Le Morte d'Car: Part 1

Once I was care-free, light-hearted person, frolicking from work to home to rock climbing in an old but reliable car. Now, as I write this, the cares of the world press in upon me and in the future dark clouds loom ominously. Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon, my car lies slain upon the heights. This is the story of how it happened.

Davis (my boyfriend) and I had arranged for him to visit me on a particular Sunday. He was to meet me at church and afterwards we would spend the afternoon hanging out in my apartment. I had, unfortunately, lost my voice around that time so introducing him to my church friends was a something of a struggle. They were very friendly and introduced themselves despite the adversity. 

We decided not to attend the fellowship lunch afterwards, owing to the fact that I couldn't talk, and set out for my apartment. Davis following me in his car. Now, alas, comes the unfortunate part. I have supplied you will a helpful diagram of the crash. I am represented by the blue car and Davis by the Green. I drew it on this cool site if any of you feels a desire to spend your free time recreating accidents. 

 I was going faster than I should have been and I stopped faster than I should have and suddenly there was a CRASH  and Davis' car slammed into the back of mine. We pulled over to the side of the road and got out to assess the damage. His right headlight was all over the road and his tire was completely shredded. My back corner was crushed and the corresponding tire did not seem to be in the first bloom of health. 

Because of the glass all over the road and the fact that neither of our cars were drive-able we called the police and, as people throughout the decades have been wont to do, we both called our parents. Between the parental units, the police, and AAA we soon had both the cars on tow trucks, and were sitting in the cab of the one towing my car. I was even able to rescue my most prize possessions including my rock climbing gear, the sushi for lunch, and one of my favorite pairs of jeans. The tow truck driver engaged us in friendly conversation and assured us that, in his opinion, both cars would be totaled.

Davis' car, unfortunately I didn't get a picture of mine

Once we reached that haven of warmth, the apartment, we were left to sort out what to do. Davis had to get back to Connecticut somehow and I had to get to work. After much discussion, online research, and soul searching we decided that the best plan was for Davis to get rental car the next morning and drive it back to CT. It was similar in price to a bus ticket and he would be able to get to work for most of the day. Since the rental car places all closed early on Sunday and the only bus yet to leave would arrive at four am in an extremely sketchy area we decided that the only thing for him to do was to spend the night in my living room. (Note: normally Davis does not sleep in my living-room or any other part of my apt, but, alas, in this case we had little choice).

The next day we wakened at the unearthly hour of 6 in the morning to catch the 6:57 bus, which runs between my apt and a station several blocks from work. It was a cold and dark experience. Once at work we suborned Deb, a co-worker, to drive us to the rental car location. After a passionate farewell to Davis, Deb and I drove off again, reposing in the confidence that he would find his way home. We were suddenly sundered from  that confidence when we received a phone call from Davis. Apparently rental car locations will not trust you with the responsibly of a car unless you have a credit card in your own name, and alas, all Davis possessed was a lowly debit card. After several possibly illegal U-turns we got Davis back in the car and back to my work.  

The next bus out was at 3 pm so there was nothing left for Davis to do but plant himself in the extra chair in my office and wait for the clock to strike three. Almost as soon as we arrived another coworker, Greg, who is known for his mistrust Obama, young people, and especially "Libs", stopped by to greet us. I introduced Davis and gave a brief explanation of why he was awkwardly whiling away his day in my cubical. Greg found all this extremely amusing, and sauntered off. We soon heard him expounding the story to various coworkers down the hall. His version included a fair amount of speculation about the dangers of texting and driving, and the untrustworthiness of young people, such as ourselves. (Note: neither of us was texting when the unfortunate incident occurred).


I decided it was time I found out what had become of my car so I called up the collision center which had taken charge of it and asked what the status was. The mechanic replied with: "I don't know if there's really a status on the car besides the fact that I thought I should probably find out who it belongs to." Apparently they couldn't do anything until the insurance company sent a minion to assess the damage. There was nothing to do but wait and wonder about the fates of our cars.

Finally the time of parting came and Davis was safely ensconced in a greyhound heading south. My boss was kind enough to take me home from work and another coworker offered to pick me up where I to call him in the morning. Now all this happened two days before I was supposed to return to my parents so that the whole family could drive out to Kansas. I therefore bought a bus ticket so that after work the next day I could return the the comforting parental home. 

