    

Into the woods, and out of the woods, and home before dawn.

Fills My Heart With Very Special Things

This is the true story of the only love affair I've ever had.  To call it a whirlwind romance may be a bit strong; it may have been little more than a sly infatuation, a gentle building of a relationship doomed to failure.  I suppose everyone has one of those in college, and ours was brief, but memorable.  

It started with the note on my windshield.  I didn't see it at first - I was in a bit of a mood that day, irritated by something I no longer remember, but it was really important at the time.  I'm halfway home before I notice the little slip of orange under my wiper blade, and I'm a bit put off that someone's put another advert on my window.

But when I get home, and can pull the little paper off my window, I can see it's not an advertisement at all.  It's a post-it, and there's a note written on it in extra-girly penmanship: 

Bug Love!  -Yellow Bug

Yellow bug?  And then I remember: in the space adjacent to mine, a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked nose to nose with my grey one.  I noticed it enough in my sour state to think, "Aw.  It's like they're kissing," and then promptly forgot about it.  But clearly, I wasn't the only one to see it.

It's such a sweet gesture that my bad mood immediately disappears.  What a harmlessly thoughtful thing to do for a stranger, and how...frivolous.  It's silly little things like this that I cherish, because they simply don't happen.  The world is far too serious nowadays to dabble in whimsy like this, and I'm so warmed by it, I know I have to write back.

I get to school early the next day, and roam the parking lot before class, searching for Yellow Bug.  There are two yellow Beetles in this lot, but only one has a turtle sticker on the rear window.  I take a gamble on the turtle, and hope Yellow Bug remembers I'm the grey Beetle with the purple flower.  I slide my note under her windshield wiper, and cross my fingers for no rain.

Is this THE Yellow Bug, of Bug Love fame?  

Thank you for brightening my day!

Love, Grey Bug

That afternoon, when I return to my car:

I AM the Yellow Bug, and you're welcome!

I love making bad days better!

Ah.  Now contact has officially been made.

There's a brief period of post-it silence.  I don't see Yellow Bug for over a week, when suddenly there she is with an empty parking spot next to her.  All I have are index cards in my car, so I dash off a quick note on the unlined side.

Hey there, Yellow Bug.  Long time, no see!

-Grey Bug

I draw a pair of googly eyes in the corner, and stick it under her windshield wiper.  It's still there when I leave for the day, but the next afternoon, there's another orange post-it on my window.

What's up, Grey Bug? 

It may sound silly to get so much joy out of these anonymous notes, but there's something almost comforting about thinking of a stranger, and knowing that stranger is thinking back.  "What's up, Grey Bug," may not seem like much, but when's the last time you were moved to leave a friendly note on a stranger's car?  When has a stranger ever left kind words under your wiper blades?  It's a little thing, but every one lifted my spirits a little higher.

We met only once.  The truth is, our meeting is probably the thing that ended it all.

It's a Friday afternoon, and I'm ready to go home.  It's been a long day, but tomorrow's Halloween, which is exciting, because it means Half-Price Candy Day is almost upon us.  I fiddle with my key chain, trying to decide if I should run right out first thing Sunday morning, or risk waiting until Monday afternoon, when a voice rings out in the distance - "Hey!  It's Grey Bug!"

My head snaps up.  Four other students are walking my way, three young men and a girl with braided pigtails and her face painted to look like Heath Ledger's Joker.  The second our eyes meet, I know it's going to be awkward.  Like when you dance in your living room, and you think your alone, but then you realize that everyone you know and care about has been watching you from the doorway the whole time.  You feel great while you're doing it, but now that you've been caught being silly, you don't know anything else to feel but embarrassed.

We're parked right next to each other, so we can't just throw each other a passing wave and go about our business.  This is a meeting that can't be avoided.  

She waves tentatively as she approaches.  She probably wishes she weren't done up like the Joker right now.  Our conversation is as follows:   

"Hi.  I'm Yellow Bug."

"Hi.  I'm Grey Bug."

"Yep."

"Hm."

"Okay, bye!"

"See ya!"

And that was the end of that.

There were no more notes after that.  I'd still recognize her by her sticker, and I'm sure she recognized my flower, but now that the fourth wall had come down around our ankles the thrill had all but disappeared.  It was no longer cars talking to cars but people talking to people, and without the anonymity of our license plates to hide behind, the whole act of passing notes to a stranger felt supremely dorky.  The mystique had gone, and so had the fun.

I no longer go to that school, and I've long stopped checking passing Beetles for turtle stickers.  But I still think about you, Yellow Bug, wherever you are, and how a kind note from a stranger made a sour day a little sweeter.  I hope you're still passing around the Bug Love.  I'll try to do the same.  

