Karen stood inside the door and surveyed the bar. The tables dotted in front of the bar were occupied, groups of twos and threes lined along the walls. A large group of men stood near the door to Karen’s left, Karen glanced at them as she took a few steps towards the bar. As she walked Karen surveyed the tables, they appeared to be occupied by couples and groups. Karen was looking for a single individual, a single individual wearing a black collared shirt and a blue scarf. Karen herself was wearing a crimson scarf over a black shirt, her long auburn hair caught up in a half pony tail at the back, black, pleated skirt hung to just above her knees, crimson stockings to match the scarf. Karen had decided that understated worked best for the evening, the crimson scarf had to stand out if she were to be noticed.
Karen had never been on a blind date before and she was quite nervous. Her best friend, Sarah, had recently started seeing Mark and Sarah had decided that Karen, therefore, needed a boyfriend too. Karen wasn’t particularly fussed either way, but she went along with Sarah’s plan as she always did. She had met a couple of Mark’s friends over drinks over the last few weeks, but much to Sarah’s chagrin, nothing came of it. Karen, Sarah felt, didn’t put in any effort. Sure she talked to the men, joining in conversations with the group, chatting amiably with them at the bar, but Sarah didn’t think she was really trying. Karen figured Sarah must be right; certainly nothing ever came of the meetings, no phone numbers were exchanged, no kisses shared. So Sarah had decided that more drastic measures were needed and proceeded to arrange a blind date for Karen with one of the men from her work. So there she was, nervously searching for a flash of blue amongst the tables, hoping if nothing else happened, she at least wouldn’t be stood up.
Upon reaching the bar, Karen turned and surveyed the room again. There were two small tables in the bay window by the door that Karen hadn’t noticed before. They were both occupied, three girls sat around the table by the door. At the other a blond man sat alone, a book in his hand, a glass of beer on the table in front of him. As Karen looked at him, the man looked up, he saw Karen looking at him and he smiled, raising his hand as though in greeting. The gesture caught Karen by surprise and she glanced at his neck, no blue scarf to be seen. Karen looked back up, into his smiling blue eyes, and then quickly glanced away. She surveyed the bar again, but still no sign of a man with dark hair and a blue scarf. Instead Karen joined the queue at the bar and.
Ten minutes later Karen turned from the bar, a glass of red wine in her hand, casting her eye around for her date. Once again there was no sign of anyone sporting a blue scarf, feeling slightly irritated, Karen turned her attention to locating a spare table. She glanced at the tables in the bay window by the door. The blond man was reading his book again, the girls were laughing loudly. Karen found her eyes straying back to the blond man, she couldn’t help but wondering what he was reading. As she stood pondering, he looked up and locked eyes with her again. She felt herself blushing and glanced away, she turned her head as though looking again for a spare table, but her eyes were unseeing, she imagined she felt his eyes on her still, but when she turned back, he was once again reading.
Karen stood watching him for a moment, out of the corner of her eye she caught movement and realized the girls had stood and were getting ready to leave. Karen began making her way as quickly as she could through the tables and people. By the time the girls had left, Karen was standing by the table. She sat in the chair that would afford her the best view of the door. Karen glanced at her watch and felt a jolt of anger sweep her, it was 8.30, the date had been agreed on for 8 and her she was, sat alone in a crowded bar, watching the door pathetically. Almost on cue the door swung open, Karen looked up expectantly, in walked a trio of men, and Karen sighed and looked away. She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, glancing over at the other table as she did so. The man was looking at her, his own glass raised to his lips. He smiled and lifted the glass in salute, Karen returned the gesture somewhat ruefully. She was beginning to feel rejected and the feeling was making her angry and tearful. She took another sip of her wine, hoping she didn’t look as stupid as she felt. She knew this had been a bad idea and was definitely regretting letting Sarah talk her into it. Lost in her own reflections it took Karen a few moments to realize the man had said something and was now looking at her expectantly. “Sorry.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
Karen sighed, “Yeah, but they appear to be late.”
“You should have bought a book.” The man said.
Karen glanced at the book in his hand. She could see it quite clearly now. “1984, that’s a good book.”
“What are you reading at the moment,” the man asked, placing the book carefully on the table in front of him.
“Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Neffinegger.”
He nodded. “The Time Traveller’s Wife.”
“Yeah,” Karen leaned forward. He’s cute she thought. “So, are you waiting for someone then?”
He smiled, “no, I felt like a beer to go with the book.”
Karen smiled in return and lifted her wine glass, “Well here’s to good books and beer.”
“And good company.”
Karen blushed slightly and took a sip of her wine.
“I’m James.”
Karen stood, lifted her wine glass and moved to his table. She stood next to him, placed her wine glass on the table beside his beer and held out her hand, “Karen.” He stood, shook her hand and they both sat.
Karen and James smiled at each other as the door swung open again, Karen glanced up and saw a tall man wearing a black collared shirt and a blue scarf. Karen looked at James, she smiled and removed her scarf.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
so its been quite some time, there are many things i could write here, many adventures have been had since last i wrote anything, but for now, i am just going to say read the below:
The heat rises off the bitumen like steam, cloying into my skin and hair. I stand on what I laughingly call a footpath watching for a break in the traffic. Sure the footpath is separated from the road by a curb but its function bears little resemblance to the footpaths I am used to. Street side vendors hawk their wears, selling everything from meals complete with beer, through to shoe repairs, water and cigarettes. Every 50 feet or so someone lounges on a motorbike, their feet tucked under them like they were in their living room. Men and women stand in front of shop doors, calling to passers by. Weaving your way along the sidewalk, you may imagine youself to be relatively safe, until suddenly a motorbike comes roaring up the curb, weaves around you and a street side vendor, past the truck going slowly down the street and back out into the traffic.