I began to gather together those belonging I would need for the foray into the west. This led to a conundrum. That fall I poured many hours into the creation of a stain-glass window as a Christmas present for the parents. As fortune would have it I did not possess a suitcase large enough to hold such a treasure. In the end I wrapped it in newspaper and carried the thing. 

The coworker who had offered me a ride did not answer his phone the next morning so I returned to the shady world of mass transportation, this time carrying all the baggage I would need for my journey across the country. We arrived at the bus-stop closest to my work, but I still had a fair number a blocks to traverse. At this point I also discovered that the suitcase I had chosen had a tragic flaw: It's handle did not extend so it could not be gently wheeled to and fro. I would have to carry it the half mile to my office. Never having been one for exercising needlessly, I pulled a t-shirt out and tied it around the crippled handle.

Picture, if you will, me, walking down the busiest street in my city, rain pouring down, an oversize blue hat engulfing my head, clothed in a red pea-coat, in one hand holding a 3 foot stained glass window, dragging a suitcase by a brightly colored t-shirt wound around its handle. This was certainly not my finest moment, but I did make it to my place of work. And, after a day full of the joys and pains of the test engineer, I weighed anchor and boarded a bus towards New York, still not knowing the fate of my car. 

A Tale of two airports: Part 2

Readers of my last post will have astutely noticed that only one singular airport was mentioned, whereas the title promised two. Fear not, this chapter will have enough airports to satisfy even the most airport-hungry reader.

My two days in Dallas went well. The performance class was more hands on and interactive than I expected and while I did not experience a huge leap in work-place performance at least I was not as bored as I had feared. 

One greatly distressing event did occur during the time I spent in class. We were broken up into groups and told to create a system out of snap circuits that could produce both light and noise to alert a airplane pilot of danger. The light was quite easy. The sound production was a much more difficult task and we spent a great deal of time figuring out how the sound module worked. Triumphing over this adversity, we were able to produce a working system to our instructor. None of the other teams had sound working but one of them produced a system which caused a motor to rotate. They claimed that the noise of the motor rotating would alert the pilot. We objected on the grounds that any pilot would be liable to confuse the sound of the rotating motor with, say, the motor hurtling a plane and all its contents through the sky. The instructor, who was not an engineer, was unmoved by our entreaties and declared their system as the winner because it cost slightly less. This was a crushing blow to my competitive spirit and no amount HR rhetoric could heal such a wound.

Eventually the time of learning came to an end. During my time in that lauded place of learning I had made the acquaintance of a nice young woman from the Mexican branch of the company. Discovering that she did not have in her possession a rental car I offered to take her to the airport. Now those familiar with rental car companies will know the dire consequences of returning a car whose fuel gauge is not embracing the F. I therefore set out with the intention of paying a visit to a station of gas along the way. Unfortunately no visions of such a station appeared and before either of us knew it we had arrived at the airport.

Up until this point I had been relying on my faithful GPS, which, after becoming acclimated to its new surroundings, had proven a loyal support, much as Aaron and Hur to Moses. Unfortunately once we arrived in the airport the GPS grew confused and when I asked for directions to the nearest gas station it lead me falsely to the terminals. Apparently at DFW you have to PAY to enter the hallowed pick up and drop off stations and We left that place two dollars poorer, shaking its dust from our tires. After several more failed attempts, which included trying to find the directions on my companion's Spanish-speaking smart phone, we decided to head in the direction of the highway, hoping against hope that there would be a gas station nearby. Great was the rejoicing when one appeared and we finally were able to fill up on gas.

From there the rental return arena was easy to find. We cleared out the car and I paid for the rental, surrendering my keys to the nearest employee. The rental return area provides buses to transport travelers to their various terminals and I bid farewell to my erstwhile companion as she departed in the direction of Mexico or at least the direction of the terminal which housed the Mexican flights. Not being so fortunate in the knowledge of my terminal I decided the check in at the kiosk located above the renal car arena. 

I swiped my company credit card, which I had used to make the reservation, and waited for my ticket to appear. All the met my eyes was the helpful message: "We could not find any reservations associated with that card please enter your confirmation number". Several more tries yielded the same results. I decided that stronger measures were required and dug out my itinerary. However, when i entered the confirmation number all that was displayed was "not a valid confirmation number". I was horrified. I tried entering it again and again saw the message of doom. This second rejection led me to do what I should have done long ago: examine my itinerary. Wonder of wonders the airport listed for my return flight was not the airport I had used for all seven of my other flights to and from Dallas, but was the previously unthought-of "Love Field Airport".  My mind flashed back to a conversation with my father about there being another, smaller, airport in Dallas, remarkable to him because of certain momentous events that occurred there during his childhood (see below).  

