“He did it for sure.” “What’s happening. I don’t understand?” “What did she say?” “Hello? How ya doing? I’m in the movies. Where are you?” “No, that’s his wife, the other woman is his mistress. No, not the blonde, the brunette, the brunette.” I have admittedly said, or wanted to say, “shhhh,” while watching a movie in a theatre.

MOMA (The Museum of Modern Art in New York) has an outstanding film selection with daily showings. As a member you can see an endless selection of films for free. (There are some dedicated regulars, who claim a particular seat as their own, despite the open seating policy. I have been directly confronted and acquiesced.)

MOMA was showing a series of short, early silent films. Often they are accompanied with a musical soundtrack, recorded or live, but this particular program had neither. The films were silent, silent films.

The theatre was quiet. The films varied in theme.  One amusing film elicited appropriate laughter.

I was startled to hear “SHHHH,” from a viewer in the audience.

“Your passport please.” I was checking into a small hotel in Pushkar, India after traveling on a bus from Udaipur, 300 kms away. It had been a long, dusty, bumpy ride. I began looking through my bag, now painstakingly. My passport wasn’t there.

I then remembered using it to change some money at a bank, a day or two before I left Udaipur,  and relayed this to the hotel employee. The return trip was not one I looked forward to.

A Canadian man, whom I had just met, overheard my conversation and said, “I’m going to Udaipur tomorrow to buy some silver, then coming back here the following day. I can pick up your passport.” “Thanks, that would be great, but would they give my passport to you, a stranger?”  Fortunately I had a photocopy of my passport. I wrote a letter on the back, with the Canadian’s name and my signature hoping that this would be enough. It was worth a try.

Two days later, my passport was back in my hands. ” How did it go? Did they give you a hard time? Was my note sufficient? ” I asked. The Canadian explained, ” I got to the bank and told them that you’d left your passport. I was guided to one of the clerks who opened a drawer. Inside there were at least thirty passports strewn about. The clerk just looked at me and said, “Here, take hers.”

“Hey Helen, how are your kids?”  “Yeah, they’re okay.”  “Steve, still dancing?” ” I just got written up in the New York Times. I’m in a video dancing with Bow Wow. You can see me giving him a hug.” ” Ooooh, that’s cool.” said a heavy-set woman in the front seat of the eight-seater taxi. The others had given her the front to ease the pain in her back. She quickly found it on her phone. I was sitting in the rear, somewhat uneasy as the driver looked at the video, rather than keeping his eyes on the road. No one else seemed to care as we watched Steve, sixty-seven, dancing: arms flailing, feet hopping, repetitive movements to what I imagine was a musical score . The passengers were all regulars except for me.

Steve was dropped off first at the Pet Memorial Park at Bideawee to pay his respects. Before leaving the car he said, “Animals make better friends than most people.” “That’s for sure.” came a response.

The conversation switched to the homeless. “Yeah they’re just scamming,” someone said. “We’re all that close to being homeless ourselves,” said the woman holding the phone.  The driver said, “I’ve seen them at the train station asking for money to buy a ticket, then going over to the gas station to buy beer.” “Well that’s different.” “Yeah they buy drugs too.” “They’re buying heroin. They’re cracking down on the doctors giving meds, so people are now buying heroin instead.”

A young man who had spoken little until then said, ” I lost six friends to heroin this year. Football players, jocks. It’s affecting everyone,   everyone.” For the first time since I had gotten in the taxi, no one said a word.

Most of us have recollections, from our childhood, of that first day at school, entering a cafeteria alone. Where will I sit? With whom? I found myself in exactly that circumstance only three weeks ago at the writers’ conference. After I chose my first meal in the large dining hall I looked for a place to eat. Despite the many people seated at the long wooden tables, I knew no one.

During my travels I’ve had numerous opportunities to speak with strangers. I have rarely found it difficult or uncomfortable to sit with someone I didn’t know, but here an awkwardness returned. Was it the school setting? If I was feeling this way, I assumed most of the others did too. I looked around, saw two women sitting across from one another, chatting. Just as I have in the past, I asked if I could join them. They nodded and I sat down. It took sometime before they included me in their conversation, but I didn’t mind. Soon we were sharing our names and tales.

In the consequent days many of the faces became familiar. Conversations were easier to begin.

