The Immortal Moment

I saw a documentary that came through town as part of the Southern Circuit series. It is called "A Man Named Pearl."  Such a good little piece about a man who has reached a sort of national cult status doing topiary in his yard.  It seems most of the movie is interviews of his friends and neighbors, placed in his garden as Pearl is riding his lawn mower around in the background. Pearl on his mower going left, going right, dragging ladders, trailers.  The point is, the man never stops.  He's always doing something.  In motion.  Creating.  

Well, I thought I might like to visit his garden some day, so I looked it up on Google Maps.  I popped down to street view and what did I see?  Right there, as I looked around the neighborhood, was old Pearl Fryar putt-putting past on his mower dragging a ladder behind him.  It made me happy to think that his moment of creativity is forever inscribed on a virtual walk down the street that any of us can take.  I hope you all take a walk past 165 Broad Acres in Bishopville South Carolina some day.  Check out the Dr Seuss trees and wave at Pearl on the way by.

Trying to Get Over

It was too early.  Or late.  It didn't matter.  things had gone wrong in transit and I had slept--barely-- sitting up in the same clothes for the past two nights over from Sydney--exit row, economy, transit lounge benches--sleeping either too close to a jet engine or with the beep-beeping of industrial floor cleaners scuffing past.

I got up before six when I was no longer alone in the airport, brushed my teeth, washed my face and shuffled off to find a coffee.  It was then in the waking moments of Dulles Terminal A, while the workers still outnumbered the travelers and all the shop gates were still shut, from down the hall I heard my bleary-headed siren song:  Curtis Mayfield accompanied by the undeniable shush of espresso steam.  The gates were still shut.  There I was, waiting.  Waiting...

Then.  Halleluja!  As the best bass line ever written played introductions to the toughest falsetto--Superfly--the gates opened and I was shoulder and shoulder with the morning ramp shift, being served a two-shot Cubano that was all of a sweet crack of dynamite.  The day brightened and I was on my way.

Mayorga Café in Dulles.  These men make a mean spro.  They're gonna make their fortune by and by.

GSP-ORD-LAX-SYD-BNE-SYD-SFO-IAD-GSP

The trip out was long and involved some small trouble with a visa.  The trip back was the longest point-to-point I have ever done traveling by air.  Quantas' ramp union had a nationwide strike the morning I left Brisbane.  69 hours door to door.

Naptime.