It seemed that when I made the reservation I searched by "All Dallas Airports" instead of "DFW". However, knowing the origin of the problem did not help with finding a solution.  Now I am a plan person. Have I thought out what I would do if my parents tragically both died and I was left as the head of the family? Yes. When I do things do I have a plans A through at least F lined up? Also yes.  However, the possibility of actually going to the wrong airport had not, even in my wildest dream, occurred to me. For a moment panic surged through my veins. I had just returned my rental car, I needed to be across Dallas in less than an hour. These stone cold facts froze my heart. Wild thoughts of calling the company travel agency or attempting to get a new flight from DFW swirled and I feared that I would be trapped in Texas forever. 

After several minutes of panic a new plan asserted itself in my mind. Studying my itinerary I saw that it had been the intention of that lauded document for me to return my rental to Love Field. I thought that perhaps I could return to the personages of the rental establishment and beg for.... I mean... reclaim what once was mine. I retraced my steps and found myself standing very near the car I had so recently vacated. As I reached it, however, a man inserted himself into the driver's seat and a strict-looking female pilot with white hair tightly bound above her head sat down in the passenger side. I was tempted to fall to my knees and cry out as they sped away. Curbing that impulse and continuing with my mission I poured out my sorrows to the woman manning the desk. 

The rental employees were actually quite helpful. After hearing the tale of my woe they issued me a new rental contract free of charge and even included enough gas to get from there to Love Field. This act of benevolence gave me a ray of hope that I might be headed out of Dallas after all. As the rental employee printed my new contact I entered Love Field Airport into my GPS. Love Field and DFW appeared to be about half-an-hour apart and so there was still hope. I entered the car and saw an unfamiliar sight. This car boasted the gear stick on the left whereas my accustomed transmission appears on the right.  

It took several false attempts to get the car and drive and confusion as to why the gear stick was returning to the center, but soon enough I was off. Or at least I was driving toward the sharpened tire spikes, used by the rental companies to keep their cars within the bounds of their jurisdiction. I signaled a worker to let me out. Telling him I needed to return the car at Love Field. He helpfully informed me that I could return it at DFW, but seemed to understand once I informed him of the imminent departure of my flight. Once my way was cleared of spikes a stressful but fortunately traffic free drive commenced. I arrived at Love Field with a little time to spare, returned my rental car, printed my boarding passes and moved through security in record time. My flight had not left yet and I was able to return to New Hampshire in peace. 

I suppose this event should lead to the conclusion that it is time for me to begin reading instructions, not a strong point of mine. Or perhaps I could just follow this advice of this helpful article.

PS. My car, my actual car, not the rental featured in this story, was probably totaled on Sunday. Stay tuned for that exciting story and possibly more on living the car-free life in New Hampshire... in January.....

A Tale of Two Airports: Part 1

A few weeks ago the very generous company I work for, seeing as I was still young in my understanding of the corporate world, sent me to Dallas to be trained in the art of successful work performance. I dutifully scheduled my flight, rental car and hotel through their work-travel system and looked forward to a few days of relaxing plane rides, rental car shuttle trips, and learning how to perform in the work place.

Arriving at DFW's airport I was relived to be in possession of my brand new driver's license. Last time I had almost found myself stranded at the airport after being refused a rental car because of my temporary license. Apparently when you switch states you have to turn in your old license and are given a paper license for the interim. What they do not tell you about this paper license is that most reputable establishments do not consider it valid ID, including but not limited to the TSA, the Holiday Inn, the library, big brothers big sister and most unfortunately Avis rental cars. Fortunately the patron goddess of those who need rental cars was smiling that day and the manager made an exception to their policy against paper licenses. This day, however, I was ready for anything. I had even remembered, on the advice of my manager, to bring my very own GPS to avoid having to rent one.

I slipped into the rental car, feeling the sleek fabric of the seats and the alluring shine of the shimmering paint. After acclimating to the unfamiliar bowels of the car by figuring out how to plug in the GPS, turn on the radio, and, most importantly start the car, I turned on the GPS. Now my GPS is from the olden days when cave men were just starting to realize the virtues of simple machines such as the lever, so when it is turned on the expectant traveler must wait a full five minutes before they are graced with the screen prompting them to enter an address. Normally I will set out in the vague direction of my destination and hope that a helpful red light will give me the needed opportunity to enter my destination. However, on this occasion I felt that my knowledge of the surrounding area was too vague to trust and waited patiently for the powering up of the GPS. Unfortunately once the awaited event occurred all that the GPS could tell me was that it was performing the mysterious ceremony of "acquiring satellites". Feeling that the inside of a parking garage was not the ideal location for this ritual I dutifully backed my car out of its spot and proceeded to exit the garage. The guardians of the rental cars inspected my license and contract and allowed me to pass unchallenged.

