A Powerful Lesson – The Art of Cursing Taught by Kevin Smith

I love me a good curse word. I really do. Dropping an f-bomb or a good “GD” sometimes feels like the only way to really make your point. It’s not very ladylike, and, I know all too well the lesson I often impart to my kids…using words like that takes away your power. It makes people focus on the jarring moment that you do it instead of the point you are trying to make. Yet, it’s still one of my dirty little secrets.

The people closest to me know this. They’ve heard me just be me and use the words I love so much to make a point probably one too many times. The people at work only know because I shared my love of cursing in a team-building session one day when we had to tell the group something they didn’t know about us. “I curse like a sailor,” I said proudly. They were shocked. My boss kept remarking, “You have a really good governor on that.” Yes…yes I do…back to the life lesson I give my kids…I know it takes away any power in what I’m saying if used at the wrong moment, so I don’t use it often at work.

I guess that’s why I was taken aback at a recent event I went to. The speaker stood in front of a nearly full auditorium dropping the f-bomb and words used for the female anatomy that are typically off limits for even the most vile cursers like me. He did it so naturally that I realized it’s just worked into his daily speech like any other word, as often as “the,” “and” or “very” might be. There was rarely a sentence without one or two f-bombs used in interesting new ways as adjectives or just because. It caught me by surprise and I’m not sure why. It was within character and completely fit the audience so it wasn’t crazy or out of place, but it made me laugh. That’s not the only reason I was laughing though. The group of about 1,000 people or more around me were also pretty entertaining.

You see, my husband is a huge Kevin Smith fan. You know Kevin Smith? The director who produced Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, Dogma etc. He’s been known for 20 years as being cutting edge, irreverent and intelligent in his humor and his art. He’s the big guy also recently known for getting asked to leave a Southwest flight because he wouldn’t buy two seats, and they thought he was too large for just one. They clearly didn’t know who they were dealing with because Smith is very active in the podcast world and blogosphere right now. He launched a social media rant right there in the gate area and all got resolved pretty quickly. I’m sure that rant was laced with some great profanity…I should go back and read that!

So, anyway, Kevin Smith has made his latest movie, Red State. It’s not his normal fare. It’s a dark look at the extreme right religious evangelism out there as well as politics and shortcomings in our government. It’s gory and gross and intense. And, it doesn’t have a distributor. So, Smith himself is screening it around the country. He opens the screening with a personal introduction and closes it with a one-hour plus rambling Q&A that was interesting, thought-provoking and funny in a very relatable, non-Hollywood manner. It helped that the theatre was full of “his” people.

What do I mean by that? I mean that I’ve never seen so many heavy, tatted up, pony-tailed men in huge t-shirts and baggy shorts in one place. Not scary tatted up, pony-tailed men, but rather, the kind you used to know in college. The academic stoner type with a good serving of geek thrown in. There were many “we’re not worthy” bows going on in the audience every time Smith said…well…pretty much anything. There were many laughs with associated snorts throughout the audience. There was an abundance of mobile technology. And, of course there was a lot of whooping and hollering every time Smith used one of the more off-limit words. I have always felt comfortable in pretty much any crowd. In high school, I could hang out with the Beta Club as easily as with the Cheerleaders and find myself shooting the breeze with the stoners in the smoking lounge that afternoon without skipping a beat. But here, I felt like there was a spotlight on me pointing to the one middle-aged woman in the room who often gets mistaken for a prude. I wanted to shout, “I love to curse too! So what if I had to walk out of Chasing Amy because the sexual references became too much for me. I’m still cool. I just have my boundaries.”

But, then, among the Smith look-alikes and crowd with more greasy long hair per capita than I can do justice to in a short description, a real “moment” took place. During the Q&A, it was time for the very last question. We happened to be sitting right next to the microphone where people had lined up. And, this young guy walked up and started to ask his question. He stammered, his lisp loud and clear. He tried again and only got out a shallow groan and this: “I’m trying not to pass out here…what was my question again? Hold on…” And, this crowd of rough-looking, cursing people, many of whom literally cheered during violent scenes in the movie just minutes earlier, laughed nervously…but wait…not in an ugly way…there was some support there too. While it all happened, Smith wandered to side stage, jumped down and came directly to the guy trying to ask his question. He held his hand and said, “Don’t be nervous. We’ll do this together. What did you want to ask me?” The guy was flabbergasted but got it together and asked. Smith held his hand through the whole answer…a good 4-5 minutes and hugged him in the end. And, the crowd went wild. They were among “their” people and, like any good group, nobody disrespects one of their own.

This sweet moment was juxtaposed with the fact that as Smith and the unknown question asker held hands and swayed together during their talk, Smith used the f-bomb at least 3 times and peppered the answer with a few other choice words. Yet, there was no power lost in that moment. Just a nice thank you to those who have supported him for the past 20 years from a person who, in his words, “won the lottery and got the dream job of making pretend for his career.”

As for this woman who might wear the costume of a prude, and who attended this and other Smith movies in the past on the fringe just to support her husband’s interests, I enjoyed every minute of it. I especially enjoyed the moment when Smith admitted that he’d been “creeping out women for years” because that’s exactly how I felt until I saw him, heard him and felt a genuine decency from him. So, cursers unite…scream it from the rooftops if you need to…Shit, Damn, whatever your personal word of choice…turns out the real power is in your actions, not your words.

Listen and Learn

Ok…I’ll admit it. I can’t help myself.  Often, when we eat out or sit waiting for a movie to start with lots of strangers in a theatre, I just have to listen in to the people around me.  Some might call it eavesdropping, and I guess that’s what it is in reality, but, for me, it’s also the chance to get a glimpse into other people’s worlds…to validate my feelings that everybody has a little something going on…sometimes a good something, sometimes a bad something, sometimes just an interesting something. Just yesterday, my husband and I stopped in for a drink at our local suburban sports bar and grill. As I looked out at all the people on that deck, I was taken back to just a few years ago when I sat next to a couple in that same place. They were on a date and discussing, within, two feet of me, loudly, how much they enjoy the “lifestyle.”  For those of you who don’t know..the “lifestyle” is swinging, partner-switching parties and, what sounded like orgies.

Yes…I just said orgies. I’d say that’s definitely in the category of an “interesting” something going on in these people’s lives. Now, tell me that wasn’t a score at the ol’ Friday night hang out for kids’ baseball and soccer teams and their families!  My two kids and husband had just walked away from the table to hit the game room for a bit while I waited for the drinks to come and to place the order for my family. So, I was openly sitting there by myself with nothing to do but hear what the people around me were saying. It started a bit cryptic. A woman in her mid to late 40s and a guy about the same age. They were clearly on an early date in their relationship. You could just tell by how they greeted each other, the kind of stilted, “How was your day?” and “Oh…I didn’t realize you liked a good work out that much” type of conversation. That’s what originally drew me in. The woman was a bit nervous, the man trying to play her a bit. So, I was in…it had potential for a second marriage, later in life type of love. A mini, real-life soap opera right there as I sat staring off by myself trying to busy myself with other things around me…my blackberry, the menu, etc.

