The Diplodocus

The pleasant weather motivated me to lace my shoes up for a run on Sunday, my first of 2007.  The destination was unclear at first.  The weather was too nice; the Mall would be packed.  And shady!  And not all concrete!  And generally attractive, non-industrial, and far too, err, predictable!  Instead, I set off in an unpopular direction, towards the Navy Yard.  At noon.  On the warmest day of the year (thus far).

Taking up running, about a year ago, was a surprising move.  I had years of planning and back story dedicated to justifying a pathological dislike of any bipedal locomotion faster than 5 mph.   The list of excuses (sprained ankles, crappy shoes, a back ache, too much TV to watch, just not feeling like it) was long.  In reality more a subset of disliking exercise and ignoring my growing gut, the aversion stubbornly held despite getting over the “Oh, I don’t exercise” thing.

Actually, I still kind of hate running.  There are moments in the middle of a run where my quads decide to openly question the need for this torture, with loud agreement from the rest of my lower body and a cramp in my side.  Fortunately, I am not the embodiment of a democratic state, and after a few months of forcing myself to run, my will managed to quash the resistance of my lazy legs and their co-conspirators.  That whole “runner’s high” thing is still elusive, but I’m working on it.

However, a run from the Capitol Hill Washington Sports Club (2nd & D SE) to the Navy Yard (after an hour in the gym and on a well-hydrated but empty stomach) was a less than intelligent idea.  It’s a bleak and ugly part of the city, with few trees, abundant litter, and nothing but concrete as far as the eye can see.  The run itself wasn’t so bad in terms of bodily consequences.  After a near six month layoff, I’m pleased to report that I maintained full mobility on the day of and the all-important day after.  But I wouldn’t recommend that particular part of town for a quick jog, unless you’re into the whole industrial blight thing.

But I think I’m back into this running thing, despite all that.  Its better than sweating indoors while watching McLaughlin. 

A general restlessness has me doing some routine housekeeping on the old blog. Nothing major, but in addition to the new header graphic, I’ve changed the sidebar and added some links. If I’ve missed your blog (especially if you’re an FSO) leave a comment and I’ll add you to the blogroll.

Unrelated: the new Trader Joe’s in the West End is great, though I was a little disappointed by the fruit selection today. Tandoori papadum chips? Can’t go wrong with that.

In the end, it was just a matter of five dollars.

I was ascending the escalator in the horrible pseudo-mall adjacent to Rosslyn Station when someone from behind me asked in distinctly English accented Spanish if I “Habla”ed “Espanol.” I responded in the negative; sadly, my knowledge of Spanish doesn’t go much farther than menu items. The gentleman — babbling, slightly incoherent — asked me (in English) where I was from. Now that’s a question that causes constant consternation for me. Responding with the basic truth, Baltimore, elicits eyebrow raises, while responding with India rings false in my mind. I responded with both, and my interlocutor started rattling off cities in India (Delhi? Bombay? Calcutta?) Yes, Calcutta, I said.

Why that particular shopping complex? I needed a haircut, and the convenient advertisement just near the metro station’s egress advertises haircuts for $14 — downright cheap around here. I was willing to take my chances on quality.

After getting off the escalator, my new friend started babbling again: “Do you know where I can get a haircut?” (coincidence 1!) “I just got out of the hospital. I was in for six days, I got beat up real bad. I’m still feeling really messed up, here are my papers, I’m trying to get a haircut before I go to my parents house.” His papers were legit, actually, recording that he had suffered from serious head trauma. He was middle-aged and fairly well dressed, though he did indeed need a haircut. Gesturing forward, I told him to follow me to the barbershop. On the way the babbling continued: “You know, I grew up all over the world. My dad was in the Foreign Service.” (coincidence 2!) “I work in shipping and was here visiting when I got jumped. I’m short a few dollars, they took all my money, can you help me out?” Saying neither yes nor no, we walked in.

In the shop, he continued to speak with me. It’s important to note that my job was not apparent to this guy. My badge was away, I had stepped off the shuttle well before and walked around a bit, I was in jeans and a t-shirt — I highly doubt he could have guessed that I was an FSO. He pulled out a business card that he said was his dad’s — an old style State card, with the name “William M—–” and the notation “First Secretary” at a US Embassy whose name I didn’t catch. He was at this point repeating himself, but I had a gut feeling that I should believe his story. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out $5 and asked if that would be enough. He demurred and started asking the barbers if they were willing to cut him a break (he had $10 on him) but I felt uncomfortable and insisted that he take the fiver. Surprised, he kept repeating that he owed me and sat down in one of the barber’s chairs. I did the same in the one adjacent.