Unfortunately this airport was not designed for those who wished to idle their car while at the mercy of these mysterious satellites. Before I knew it I was on the highway, unsure if I as heading towards or away from my hotel. A desperate hunger clawed at my insides and the GPS showed no signs of completing its liturgy. The highway, on the other hand, began to show signs of splintering into a myriad of highways. I had a vague idea that Dallas was south and that a highway, named for our commander and chief of yester-year, would take me there. Unfortunately the signage available to me did not inform me of the direction this road was headed. I got on that highway anyway and began to search for an exit as a drowning man will scan the horizon for a life boat. Once I had finally found the longed-for exit I wrenched myself from the endless flow of traffic and parked myself at a station dedicated to the dispensing of gas. 

I left my GPS still acquiring in the hope that it would, perhaps, be ready to direct me when I returned. After sating my hunger with the purchase of chocolate milk and a small supply of food, I returned to the car. Unfortunately all of my hopes were for naught as the GPS continued to acquire. I attempted to search of "Holiday Inn" but the only results it was able to dredge up were located in the city from wince I had come, a mere two thousand miles away. The only recourse left to me also depended on these cursed beings, the satellites. I must pull out my cellular phone called someone with access to a wireless and lots of books. The first friend I thought to phone was Davis, but when he proved unavailable I quickly dialed the number of the home of my youth. Manning the switch board at that late hour was my still not-quite-yet Eagle Scout brother, Tim. 

After some fiddling with google maps and several miscommunication and complains about the economics paper he longed to be writing, he was able to direct me in the direction of my hotel. My GPS, after a mere forty five minutes was able to adjust to its new surrounding and direct me the rest of the way. On my arrival at the hotel I was asked for identification. Excited to show my new license I hurriedly opened my wallet only to find that the all-important license was not there. The hotel personal remembered me for my last visit to the lauded establishment and, after swiping my credit card a few times, let me pass. But the location of the identifying license gnawed at my mind and as soon as I had dropped off my baggage I hurried back to the car. Would I have to attempt the journey home without the comforting presence of photo identification? Minutes went by as I searched every nook and cranny for the missing card. It finally appeared, wedged firmly between the seat cushions, where it had fallen after its brief visit to the guardians of the rental car garage. My relief was so palpable that the young couple who appeared to be sleeping in the next-door car could, I am sure, feel it.

I fell asleep easily that night thankful that the stressful part of the trip was over. Little did I know what was to come.

The day I climbed a four-thousand-footer... by accident

On Saturday I went hiking in the White Mountains and it was quite an experience. I went with Abi who is from the Philippines. She's getting training at my office for a few months and, as we are the only female's under 50 in our group, we've been doing a few things together. Being women of extreme forethought and planning we googled trails the day before but, alas, the mental strain of a decision was too much. We printed out the trail descriptions page to feast our eyes upon in the car. 

The morning got off the a good start always excepting the part where I was the recipient of a phone call during the long and arduous walk to the car, my arms full of winter supplies. We decided on a seemly short and friendly trail called the "falling water trail". Among its manifold of attractions were numbered 3 waterfalls, 3 miles and a 3 hours round trip. Abi and I found this all very agreeable and the rest of the drive was spent admiring the brilliant fall colors of I-93.

The benevolent creators of I-93 placed a multitude of exits without numbers between the exits with numbers. This infused and small element of confusion into our morning ride as we struggled to figure out which exit between 34a and 34b we were looking for. Fortunately we were able to find our way to, and park at, the trail-head. The mountains, dark and menacing, loomed behind the brightly colored trees.

Being from the tropics Abi was not the proud owner of any winter clothing and I gallantly stepped into the breach, lending her my ski jacket, a scarf, and gloves. I wore my red peacoat and was likely judged by every hiker we encounters as they hurried past in their non pea coats acquired from high-end retailers specializing in clothing not meant for urban socialites.

We hiked along steadily through scenic autumn forest along the side of a lovely stream.

