En
route. A bit more security at the BJ
airport after the Kunming incident. But
not much. People are beginning to dress
more and more like its spring. Huge
coats look increasingly unnecessary. I’ve
got my triple expresso at the Costa Coffee perch in the grand hall. It doesn’t have the same majesty of a Grand
Central, though it is larger by far. A
manta like maw, as I once described it, people entering through the baleen and
shot out the back. Off to that
international terminal in the rear, now.
I tried to pause mid flight and jot
down some thoughts. I’ll have a
drink. No you won’t. United wants now to charge for alcohol on
international flights. I guess I should
be thankful that the pillows are still complementary. I’m doing my best to ignore the inane complementary
movie that everyone is subjected to projected on to screens above and in
front. I am being made to watch,
challenged to ignore some cornball coming of age drama. A nervous red head kid who looks like Mark
Zuckerburg is drinking too much at a party.
Now he’s graduating. I’m back in
my book, but, alas, I 情不自禁[1]
, and now he’s getting married, he looks ever more implausible as he ages
enough but not at all, to have a child.
We’re obliged to take in every facile milestone of this poorly wrought
character’s life. I wish I could fast forward to his
funeral.
It could be a shattering work of
insight. I don’t believe I need anything
more than these infrequent glances to make this judgment call. Now we have another bit of futuristic
nonsense full of kids with magic powers.
United needs to know that I would pay more. I would happily pay a premium if they would
just turn off all movies.
He must have heard my plea. Our friendly United CEO Jim Smisek is now
making an announcement to the passengers.
He is telling us about how United has the rights to Gershwin’s “Rhapsody
in Blue” and how it is now firmly and utterly associated with United in everyone’s
mind. I’m not sure that undeniable
marketing success is something to brag about.
No one can think of this American masterpiece without imagining inflight
food service. Isn't the song in the public
domain by now? George wrote the unforgettable
melody back in 1924, not soaring above the country, but click clacking along on
a train, from New York to Boston: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhapsody_in_Blue
It was on the
train, with its steely rhythms, its rattle-ty bang, that is so often so
stimulating to a composer – I frequently hear music in the very heart of the
noise.... And there I suddenly heard, and even saw on paper – the complete
construction of the Rhapsody, from beginning to end. No new themes came to me,
but I worked on the thematic material already in my mind and tried to conceive
the composition as a whole. I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of
America, of our vast melting pot, of our unduplicated national pep, of our
metropolitan madness. By the time I reached Boston I had a definite plot of the
piece, as distinguished from its actual substance.”
Change over in SF. Cloudy!
I had this sharp sun in my mind, but it isn’t here. There is a low cloud cover, which is normal
enough every day in San Francisco, but not out here near Burlingame. I snapped a few tired, shots of the “South
San Francisco, The Industrial City” which isn’t likely to be very industrial at
all any more, all of whatever manufacturing had been there having moved over to
where I’m from. I will have to wait for
any sun. But not for a triple shot
Peet’s espresso. I know just where to
find it.
Flying down the California coast,
over the water and the mountains, some of which even have snow, it’s quick jump
down to San Diego. OK. Now we have some sun. Strong, undeniable glow that forces me to
squint. Alluring, but I’ve been up for
thirty some hours now and I’m going give the San Diego Starbucks a miss. Bag has arrived, exhale. Where’s the taxi queue? Mind flash, a Chinese customer dropping two
hundred dollars in Las Vegas cabbing it out to a budget hotel he booked on line. Free airport Wifi and I confirm the place I’m
heading is only a few miles from here.
America, always exotic for the
first day or two back. What is normal
and protean all seems special. My cabby,
her first fare of the day. “Yes. I’m flying in from Beijing. It nice to see the sun. Where’s home for you?” Eritrea?!
Wow. I am a big fan of Ethiopian
music. Tell me about the music of
Eritrea.” “Here, I’ll put this on. No.
That is church music. This one is
good.” “What is the capital of
Eritrea? Asmara? Oh. Right.
Is it on the coast? No? OK. What
are relations with Ethiopia like these days?”
“Ethiopia? They have lots of
problems.” “I see.” Welcome to San Diego.
At the hotel, a well-tanned guy who
must be my age, drives me over to my bungalow in a golf cart. He keeps calling me brother. I kind of like it. Born in San Diego, got his first surfboard
when he was eleven, it is obviously what he lives for. “We’ve had some awesome swells this past
month, my brother. Just awesome. Hey, let me show you something. When you’re heading back to the main lobby,
and you always know where it is by the flag pole, up there, you see?. You can see that from anywhere. Just cut through this alley back. Save you ten minutes on the walk back,
brother. Yup. Right up that way.” He is easily as exotic as the woman from
Eritrea.
Internet, bathroom, sheets back,
afternoon crash. I’m out brother. Rise and roll out to the team dinner
somewhere by the water. Another gent and
I grab a cab. This time our driver, a
heavy set man with a deep voice hails from Nigeria. A Yoruban from the west of the country near
the border with Benin. “No, no. Chiuna Achebe was not Ibo. He was from another tribe, nearby, but the
Ibo claimed him . . . In the north, yes,
there is a tribe of Christians who will not allow the Muslims to build, even
one mosque. They are fierce. No, no.
I did not like Fela. He smoked
too much.”
The cab ride home is crowded. I’m in the back. Multiple conversations. Still, I must ask
this lithe young man driving where he’s from. Less loquacious, busy steering,
turning, clarifying. “Me? Just a minute. Me?
I’m from Somalia”
Fascinating. Are there many
Somalis here in San Diego? Oh sure. Many more in L.A. But I’ve been here ten years now. This is my home now.”
Reacquainting myself with my
homeland. Meetings all day. Margaret Meade, slowly acquainting myself
with the customs of a new tribe. My fresh
“foreign” gaze will evaporate soon as my American core reasserts itself over
the kaleidoscopic variety that presently fascinates and to which Gershwin
referred.
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