Read my previous entry and then read the one below. I still hardly believe it myself!
The Good Samaritan That Recovered My iPhone
I think there will be little luck in finding it. I feel sick to my stomach, because, in my current financial situation, I cannot afford another. And either stupid Apple, or AT&T -- one -- does not offer any type of insurance on this type of phone.
But, hey, even if someone can't use my service, they just got a free iPod, at least. I am sick to death. I feel like having funeral services.
To give myself some amount of hope, I placed a request with the Metro's Lost and Found online, and I alerted the Pentagon Lost and Found. Then, I placed this ad on Kiiji and Craigslist today, as well as a mention on Twitter and in this blog:
iPHONE LOST THIS MORNING ON THE COMMUTE IN:
Lost Apple iPhone. PLEASE help. I cannot afford another, and it's my only phone line. I lost it around 9 a.m. on either the Green Line toward Branch Ave., originating from where I got on at Greenbelt, or on the Yellow Line between L'Enfant and the Pentagon, or in the Pentagon or L'Enfant Stations. Got into work, and it was gone, and it's my link to life itself. I'll even pay a small reward.
It's a hacked one, so you'll see that it's full of icons for applications on the screen. I can identify it by the photos of myself in the phone.
P.S. I doubt I'll ever see it again. But, if you are a good Samaritan, please email me at Ecrivaine32 at Gmail.com. Many thanks!!!
One morning this week, I had an odd reality shifting moment. I was about to disembark from the train at my station to head up the escalator and to my office five minutes away. The train was nearing the stop.
I looked to my right, and standing a couple of feet from me, was a Latino man, scruffily dressed, fairly rough expression on his face, a stern demeanor.
For no reason whatsoever, just before the doors opened, he suddenly spoke to me.
"Have a good day, Ma'am," he said with a slight smile. Nothing else, no expectation, just a simple statement from a complete stranger.
I smiled in return and thanked him.
I hadn't really been in the best of moods. Traffic, as usual, had been hectic.
That was it. Silence trailed behind us.
Somehow his kind, brief gesture pulled me out of my rumination and made me ponder the world outside myself, as if an angel in disguise were calling for my attention.
Yesterday, standing in a hectic Metro station, my nerves raw after being lost, then diverted via a city bus, along with a confused gathering of people, following the closing of the train station (a fire, they said) I usually take home each day. Frustrated, aching to reach home, finally near reaching the last leg of the voyage as I waited for the Green Line to Greenbelt to slide into view. Feeling like I was having a bad dream.
Just then, a child's playful spirit shone through.
As a Metro employee stood there beside the walkway next to the tracks, in his telltale orange vest, straining to deal with the logistics left over, courteously advising weary travelers without a clue... A black boy of about 3 years old, curious and oblivious to the tumult around him, asked, "Mister, did you go trick-or-treating?" I smiled at the little guy who probably thought the worker looked like a human pumpkin, emblazoned as he was, against the drudgery of the masses -- an enlightening moment during an evening of delays.
Monday afternoon, I was on the Metro Green Line, and a young black lady seated beside me made a concerted effort to get the attention of an elderly white lady who had stepped onto the train. My seatmate had a tough, hard look about her, so her gesture caught me completely off guard.
The younger lady spoke briefly and directly, asking her if she would like to take her place in the seat. The older woman smiled and politely declined, saying that she was getting off at the next stop anyway.
It was my fault in reading a facial expression and quickly assuming I knew all there was to know. People can surprise us.
Recently, having become a huge advocate of a simple little book with a profound message called Choosing Civility, I smiled. 'How refreshing to see people reach out with such acts of civility,' I thought - not just the usual ordinary polite responses, like "pardon me" or "excuse me," but truly thinking outside of their own personal boundaries to see how they might take a moment to accommodate another traveling soul on their weary journey.
I know this, because I had first caught him trying to get a glimpse of the book I was reading. I smiled, since I also regularly eavesdrop during the daily commute to see what others are reading. It’s a harmless pursuit, and a good way to randomly come up with new book suggestions. I held my copy of Choosing Civility, by P.M. Forni, up for him to see before I politely asked him what he was reading. He later smiled as I scribbled furiously in my favorite small, black hard-cover Moleskine journal and commented, “You take a lot of notes.”
