Beck and the Bookstore
"I could live without seeing another wat or market again," Krista comments as we pass by a group of monks and a row of street stalls selling Lao Beer T-shirts and bottled water.
My mind isn't on Krista's comments. I am wondering how the monks keep warm when its cold outside. I've noticed them drape their robes differently depending on the activity they're engaged in, but are they allowed to add swaths of fabric or to wear two robes when it's this cold outside?
I don't broach the subject.
"Yeah, I'm sick of wats, too. But, I still kind of like the markets," I say.
Krista and I haven't left each other's side for many days. We aren't just sick of wats and markets, we're sick of hearing the other's voice. I manage to find all of her comments as insensitive, petty, and uneducated. She accuses me to be demeaning, immature, and dorky, "like an engineer", when communicating with others.
Right now, she's looking for a bookstore. She's always looking for a bookstore. All I can see is a road where you are highly unlikely to find a bookstore. The street is relatively quiet and unpolluted. I see older Lao people sitting on stools in front of garages, dogs laying on the sidewalk, a government building to our left, and two, maybe three white people walking around dispassionately, but no sign of a bookstore anywhere.
We pass the government building. "There it is!" Krista exclaims. In a nasal, mocking tone she adds, "There's no bookstore. I don't see a bookstore."
I am amazed. I choose silence as my protest.
We enter and we are immediately greeted at the door by a young Lao man. "Sabawdeeeeee," he says smiling.
"Sabawdee," we reply.
Krista is visibly excited. She pulls out a copy of Into Thin Air. She says, "You really should read this. We're going to Nepal...it would be a good book to read before you go."
I shake my head unimpressed. I pick it up briefly and set it right down again.
I hate it when people say I should read a book. It's a pet peeve of mine and I try not to recommend books to others. I have recommended books to others and I am always disappointed when they don't enjoy it as much as I did. There's also the scenario when somebody gets really excited and forcefully loans a book to you (as happened to me with the book Geek Love). It's embarrassing to return the book and to admit you never even read it. For me, getting a book should be a mystical experience--a choice fostered by spiritual free will. Often, friends turn it into something like an arranged marriage. I prefer to surf Amazon.com or to walk the aisles at Powell's. I love to meander through each colored room waiting for a book to call out to me. Sometimes it will sing loudly, other times it will just whisper, "Take me home."
Show me the book I am supposed to read and I will scoff at your suggestion and will forever mark it as "that book that I am not supposed to read".
Krista picks up another book and tells me I should read it. Its cover looks like a dozen editors vomited on it. I can't even separate the synopsis from the illustrations.
Krista knows I'm on edge. She senses it before I can even realize it on a conscious level. She begins playing with a blonde baby that's standing up in a play pen in the far corner of the room. You can't shoot a woman with a baby.
"Bonjour. Bonjour." Krista coos.
I don't even look. "I'm going upstairs to look at the gallery," I inform her.
The steps are steep. They remind me of the steps going up to the attic on Mork and Mindy. As I reach the last step, I can see new furnishings purposely stained brown and weathered to look old. A Western couple is sitting on the floor across from each other. On one end of the table are two empty shake glasses; on the other end is a stack of postcards. They are writing on the postcards and pausing every once in a while to look pensively at the ceiling fan. A barista bar is at the back of the room. There are chalk boards with menus and notices scattered above an attendant's head. One of the signs read, "If you sit, please make an order for each person." I also see the price for a bottle of beer and it costs double what it does at a local restaurant down the street. I begin to hate this place...until I take a closer look at the walls.
Past issues of National Geographic line the two opposing sides of the room. They rest on long, narrow shelves and are supported in the front by wire. I recognize some of the issues from my grandfather's collection. One of them has a photo of Mt. St. Helens erupting. I pull it down and gingerly flip through its pages and instantly become a bit homesick.
As I'm examining a graph that depicts the magnitude of the eruption compared to other volcanoes that have erupted around the world, Krista steps off the ladder and into the room. I keep reading. She steps into the gallery and looks around. "Hey, they have banana bread with fresh, homemade peanut butter."
My eyes turn to her and she's sitting on a rattan chair with a menu in her hand. I walk over and take the menu from her. It's true. They have peanut butter. I've been craving peanut butter for several days now. I turn to the attendant and order some.
Krista sits. I open my magazine, but I've lost my place. I start reading one of the articles about cockroaches, but I can't go any further because Krista is irritating me.
"Did you see that sign over there -- the one about ordering something?" I ask.
Krista stands up and tells me, "I'm going to go to be with myself now."
I sit down next to where she was sitting and take a bite of the peanut butter and bread. It tastes divine.
"Do you want a bite?" I ask holding a small piece up to her.
"I'm going to go," she says.
"Do you want to meet later?" I ask.
"No. I need to be alone."
The owner is Beck's new CD. Krista and I call this the break up CD. We bought it together at some hip record store on Valencia and I never play it because it's so depressing. Once, I told her I would only play it if we were on the verge of breaking up. Sometimes, after we get in a fight, she asks me if I was listening to it and it brings a kind of levity to the situation. At this moment, however, their playing Beck is too much irony for me to handle.