So I stand warily on the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic so that I can cross the road. There are not many traffic lights here in District Three of Ho Chi Minh City, I cross amidst the cars, trucks, buses, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians or I don’t cross at all. There is no waiting in an orderly fashion for a little green man to tell me that I may cross safely.
The sun beats down on my head, the dust and steam rise from the road and I stand watching. My heart is beating faster, my breathing is shallow and rapid. The traffic is a vibrating, pulsating thing. It is no longer just individual vehicles but a many limbed creature that I can not predict or control. Motorbikes weave in and out of cars in terrifying figures of eights, never stopping, barely slowing, cars, trucks and buses, fighting for room.
I have been told that the only way to cross the road is just to cross, venture out into the maelstrom, keep a steady pace and cross the road. I make a couple of false starts, there are no cars or motorbikes immediately near me and I step out onto the road, my heart in my mouth, my pulse quickening but suddenly, as if from nowhere, a motorbike is heading for me, horn honking and I quail, quickly stepping back onto the curb. All around me the noise of thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles fills my mind, I stare into the road and I am sure I will never make it.
I stand so long on the edge of the road that twice a taxi pulls along side to offer me a lift. I shake my head and start walking as though I were merely pausing on my way down the street. I laugh inwardly at the thought of asking a taxi driver to take me to the other side of the road. I can’t believe this. How can such a little thing be so hard. I am an intelligent woman, I have travelled, I am confident, how can such a small thing be so difficult.
In the time that I have stood watching, hoping for a gap to open, I have witnessed a number of people achieve what I am trying to do. They make it look like the easiest thing in the world. They have all made it to the other side of the road without incident, all alive, unharmed and already long gone about their day. A middle aged Vietnamese woman stops beside me for a moment and as I look at her, it occurs to me that I could cross the road with her. When she steps out into the traffic, so do I. She makes her way steadily across the road, eyes peeled for oncoming vehicles, motorbikes stream around us both, but while my heart leaps every time, she appears unpeturbed. After what seems an age during which I was certain I would die at least a dozen times we come to the other side of the road. The woman disappears into the crowd while I stand still for a moment, waiting for my legs to stop shaking.
I turn around towards the road again in triumph. Looking at the teeming street my heart sinks as it occurs to me that to get home I will have to do it all again.
The heat rises off the bitumen like steam, cloying into my skin and hair. I stand on what I laughingly call a footpath watching for a break in the traffic. Sure the footpath is separated from the road by a curb but its function bears little resemblance to the footpaths I am used to. Street side vendors hawk their wears, selling everything from meals complete with beer, through to shoe repairs, water and cigarettes. Every 50 feet or so someone lounges on a motorbike, their feet tucked under them like they were in their living room. Men and women stand in front of shop doors, calling to passers by. Weaving your way along the sidewalk, you may imagine youself to be relatively safe, until suddenly a motorbike comes roaring up the curb, weaves around you and a street side vendor, past the truck going slowly down the street and back out into the traffic.
So I stand warily on the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic so that I can cross the road. There are not many traffic lights here in District Three of Ho Chi Minh City, I cross amidst the cars, trucks, buses, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians or I don’t cross at all. There is no waiting in an orderly fashion for a little green man to tell me that I may cross safely.
The sun beats down on my head, the dust and steam rise from the road and I stand watching. My heart is beating faster, my breathing is shallow and rapid. The traffic is a vibrating, pulsating thing. It is no longer just individual vehicles but a many limbed creature that I can not predict or control. Motorbikes weave in and out of cars in terrifying figures of eights, never stopping, barely slowing, cars, trucks and buses, fighting for room.
I have been told that the only way to cross the road is just to cross, venture out into the maelstrom, keep a steady pace and cross the road. I make a couple of false starts, there are no cars or motorbikes immediately near me and I step out onto the road, my heart in my mouth, my pulse quickening but suddenly, as if from nowhere, a motorbike is heading for me, horn honking and I quail, quickly stepping back onto the curb. All around me the noise of thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles fills my mind, I stare into the road and I am sure I will never make it.
I stand so long on the edge of the road that twice a taxi pulls along side to offer me a lift. I shake my head and start walking as though I were merely pausing on my way down the street. I laugh inwardly at the thought of asking a taxi driver to take me to the other side of the road. I can’t believe this. How can such a little thing be so hard. I am an intelligent woman, I have travelled, I am confident, how can such a small thing be so difficult.
In the time that I have stood watching, hoping for a gap to open, I have witnessed a number of people achieve what I am trying to do. They make it look like the easiest thing in the world. They have all made it to the other side of the road without incident, all alive, unharmed and already long gone about their day. A middle aged Vietnamese woman stops beside me for a moment and as I look at her, it occurs to me that I could cross the road with her. When she steps out into the traffic, so do I. She makes her way steadily across the road, eyes peeled for oncoming vehicles, motorbikes stream around us both, but while my heart leaps every time, she appears unpeturbed. After what seems an age during which I was certain I would die at least a dozen times we come to the other side of the road. The woman disappears into the crowd while I stand still for a moment, waiting for my legs to stop shaking.
I turn around towards the road again in triumph. Looking at the teeming street my heart sinks as it occurs to me that to get home I will have to do it all again.
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