Amsterdam's Most Wanted

I have a dirty little secret.  I consider myself a safe traveler, and an all-around good, law-abiding citizen. That's mostly true, except for this one incident.  My deepest shame.  My criminal experience.   Join me now in this very special episode of “Law and Order: Airport Security and Customs Devision.”

Dun-dun!

December, 2009.  I'm on layover in Amsterdam, having just finished an 8-hour flight from Entebbe, waiting for an 8-hour flight to Detroit.  I've been sick all day, so my purse is full of plastic bags, just in case.  My carry-on is packed with souvenirs – a woven basket, slingshot for my step-brothers, fabric prints and carved figurines.  It's been a long two weeks, and I am ready to be home for the holidays.

There are a LOT of people on this flight, and the line through the security checkpoint is long.  There are four customs agents to process passengers, though, so the line moves quickly.  I've traveled internationally before.  I breeze through their questions.  I'm thinking about Thanksgiving when I send my items through the x-ray machine – my mother does a great brined turkey, and she promised she would save some for me. 

The young woman monitoring the x-ray machine lays a hand on my carry-on. 

“Is this your bag?”   I nod, she frowns.  “There is a problem.  We will have to take a closer look.”   I'm confused.  I wrack my brain, trying to think of what could possibly look dangerous.  I did pick up a wire sculpture for my step-father.  Maybe the metal tripped something.  That must be it – a simple misunderstanding.  No harm, no foul.    

She passes my bag along to the next agent, who gingerly paws through my souvenirs.  “There are two items in this bag,” he says to me with a raised eyebrow, “that are illegal in this country.”  I stare, horrified, as the agent reaches into my bag and pulls out...

The slingshots.

(In retrospect, obviously.  Had I been anywhere near my right mind when I packed, those suckers would have gone right into my checked bags.  But I feel I should point out that that same bag went through two security checkpoints in Uganda without any problems.  Not that that excuses it – I really should have known better.  I just want to put that out there.)

“This is considered a weapon here,” he says.  “This could kill someone.”  The woman in line behind me is aghast.  I am pretending not to notice.  “We will have to contact the police, and they will have to make a report.  They will probably just take them, but you may have to pay a fine.”  He walks off, speaking Dutch into his walkie-talkie.  I hope that, whatever they do, they do it quickly.  There's still a line to get through the checkpoint, but it's getting shorter by the second, and everyone is staring at me.  I'm sure they realize I'm too short to be a good terrorist, but their eyes.  They judge me.

They leave another agent behind to watch me, probably to make sure I don't stage a coup with a peashooter.  He's cute, in a homely European way, and he keeps trying to make small talk while I'm busy trying to hide behind a window.

“You see, slingshots are illegal here.”

“Yes.  I am now well aware of that.”

“If you used a big rock or a piece of glass, you could hurt someone very badly.”

“I won't do it again, I promise.”

“Why do you even have them?”

“They're gifts.  For my step-brothers.”

“You'd give them to children?”  He's absolutely shocked, like I said I planned to fill their Christmas stockings with switchblades and dirty needles.  But what could I say to him?  That no one in America uses a slingshot unless you're an unsupervised child in a movie set before 1935?  That they'll probably end up collecting dust under the bed while the boys in question play Rock Band?

Everyone has boarded by the time the police officers arrive.  The plane sits on the tarmac, full of people waiting to get home.  If I know people on airplanes, they're probably foaming at the mouth at the delay.

Two giant women in uniform stand over my shoulder.  One of them takes a slingshot and stretches it out as far as she can make it.  

“This is a good quality product,” she says, fingering the rubber.  “Most times, they just fall apart if you pull on them, but you could kill someone with this.”  I know.  I know!  Never mind my poor hand-eye coordination, or my generally pacifist nature, or my overall lack of suitable ammunition.  “You can't take these with you.  We will have to confiscate them.”  Fine.  I don't care anymore.  Everyone on the plane is waiting for me, and no less than five members of Airport Security think I'm a slingshot-wielding killer.  Do whatever you have to do. 

The other officer must be able to sense my shame, because she quietly takes my name, where I live, where I got the slingshots, and how much I paid for them without making any sort of reference to my criminally disturbed mind.  “We'll have to file a report,” she says, which I expected.  “It's not anything serious, but if you ever come back through here, you're name will be on record.”  Which probably means I'll be randomly selected for the full security treatment more often than before, but I'm not worried about that now.  I'm more interested in the officer zipping up my carry-on (sans slingshots) and racing down to the plane, making sure I look appropriately chastened when the flight attendant gives me the stink-eye.    

My walk of shame down the aisle is a brisk one.  The aghast woman from before and I absolutely do not make eye contact when I pass.  

So that's it.  My international incident.  I'm on the books.  If I ever try to stir up trouble in an Amsterdam airport, they will be on me like white on a Dutchman.  So readers, beware!  Don't be the dumbass who tries to bring slingshots on an airplane - it will bring only tears.