pretty little things

september 2005. i was a student in san francisco, living a weekly double-decker sandwich of work-class-play-class-work (the "play" is the bacon, obviously). one assignment was to write a radio essay and i decided to adapt one of my blogs, cleaning and sculpting to make it work. as i read it now it sounds a bit soft and hokey for me, but i know a lot of the grit was removed to make it academic caliber material. hope it's not lost on you.

It’s Wednesday, the tail end of August, and for those of you who live in San Francisco, you know this to be an uncharacteristically warm day. I’m exiting the bus at the train station, on my way to school.

The seductive blaze scorches down and I feel love inside my veins, as the city that has become my own teases me with hints of summer that I know will be reneged at any moment. Entering the station as my iPod hums its pensive melody, I have that only-in-the-movies trite voiceover episode when I realize that this life is actually composed of a seemingly infinite assemblage of moments. I notice the pretty little things, like that solar verve drenching my shoulders. All of a sudden, I notice.

At school, a handful of hours later, my sensations increasingly acute on account of my heightened cognizance, I experience a restrained breed of joy upon discovering that one of the huge red pleather booths in the student center is vacant. I slide in. I sip my coffee and work on a crossword but my attention migrates, as the constant foot traffic outside the huge neighboring window is far too consuming. In this spot, voyeurism is key.

A sweet-looking girl approaches the booth that I’m rather rudely dominating. She has that subtle Euro style, but I can’t quite tell if she is foreign or not until she speaks.

Girl: Would you mind if I sit?

Ahhh – German, perhaps.

Me: No, please do.

And somehow I actually mean this. We sit, across from one another, without speaking but the silence is comfortable. I have my crossword and she her notebook, figuring out something of seemingly great importance. Our eyes meet briefly and we smile, both strangers trying to be friendly in delicate ways. It doesn’t take long for me to resume the spectatorship; the circus out there is entirely hypnotic. “Too fat for those jeans,” I think, in my standard asshole inner-monologue. “Cute shoes,” I note. “Tall girl, short guy, holding hands. Gross. Good for them, I guess.” OK, so I’m mildly judgmental. Luckily, sweet Euro girl (we’ll call her Herta to preserve some anonymity) doesn’t hear the contents of my awful head. I turn and look at her.

Me: I can’t stop watching! It’s so interesting.

Herta smiles and there is a faint nod of accordance. She is one of these shy-till-you-get-to-know-her types, much unlike me. I wonder what that would be like? I am not giving up just yet.

Me: Where are you from?

Herta: Frankfurt…Germany.

Me: Oh, wow. When did you come here?

Herta: Umm, a week ago?

Her accent is not the typical bulky German, but rather a smoother Euro tone that is almost like singing. We continue in this fashion for a while and she becomes increasingly affable. After twenty minutes or so, I say I must go, but we exchange email addresses and smiles. Now I have passed on the mesmerizing booth seat to someone deserving and I feel good about myself. Makes up for the abundance of judgment, perhaps, and the universe is back on track.

And just like that, as I walk away, the only-in-the-movies voiceover resumes. These are the little things. The way that we laugh, without telling ourselves to do so, at things that amuse us, stir us up and knock us down. Or that string of song notes that twists our tummies and then lets go, and we close our eyes to imagine what the sound looks like. These are the pretty little things, and those who neglect to spot such gems are left coming up short. Yet when they do, they’ll see that five-second sun storms, red booth staring routines, and German strangers are enough to make a day priceless and insurmountable.