And that I do. I truly feel that I do not enjoy most books I read, unless I can capture their essence through contemplation and the process of writing down how they personally “speak” to me through their words. This allows me to keep what I’ve gleaned from the book, long after I’ve returned it to the library. Of course, this means I don’t get that many of them read during the year. But that’s okay, since I’m after quality and not quantity anyway.
I do read the occasional fictional novel for fun or escape, but I generally prefer to sink my teeth into a book that adds some value to my life through personal growth or education. Choosing Civility is that kind of book for me. It's short but thoughtful and could be applicable to anyone's life, in any time, any social class.
I think this is a book whose time has come though, especially when one of the popularly picked-up-on headlines of the day today on Digg was Sick of Waiting for an Install, 75-Year-Old Woman Smashes Up Comcast Office With Hammer. (If you're not familiar with Comcast, an Internet, phone and cable service provider, consider yourself lucky.)
Yeah, maybe the chapter on restraint as it applies to civility could have done wonders for her.
Or not.
Other than that, I overheard a couple of (possibly) gay guys discussing an upcoming camping trip somewhere that will include 25 people. One guy expressed a quandary over whether he should take the highway or the “over-the-river-and-through-the-woods” scenic route through West Virginia. The other guy said this guy's little car might "scream" over the more challenging country route, but seemed to imply that it might be worth the trip to take the opportunity.
I sat down and waited in frustration on the cold concrete bench, which was mostly surrounded by four black Metro employees gabbing away, three women and one guy. Their conversation centered on Jay Holiday, apparently a hot new music artist. I used to keep up on all of that stuff, but I lost interest somewhere around the time Fat Joe had his single, "What's Luv?"
When asked if she was going to pick up his new cd, one girl laughed, as if paying full price was for dummies. She said of course she was going to get it bootleg for two bucks from some guy who dealt in these cheaper versions of albums.
"Y'all Jewish?" the guy asked loudly, bordering on humor, in response.
The banter went on to include such pressing topics as Kentucky Fried Chicken versus Popeye's, and what days each fast food place had the best deals going.
One gal approved of KFC, adding, "That joint is what's up when you're broke and hungry!"
The gal bragged about her finds at the farmer's market "on 5th Street," saying it was the place to get things, like cheap long johns in bulk for the winter (which she then could sell for a better price later on during the season to someone in need of a pair). She said she once bought a machete there that you could loop onto your belt for only 4 bucks.
"It was THIS BIG!"
She raved to another girl about a hair warehouse near the farmer's market.
Then, one of them exclaimed, "Oh my gosh, this is the third Branch (Green Line to Branch Avenue train) in a row!" Her statement of disbelief echoed my own thoughts, as I was already watching the clock, feeling anxious about moving forward to get to work.
Eventually, I stepped onto the Yellow Line, grateful to get going on this heavy-lidded, foggy DC day.
I've also heard a couple of times that lobbyists are trying to change this, especially in the name of Homeland Security, but I've not seen or read anything concrete as to this being in the works anytime soon.
That's why sometimes, secretly, when I do see someone chattering loudly on his or her mobile, in the midst of a pressing conversation deep in the bowels of the Washington, D.C., public transit system...when their call suddenly drops...I feel a tad smug.
"Hello? Hello?" they call out into the airwaves of an impotent network, as if they are mystified that a cell phone could ever lose service beneath layers of concrete.
I know it's not right to feel this way, but that's when I settle back into my seat in complacency, just another thankless AT&T customer who is stripped of the opportunity to communicate in this area of the District.
P.S. I'm not the only one who cares about this, as evidenced by the many results I can pull up for "Verizon monopoly" AND "Metro DC" in Google.
I immediately knew who I would nominate. I knew the face well. However, although he wears a nametag, I realized I didn't even know the name of the nice guy who hands me my selection of news every day.