Then, he asked her, “So…what did you think that first time?”  Hmmm, I thought…first time for what?  She giggled nervously. “Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t sure what a party like that would be like.  It wasn’t as unusual as I thought though. The invitation was very tasteful so that helped me feel more at ease. It felt like I could just come and check it out but I didn’t have to participate. Then, I got there and it was like any party and no one pressured me, but it was exciting when I saw people start to leave the room together.”

His response: “Yes…yes. It’s exciting all right.”  He then mumbled something a bit unintelligible but I got the gist…it turned him on and he was baiting her to see if it turned her on too.  She didn’t play along. She giggled in the right spots and smiled and gave him enough tempered response to keep him interested but not to commit. I got the distinct impression that she liked him and wanted some sort of relationship and was either truly interested in this lifestyle or just really interested in dating someone right now and was willing to push her boundaries a little for that. (I was tempted to use the word desperate vs interested here but I’ll reserve that judgment…because, you know, she may have found what she was looking for and all. We’ll say I definitely found what I was looking for in that particular evening out, sitting by myself…because the conversation only got better from there.)

He, starting to get to a point that he was losing some control, was almost unable to hold back his animalistic grunts and man-at-a-strip-club “UHHHH HUHHHH”‘s when he described the next party coming up. She, was saying how she was worried because she had seen a woman from work at the last one and then laughed because when they saw each other at the office the next week, they just smiled knowingly. “I know,” he said. “What’s she going to do? Blow the whistle on you and admit she was there, too?  Hey…maybe you two could hook up at work now.”  Clearly, the hook up…followed by a big “UHHH HUHHHH” did not mean lunch together in his mind. She let that one go. And, then, I had to let it all go because my family had returned.

My husband still laughs about how, when they sat back at the table, I was sitting there trying not to make a scene but staring at him with huge eyes and trying to make him recognize that something BIG had finally happened at a table near us as I sat listening. After years of him dealing with me juggling our conversations and those of the tables around us, I thought he deserved to get in on this action, but he wasn’t able to understand my cryptic eye motions, so he lost out. The story lives on with us though. I finally got to unload it all on him when we got home and the kids went off to play in another room. Months later, we were at the same place and that same couple came back in.  He was wearing a shirt advertising some web site. So my husband checked it out…it mentioned “the lifestyle” but also listed this guy’s past career history…currently a life coach, also, at one point, an internet guy and prior to that some type of entrepreneurship.  Pretty much fits the bill. What didn’t to me, was the woman. After the first time I’d seen them, I had expected her to be dabbling in this after a recent divorce or long-term relationship ending badly. She seemed too nervous, too mainstream.  But, when we saw them again, she seemed much more happy and comfortable in her own skin. The lifestyle was serving her well apparently.

There are people out there living all kinds of lifestyles…they walk among us and we assume they are just like us but each and every person is driven by their own codes, their own morals and their own thoughts, desires and ideas. Just the other day, I sat at a hair salon for several hours getting a treatment done. I chatted with my stylist and read for much of it, but I also listened. You think people will tell a bartender anything…check out what they’ll tell their hair stylists. I heard one woman talking about her nights out recently and wondering aloud why her back was hurting so badly after noting that she’d been dancing all night with several men and didn’t think much of it at the time but maybe, just maybe, the 5 glasses of wine masked the pain when it was happening. I heard others bemoaning their bad marriages and talking about visiting old boyfriends at their workplaces just to check in, not for anything more, of course.  And, even more, discussing troubles at home with their kids….loudly, for all to hear, because they were under hair dryers and were nearly yelling to be heard by the one person they thought they were discussing this with.

Yep…everyone has something…some good, some bad and some just plain interesting. And, I love when I’m able to collect stories, not to judge, not to name names, but just to share. Forget reality TV…this is reality…there are all kinds of lives being lived out there. We can judge or, as long as it’s not hurting anyone, we can enjoy the show. We can also learn a valuable lesson…before you share something very personal in a public place, check out how close you are sitting to the nearest stranger! Because, I for one know there’s plenty in my life people might be watching, listening to what I talk about to my stylist  and judging in quick conversations with their friends that start with “You wouldn’t believe what I just heard” and end with “Man…and she looked so normal!”

The Genius Within

I recently found myself at Harvard…as a student…at age 41. Okay. It was only for a week as part of their Executive Education program within the Business School, but they worked hard to make it feel very real.

I went with my executive team of 12 people…they were my roomies for the week. You see, we lived on campus in a dorm. Single units for each individual at least, but still a dorm with a single bed, no TV and our legal counsel, our VP of Sales and the many other male teammates I work with daily as my neighbors on the hall.  Something about the dorm made it feel different than when we all stay in a hotel together. There was a common area to gather in to watch TV or do the course work versus the very private hotel suite I am used to holing up in on my own.

My father used to love to come to the back of the house where we lived while growing up and bellow “Man on the Hall” while standing at the start of the hallway that led to my sister’s bedroom and mine. And, when I lived in an all-girl dorm in college, it made him even happier to come visit, yell it out and then ask if people really did that still.  This turned all of that on its head a bit because of the 12 of us, there were only 4 women. It is corporate life after all.  I had to laugh to myself…forget the dorm…with those kind of numbers, maybe I should yell “Woman at the meeting” every time I enter one at work.

Even better, we were there with 75 colleagues from around the world. The male to female ratio did not improve with these numbers. Nor, did the feeling of equality. Sorry to be blunt, but, let’s face it, most of the male leaders from our China and Middle Eastern business units don’t really seem to have any interest in having women in the room.  They pretend most days but you see it in their eyes and, in my case, feel it in the groping of their hands during an evening out with the group…at a bar after hours…when they think no one is looking and they can get away with it. Yes…after a 20 year career of pretty much hands off respect from men…I was yanked back by a drunk colleague from another part of the world who rubbed my back hard and planted a big wet kiss somewhere on my neck or cheek or something…I really don’t know because I was pulling away and trying not to look. I turned to him afterward and glared to make him aware of how wrong it was that he just did it. Then, I turned to the closest of my male colleagues and declared, “I’ve just been groped and kissed. I think it’s time for me to go.”  Did these guys who swear they have my back and were insistent that I stay out with the team come to my rescue? No.  They did not.  They acted like they didn’t really hear me. They laughed a bit and then they went about their business. It was at the second yank…yes…this guy attempted it again…that all bets were off.  He was sitting…teetering, really…on a bar stool and when he tried to pull me again, I pulled away with all my might, causing him to fall. Then, I grabbed a colleague and had him escort me back to the dorm immediately. Like I said…it felt like real college life if only for a week.

So my friends keep asking if I lodged a complaint. I didn’t. Not because it wasn’t wrong, but because it wasn’t worth it. It had been a long week. They guy had way too much to drink, and I made it known to my whole team what happened after the fact so people can be on the watch out for his behavior in the future. Not to mention, I quite literally had physically taken him down.  That part kind of cracks me up.  There he was falling over in front of all his “big men” friends…looking like an ass. That, to me, feels a bit like justice.