"I could live without seeing another wat or market again," Krista comments as we pass by a group of monks and a row of street stalls selling Lao Beer T-shirts and bottled water.
My mind isn't on Krista's comments. I am wondering how the monks keep warm when its cold outside. I've noticed them drape their robes differently depending on the activity they're engaged in, but are they allowed to add swaths of fabric or to wear two robes when it's this cold outside?
I don't broach the subject.
"Yeah, I'm sick of wats, too. But, I still kind of like the markets," I say.
Krista and I haven't left each other's side for many days. We aren't just sick of wats and markets, we're sick of hearing the other's voice. I manage to find all of her comments as insensitive, petty, and uneducated. She accuses me to be demeaning, immature, and dorky, "like an engineer", when communicating with others.
Right now, she's looking for a bookstore. She's always looking for a bookstore. All I can see is a road where you are highly unlikely to find a bookstore. The street is relatively quiet and unpolluted. I see older Lao people sitting on stools in front of garages, dogs laying on the sidewalk, a government building to our left, and two, maybe three white people walking around dispassionately, but no sign of a bookstore anywhere.
We pass the government building. "There it is!" Krista exclaims. In a nasal, mocking tone she adds, "There's no bookstore. I don't see a bookstore."
I am amazed. I choose silence as my protest.
We enter and we are immediately greeted at the door by a young Lao man. "Sabawdeeeeee," he says smiling.
"Sabawdee," we reply.
Krista is visibly excited. She pulls out a copy of Into Thin Air. She says, "You really should read this. We're going to Nepal...it would be a good book to read before you go."
I shake my head unimpressed. I pick it up briefly and set it right down again.
I hate it when people say I should read a book. It's a pet peeve of mine and I try not to recommend books to others. I have recommended books to others and I am always disappointed when they don't enjoy it as much as I did. There's also the scenario when somebody gets really excited and forcefully loans a book to you (as happened to me with the book Geek Love). It's embarrassing to return the book and to admit you never even read it. For me, getting a book should be a mystical experience--a choice fostered by spiritual free will. Often, friends turn it into something like an arranged marriage. I prefer to surf Amazon.com or to walk the aisles at Powell's. I love to meander through each colored room waiting for a book to call out to me. Sometimes it will sing loudly, other times it will just whisper, "Take me home."
Show me the book I am supposed to read and I will scoff at your suggestion and will forever mark it as "that book that I am not supposed to read".
Krista picks up another book and tells me I should read it. Its cover looks like a dozen editors vomited on it. I can't even separate the synopsis from the illustrations.
Krista knows I'm on edge. She senses it before I can even realize it on a conscious level. She begins playing with a blonde baby that's standing up in a play pen in the far corner of the room. You can't shoot a woman with a baby.
"Bonjour. Bonjour." Krista coos.
I don't even look. "I'm going upstairs to look at the gallery," I inform her.
The steps are steep. They remind me of the steps going up to the attic on Mork and Mindy. As I reach the last step, I can see new furnishings purposely stained brown and weathered to look old. A Western couple is sitting on the floor across from each other. On one end of the table are two empty shake glasses; on the other end is a stack of postcards. They are writing on the postcards and pausing every once in a while to look pensively at the ceiling fan. A barista bar is at the back of the room. There are chalk boards with menus and notices scattered above an attendant's head. One of the signs read, "If you sit, please make an order for each person." I also see the price for a bottle of beer and it costs double what it does at a local restaurant down the street. I begin to hate this place...until I take a closer look at the walls.
Past issues of National Geographic line the two opposing sides of the room. They rest on long, narrow shelves and are supported in the front by wire. I recognize some of the issues from my grandfather's collection. One of them has a photo of Mt. St. Helens erupting. I pull it down and gingerly flip through its pages and instantly become a bit homesick.
As I'm examining a graph that depicts the magnitude of the eruption compared to other volcanoes that have erupted around the world, Krista steps off the ladder and into the room. I keep reading. She steps into the gallery and looks around. "Hey, they have banana bread with fresh, homemade peanut butter."
My eyes turn to her and she's sitting on a rattan chair with a menu in her hand. I walk over and take the menu from her. It's true. They have peanut butter. I've been craving peanut butter for several days now. I turn to the attendant and order some.
Krista sits. I open my magazine, but I've lost my place. I start reading one of the articles about cockroaches, but I can't go any further because Krista is irritating me.
"Did you see that sign over there -- the one about ordering something?" I ask.
Krista stands up and tells me, "I'm going to go to be with myself now."
I sit down next to where she was sitting and take a bite of the peanut butter and bread. It tastes divine.
"Do you want a bite?" I ask holding a small piece up to her.
"I'm going to go," she says.
"Do you want to meet later?" I ask.
"No. I need to be alone."
The owner is Beck's new CD. Krista and I call this the break up CD. We bought it together at some hip record store on Valencia and I never play it because it's so depressing. Once, I told her I would only play it if we were on the verge of breaking up. Sometimes, after we get in a fight, she asks me if I was listening to it and it brings a kind of levity to the situation. At this moment, however, their playing Beck is too much irony for me to handle.
posted by c. @ 10:28 PM
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