Did you happen to lose your copy of Jude the Obscure on the Metro today (specifically the Orange Line during the morning rush hour)? If your copy of Jude the Obscure looks like the pic below and your answer to the previous question is yes, you can find your book (with business card acting as bookmark entact) at Foggy Bottom Metro with the station manager (which is where I left it this morning after finding it and begging her to please hold on to it).
I was walking to the Metro after work yesterday on my way to see Dr. W. As I crossed the street, I saw an elderly couple on the corner. They were both huddled over a map and one of them was wearing a fanny pack. Obviously tourists, I thought to myself. I watched them flip the map over as they were trying to figure out just exactly where they were. In the mad rush to get to where ever it is that we all needed to go, no one stopped to help them.
For a second, I thought that I would just follow the masses and ignore the old people. But for some strange reason, I just couldn’t. Maybe it was the fact that they were old. Or maybe it was the innocent, clueless looks on their faces. Or perhaps I was appreciative that they hadn’t rented a car (for more on how I don’t think old people should drive, click here). Whatever it was, it tugged at my heartstrings. I actually turned around, walked towards the couple and offered my assistance. A look of relief washed over their faces. “Oh thank you, thank you!” the old lady said. I replied, somewhat embarrassed, “Don’t thank me yet. I may not know where you need to go.” The old man said, “Do you know how to get to Georgetown from here?” I answered, “The university or…” The old man interrupted, “No, the little shopping area.” I warned them, “Well, it’s a bit of a walk from here but if you’re up for it, I can tell you how to walk there.” The old lady said, “It’s a pretty day so I don’t mind walking.” I gave them directions and even showed them the route on their little map. They were very, very appreciative. “We would’ve been lost without you,” the old lady said. That old lady sure knew how to tug on those strings. As they both said thank you for the umpteenth time, I wished them a happy stay in G-town and I headed towards the Metro.
On my way there, I thought, Awww…I feel warm fuzzies for helping those people. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on tourists. Yeah, they keep me from getting on the Metro sometimes with their standing on both sides of the escalator and their collective stopping at the doorway to a train, or their collective stopping at the bottom or top of an escalator. But they’re just trying to figure things out like I was when I was a DC intern so long ago. Granted, I always stood on the right and always kept moving, especially during rush hour. However, I can relate to their confusion. It felt good to help that couple.
Just another deposit into the Bank of Karma.
When I got to the Metro station, I remembered that I had a negative balance on my SmarTrip card. I saw two SmarTrip fare card machines. One had a long line of people who seemed to belong to the same group. The other was empty. I went to the empty one. “No SmarTrip” it read across the top. Damn you, broken fare card machine. I walked to the other machine with the long line. Everyone was holding a wad of cash while the person in front worked the machine. Eventually, the person in front figured out how to use the machine. By the time she did so, two more SmarTrip card users had lined up behind me. I heard grumbling behind me, “Couldn’t they just use the regular fare card machines? Why does it have to be the only one that works for SmarTrip?” Clearly she was reading my mind.
Surprisingly, the station manager noticed that there were 7 people in line for this machine and walked over to us yelling, “Who here is trying to get a regular fare card?” The 4 ladies that were part of the bigger group spoke up and the station manager showed them the empty fare card machines that were nearby that they could use. One of them explained, “I didn’t know we could use these. We’re visiting from Texas and all of this is so new to us.” Yeah. Whatevs. Step aside for the locals.
Eventually, I reloaded my SmarTrip card. But I had wasted 15 minutes of my life. That SmarTrip transaction should’ve taken a couple of seconds to complete. If those tourists hadn’t been at the only working SmarTrip card machine, I could’ve been on an earlier train, instead of the one I got on that was delayed at Metro Center. I was late to my appointment. Fortunately, Dr. W was running behind too.
I liked the old couple I helped. I even liked the warm fuzzies I got from helping them. But that may be the last time I help tourists in DC.
A couple of days ago, while Jesse and I were cooking dinner, I heard a faint knock on our door. It was our neighbor, Mrs. Velasquez. I know her mostly from waiting at the bus stop together and making small talk (always in Spanish). She is an older woman (late 40s to early 50s) from El Salvador. Her kids live in the States too, but her parents and siblings still live in El Salvador. She sends a good portion of her paycheck to help support her family back in El Salvador, especially now that her father has been gravely ill and out of work.
I was surprised to see her when I opened the door. Mostly because she’s never come to visit except for that time we didn’t have air conditioning for two weeks in the middle of last summer. I had left the condo door open so that the cold air from the hallway could cool down our place. She had come in and we bonded over our inability to get management to do anything about our AC. Today, however, was different. She asked me (in Spanish), “I am having some problems and I was hoping you could help me. I need help with a money order.” I didn’t really understand her. Did she need money? She replied, “No, no, I need help with a money order.” I answered, “Oh you need help filling out a money order.” “Yes, yes,” she said, enthusiastically. Of course I’ll help her. At that, she said that she would return with her stuff.
After dinner, Mrs. Velasquez came back. She came in with a plastic bag full of papers and a check book. We sat down at the dinner table and she showed me a letter that she pulled out of the bag. “I have many of these types of letters and I don’t understand what they mean,” she said. I took a look at the letter and it was an angry letter from a lender saying that if she didn’t pay them X amount of money, then they would stick a collection agency on her. I explained this to her. She was confused. “But I’ve been making payments. I don’t understand.” If what she was telling me was true, I didn’t get it either. So, she showed me the check book and asked me to fill out the check with the amount in the letter and she would sign it. I did so and told her, “If you had sent in payments already, you need to talk to your bank to see if those checks had been cashed.” “Ok, ok,” she replied. “Is there someone at the bank that speaks Spanish?” I asked. She said there was. I told her, “You need to call them tomorrow, ok?” Ok, she said.