Even with that fairly interesting event, that’s not what the week at Harvard was about. The groping was on blip on a pretty mind-blowing week.  I have to say…even for just a week, even for just one course…Harvard lived up to its reputation. The faculty got you thinking. The work was productive and you walked away feeling like you learned something valuable.  That doesn’t happen every day. I know for a fact it doesn’t happen with every one of these classes…because I feel like I go to them ALL THE TIME…as my company seems to be on a quest to fully develop each leader to the nth degree.

Yet, you can’t come to a class like this with 74 other colleagues who hold MBAs from prestigious business schools and high positions not having just a shred of a thought that you are just a lowly English major from a State school who has potentially tricked everyone into thinking she belongs there. Add to that the fact that the campus is hard to navigate, even with a map, so you are constantly lost. They give you key cards they call “finicky” to enter every doorway, stairwell, elevator, dorm room etc. Yet, finicky is not even close to accurate. They don’t work.  It’s like some constant test as you try to move from place to place to remind you that you don’t have the touch…you can’t even open the doors at Harvard…what makes you think you should be in a class here???  Until…the moment when you raise your hand during a session and make a comment…and the professor, a tenured Ph.D. at Harvard…says…”You have just captured the core of the lesson for this entire case study.”   That’s when you remember…that’s right…I actually thrive in a classroom setting. I’m actually very good at what I do. So what if I get locked out of my room twice a day…I can hold my own where it matters here.

It got me thinking about my son. He’s 7.  He’s struggled for some time with insecurities…a funny thing to say about someone so young, I know.  But, he doesn’t feel like he fits in because he’s drawn to girl things…he loves dolls and dress up and fashion and art.  We’ve had to let go of our preconceived notions of “boy stuff” and realize what parents are meant to do…guide our children to become who they are meant to be. In this case, it’s taken us allowing him to embrace his own individual likes and dislikes instead of being driven by what society deems as the “way a boy should be.”  We’re finding our way and his confidence is growing.  As it grows, we’ve noticed that he has a level of brilliance beyond others. He perceives more and understands concepts even adults have trouble with, but put a piece of paper in front of him to do basic 2nd grade writing or math and it all falls apart. For a long time, we thought it was because of his self confidence issues…he didn’t want to put himself out there in writing, permanently, to be judged. It turns out that’s not it.  We had him assessed through hours and hours of analytical testing. Guess what?  He’s a genius.  Certifiably…he has an IQ that’s off the charts. As often comes with something like that, there’s a downside. He’s dyslexic.  I’ve come to learn dyslexia is more than just seeing letters and numbers backwards…it’s a processing, organizing and planning issue within the brain. Basically, he’s a genius who can’t process his way out of a paper bag…and that doesn’t fly so well in the ol’ school system.

I’m thrilled that we’ve pinpointed the thing that is causing him more problems and making him feel undue pressure and concern among his friends. Even better, it’s actually something that can be tackled. There’s a whole strategy to help him overcome this. It just takes time and resources..and…you know, everyone has a ton of those, right?  Seriously. It can be handled. It will be handled, and he will grow into the unique, amazing genius potential we all see in him.

Yet it wasn’t long ago that I was talking to a physician who treats people with chronic illnesses. He told me that the way we live in today’s society…overscheduled…minute to minute…far away from our extended families…that people don’t have the bandwidth to deal with even a minor illness or unexpected need. There’s no room for it…there’s no money for it…and there’s no support for it in the typical American family…so when something like that comes along, they break.

We refuse to break over this. My child has some issues, but he has so much more positive factors than most. He’s not facing a life-threatening illness. He’s a very smart child who just needs some guidance. I will admit, though, it does take a lot of time. It takes doctor’s appointments, tutoring sessions, meetings with the school and constant focus on helping him day in and day out with his work. And, as I boarded the plane to Boston for a week of mind expansion for work, all I could think is my mind doesn’t need my time right now. His does. And, that doctor’s words kept echoing in my ears. How will we fit it all in?

Somehow, we did. My husband focused on him while I worked to ensure the financial resources needed for this little venture were secure…let’s face it…you have to show up and do well to get paid. You have to play the game a bit and if it means taking down a drunk fool in the process so you can prove yourself and still provide what your child needs, watch out because I’ll barrel through anyone necessary to make that happen.  And, I’ll do it with a smile, a wink and a reminder that I’ve still got it my friends…I’ve still got it mentally, physically and in the hallowed halls of Harvard no less.

Breaking Habits

I opened my bag and dug all around…starting slowly and getting more frantic.  Where were my pictures?  They’re always here. I need them. The plane was starting to taxi now and the flight attendant came by to ask me to please stow my bag under the seat.  “Just a sec…almost done,” I stammered and smiled. And, then I remembered.  The pictures weren’t in there.  They were in a different bag, one that came on my last trip with me and was now safely tucked away at my home office.  I put the bag away and quietly, without changing my expression so no one around me could know, panicked beyond belief.

You see…I hate flying…hate isn’t the right word…I feel terrified of flying. But, I have to do it often to do my job. Regular quiet stress-filled panic attacks aren’t healthy and making a living is crucial so I needed a plan. I talked to a therapist. She suggested visualization. So, I worked on visualizing myself getting to my destination safely…the only problem was that, in my vision, I never made it there because I blew up somewhere along the way. Next, I tried valerian root, a natural supplement that relaxes you. It relaxed me enough to open my mind to other possibilities…not just blowing up but a long descent where I could consider the horror.  Time to move on…wine worked fairly well but doesn’t mix well with morning flights after which you are due at a meeting and, when you can drink it on evening flights, it gives you a headache.  So…eventually, after years of terror, I came up with my pictures.

It is a collection of pictures of those I love. I use them as a focal point.  I take them out as we taxi toward takeoff and flip through them so fast that I can barely see them all, stopping to touch or smile at one or another that in the moment catches my attention. It’s like when you’re having a baby…find something to focus on to help you get your mind off the pain. I hold those pictures for as long as I need to during the flight.  If it’s a good one, I put them back in my bag when we reach cruising altitude. When it’s a bad one, I clutch them throughout. Good or bad isn’t based on turbulence or bad weather or anything tangible though…it’s just whatever my wild brain and nervous system feels like presenting me with that day. It’s all in my head. It’s all self perpetuated and the only way I can stop it is by looking like a crazy person flipping wildly through pictures. Yet, it works…so I’ve done it for 10 years at least.  I never, ever forget my pictures. But, today I did.

Today, the first of a 4-leg trip over the next 5 days…Atlanta to New Jersey, New Jersey to Memphis, Memphis to LA and LA back to Atlanta.  Four long flights ahead of me without my crutch.  You would think I would want to cry.  I didn’t. I wanted to get my affairs in order…seriously, because, for superstitious me, it was a sign of the apocolypse…it was a sign that I would not survive this trip.  Yet, I did.