Today, I took the time to quickly look and put it to memory, and when I got to work, I looked up the email address to which to send these nominations. Here's what I wrote:
"I moved to the Washington, DC, area, for the first time one year ago. I commute in daily to the Pentagon via the Green Line from Greenbelt, and I enjoy reading the Express paper. I would like to nominate David, the smiling face who has greeted me kindly, rain or shine, with a copy of the paper every day since I began taking that train. Although he is expected to employ courtesy, I'm sure, per his job description, he does it in a way that goes much further, with real warmth and personality. I would like to nominate David for going that extra mile and bringing a smile to my face in return, as well as keeping me informed along the way."
I hope to soon see him featured in a copy of the Express. I'm not sure if he really gets any compensation from this, or if he even cares, but he really does deserve to be recognized for doing the same thing day in, day out, and maintaining such a positive demeanor.
I've always believed the smallest connections we have with others matter and can easily put either a shine to or a damper on our days. Everyone makes a difference to someone else, whether they are the postman that brings an urgent letter, the grocery store clerk who makes a point to smile when she checks out our goods, or the police officer who saves someone's life.
http://startingtoday.wordpress.com/2
I found the most heartwarming story on a web page titled "How We Met." Reading further, I found that the story was about a couple, Michele and Garland, who met through a friend one evening on the Metro. It was short but sweet and it reinforced my faith in the beauty of serendipity. I think it's that same kind of magic that brought my boyfriend Tim and I together, although we had a bit more help, in the form of our eHarmony accounts; but who cares HOW it happened for us. The only thing that matters is that it did and it has been happening ever since; and I love it!
But for those of us who are still romantics underneath our daily facades, Garland and Michele's story can be read here. Sadly enough, when I tried to condense the link down to its root URL and read more about this couple, there didn't seem to be anything more left of the web site, just a lone beautiful story of new love flapping in the digital breeze, as if I were meant to stumble upon it.
I wondered how long ago the entry was written, but there were no other defining details to offer any further clues. I smiled, hoping Michele and Garland, wherever they were, were still just as happy to have met one another, and that they would one day be telling their grandchildren this same story; that they would be one of the rare modern love stories that don't end.
A cleanly pressed, suit-attired white guy of about 30 sits next to me through a couple of stops on the Yellow Line to Greenbelt.
I am fiddling with my Windows Mobile PC phone, trying to turn off the camera function, and accidentally snap a shot. He looks over in surprise.
“Don’t worry,” I respond to his querulous expression. “I didn’t photograph you.”
Evidently, my Cingular 8525 phone is a conversation starter though.
“That’s a pretty nice phone.”
“Thanks,” I say politely. “It’s okay, but it’s not an iPhone.”
I mumble something about it not doing me much good anyway in the catacombs of the Metrorail where Verizon is king of the cell service repeaters.
“Oh, but that’s about to change soon,” he comments, adding that a friend of his is a lobbyist in the know. He explains that the issue driving this overhaul is Homeland Security.
I mull that over, realizing that I have never thought of my dearth of mobile service connectivity on the train from the perspective of personal safety or national security. But it makes sense.
We discuss it more, and he says that most of us just want to be able to text message and send picture messages during our commute. Okay, I admit it. I identify with that – superficial, immediate, of-the-moment multimedia needs.
Eventually, we discuss Apple and the nerve of its sudden price cut on the iPhone, its new iPod model introductions and such. I relate how I finally caught up to the times and bought an 80GB video iPod just one week before it all changed. He breaks into an excitable flow and asks, “Don’t they have a 160GB one now, too!?” I attempt to quell that mistake-to-be purchasing decision (IMHO) as I list the attributes of the “better choice,” the also newly introduced 16GB video iPod model that will, unlike the now “classic” 160GB model, feature much of what an iPhone has without the phone service (same larger screen, flash technology for longer battery life, etc.)
I begin to sound like an Apple sales rep.
I begin to sound like an Apple sales rep.
After much shared chattering, following the trail of memes left by this designer computer conglomerate in the forest of multimedia technology... like good obedient consumer robots... he departs with a smile, off into the loud, people-condensed backdrop beyond, to catch another train line to yet another destination, maybe another conversation.