The talking continued. “I’ve lived here, I’ve lived there, I lived in Pakistan…” (coincidence 3!) I was ready to think there was more to this than meets the eye, but then he started telling tales of Embassy Islamabad in the ’70s that few would know off hand — the name of the Marine that died in ‘79, names of three separate Ambassadors to Pakistan, his parent’s old address, landmarks. This was getting a little too weird. He asked what I did and I responded honestly. He did a double take (pretty dangerous when someone has a pair of scissors to your head) and proceeded to pepper me with questions and statements about being an FSO.

I tried to be as reticent as possible, but my new friend kept talking, telling and retelling stories, thanking me for being “a stand up guy,” asking other people in the shop if they spoke Spanish. The Spanish thing I’m still trying to figure out, though I think it may have been related to his head trauma. He admitted that he wasn’t feeling particularly well and didn’t look well either — slightly glassy eyed, a little disoriented. He asked some basic questions that I responded to as well as I could. Then, suddenly, his haircut was finished. He got up from the barbershop chair, paid, shook my hand, thanked me effusively, and left, saying that he’d have his now-retired dad “look me up.” How that will happen I don’t know, especially since I doubt the gentleman’s ability to remember my name.

I’m a believer in chance, and in karma. And in regards to those, I have absolutely no idea what the above experience means. It was certainly strange. But I’m only $5 poorer (haircut not included) and in the end, I’m glad I could help out someone who clearly needed it. So here’s to you, Patrick, son of “Bogota” Bill. I hope you got to your parents’ house okay. And I hope you feel better.

With the delayed departure, my weekend became blissfully plan free. Well, Friday night wasn’t, obviously, but other than that I had pretty much nothing to do.

SoaP was campy and hilarious. A fun experience, especially when our motley crew of bloggers was about twenty deep. RFD, our chosen pre-party venue, was predictably awful. Brickskellar and its associates are, again, on my “do not patronize” list. Not a huge loss, especially considering there are much better places in town for brew.

Saturday was a lazy day until later in the evening, when I headed to Tim and Emily’s going away party. The really sad part? I only just met them. Two totally cool people I’ve only just gotten to know and they’re leaving DC. (Yes, I’m leaving too. Don’t you try and logic me.) The party was… umm… Macintoshilicious? Columbia Heightseriffic? Dancetastic? Perhaps. Judge for yourself via the evidence. Caught the last train home, slept deeply into the day, and wasted a quiet Sunday with the Post.

A good weekend, overall, though I wish I’d taken time to maybe get to know some of these crazy DC bloggers back when I was here for a sustained period of time. Hm. Things to think about when I return, I suppose.

I haven’t blogged about my weekend in NYC with Suzanne, which was likewise nice and relaxing. It was a whirlwind trip with my feet on NYC ground for only about 20 hours. Still, well worth it, for good food, Brooklyn fun, and this totally great photo.

It seems Mayor Giuliani’s crime reduction efforts were much more far reaching than I ever realized.

… I am headed out with the internet to — what else? — go see the movie the internet made famous. Anyone around is more then welcome to join us, and it should be quite the spectacle (hit me up — you should know how).

Seriously though: Snakes on a plane. So many questions. How did they get aboard? How did they get out of the hold? How many times is Samuel L. going to drop the F bomb? I’m spending my $10 on this?

These questions and more, to be answered, in 8 days.

(also, Snakes? Far deadlier than baby formula. Or hair gel. Or lotion. Just sayin’.)

(oh, and there’s no such thing as too much meme.)

Dear Swanky Corporate Apartment Company,

First, thanks for setting me up in this fairly ridiculous apartment.  There’s nothing I like more than fake plants, personality-free furniture, and poor water pressure.  But seriously, you can’t beat the location and the arrangements — they’re pretty much just what I needed during this transition.

But there is the small matter of the bill.

I’ve been here for almost a month (well, three weeks) and have been prepared to receive a fairly mammoth bill from you since the 1st.  I reminded you on the 10th.  On the 15th.  And today, the 20th.  And yet you remain reluctant to bill me for the X thousand dollars you rightfully deserve.  Strange — you must be the only company outside of the Seinfeld universe that doesn’t want to get paid.

The normal reaction to this, I suppose, would be “woohoo! free ride!”  Unfortunately, I can’t do that.  Some may enjoy living in free housing, but unfortunately for me there is the small matter of the massive State Department Bureaucracy, a relentless paperwork hungry beast that demands that I, as it’s poor servant, come forth with an offering of vouchers every thirty days.  And those vouchers require invoices.  And those invoices require bills.