I survived just fine…without my pictures. It reminds me of those baseball superstitions…the ones where players don’t wash their socks for weeks for fear of breaking a winning streak. Stupid, not reasonable, but perfectly acceptable in my opinion. Funny thing is that, while I survived physically, I did have some pretty intense emotional experiences along the way.

On this particular trip, wild and strange and almost monumental things happened all around me…things that don’t normally happen. Was it my lack of pictures that caused it? Was it an effort for the world to re-align itself, re-adjust to right the wrong of my not remembering to change my pictures from one bag to another?  I’d love to make it all about me and my crazy habits…to make the world spin on its axis because of a simple act of personal negligence, but…hard to believe…I know…I’m not that crazy.  So, I’ll make it about what it really was about…the people around me.

You see..on the first leg of the trip, I watched a woman reach her breaking point. She was not enjoying a particularly important and challenging meeting nor the feedback she was getting from those around her during it. So, she…very dramatically I might add…fled the scene. Seriously, she threw up her hands, yelled “I can’t, I can’t” and ran out of the room, disappearing for nearly 45 minutes.  It was quite spectacular.  It was also quite sad. I’ve known many people, including myself, who have dreamed of doing just that at various times in their career…my exit would, of course, be filled with expletives to give it extra umpphh…ahhh…to dream.  Yet, she stopped dreaming…she did it…for real. And, can I be honest? It was pretty ugly. While it felt very “Real Housewives of Corporate America,” it did not portray her well. I wished to help and did try to talk to her afterward, but she was too far gone then.  If only she had some mental focal point to get her through the terror of a tough meeting…maybe not a very visible set of pictures, but a mental game to play…that would have helped, I believe, but way too late now.

And, as always for me, there was no time to dwell because I was off to my next flight. There, in the very, very, very early morning dawn at the nearly empty airport, I went through security with Andrew Shue…the Andrew Shue of Melrose Place fame, but more importantly of Do Something! fame.  I have followed that man’s work for years and have been in awe of how he parlayed a short-lived acting career into doing great philanthropic work all over the country and using the platform to encourage others to do the same. I have even considered trying to knock on their door and beg to work for them. And, there he was, right in front of me. Alone. So, did I do it? Did I say, “Wow.  I have always really respected you and would love to work with you some day. Actually, I work for an organization that could partner with you.”?  Nope…I walked right up to him and as I got close, I passed right by. I chickened out.  Why?  I have no idea. But, I did. The worst part…at my age I understand wasted opportunity. When things present themselves, you HAVE to take advantage of them because it happens rarely. I know this…I preach it often..and I didn’t do it.  I was off my game…really off my game…and it all started with forgetting those damn pictures.

Next, I found myself at a conference…an unusal conference with interesting people who were all there to meet, connect and find ways to make a difference together. It wasn’t a professional development session, but rather, an action meeting.  It made me stretch myself and do very uncomfortable things like Speed Networking…just what you think…Speed Dating set up, but professional introductions followed by “My mission here is…” conversation with total strangers for four minutes. I found some really, really amazing thinkers there and I worked hard to connect. But, the weekend was also peppered with some other odd experiences like Laugh Yoga…seriously, standing in a room with 100 other people in business attire, stretching and forcing yourself to laugh…uncomfortable, bizarre, funny, but, again…interesting.  There were also personal sharing sessions and bongo drum beating.  It was like no other meeting I’ve ever been to…ever…in a 20+ year career.  And, people came to play. They participated. They didn’t walk when asked to stare at a stranger and laugh for 3 minutes. They committed themselves and did it all.

The jury is out for me on this particular meeting. I’m glad I did it, if nothing else but for the people I encountered and the ideas it started brewing in my head. But, here’s my question…would it have played out this way…those whacky 5 days of unusual happenings if I had started it the same as always…sitting quietly, looking down at my pictures instead of forcing myself to look out, ahead and forward? Hmmm….looking ahead and experiencing the sad, the bizarre and the interesting…I’ll leave that one to you to ponder.

Lessons From Paris

So, it turns out that being whisked away for a long weekend in Paris completely unexpectedly is everything it’s cracked up to be.  I mean, who knew?!  I sure didn’t, but, in the end, I learned. Yes, me…one normal harried, over-scheduled suburban American woman, got to find out what happens when her husband plans and pays for a trip to Paris and gives it to her 6 days before it’s time to leave.

You see…he knows me better than I thought.  He knew if he gave me time, I’d find a million reasons why I was too busy to take a trip like that or a million more why I shouldn’t be spending money on something so frivolous. So, he didn’t.  He just bought it, wrapped it and said, “We’re going.”  And, surprise of all surprises, I went along with it.

I can’t lie. When I opened the gift, I had a moment.  It was a moment when time sort of stopped. I’d been talking about taking this trip for some time and I had put it off for some time for very, very valid reasons. But, there it was. In front of me.  And, in all honesty. I needed it…well…maybe not exactly a grand trip to Paris…but I definitely needed a break, something to knock me out of the rut of the hectic lifestyle I’d created…just anything really. So, in that moment, I made a choice…just go with it. Accept it. See what it brings. What’s the worst that can happen? And, I kept that attitude for the next 6 days and then for the next 5, when I actually did it…actually spent all those days in a city I had dreamed of visiting for some time.

When we landed and boarded the train into the city and then the Metro to our hotel, it was a bit surreal still.  I mean, as little as a week ago, I had no idea I’d be anywhere other than home at that point in time. When we reached our Metro stop, we grabbed our suitcases and bags and headed out of the station.  It was underground and closed in. We walked up the steps and entered a small park with beautiful trees canopying the stairwell exit. My husband said, “Look. There it is.” And, I turned my gaze from my feet, to him and, then, around to see, directly in front of me, towering over all the building tops, the Eiffel Tower. To be honest, I cried. Right there. And, then I kissed my husband.  We needed this. We really needed this.

The Tower was our main view for the rest of the trip. We saw it from our hotel room every morning and every night. And, each time I looked upon it, I heard the song “One Day I’ll Fly Away” from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack in my head. “One day I’ll fly away. Leave it all behind like yesterday.”  It looped through my mind, over and over. Cliche? Maybe. I don’t care. It played there, in my mind, because it was true. We needed to fly away…just for a bit. And, crazy thing, we actually did.  I never do that. I never give in. But, I did. And..IT…WAS…FABULOUS.

We spent the next 4 days exploring and beginning to love this amazing city and all it has to offer. For me, it offered a few lessons. So, here they are for you.  Take them, enjoy them…recognize that many are not profound because I am, after all, just plain ol’ me. And, above all else, fly away yourself if you can and learn some lessons of your own.

1. Want Something To Last? Build It In Stone
First of all, the architecture in Paris is incredible…as you’ll find throughout Europe. Bridges that were built hundreds of years ago stand in perfect condition…because they were built with stone. Then, visit the museums and cathedrals.  Sainte Chapelle for example…the first seat of Royal Power in France and its cathedral. It stands in beautiful form with stained glass like nothing you’ll see elsewhere, telling long Biblical tales through colored glass and pictures.  Meanwhile, at the Louvre, you see sculpture and art from Greek times, Hammurabi’s code — the first known set of laws carved in stone — and more, all still pristine. Just wander these places…take it in…and it becomes abundantly clear that people since the dawn of time have been driven to create beauty, to celebrate and to reconcile tragedy through art, sculpture, architecture, music, dance and words.  It awes me and, all at once, worries me for those who don’t have an artistic outlet of some sort.