That’s the beauty of connecting briefly with other commuters – friendly, sometimes thought-provoking exchanges of words to break the monotony and pass the time. Maybe even surprising revelations. Yet no lasting commitments to type into an already full agenda, an activity perfectly crafted for the quickly transitioning lifestyle of many a temporary resident of the District.
- Location:Washington DC
I love and collect phrases, and I had to steal that one, for sure.
Before I forget (because, as many of us may know, it's always easier to remember the details of something negative -- "if it bleeds, it leads" we say in journalism -- than the everyday niceties that occur to us and seem to only briefly scurry across our all-too-preoccupied modern minds)... I met a nice lady at about 5:30 on the Yellow Line to the Pentagon this morning.
She was sitting next to me, when out of the blue, she comments, "Those are nice boots."
"Thanks," I say, smiling.
I look down and back up at her and laugh. "It's so early that I had to look down and see which shoes I put on."
She returns a good-natured grin and mentions something about why she decided on a long-sleeve shirt and not a jacket today because of the nice weather. She wears a soft, muted red-toned sweater over a collared shirt. She's plump, African-American, probably in her mid to late 40's, maybe early 50's, with very short, tight curls against her scalp.
I always enjoy talking to strangers on the Metro. You never know what you might learn. People are a constant source of fascination for me, and I believe more in learning from people -- living, breathing, diverse human beings, as opposed to dusty tomes that are only one-sided conversations with people either long gone or a conglomeration of people's past thoughts that we memorize in rote form only to regurgitate at an instructor's behest.
One thing I've learned already about Washington DC is that the weather is a constant topic of discussion. In Wyoming, where I moved from months ago, the weather was mostly bad, so that you'd never get anything done if you waited for the unpredictable weather to cease. You just accepted it resolutely and it wasn't mentioned as much. If a few snowflakes fall here, people are talking about the snow and schools are closing, to my observation, even in anticipation of snow, before it has hardly coated the roadways.
The weather. That's what she and I discussed. She said it could very possibly snow again in April a time or two more, that she's seen this in the past few years she's lived here; I hoped she was wrong.
She asked where I was from. I told her I was originally from Alabama but that I'd just moved away from Wyoming after living there for almost three years. She said I must be having a blast here, with all of the culture and so much to do. I nodded in agreement.
And, as many of my conversations with other passengers on the Metro go, it ended with us not getting one another's names (kind of like an unspoken code here when I talk to people - it's not like in small town life, where you might retain a name and keep in touch, maybe look a person up later). We gathered ourselves together, waiting for our stop, watching as the train doors opened, and mumbled a brief, "Take care," or "Nice talkin' to ya."
There is almost something poignant, to me, about preserving the anonymity of a conversation in this urban area, just a few more stitches that contribute to my human experience that construct themselves together and to other experiences of mine in other times and pieces of space, in nonlinear fashion, coloring my world and changing it one soul at a time, making it a bit richer as I hopefully help to enrich the worlds of others.
It was a satisfying beginning to my dreaded early morning commute, and it made me smile and relax a little more into my day.
Today was also good, because I managed to catch what for me is the sometimes elusive 5 a.m. Yellow Line train running from where I live in Greenbelt (the only Yellow Line train, to my knowledge, at that early hour, that takes me straight to work.) If you snooze, you lose in this instance. Catching that train is a bonus, because it means I do not have to get out of my seat, off the train, and then wait at a transfer station, wasting precious time. Today I rode straight through, which means a lot at that hour.
"Excuse me?" I said, not sure if I'd heard her right.
"Shut the fuck up," she says, her intelligent response.
I said something to the effect of, "Oh, I didn't hear you," and then she said something else more volatile that I didn't quite catch.
By this point, I was too tired to deal with this antagonistic seatmate and got up, ignoring her ignorant rant and found another seat.
I mean, God, who the hell wants to go through an entire day of being tired and then go home, trying to relax, and have to deal with someone else's drama on the ride home?
Anyway, I felt smugly satisfied as I noticed that her hideous lime-green and white print dress, which was the size of a tablecloth, also looked about as appealing as one on her big-bodied frame.
