| esquire within |

Wooden tulips.

I had the choice between a 30 minute layover -- which, given passport control, was not a race I cherished -- and a six hour layover.  So here I am in Amsterdam, taking it all in for the next several hours.

First impressions:

• Dutch airport workers are much more pleasant than surly Bostonians. (Also, they apparently don't breed brunettes.) 
• English is on top most of the time.
• Wooden tulips are about as expensive as real ones.  (Although, you can get the bulbs in the airport pretty cheapily.)
• A pack of Extra gum will set off the metal detector.  (Foiled by foil, as it were.)
• The Euro is a leather-clad, whip-toting dominatrix that slapped my poor Dollar into meek and pathetic submission.
• Even the tarmac, lined by a single row of carefully pruned, almost cartoonishly perfect trees, oozed a quaintness that would rival New England. (Laura, I think, would find this obnoxious.)

And that's about all I can manage. I mean, it may be 9:00am here, but my body seems to think those three hours of head-bobbing next to Old Dude With Blasting Headphones didn't really amount to much sleep (he watched -- and found enormously gripping, apparently -- Phone Booth).

So. I'm going to snag a few Zs and then head to Barcelona.

More to follow!

For Ruth.

I remember sitting on cut grass by the railroad ties hedging her narrow, well-tended strawberry patch in the backyard, staining fingertips sweet crimson in the long afternoons, chatting endlessly about everything and nothing.  I remember the green shadow cast over her forehead by a plastic visor always propped in her white hair, and faded blue gloves worn smooth by spring and summer gardening. 

I remember lilacs towering in the corners of the lawn; careening wagons down the steep slope of a golf cart trail; homemade ice-cream on neighborhood birthdays; sparklers and lemonade in the driveway on the Fourth of July.  I remember that she always carved a path to the mailbox through drifted snow, before we could make our way down with the snowblower; the way her retro aluminum Christmas tree filled the living room windows, moving in steady procession between green and blue and pink and red; hot chocolate and banana bread and plates of wrapped cookies frosted just so.  I remember lithe hands, sure movement, sharp wit.  And quilts.  I remember so many quilts!

But most of all, I remember her laugh: quick and easy and full of the same unswerving delight that met every new morning behind wide glasses and a cup of coffee, black.

She was so many things to so many people, this spry old woman who, in retrospect, I now realize I knew very little about, but counted close as family all the same.  She was Ruth Anna Rosina Koehn, but to us, growing up and ever after, she was simply Grandma Ruth -- two houses down, door always open.

I hope she knew just how important she was to the little imps up the street who invented excuses to visit her.  How the memories of all those years stay with me, vivid and colorful and full of that knowing laughter.

I just wish I could have said goodbye.

Crossings.

For those of you unfamiliar with my daily commute, no, thank God, I was not on this train. 

Actually, now that I'm really thinking about it, I may very well have been on that train.  The collision was at 6:00pm, and I had hopped off about 10-15 minutes beforehand -- which is about how long it takes to get there from my station.  So I suppose the train I took home could easily have been one of the two involved.  Fortunately, though, the accident was a bit further west than I travel. 

Pictures were all over the Globe and Metro this morning, but of course, the first I heard of it was last night when mom called -- from Iowa -- to confirm her boy was safe and sound.  (This is typically how I hear of any disasters, large accidents or severe weather in the Greater Boston area.)

The 24-year-old driver of the second train -- that hit the other from behind -- was the only fatality.  I feel so sorry for her father. 

Meanwhile, the esquire within tallies up the dozen-or-so confirmed injuries and idly wonders how many will metastasize into litigation.  Such is the way of things.

Topical.

My horoscope for today:

You have moments of lucid dreaming while you are fully awake today and you can see your future by simply painting a mental picture of it. Your optimism can be quite refreshing as long as you don't go overboard, for others will quickly grow bored of your unrealistic fantasies if you turn into a Pollyanna. Some thoughts are better kept to yourself.

Apologies to those of you bored with my unrealistic fantasies and Pollyannantics.

Heh heh.

(Giggle.)

RMV = Bane Of My Existence.

#*@!

Hate it. Hate it hate it hate it.

I just killed two-and-a-half hours at the friendly Registry of Motor Vehicles.  Took my number -- A140 -- and waited, and waited, and waited before getting called to the counter to register the Girl's new car.

Thirty seconds later I was leaving, defeated, because something wasn't signed and, according to the surly broad behind the counter, wearing sunglasses big enough to serve a buffet on, "If you try to sign that in front of me, it's a forgery, but you can go right outside that door and sign it, I don't care, just don't do it right here in front of me -- do it over there -- I just can't know about it -- and then go get yourself a new number."

Thanks.  But you know, telling me to go forge a signature around the corner where you can't see me do it doesn't really forestall your knowledge of it, Lady.  I mean, just let me sign the goddamn thing at the counter!  You know what I'm doing!

But I did what I was told -- under silent, fuming protest -- and got my new number.  A165.  The anticipated 17-minute wait was more like 45, but whatever. Sauntered up to the counter with my best Midwestern smile, triumphantly handed over my assorted documents, and just before she handed me the plates, she asked for $475 dollars.  Cash or check.  Because really, who uses debit cards these days, anyway?

Anyway.  $475. 

I had $75 for registration, per the instructions on the form. Ah, but sales tax, she all-too-happily pointed out.

But you're exempt from sales tax when you buy an immediate family member's vehicle, I politely reminded her.

"Better go get yourself the right form then. But don't fill it out here. Not in front of me. That's a forgery. Go outside and do it over there because I can't know about it. And then go get yourself a new number."

...

The car.

Will not.

Be registered.

Today.