So, I leave Paris with a reminder in my head to keep creating, which leads me to Shakespeare & Company books…one of the oldest book stores in Paris, where many of the greatest writers have studied and worked and still do. I could have spent hours there, but I spent only one. During that time, I stumbled upon a small room upstairs that had a writing workshop underway. I listened in.  I heard an American woman reading her poetry, her voice shaking, her nerves coming through, but reading anyway. And, it was beautiful. It was a moving poem about a night with a lover and her fear that he’d see her true feelings. It may never make it anywhere beyond that room…that poem…but it will live with me, a stranger she never even saw lurking in the doorway, for a long time.

2. Drink Wine Throughout The Day…Every day
These people know what they are doing. Don’t get me wrong…don’t be drunk all day, everyday, but a glass of champagne with your luncheon salad and a bottle of wine with dinner or an apertif or digestive before and after your meal make life a little nicer.  Not once, did I feel tipsy, but I did feel relaxed, satiated and like I sat and enjoyed every meal to its fullest, which kept me from snacking or trolling around for junk the rest of the day. And, while I’m at it…forget just the relaxation of a nice drink now and again during the day, how about a kiss from your love or just holding hands in public? The French do it often. My husband and I did it often throughout the trip. And, it was nice.  Was it because we drank all day, probably not, but that sure didn’t hurt. I mean it did tend to make my husband more “French” somehow.  You see, the first day he was using French words here or there with waiters, storekeepers, etc. It was going well and we were making strides with our new French friends, but he was being very careful.  He asked me to watch out for him…”Don’t let me make an ass of myself,” he said at lunch the first day when he practiced asking for the check in French.  He chickened out in the end and just said the word for check rather than the whole sentence. It worked well.  Fast forward 7 hours later to dinner, after a bottle of wine and a digestif. He practiced the sentence again, determined to do it. Yet, this time, it had a lot more syllables and flair.  “You get much more French with wine,” I said.  And then we laughed and soon thereafter we kissed. C’est Magnifique!

3. Heed the Advice of Others
People loved our story. Our friends and families embraced the romance, the element of surprise and, like us, clearly fell in love with Paris when, they too, had visited.  So, they descended upon us with advice…must dos, and French etiquette lessons. It was a lot to take in, and I had held my own picture of this trip in my head for at least 5 years, so it would have been easy to just smile and nod and then go on our way. But, we didn’t.  We listened. We read. And, we appreciated their support. When you have 3 1/2 days to do a huge city you’ve wanted to take in forever, there’s not room for error. The advice of others matters. It helps. Paris isn’t cheap, and it’s large, and they speak a different language than we do. You could easily find yourself flailing, but our friends and the books written by others who have gone before us, kept us on track. Our pilot friend who flies there often and typically only has a few hours to see something, told us to get the interactive audio player for the Louvre if we couldn’t spend more than several hours there. We did. He was right. There was a “Masterpiece tour” and easy directions for seeing key exhibits. It saved us time and allowed us to do what we wanted. Meanwhile, my parents’ friends took time to write up their thoughts and ramblings on Paris. They are wine lovers and foodies. Their notes made us laugh AND helped us make great eating choices. Life is good when you learn from others who have gone before you.

4. Americans May be Ugly, but Europeans are Line Cutters
Seriously…they are. In the airport, waiting for train tickets, we got cut. At the Louvre, waiting to get in, we got cut. Several other places, very nonchalantly, people of all different European nationalities inserted themselves in front of us or others nearby as if they’d earned their spots.  So, when I stood awaiting an elevator ride down from atop the Eiffel Tower and heard a really drunk guy from Brooklyn talking way too loudly and abrasively about his ENTIRE trip and his life back home, I cringed, but not as much as I would have before. And, when I sat in a Metro station awaiting a train a day later and an older woman from the U.S. called to a man across the tracks “OHIO….OHIO” because he was wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt, I just smiled. It was a bit jarring, but at least she wasn’t moving him out of the way to get one or two people ahead of him while entering the train. It seems every culture has their issues. And, while I try hard not to be ugly or loud or distasteful, I will not be a line cutter. Ever.

5. I Love My Education
My public education in a Florida school and then, later, a state college has done me right. 11th grade Art History cultivated my love of art and has carried me through museums all around the world now.  And, my 9th grade English class, set the stage for me to go on for a Bachelor’s degree in English and nearly complete a writing and English Literature Master’s degree…my first born stopped me six credits short of it (someday).  Even better, Mrs. Gwynn, that lovely 9th grade English teacher, brought me A Tale of Two Cities. There is no way to visit Paris and take in its history without remembering key parts of that novel. Unless, of course, you’re my husband, who admitted he’d never read it while we were on this trip.  My husband with his private school education and a large part of his childhood spent in Europe while his father worked there.  I’ve rectified that…bought a copy for him in Shakespeare & Company books…and he will be reading it…and discussing it (I’m sure he’s really thrilled he treated me to this trip now). But, truly, your education is what you make it and I realized while walking through Paris, as I do with many new life experiences, that mine ain’t half bad.  That said, I have a theory.  There’s a shocker…me, with a theory!  But, I do…you see, I think I’m dumbing down in adulthood. There was a time when I watched smart documentaries and art house films and read literature. As life takes over, I’m lucky to get through chick lit, a comedy or a magazine. Paris reminded me that I’ve still got it…I just have to work it a little.

6. Forget Sexy, I’m Bring Paris Back
Not only have I felt like I’ve been dumbing down, but I also feel like I’m just piecing it together in the looks arena as an over-worked, middle-aged Mom.  French women did not make me feel much better in that area.  They are effortless and elegant and beautiful…all differnt shapes, sizes, ages and styles, of course, but, regardless, they have something about them.  There’s not a ton of makeup or, even plastic surgery from what I could tell (and I’m a master at calling that). Yet, they are always put together. We picnicked in the park on Sunday and saw many families out for a day of the same — biking, walking, playing badminton, etc.  Were the Moms wearing sweats or shorts and t-shirts? No. They were dressed nicely…not over-dressed, just pressed khakis or a pretty cotton skirt and t-shirt w/a scarf or nice jacket. It was the television show “What Not to Wear” come to life in front of my eyes.  My husband said, “Their attire for a day in the park with their kids is like what you and your friends wear for a girls night.  Around town, it’s like date night come to life for these women.”  And, he was right. And, I’m going to do it.  I’ll likely look ridiculous in our local park or around town dressed for what we find to be the equivalent of date night, but I don’t care. And, don’t even get me started on the food.  How hard is it to add fresh green beans or cubed, cooked potatoes to a garden salad? Not hard at all…and it makes it so much nicer.  So, dress, food, wine, whatever…I’m bringing Paris back here in my little suburban American life.