As the trail went on we began to wonder how to tell which waterfalls had been counted worthy to be numbered among the three. Being that we were walking along stream coming down a mountain, there was falling water all over the place, and differentiating between major league and minor league waterfalls was no easy task.

Eventually we reached this waterfall:

Our conviction that, here at last was a true waterfall, did nothing to alleviate our confusion. Was this number one two or three? Seeing this master waterfall, could any of the others truly be compared? Were there two more even larger ones? Burning with curiosity we persevered along the trail. 

About this time the trail began to alter its face. Up until now we had been traveling through a multi colored (but predominately orange) forest along the side of a picturesque stream. The changes engulfed us slowly, but soon the trees we passed had lost their diversity of color and were simply evergreens. Even more alarming, our trail and the stream ended their long standing relationship and parted ways. For a time we believed the breakup to be temporary. Perhaps they simply needed some space and would renew their passion in a matter of meters. We listened for the sound of some spectacular waterfall which would signal the joyful renewal of their connection. Alas, all that could be heard was the wind in the manifold evergreens encompassing us.

During this period we came upon two fellow wanders in this wilderness. A youthful couple, the male carrying a large pack, passed us. Now we had seen a number of our fellow man as we sojourned but all had been either possessed greater speed than our meager legs could afford us or were of the leisurely persuasion and were soon out of sight. This couple, however, was struggling under an unequal yoke, for the boyfriend had the attitude toward the hike which the lower classes might refer to as "gun-ho", while his partner labored forward under the weight of many complaints. Their pace (as with pretty much everyone who had made it thus far) was faster than ours, but they often took long rests for the sake of the female of the species. During these rests we would catch up and once again share the lonely trail will these companions. 

After the span of about two hours of total hiking had elapsed we saw an older hiking heading downwards. His face betrayed friendliness and experience; we risked soliciting his opinion on the distance remaining. He pulled out what, I am informed by my almost-eagle-scout brother, was a hiking watch and gave me the distance in yards. Now I don't know about all you super experienced hikers, but one of the little known facts about myself that I have never found myself using in those awkward get to know each other ice-breakers is the number of yards per hour I hike. He seemed to notice my blank look because he assured me it would be another half hour. He paused and looked at us again. Likely taking in the red peacoat and added "a good half hour". We thanked him and decided to continue on as it would be a shame to turn back only half an hour from the end. The couple also seemed to take heart at these tidings of great joy.

The next twenty minutes elapsed in much the same fashion and our hopes began to rise that we might be drawing near the summit. The boyfriend informed me that he had a strong feeling that we were almost there. I privately felt that anyone in possession of a hikometer was likely hiking much faster despite his apparently advanced age. About twenty minutes subsequent to our encounter with the elderly hiker we met two more hikers coming down. When questioned about the distance to the top they respond with "forty-five minutes".

"I can't keep on doing this for forty-five minutes." Cried the girlfriend in tones which bespoke despair.

"Yes you can, babe." Put in her significant other, helpfully.

"You should just go on without me. I'll follow at my own pace." Was her passionate appeal.

The lover was wise enough not to take her at her word and attempted to encourage her with the offer of a banana. She accepted in an aggravated tone and insisted on getting it out herself. Subsequent to the disappearance of the banana they set out again, though not quite, wing to wing and oar to oar.

Several minutes later she stopped again, breathing heavily, and repeated her appeal for him to leave her to the mountain lions. They decided to take a "long rest" by the roadside. We were never to see them again.

At this point the trail began to remind me of a quote from the Horse and his Boy:

"The road kept on getting to somewhere in the sense that it got to more and more trees, all dark and dripping, and to colder and colder air... strange, icy winds kept blowing the mist past him though they never blew it away."

Unfortunately we didn't get to meet Aslan at the top. The snow, actually, it was more like hail, became more pronounced at this stage and the snow covered trees reminded me again of Narnia. It became apparent, even to my darkened mind, that there would be no more waterfalls and that we were now climbing a real live mountain.

More and more downward headed hikers passed us, openly lamenting the cold and searing winds awaiting us at the summit, each with a different time estimate. Abi and I made a brief stop to gladden our hearts with the sustaining power of a sandwich, but rose again to make the final effort. The last bit was the steepest and the iciest, but with our unconquerable souls we persevered to the end.

I would say the summit looked like a winter wonderland but I feel that winter wonderlands have gentle breezes, just cold enough not to melt the snow. What we faced on the summit was shrieking winds which tore through our clothing and demanded an interest free loan of all the warmth in our bodies. I would probably classify it as a winter wasteland.