"Who needs a wife? Fuck a wife! I'm a bachelor for life! I'm a bachelor for life! (10 times over until I thought he'd never stop)."
Okay, okay, we get the point, I think.
And then, "I'm the reason you threw away our dildo..."
I wondered if this string of rhyme was a creation of his own or a song he had piping through the headphones.
I guess he tired of the rant or got off the train.
There was a sudden lightening of the mood.
When he was there, everything else around me stopped as people shifted uncomfortably, sat out the interminable end of his tirade or glanced knowingly at one another, most of them annoyed and wanting silence or space for conversation.
I have nothing against rap or hip-hop. I used to listen to groups like Naughty By Nature all the time, over a decade ago before my musical tastes hit one of many areas of metamorphosis in my life. I'm not even offended by curse words, hardly notice them. Heck, I say them myself, a bit more than I should. But what bothered me was that his voice, the vibrations, this negativity in the air, was almost palpable. It took charge of the air around me, the space in which I enjoyed a brief respite. His vocality took that away from me, shook me to the core.
I'm all for freedom of speech and diversity, but when you are squeezed together and coexisting with others in a speeding tin can, an onslaught of words such as this suffocates, and the situation calls for some understanding of noise pollution.
Of course, I know it also calls for me, the newcomer, to develop more of that thick urbanite skin, the ability to shrug off what's antagonistic and be more aloof, unconcerned and just accept the way of my new life; and I'm working on that.
"One person's art is another person's villainous verbosity."
Behind me, a man mumbles something about it to the neighbor in his seat, to the effect of not having had gadgets like that when he was a kid. The man beside him pipes up and agrees. They exchange ages in relation to this, and they spiral backward into a reverie about "party lines." Not the kind of party lines you'd expect to hear as a topic of conversation between two men in the District, I think, smiling, as I eavesdrop surreptitiously on this odd bit of conversation.
The two, who were strangers (as far as I can tell) before this incessant noise brought them to a common ground, reminisce about a time that this type of telephone system connected people within local areas, using different rings to designate calls for each separate household. We modern types who hardly pee without having a cell phone clipped to our belts -- and the few of us who even dare to navigate traffic while simultaneously texting from these mega-multi-function phones (not that I'll admit to anything) -- would have a hard time contending with this archaic system, I think. It is only effective if one party is not constantly tying up the line to the disadvantage of other users. That was during a time when people did not live and die by the phone and the constant availability of communications. Things were not so global, I guess, so they had only to walk down the street to gossip with a friend.
It's hard to fathom now that Alexander Graham Bell once had quite a few doubters as to the eventual success of his invention. Oh, if he could see us now racing about like scurrying rats, data fed to us from every possible source, virtually controlled by this flow of information at times, our world shaped on so many levels by advertising and the news media. I mean do we really ever know what we really think and feel about anything anymore? Can we honestly, 100 percent say that what we speak of and support comes from our own volition and not because of the programming we receive from hearing something over and over on television?
So moments like this morning's idle chat between two commuters are the ones I treasure - the rarity of a human conversation erupting in such an unexpected time and place as during the hub-bub of the public transit commute, when an unspoken code seems to dissuade talking. So call me nosy. I am.
These moments, no matter how abbreviated, as a whole, over time, give me better insight into this urban culture. I liken myself to a sociologist of sorts, a spectator who is entertained by being a fly on the wall and trying to gain insight into the lives of others. I hope this will help me to develop as a writer. Nothing is more interesting to me than people, the stories of our lives, and why we behave the way we do. This world, our society of humans, is a vast frontier that will never be fully and completely explored and will always invite my curiosity.
That's where you find the meaning of life. Not in looking down from the ivory tower of corporate offices or pushing people out of the way to get to the top, but in the simple in-betweens -- moments such as this when commonalities arise and spark words between two unaffiliated people; stooping down to pick up something someone dropped, catching up to him and getting a smile in return.
Nah, you would never guess that I'm an idealist, would you? Not in a million years.
A Wikipedia article on the party line: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Party_line
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