7. A Man Dancing Alone in Public Places Is Creepy No Matter Where You Are
Not a whole lot to say here. It seems to happen in crowded places in Paris a lot…markets, parks, tourist spots…men, standing with their backs to the crowd, headsets on and dancing, not ballroom dancing or ballet dancing. I’m talking techno-type dancing.  It doesn’t seem they are doing it for money. More like, just because. And, that makes them creepy. So, the life lesson here is avoid strange men dancing alone in public…in all cities and all countries. Period.

8. Bread is Good
I have a thing about stereotypes.  I think I’ve mentioned that in this blog before. I don’t like the lumping of a group into one description. It doesn’t leave room for growth or differences. And, I get really peeved when someone perpetuates a stereotype…except for this time.  Because, I found it’s true…the French do just wander the streets of Paris carrying and gnawing on baguettes.  It’s charming, actually. And, it brought to life every book I’d read or movie I’d seen where I thought it was just playing up a character. Not to mention, bread, especially fresh French bread, is unbelievably good. So, can you blame them?!

9. Two Things “Rate” In France for Sure
(1) Makeup Shopping…I love me a little make up and skin care shopping. Doing it on the Champs Elysees…well, that’s just heaven.  A girl could lose herself there and I almost did.  I entered the store and just took it in. Smelled and touched lightly a few things. Then, I picked up one item…just a gift for a friend, I thought. Next I moved on to another area…the bath products, a few more small gifts. Before I knew it, I had a basket in my hand and my husband stepped outside to find a seat. I was giddy. Those French women don’t get to go without makeup and look great for nothing. It’s their skincare regimen, right? “Oui, oui…it is”, said the nice storekeeper. “Would you like this hand lotion too, Madame?”

(2) Being mistaken for a local…I was on a busy cross street in an area awaiting the light to turn when a lovely French woman came over and said, “Bonjour.”  “Bonjour,” I replied in a sing-songy way as all our friends and books told us to do.  And, then she launched into a load of French with question in her eyes and voice and pointing in her gestures. And, I realized, she thought I belonged here. I smiled, said “Sorry,” in English and walked away feeling I’d conquered the day. Someone mistook me for one of those elegant, effortless French women. That one will stick for awhile!

10. Be Sure to Desecrate the Amazing Gift Your Husband Gave You with a Trip to the Seediest Part of Town for Your Anniversary
Because the trip was a gift from my husband that fell on the weekend of our wedding anniversary, I insisted I plan our anniversary dinner.  I researched and toiled to find a moderately priced (I AM still me, after all), yet romantic Parisian hideaway for dinner.  I found Chez Toinette in Montmartre.  It’s high atop Paris and requires climbing steep, San Francisco-type hills.  It was billed as one of the most romantic restaurants in town in a picturesque location. I was in. Reservations were made, and we planned to get there an hour or two before dinner to explore the area.

We arrived and found the climbs to be steep for sure, but the town was worth it and the Sacre Couer stood at the top. We walked up to it and took in the view below of our newfound friend, Paris. We walked back down to the restaurant.  Yet, we still had a bit of time.  It was on a sidestreet that was lined with bars for locals and artists. They were blue collar types hanging out in the streets outside the bars, smoking, drinking and carrying on loudly.  I had seen on the map that the Moulin Rouge was just down the hill and to the right of this street.  “We should at least see it since we’re here,” I said to my husband.  “The hill is too steep for your old beaten up knees though, let me run down there on my own and snap a picture.”  He looked learily down the street to the groups of drunk men.  “Nope, I’m coming with you.”

So down we trudged, hurting his knees and pushing our way through drunks and seedier and seedier buildings.  We get to the cross-street below and take a right hand turn and we were in the middle of the red light district…big time.  Of course, the root of the Cabaret in Paris would be in the red light district, it makes sense.  As we walked past strip clubs and prostitutes to snap our picture, I had to laugh.  “Thanks for bringing me to the city of my dreams, dear,” I said to my husband. “To celebrate our anniversary, I’ve decided to plop you into the grossest, dirtiest part of town.”  We took our picture of the Moulin Rouge and trudged back up the hill.  Entering the restaurant after that didn’t seem so romantic, just a little concerning since it was so close to the seediness. But, we settled in. We were the first couple in there. The menu was unusual and I’m not sure they see a ton of Americans. But, they treated us well. Before we knew it, the lights were dim and there was some amazing music crooning in the background. Then, the meal was served and it was unbelievable. Before long, other couples streamed in and the evening went on amongst murmurs from other tables, perfect music and great food.  When we left, my husband thanked me for the best meal of the trip. And, I was ready to kiss the lovely hostess at the restaurant who made our night so perfect.

11. Appreciate
My husband was a young pre-teen boy when he lived in Europe.  His parents constantly took him and his sisters on day and weekend trips to amazing locales barking at him to get his head out of his comic books and “appreciate!”  I learned on this journey that he really did. He seemed comfortable there. He had memories of that place. Connecting to that was wonderful.  Yet, it helped me appreciate too.  I took the time to appreciate that life can be tough. Really, really tough.  And, you can buckle or you can do all you can to get through it and, then, out of nowhere a surprise can come, and it can make you appreciate all that you have.  I also learned something that I could have learned anywhere. Spend time alone with your spouse. We have not been on a real vacation for just the two of us in more than 10 years. My husband came with me on a few work weekends or overnights, but I worked while he explored…not the same. It seems trivial, it seems obvious, but, for us, it wasn’t. I let that working Mom guilt wreak havoc with me and convinced myself I should never be away for pleasure without my kids. Yet, my husband needed me to be away with him and, it turns out, I needed that right back. Having Paris as the background for that was just icing on the cake.

That Guy

I have this thing about stereotypes.  I know they exist for a reason, but it really, really peeves me when I come across someone responsible for perpetuating them by living them out. Take for example, the guy who sat at the table next to us when we went out to dinner last night. He was “that guy.” There with his family, sitting at an outside table at dusk, eyes shielded by rainbow-colored Oakleys circa 1987. There was no glaring sun at 7 p.m. on this shaded deck but he needed the glasses as he sat there with a woman and three young children (all under age 5) who I presumed to be his wife and kids.

From the moment I saw him, I could tell he was trying to be the “big man.” Yet, I thought to myself, “Don’t judge. He’s probably just a nice guy treating his family to a lovely dinner on a Saturday night.” Unfortunately, that sentiment didn’t last long. It was the way he commanded the waiter and talked too loudly and had uncomfortable, stilted “I’m a Dad” conversations with the oldest of the three children that kept pushing me there.  “Here it goes,” I thought.  “The Dad who works 90 hours a week and barely knows his kids putting on a big show at the local Italian restaurant.”  You see…”that guy” always acts the same.  He always chooses a public place to talk loudly with his kids about how he woo-ed their mother or teach them some life lesson, or laugh too loudly at some normal, young child thing the kids have just done while looking around at everyone to make sure they notice him bonding with the children.

