Wandering Shepherdess

I stood leaning against the back wall of the English National Opera, waiting for Emily to come meet me for lunch, when I saw a man coming toward me taking photos with an old film camera.  I wondered what he could possibly be photographing as he shot through shop windows, and where he was from and where he was going, since he had a backpack with a sleeping bag and pillow hanging from it.

It was all I could do not to stop him and ask him his story, and I had to consciously stop myself from calling after him in the middle of the road in the West End during lunchtime.

A moment after he’d passed me, and I’d turned away, he was back, asking, “Do you mind if I take your photograph?”

I laughed, said sure, smiled for the photo, and then asked what it was for.

Shane, from Montana, was on a long layover at Heathrow headed back to Berlin, where he lives.  Any time he visits a new city, he likes to take photos of 15 or 20 people there.  I wondered if he was disappointed to find out the redheaded girl in the vintage plaid dress leaning against an old stone building was actually an American, who’d only been a Londoner for 48 hours.

We had a great chat, probably about 10 minutes, standing outside the ENO while people rushed by us on the pavement.  We talked about our inexplicable needs to wander, to meet new people in strange cities, to see things most Americans never even feel the desire to go looking for.  We talked about living abroad, and he high-fived me for choosing to come here.  

I wish I’d thought to get his email address, but the story might be a little more meaningful to me because I didn’t.

Next time I won’t stop myself from asking handsome travelling strangers where they’re headed.

I’m trying to “get into” blogging again.  I might even do some sort of “blogging every day for a month” thing in September.  Seems important to blog during the process of moving to a new country and starting grad school.  I will hereby begin with a rant.  (Sorry.)

Just now, at work, I walked up to a check-out line without a bagger, and offered to help the customer, who was bagging his own groceries.

The man was probably late 20s, early 30s.  Shaved head, nice body, well-dressed.  But not overly attractive; not “Fuck you, I can have whatever I want” good-looking.  Sometimes you can see an asshole coming a mile away, but this guy’s response surprised me.

“Here, I’ll help you with that,” I said, stepping in and beginning to bag.

He grinned at me; “Well, okay, I’d like to watch.”

Was my screaming “What the fuck!?” in my head an inappropriate response?  (Aloud, I laughed nervously and didn’t make eye contact.)

He proceeded to be charming and friendly and not for a moment uncomfortable with his opening line.  We even joked and laughed a little.  Nice guy, seemingly.  Maybe he just didn’t think?  Am I the only one who thinks that’s a weird thing to say?

I’m continually shocked by the crazy shit people say to people in the service industry.  I was slightly more tolerant, although no less incredulous, when they were tipping me; waitressing has these subtly sexual undertones that seem to come with the territory, and if you can’t deal, you get out of the business. 

The funniest thing is that if I’d encountered that guy in a bar, I’d probably have quite liked him.  I probably would have flirted back at that opening line; I like a guy who’s a little forward, a little mouthy, within reason. 

On Valentine’s day this year, I was wrapping flowers in the floral department.  I’d try to make nice small talk with people while I worked on their flowers; I usually said something along the lines of “Someone’s going to be really happy to receive these today!” or “Oh, are these for your sweetheart at home?”  One guy’s response to that last one was, “Not until you get there.”  I smiled sweetly and said “Oh, but then your mother would be disappointed not to get her flowers.”

Another, significantly older, gentleman came through with a bottle of red wine, sushi, and chocolate a few weeks back.  When I asked whether he’d found everything okay, and he said he had, I responded with “Of course you did, wine, sushi, and chocolate—what more do you need?!”  I was just being friendly, because it’s my goddamn job.  The guy goes, “You, at home with me, tonight,” while staring me straight in the eye.  More nervous laughter and changing the subject.  At the end of the transaction, when I handed him his change, he says “Don’t you owe me a little something more than that?”

What makes people think they can say this shit to me? 

And why can’t I get over it?  In a bar, or even some other setting, I’d probably laugh and brush it off—or even flirt back.  But at work, it makes my blood boil.  Is it something about the service aspect that gets me?  Is that why these guys think they can get away with it?  Is it the power imbalance that makes me feel dirty for the rest of the shift?