I mean, does this look like healthy well-adjusted snow to you? It's so wind-blown that it is sticking straight out.

In order to avoid unpleasant consequences including, but not limited to, hypothermia, frost bite, and death by cold wind, we took some quick pictures and hurried down the mountainside.  Now most people we saw descending had these special chains which attached to their shoes. Being bereft of such advanced equipment we utilized more old fashioned methods such as, slipping, sliding, and a lot of tree hugging. My level of environmentalism has greatly increased since the embracing of topiary saved me more than once from an emergency helicopter ride.

A little way down we came to a sign informing us that "shining rock" was only 0.1 miles away. Considering that we had been unable to see more than a few yards on the summit we decided to risk life and limb in the hope that the shining rock would furnish us with better views. I would say we made the right choice.

We decided to nourish ourselves with sandwich number two while perched on the shining rock. While we were eating Abi revealed that her husband had been concerned about her hiking and she had assured him that it was a family-friendly hike.... It is probably best for his mental health that he not see the winter wasteland.

The rest of the descent was mostly uneventful; we spewed the same probably-untrue estimates of time to the top, and definitely-true tales of the extreme cold which lurked there to credulous hikers following in our footsteps.

We emerged from the trees seven hours later. I have not been this excited to see a parking lot for a long time.

When we returned to the car and I reread the trail description.

"This trip goes only as far as the ledges, hanging on the edge of the deep ravine of Walker Brook. Going any further is for experts only. "

I supposed I should learn to read entire descriptions (just imagine what my GPA could have been had I always read the test questions). However it was heartening to hear that we survived a climb for "experts only". I looked it up afterwards and the mountain we climbed was called Little Haystack and it is 4700 ft. Alas, it does not count as one of New Hampshire's 48 four-thousand footers because it is too close to mt. Lincoln.

The Mystery of the Ukrianian Vase

Several weeks ago I returned from work on lovely Friday to find a slip in my mailbox. This slip informed me that the dutiful post man regretted not find me at home and requested my presence at the island of lost packages to receive a package which some one had addressed to me. Conscience of the great honor conferred upon me by this invitation I made haste to accept and the next day found me in possession of a surprisingly long and narrow package from Ukraine. which I was fairly convinced contained a teacup. The reason for this lurking suspicion was that I had signed up for a tea cup exchange and was eagerly awaiting that package. Once I had returned to the comfort of my own home the contents were revealed to me and before my waking eyes I saw, not a teacup, but a vase. A large wooden vase.

After some time spent wondering why I had been presented with a vase from the Ukraine I decided that perhaps my teacup exchange partner, being from Ukraine and perhaps not the best at English, had thought that she was signing up for a vase exchange or perhaps even a generic exchange (a resurgence of the barter economy perhaps). I came to this conclusion after using the skills gained from many hours spent under the careful tutelage of Agatha Christie to weigh the evidence. 

1.  The package was addressed to me specifically so it couldn't have been meant for the previous residents of my apartments
2. I don't know anyone in Ukraine or who could be in Ukraine
3. I had just moved so only family and a few friends had my address
4. I had not been known to express desires for vases Ukrainian or otherwise

Content with this explanation I spent the rest of the weekend in a state of mental peace not disturbed by any Ukrainian thoughts.

On Monday after work I drove to Boston to see Othello and did return until late. As I strolled happily to my mailbox I saw a worrying sight. A small, teacup sized, package sat on my mail box, addressed to me and not from Ukraine but from Tennessee. My spirits rose at the receipt of such a lovely package, yet I could not restrain some perturbation of spirits when I thought of the vase. From the fertile soil of my imagination sprung up many possibilities including ancient Ukrainian curses coming to rest upon my brand new apartment and Ukrainian drug lords breaking in that very night to reclaim the costly Ukrainian drugs stored in the vase.

Fortunately enough none of these extremities came to pass and I made an uneasy peace with the presence of the vase.  A corner of my mind, however, still wondered, perhaps would always wonder, where did the vase come from?

Several weeks later, on my birthday, I was speaking to my sister on the phone. She excitedly asked whether I had received my present.

"What present?" I asked, the light of understanding beginning to illuminate that corner of my mind which had never ceased to hope for an explanation.

"The Vase! Did yo not get it?" she cried with touching sisterly concern.

The vase now rests on my bookcase, unaware of the confusion and fear it had evoked in its new owner.