Friday, February 11, 2005

Letters from a metro rider

Dear man on the metro,

Your subtle smile and dark, curly hair are distracting me. A few peaceful minutes on the train are all that I ask, but instead, I am struck by your beauty and forced with the reminder of the man I don't have. If you turn your dark eyes, hooded with long lashes toward me, do so with a that I may crawl in their depths and get lost. Turn your tall frame and casual strides in my that I may dream it's me your coming toward. Choose to whisper in my that I can one again be reminded of how the warm tickle of someone's breath feels.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Has my name been flagged or something?

Maybe it's my roommate's security-clearance job? Maybe the fact that I announce loudly and often that I hate GW Bush and that there is anarchy in my cube? Maybe it's that I work for an environmental group and, as a community, have been labeled as terrorists by this Administration? Who knows, but whatever the reason, I now seem to have a flagged ticket every time I fly. This means I get sheparded to a special area and get to undergo special "security" measures. What security measures, you ask? Having that special security wand waved over every inch of your body while you stand there, legs spread and jacket-less. It's getting a body pat-down and having all of your carry-on items thoroughly searched. It's having your reading material examined to make sure you didn't bring anything subversive. Good thing the guard wasn't literate enough to know about Henry Miller.

In other airline news, one of women I sat by proceeded to try to fix me up with her single son who works in Hastert's office and ended up giving another couple a ride home to Chantilly (weird, weird story but basically nice people....hopefully).

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Do I have to go home

I've always wondered why people flock to the beach and have continued to proclaim throughout the years that "I'm just not a beach person." Well, tell the next landlocked, desert-raised person you meet that they just don't know what they're talking about. Hallelujah! I'm a convert. This kentucky-fried girl (because I am rather toasty) has discovered a new career goal...beach bum.

After wandering the stormy beach and being trapped indoors on Sunday only to watch the waves pounding the beach from afar, I woke up with the sun on Monday and headed down to the beach. I spent a few issues getting over my sand issues and watching the few locals that were out. The public beach was great...what it lacked in pasty tourists (save myself) it made up for in bronze gods from the police force. Turns out several officers (young) jog the park and take a morning swim. Aye dios! When they got out of the water, I had to watch myself to keep from drooling. They make gold chains look good. Anyway, after they left I dove right in. Ok, I didn't really dive but crept hesitantly in. You have to remember that I'm a river girl who has to admit that the deep secrets of the ocean give me the willies. Needless to say, I was hooked after a few minutes. I stayed in the water for almost two hours while I watched the local surfers and let the waves toss me around. Only my hunger for lunch and the desire to venture back into old San Juan got me out.

After showering away the salt, I plopped my hat on my head and took off for old San Juan. My goal...mexican food and supposedly the best margarita on the island. Twenty minutes later said margarita was in front of me and kicking my butt. One drink and I felt tipsy. How 'bout some margarita with your tequila? Four sips later and I had to let the margarita go. Had I finished I would have been dancing on tables and looking for guys legs to hug. So, heading back out into the bright light of day I strolled around San Juan for about 20 minutes before I began to feel the beach calling my name. It was hotter than hades, and I knew the only cure was the beach, the surf, and supposedly one of the original pina colodas.

Once back at the hotel, I again threw on my bathing suit and this time took off for the private beaches of the Hilton Caribe. Not only did they have good beach chairs and pool boys, they are supposedly home to one of the original and best pina coladas (available at the bar you can swim up to). Since they are just around the corner from my hotel, I grabbed my stuff and strolled in like I owned the place. After grabbing said pina colada, I found a lounger on the beach and settled in. Well, the pina colada was nothing to write home about and I missed the local boys (Hilton was filled with pasty tourists like myself), but the sun was warm, the breeze on target and the chair comfy. I promptly fell asleep. An hour later I was awake and again frolicking in the ocean. This is pretty much how my day went. Sun...swim...sun...swim.

Do I have to leave today?