I love retail, almost as much as I loved waiting tables and tending bar.  But this aspect of the job—this part makes me want to run. 

I’ve been back from England for just over six months.  I’m still slogging my way through credit card debt, the result of frivolous living during my half a year of jobless traveling.  Worth every penny.  

England was beautiful and terrible.  Half blinding pain, half crippling beauty, it’s taken some time to recover a sense of balance and perspective.  If you’d asked me in September, I would have told you I’d never go running off around the world again.  By November, I wanted to stay and never leave.  January had me settling into recovery mode, learning a new job, saving my pennies, quieting my mind, applying what I’d learnt.  

And now?  

Now I can’t seem to stay off the volunteer websites for more than a day.  Now I peruse workaway, wwoof, and help-x, sometimes for hours.  On bad days, I go virtual-flat-hunting in London.  On good ones, I check out the TEFL training courses here in Chicago, believing that if I were a certified English-as-a-Foreign-Language teacher by fall, the doors of the world would be open to me.

I thought my months across the pond would quiet the urge to see the world and give me the skills and peace I needed to settle down forever.  My expectations for my trip could not have been further from the truth, in every aspect.  Nothing went as expected, but everything was exactly how it should have been.

I want to go again.  I can’t earn the money fast enough, and I hesitate to trap myself into debt again. (It’s such a bad feeling.)  Ideally, I’d move to London semi-permanently, work at the Whole Foods stores there, have a flat, take the tube, travel at the holidays.  I can’t figure out how that plan is going to happen, but it’s what I’d like.  Scares the shit out of me, but next to that dream, nothing else seems even vaguely intriguing. 

I need to hear stories of people who make their dreams come true.  I need to hear about impossibility becoming reality.  I’ve been told that I can’t.  Can I?

I started blogging in 2005, and since then, I’ve had a pretty short attention span.

I’ve had at least four, maybe five, blogs.  (Isn’t “blog” a funny word?)  They’ve all had significant down time, and so far, they’ve all died.  Even this one’s come pretty close to that in its young life.  (I started it last August or so.)

I’ve used Blogger (several times), Wordpress (twice), and Tumblr (just this one).  So far I think I like Tumblr best, but only because it’s prettiest.  It’s still not quite what I need out of a blog publisher.  I don’t know what I do need; I just know I haven’t met my match.  

I think part of my problem is that my life keeps on changing all the fucking time.  For a while I needed to write about school and huge personal development—coming of age and all that.  Then I needed a scrapbook of sorts, to share photos of life and lists of firsts, updates for friends who’d scattered all around the country.  I started a new blog at the same time as a new business, selling my yarn online and writing and posting photos about knitting and crafting.  Then I abandoned it all to go to Europe and needed a travel blog, which was where this tumblr came in.  

Now I don’t know what I need anymore.  I guess maybe I’m back to the scrapbook stage; I’m relatively stable, no longer moving about and full-scale adventuring, and wanting to share my life with people who are far away.  I don’t want to change my internet address every time I change my physical one.  Too damn confusing.  

So I guess I’m gonna stick with this here Tumblr till I find something better, and just change my theme every so often.  I think I’ll let this place get more personal than it has been, and more eclectic as well.  I’m not sure there will be a theme anymore, if there ever was one, though the name probably won’t change.  I’m still wandering, and I’ll always have wool close at hand.

That said:  If you have any recommendations of a good blog host-erizer, lemme know.  It must be free, and beautiful, and very customizable. 

Moral of the story:  I’m gonna blog more, I think, and I’m gonna do it here, and I’m not gonna follow any rules.

• Alter Bike Bunting and install onto bicycle.
• Do health insurance paperwork/online signup shit.
• Go to Wells Fargo; close HSA and deposit check.
• Stitch granny square bag; sew lining?
• Work on hat-knitting project (finish?).
• Put together Surprise! packages.
• Make these cloth hangers.

Hmm… what else have I been putting off?