This time was no different. As he sipped Pellegrino and downed a bottle of red wine, he advised his children on the “right” music to enjoy — some 80s hair band I believe — reminisced even more loudly, likely due to the third glass of wine, about how, when he met their mother, he told her he could only commit to loving her on Tuesdays…the rest of the week was up to her to figure out. That one left the poor children baffled and asking questions, but he just kept talking over them…”Nope…just Tuesdays…that’s all I could give…ahhh..haa…haaa…haah!”  And, then, just as we were on our way out, he did it.

I wondered how long it would take or if it would happen at all, and it did.  He started in on their house, I think…or maybe his house…I still have hope that this was single Mom out on a bad date with a new guy and her family, and she ditched him right after the debacle.  I don’t really believe that, but it did help me get over the ickiness of this guy and his family for the night.  Anyway…I digress.  He started in on where he lives.  “You know…I can’t have it the same way I did my bachelor pad, you know?” he said.  The woman, mind you, had been sitting there most of the time, nodding, smiling (maybe smirking) and trying to juggle the kids. This time she said, “ummm…hmmm” tentatively.  He went on and, in that moment, I knew I’d hit the jackpot of stereotype perpetuators.  “I mean, it’s only worth as much as I make in a year…the house…really, it could be much better,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear…I was outside the patio at that point and heard it clearly. It wasn’t a surprise…”that guy” always goes there. He needed everyone to know he made money, clearly what he believes is lots of money.

We’ve all met “that guy” or versions of him. It’s a stereotype, right?  It exists for a reason.  And, the reason is him and the thousands of others like him.  He couldn’t just be a hard-working Dad spending time with his family.  He had to make sure everyone knew he was the provider and he was doing well.  It’s as if he needed to prove something to himself and his kids.  It’s as if he has no idea he’s a walking, talking bearer of shallowness who can be summed up in a few brief paragraphs on some woman’s blog.

Not long ago, I encountered another one of those guys, a bit of a lesser version of last night’s, at our neighborhood pool.  My kids and husband were swimming while I awaited a pizza delivery for our dinner that evening.  The man and his wife at the lounge chairs near me struck up a conversation about how cold the water was so early in the season. I explained that, in my family, swimming in that cold of water with the kids equates to a “Daddy job.”  They laughed and the wife moved on to check on the kids. Before she was even 10 steps away, he turned to me and said. “I don’t have a choice, you know. I have to swim tonight. I travel for a living.”  I looked a little befuddled and said, “Oh, you do.”  “Yep,” he responded. “Was away this week on a business trip.”  I didn’t say what I was thinking which was..”Well…give yourself an award, buddy. You traveled for work this week. So did I.”  I smiled and said, “I’m sure it’s hard to be gone a lot.”  He bowed up.  “Yes…it really is, but, you know, it’s my job.” He said it dismissively like I couldn’t possibly understand the importance of it and I should pat him on the back and say, “Good job. You traveled AND you swam in a cold pool with your kids. You get a gold star.”

I had a boss once years ago. She was near the end of her career.  We had just hired a young new graphic designer onto the team. He was in his late 20s and had just become a father. He needed a ton of attention. I saw him as a bit of a narcissist. She, a mother and long-time manager of people, saw something different.  She saw the young boy in him who just needed praise.  He probably didn’t get much at home with his young, harried stay-at-home wife and several small children.  She likened it to potty-training her son 20 years before.  She’d say, “He just needs a reward. No different than my son showing me his poop in the potty when he was two. I’d clap and praise him and give him an M&M and he’d walk away willing to do it every day to get that M&M.  It’s the same with our designer. I just look at his graphic design work and ohh and ahh and he goes back with a big smile and does it again.”  At the time, I was young and thought maybe they were both a bit crazy, but now I know…it’s true.

It’s not true about all people…or all men…but for “those guys”…you know the ones…it’s that easy.  So, when you see someone perpetuating the “big man” stereotype, just pat him on the back, tell him how great he is and move on.  It won’t help those kids with the self-centered, egoist, absent father. It won’t change it. And, that’s why I hate when I see someone live a stereotype…because it balks in the face of self-improvement, personal growth. It holds people right where they are and it doesn’t let them change. It does, though, allow us a really good laugh every now and then and make us wonder what stereotypes we might perpetuate ourselves…I mean I couldn’t possibly be the observing, slightly judgemental writer? Could I? Never!

The Science of Facing Fears

I did it.  You see…I have this ridiculously irrational fear of flying. I know that makes me sound particularly unworldly, so I’ll clarify that it doesn’t keep me from actually getting on planes and doing what I need to do, but it does keep me truly, honestly terrified whenever I do it. So, when I was faced with traveling across the world for work on a 14 hour flight (16 hour return) to the heart of the Middle East, Dubai, I was all about finding an escape from that particular trip.  Paris, Brussels, London, Barcelona, even Egypt, the Ivory Coast or China…all appealing destinations for pushing myself onto a plane and flying over the ocean for many, many hours, but Dubai…seriously?!  That one just didn’t feel really worthwhile.  But, I did it.  I faced my fears.

Well…that sounds way more heroic and life transforming than the reality.  In actuality, none of my normal “I’ll-get-out-of-this-trip” tactics worked so I let my soul-sucking sell out side take over and dragged myself onto that plane where I promptly tracked every move we made and panicked as we flew directly over every U.S. enemy and known terrorist cell.  It turns out, I learned, that we’ve stopped being concerned with putting commercial flights directly over Iran. We’ve just invested in better pressurization equipment and we fly higher “so we’re out of range,” explained the flight attendant.  Oh…that’s way better.  May I have another drink please?

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start from the beginning.  After checking in at the airport, I went to the Currency Exchange counter.  “I’d like AED, please, Dirham,” I say.  The young guy looks at me and counts it out. Before handing it back, he says, “You did say Dirham, right? Where are you going?”  I tell him I’m going to Dubai.  He laughs and says, “You must be visiting friends.”  No…no, I’m going for work, I explain and he laughs again…really, not a good start.  So…I bite.  “What’s funny?”  He says, “Well, you’re just this nice little lady. You’re not really the regular Dubai passenger. They’re all big contractor guys.”  Hmmm…that surprised me a little since our company has been sending white collar workers there to do business in this mecca of wealth and big business for some time, but I figured he must be mistaken.  I figured that all the way until I walked into the gate area, which felt distinctly like walking into a construction site.  It was me and about 100 men who looked me up and down and might as well have cat called…a look I’d get very used to for the rest of the trip!  I made the immediate choice to head to the Starbucks until it was time to get on the plane.