I addressed the envelope for her (I had to after I saw that her writing was tantamount to chicken scratch). She pulled out another envelope, sealed and containing something, that was addressed to the same lender. Mrs. Velasquez asked me to open it for her. I did and found a check payment inside with an invoice. The payment was due the next day. She had a little freak out in front of me: “Oh no, what should I do know? My payment will be late.” In my calmest voice, I told her, “They’re just asking for their money. All you have to do is give it to them. The worst thing that could happen is that they charge you a late fee.” This seemed to calm her down.
After we were through, she packed up her mess of papers and threw them in the plastic bag again. She turned to me and said, “Thank you so much. You were so helpful. I really appreciate it.” I gave her a short smile and told her, “Don’t forget to mail your payment first thing tomorrow. Call your contact at the lender and tell her your payment is on its way. And call your bank!” “Ok, ok,” she said.
And then I told her, “If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
As I said good bye to her and walked her out (she kept saying, thank you, which was really sweet), I started thinking, What motivates someone to pick up her whole life and leave her whole family behind simply for the potential of having a better life, especially when you don’t know anyone or the language? I wondered what life would’ve been like had my mom not had my father around to help her adjust to life in the US. And what about the immigrants who come here every day, to work the worst possible jobs in the worst possible conditions? Why do these people fight for the right to live and work here?
I know there’s a greater debate here but I have a lot of respect for these people. Had my mom been alone, maybe she would’ve been like Mrs. Velasquez, relying on the kindness of strangers to get by. Maybe my life would’ve been completely different.
I hope Mrs. Velasquez knows that I’ll always be happy to help her. It’s the least I could do.
In what can only be described as a shocking turn of events in my otherwise routine life, I humiliated myself in public by falling (yet again) at a major DC intersection. Regular readers of this blog know that I am not immune to falling in public places. Since moving here, I have fallen at several DC Memorials, the steps of the Capitol Building, K Street and now L Street. In my world, falling is the new black.
I was rushing to the gym yesterday to get a short workout before heading out to kickball. I figured I wouldn’t get much exercise just from kickball and I needed to get back into my workout routine after being gone last week (yes, the hotel I stayed at had a gym, but I never had the chance to use it just like I never had the chance to enjoy the beautiful San Diego weather because I was too busy to go outside!). While walking on L Street, I awkwardly stepped on an uneven cement tile and my right ankle rolled under me and I fell forward. My bad left knee felt the brunt of the fall as my weight shifted left during the fall. My gym bag and handbag dropped in front of me. Also, my sunglasses fell off my head (I know there was no sun yesterday, but I used them to hold up my hair).
A couple of months ago (incidentally, after my last bad fall) I declared chivalry to be dead. I fell on K Street (basically same scenario as above except I was actually on the street as opposed to the sidewalk) and not a single person (of the 20 or so people who were crossing the street with me) asked me if I was ok. No one even helped me up. How hard would it have been for one person to actually come to a stop and ask me if I was ok or even help me back on my feet? I may be a feminist but I still enjoy when a man holds a door open for me, lets me order dinner first, and picks me up when I fall. Or ladies, wouldn’t you feel better if a girl was around to help you when you fell so you could share the humiliation with someone?
To my surprise, this fall was different. When I fell, a young guy (probably younger than me) rushed to my side. Another older gentleman was right there and offered me his hand to help me up. I was incredibly shaken by the fall but it was the assistance I received that rendered me speechless. The young guy picked up my gym bag and hand bag for me, all the while asking me repeatedly, “Are you ok?” After the third time, I answered quietly and meekly, “Yes, thank you.” A few seconds later, they were on their way.
I felt bad that I didn’t seem more appreciative for their actions. After all, I wasn’t expecting assistance but I was pleasantly surprised when I received it. If I hadn’t been so overcome with embarrassment, I could’ve said more than a barely audible, “Thanks.” The truth is that I was very grateful for their help and I feel horrible that I didn’t express this at the time. And so I blog.
To the two gentlemen who helped me, you guys made a huge deposit in the Bank of Karma yesterday. Because I cannot thank you enough, I hope that Karma pays you back tenfold.
As you've read by now, I have sprained my ankle. Yes, I know that I had a sprained ankle just 3 months ago. Lucky me, it is the same ankle this time. Considering my current "disability," one would have to assume that I might be offered some special consideration as a Metro rider. Oh no no no...you know what happens when you assume...
This morning, during rush hour, I got on the train at Ballston and it was already standing room only. As a large group of us tried to enter the train, I got pushed up against a gentleman (and I use the term loosely) who was seated. With every passing stop, the train became more crowded and it was really difficult to leverage my weight onto the good leg/ankle when I didn't have much space to leverage (that and I was also practically on top of the alleged gentleman). The train came to many abrupt and jolting stops, further thwarting my efforts to have a relatively pain-free ride into town. I was clearly struggling at some points and I was really hoping that the man would let me have his seat. I thought for sure he would offer me his seat when we came to an abrupt stop before Courthouse because of a disabled train at Rosslyn. But noooooooo, he didn't.
So to the man who didn't give up his seat to me on the Orange Line today, I have one word for you--Karma. I only wish I could be there when it comes around to you.