There were other moments when I grappled with a familiar awkwardness.

What better way to learn something new?

After fifteen days of eating with hundreds of people in a large, wood dining hall, running to a lecture, class, conference or gathering, writing often, listening and giving readings, attending social events, and receiving critiques in my writing workshops, I was heading home.

I wished my classmates well, while exchanging information with the intentions of keeping in touch.  Saying goodbye to Shirley and Maritza, two women who worked in the dining hall, was particularly tough. They’re warmth and encouragement meant so much.

The overall experience was exhausting and invaluable.  I look forward to articulating them in the days to come.

Sandra’s Next Generation is a soul food restaurant, about a twenty minute walk from New Haven’s center on Congress Avenue. It’s received excellent reviews. I thought I would walk over, check it out, and return that evening for dinner. Assuming that I was getting close, I asked three men standing in front of a deli, “Excuse me is Sandra’s nearby?” One of the men immediately said, “I’m walking that way, I can show you.” My guide’s attire was shabby, but his demeanor was kind. “Have you eaten there?” I asked. “Sure,” he replied.” “What’s good?” “The fried chicken and ribs, none better. But everything’s good.” We didn’t walk far before a man in a suit with tails, wearing reflective sunglasses and shiny shoes asked if we had seventy-two cents. We both said we didn’t, and the well dressed man walked on. My guide and I continued a few more paces. “Do you have fifty cents?” he turned toward me and wanted to know. “No, sorry.” I replied. Within three blocks we were at Sandra’s door. He walked in and told a young woman working there that he had brought me, seemingly to curry favor.

My guide and I said our goodbyes. I noticed he walked back in the direction he came.

Sandra’s Next Generation has simple decor. The emphasis is on the food. Hot pans with candied yams, collard greens, black eye peas, fried okra, corn bread and much more were displayed through the glass counter. Nearby was a refrigerated case with deviled eggs, homemade cakes, banana pudding, sweet potato pie, home made teas with fresh mint and sliced peaches in quart size containers. Everything looked fresh and wonderful. The staff was welcoming, answering my questions, even offering a taste of the sides. I said I’d be back that evening.

Later that afternoon, I met Marjorie. We spoke with one another as if we had met years, instead of moments before. She was working in a shop in New Haven’s center and I had ventured in for a look. One thing led to another, soon we were making dinner plans. I suggested Sandra’s for that evening. Marjorie has lived in a town just a few miles away, for forty-two years. She had never heard of it, but she was game.

We arrived around 8pm. The weather was warm and dry, the street quiet, we sat at a table outside. The staff, a mix of Sandra’s family and locals, made us feel at home. We ordered. A heaping plate of fried chicken, ribs, mac and cheese, collared greens, and corn bread arrived. The portion was intended for one. The food was divine. We licked our fingers, swooned over each bite and still had food left over to take home.

My “purse” is a small leather, orange backpack. If I wear its straps over one arm and its body nestled between my elbow and body, it is indistinguishable from any other bag. Or so I thought.

“You’ll have to check that knapsack,” said the guard at a New Haven museum. I wanted to take some photos, maybe do some sketching, I explained my reasons for wishing to keep it. “You can give it a try, but the guards are going to tell you to check it.””If it’s okay with you, I’ll take my chances” I replied. With my bag securely tucked by my side, I entered numerous galleries. In each one I asked the guards about the museum’s collection. All were friendly and none made mention of my bag. I spent almost two hours making my way up to the fourth floor in one building, then down to the third in another building next door.

“You’ll have to check that knapsack,” one of very few women guards said. I explained my experience thus far. Her directive remained. I headed to the lockers downstairs. As I was descending the spiral staircase I heard a woman’s voice in snippets, “orange”, “woman”, “locker” and surmised that this same guard was informing all the other guards about me.  While making my way down the staircase, a guard approached. “Are you looking for the lockers?” “Thanks, I know the way.” I replied. Continuing down the same staircase, another guard neared, “Are you looking for the lockers?” “Thanks, I know the way.” I repeated. This exchange, as I made my way to the lockers, occurred a few more times.  Did they see me as a fugitive? Another guard approached with the same question, “Are you looking for the lockers?”  This time I said, “No, the exit.” The thrill of the place was dimming.