So here I am doing the unthinkable — I’m asking you, no, pleading with you to take my money before I run out and spend it all on beef jerky and beer.  You see, as delicious as that sounds, the Department won’t take a receipt from the Sleven as proof of housing.  Or statements of faith that  “no , it really was that expensive.”   Hungry maw demanding paperwork and all that, you know.
Word to your mother,

KG

Wandering around Georgetown today, I walked into a rug vendor (I think the place was called “Turkish Caravan” but can’t remember) out of curiousity. How crazy could markups stateside be?

The store’s main salesman was clearly a member of the International Carpet Salesman Federation, with all the benefits given to members. He had the “Salesman thinks He is Talking to a Novice” conversation down, with all of the classic lines; he even dropped “Carpets are like people” line, which is like the “to be or not to be” speech of carpet sales. When I asked, rather bluntly, about prices, he dodged and parried like Cassius Clay, a clear master of the “rope him in with exoticism” dance. The best was when I asked to see some of his carpets and he told a decidedly inaccurate but highly exciting tale about how all carpet designs are, in reality, Turkish. Not so different from my Persian salesman friend’s belief in the primacy of Persian design. Unfortunatey, the quality of his wares weren’t up to his carpet selling game. I didn’t see anything particularly impressive. In fact, most looked like new knockoffs of the real deal, washed to look old. The wool wasn’t high quality and the designs were boring and fairly ugly, though he had some rockin’ Turkish kilims.

So, the answer to the markup question? About eleventythousand percent. It was a serious sticker shock moment when I saw what the dude was charging — and I mean, quite literally, saw, since he never once was willing to tell me the price. I did a mental triple take before slowly getting the heck out of the store. The guy’s game was plenty good, but he totally failed to keep it real. Price wise, that is.

Dear reader, again, I must apologize.  I know you’re chomping at the bit for substantive posts from a wide-eyed traveler back in the US after some time in the third world.  So: The roads are so clean!  The sky is so big!  Things are expensive!  Draft beer is delicious!  Girls look good in skirts!

Phew.  Now that that’s over with, a smaller but in my mind more amusing topic.  It seems that I’ve returned to FSI a known quantity, as evidenced by this brief exchange I had at lunch today.

FSO 1: A, this is Diplodocus.

FSO 2: I know, I read your blog. 

Though there were times where lines of people would form around me while waiting in Islamabad’s departure lounge, I was much more amused by the fact that I was recognized back at FSI via this site.  Not that I even try to maintain anonymity, but still, hilarious, no?  Maybe I should try to organize an FSI blogger happy hour.  Or better yet, maybe you FSOs in various trainings should come out to the happy hour my former cohorts are throwing.   Or, at the very least, leave a comment so I know who you are.  Come on, quit being shy!

The needs of the Service are what they are. And right now, the needs of the Service have pulled me from my Islamabad assignment.  I’m haunting FSI for the time being and will start Hindi training on Monday, and in a few weeks I’ll be pulled to an as-yet unnamed assignment to the Mother Country.

I am neither happy nor sad about this at this point.  I’m just accepting.  Its really strange to be back in DC so unexpectedly, but these things happen.

So: onward, into most likely six weeks of fast-paced Hindi.  I’m good enough at Urdu that I think I can progress fairly quickly to the level of Hindi the service needs for me.  Moving into a corporate apartment today or tomorrow.  And, well, full per diem.  Which is not so bad.

It appears that the exodus of colleagues from the safe and comfortable confines of FSI to the big wide world continues unabated.  Marilyn is off to Astana, where she will have the unenviable task of helping moving an entire Embassy to Kazakhstan's relatively new capital.  The logistics are horrifying — somewhere around 900 miles inland, and just loading up a plane is not an option.  Best of luck to her.

I can't imagine what it must be like for those still in training back in Virginia.  The psychological feedback of seeing so many go through the stressful process of out-processing and packout must be maddening.  At the same time, I get a twinge of jealousy when I see those pictures.  Being in training is kind of like treading water, but its treading water with some great hours. 

This opinion will, without a doubt, change when I'm back at FSI.  But right now I look at photos of DC springtime and I can't help but get a little homesick.  And this after looking at pictures of the Russia House, definitely not my favorite bar in the city.  If I were to stumble across an image of a bloody Mary at Tunnicliff's, who knows what the result would be.

(unfortunately, I have not been able to track down all of the essential ingredients for a good Bloody Mary here.  But the search continues)