Upon boarding, I decided to quell my fears with the champagne and, then, wine offerings. “My” flight attendant introduced himself…he was “Akim” and he was here to serve me on this flight.  So…after years and years of domestic work travel where I often got stuck in the middle seat in the back for long hauls, I decided to embrace the luxury.  That lasted about 20 minutes.  Then, it was time to take off and I felt an odd mixture of motion sickness, the normal fear and a hint of “what the hell am I really doing here” for the next 3 hours until I let inflight entertainment and sleep take over. One magazine, two movies, an episode of Mary Tyler Moore and a couple hours of fitful sleep later, I decide to check the moving map on my screen that allows you track the flight’s progress.  The first blow…we’ve got 8 more hours…yes…8…a work day, a school day for the kids, a really good night of sleep….when you are in the air over the ocean…an eternity. Yet, wait, we aren’t over the ocean for much longer…what’s that land up ahead on the map, I wonder.  The flight route I had checked before leaving had us going over the Atlantic and barely crossing over land other than Spain and then a few more seas, then, Israel, the edge of Iraq and into Dubai.  This can’t be right…we had gone up the North American coast and over to what looked like Europe coming up.  Sure enough…we continued to fly over all the places I would love to stop….ahh…Paris…some day you and I will dance!  And, then, we took a turn downward to all those countries in the world that  house people who have boldly set out to harm us. Okay…I think…it is happening, but they know what they are doing.  Just go back to sleep.  Fitful sleep, Moving Map check, looking around…is anyone else noticing this?  Where the hell is Akim???  Breathe.  I mean, really, what do I think is going to happen?  Someone down there has tracked this flight out of the hundreds of others to try to launch a missile toward us at nearly 40,000 feet  to make their statement?  Maybe….but I go to my fallback argument for the terror I feel whenever flying…you’re here now. Not much you can do.  Then, I move on to the ever enlightened, “it’s your destiny” argument.  Until I doze off and wake again to find that Moving Map still saying way too long until landing and yes…totally on track for scary things.  Soon after, Akim is back with breakfast and a kind smile and I know we’re almost done, so I hang on tight.  We land, depart, get through customs…all that time I’m traveling along with another colleague who flew several rows behind me on the flight, and while not scared of flying was also very scared of the route.  He’s the one who got the intel on the pressurized equipment.  It turns out, you see, that while I thought I was just being irrational, I was not.  Everyone I encountered from my group upon meeting up in Dubai commented on their flight route and their concerns no matter their air carrier or origination point.

So,  through customs – the airport is very westernized…everything in English before Arabic, Starbucks, McDonald’s, Avis, Hilton, everywhere I looked.  The only thing that told me I was in Dubai was a prayer call over the intercom at one point, but honestly, I hear that in the taxi holding area at LaGuardia just as often…and way more people stop for it there!  Into our car and through the city…now, I see the reason for all the contractors on the plane…nothing but shopping malls, theme parks, hotels and construction sites with a few business buildings in the distance, even many of those are under construction. And, again, all English signs with small Arabic underneath, if at all.  By the time we make it to our hotel, the Atlantis, on the man-made Palm island jutting into the Persian Gulf, it feels like South Florida. We get checked in where they refuse to believe that I am not with the male colleague I rode in with.  They will NOT let go of my bag but also keep insisting on delivering it to his room even while I check in to a separate room in the line next to him.  They did end up still delivering the bag to his room and he sent it back to mine.  I walk through the decadent lobby, smelly, rumpled and looking like I had been on a plane for 14 hours.  Finally, I’m in another land…men in traditional Arabic dress with women, heads and eyes covered, walking a few feet behind.  That, of course, is mixed in with tourists from other countries dressed in short shorts, tight jeans and bleach blonde hair…a mixture I think to myself smacks of conservative Arabic mixed with American hooch.

Onto the elevator I hop, soon followed by honestly the most beautiful exotic young woman ever…she has legs that go a mile, beautiful dark eyes and long, curly hair. She is wearing 4 inch spike heels and a dress that is really just a small sheath of cloth. And, she proceeds to bore her eyes into me…uncomfortably for 21 floors.  I’m thinking…I’m an old, dowdy, smelly American and she’s so amazingly young and exotic.  I start to leave and she stops me…”Wait,” she calls urgently…I think to myself…”Is she about to proposition me?” (always flattering myself, you know)…or give me beauty tips?  Instead, she says…with a huge smile and very broken English… ”Your hair; the color”?  Oh…my red hair does stand out a bit here.  I smile back and say thank you.  She asks…”Which color you use?”  “Oh…no…no color…it’s mine,” I respond.  She puts her hand to her heart and groans. As the doors close, I hear her say, “Very nice, very nice.”  Huh….that will pump you up.  Everyone…even the most amazingly beautiful…want something they don’t have. So I go to my room, clean up and get ready to explore the place.

It goes without saying that being a woman there is odd.  You get mixed looks of interest, intrigue and pure disgust.  Regardless, you get treated as secondary…no matter the motive.  It’s the one place I’ve ever been that I didn’t ever feel totally comfortable being alone, not because I thought I’d be accosted or harmed, but because I felt like I was being judged as a heathen or just too much of an American.  One early morning after working out, I stopped for tea to take back to my room.  I got on the elevator and held the door for a man coming in behind me.  I smiled at him, no response.  He stood there in very modern dress (black shorts, t-shirt and flip flops) a half foot in front of me, very stiff.  He looked young and modern but was clearly traditional…longer dark hair and beard. I stood considering how hot my tea was and wondering if I smelled from working out and offended him.  To be totally honest, I wondered if he knew I had seen him walking a much younger, American-dressed man to the front door (holding hands at 6:45 a.m.).  Then, we got to his floor. I was looking down at my tea when I heard him say “morning” in a gruff way.  I looked up and said…”Oh…have a nice day” to his back which was still to me.  His response…he turned and said “I know you are afraid of me. It’s okay.”  I said “No…” just as the doors closed.  I don’t think I was.  I think I was afraid FOR him if I read the scene with the young man correctly.  I think I was bothered that he didn’t return my smile when he came on.  I think I was interested in his story at the same time that my head was filled with my own “stuff” – tea that was too hot, how I could get ready for my meeting in time, what was happening at home, etc.  I know I was scared of him after that comment though.  I went to my room and laughed…no matter your background, your culture, your gender, you’ve got a story in your head, right?  His was that a pale, red headed American woman couldn’t possibly look at him without fear.

My story for the rest of the trip was about work and meetings…as it always is on these types of trips.  We had some time to explore the place a little but, to be honest, Dubai felt like you were at Disney World pretending to be in Dubai.  It was a lovely place but not one I’d travel back to for pleasure.  It was crowded, touristy and way too westernized. There was little-to-no Arabic culture to be seen without digging deep and exploring for it, but Rolexes, Versace, Tag Heuer and Coach were abundant.

Days later, I returned home on a flight that was full of more men and women like me…the difference between the weekend departure flight and the weekday return, I believe.  By then, I was better for having faced the fear of the long flight, smoked from hookah pipes, drank Emirates Spice tea everyday while overlooking the Persian Gulf, visiting the desert and riding camels, trying new foods and meeting and developing global strategy with new work colleagues. Am I still terrified of flying in general? Absolutely! Am I still terrified of flying over Iran again some day? Absolutely! Am I terrified of that man on the elevator or the unknown of that Middle Eastern jewel by the sea? Absolutely not, but I’m not sure I ever was.  So…is that facing your fears? Not in my book, but it’s definitely an experience worth logging. One normal woman does Dubai!