There by the exit was the original guard, smirking with a grin,” I told you so.”
“About what?” I replied, although of course I knew.
“About your bag.”
“Oh. It’s all good. Have a fine day.” I answered breezily, walking out the door, doing my best to hide my humiliation.

I’m not sure when I’ll go back. The Met’s collection in NY is so much better.

Note: The work shown is by Sol LeWitt. Photo taking in the museum is allowed.

A group of us were sitting in a workshop summarizing our writing. Genres were being blended, defied, invented and adhered to. One woman sitting about ten seats down, spoke of the memoir she was working on. As a teenager, after her father’s death, she and her mom moved to a new neighborhood. There she suffered the cruelty and bullying of her peers.

Because of the seating arrangement I was able to hear, but not fully see her.  Afterwards, when the workshop was over, she stood up and passed by. I was struck by her beauty. She stood about 5’10”, with thick auburn hair, a stunning face and a strong, graceful body.

The next day, we happened to meet on a path by the dormitories. I said, “You are exquisite. It must be comforting to see yourself now, and know you triumphed.” Her eyes quickly moistened. “Thank you, thank you so much for saying that. It hasn’t been easy.” I added, “Well, you definitely got the last laugh.” She smiled and thanked me again. We introduced ourselves.

She approached me the next day. Gave me a hug with tears in her eyes and said, “Your words meant so much to me.”

Jackhammers were pummeling asphalt. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Down the street, men in phosphorescent green vests were directing cars and construction vehicles between the orange cones. Hoping to sleep I stepped out and asked,”Will you be here long?”
“The water main broke,” a man in a hard-hat replied.
“We’ll be done in a couple of hours. Then we’ll be moving along.”
The men were kind. They asked me where I came from and why I was here. I told them. “From New York City? You must be used to this noise.” “No, where I live it’s quiet. It’s the songbirds that wake me some mornings.” I’m not sure they believed me. I returned to my room. Sleep would have to wait.

The day was full then went to night. And night went on to day.

Metal bars were dropping one on top of the other. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Across the street, men in phosphorescent green vests were directing construction vehicles between the orange cones. Scaffolding was being assembled, cyclone fences too. There was no need to ask. They were not moving along anytime soon. This was not a water main break, but a major construction project. I put in my ear plugs and adjusted the room fan to high, but the sound of the metallic clanging carried on. It was a relief to know the work day ended at five.

The day was full then went to night. And night went on to day.

An electric saw was buzzing. I awoke to the sound, got out of bed and peered outside my window. Men in phosphorescent green vests were standing amongst orange cones. One man was guiding a huge swirling blade carving up the sidewalk below.

The town offers a clear divide between those affiliated with the University and those who aren’t. It is easy to spot who is who. T-shirts and other items with the name printed boldly notwithstanding.

A few blocks from the gothic architecture, Apple store, and J. Crew, I walk by pawn shops, liquor stores, car repairs, braiding hair salons and the Family Dollar. I am looking for a hotpot.

“I hate to send you elsewhere, but we don’t have any, just those large crockpots and that’ll do you no good. No, you need to go over to Stop n Shop is where you need to go,” the manager said.
“I’ll have to come back to buy something else then.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”

Outside Stop n Shop a young woman wore eyeshadow, tiara, white ruffled cocktail dress and a sash. She was standing behind a table with a jar.
“I am Miss New Haven and I am here to raise money for children in the hospitals so they can have quick cures.”
“Quick cures?”
“Yes, as Miss Teen New Haven, I am raising money so sick children can have quick cures.”
I put a few dollars in the jar.

Stop n Shop had no hotpots. I crossed the street to a CVS.

In the aisle I sneezed once, and sneezed again.
“Two sneezes is enough for anyone.”
A small older woman without pause continued.
“My daughter doesn’t like cats, but my grandson adores them. So I keep the cat at my place and he comes over to play with it. I’m not much of a cat lover. But my grandson he adores that cat.” She continued on about her family a little while longer.

A young worker brought me to a shelf. “If we had any hotpots, they would be right here. They were right here a few days ago. We must have sold them all.” I looked three inches over to the left:hotpots.

“Here they are.”

“Oh, we must have moved them.”

Bringing the hotpot to the register I noticed a five-dollar bill fall from the pocket of the same older woman. She accepted it only after I insisted it was hers.

I walked a few blocks back to the world at Yale.