During a walk down South Street this evening, a young mother of some Asian descent walked in my direction on the same side of the street. In her left hand, she held a bouquet of red roses, and in her right, she held the hand of her little girl. The little girl was purposefully not walking straight, leaning her entire weight lazily to the side and putting great strain on her mother. The mother was resigned to the weight and didn't force her child upright. Her face showed quiet fatigue that contrasted remarkably with the joyful bloom of flowers that she carried.
A couple blocks later, a gang of punks on bicycles too small for them rode by in a line down the street, purposely screeching their tires and laughing raucously at their own gall and coolness. A middle-aged black man in a ragged hoodie walking in my direction-- again on the same side of the street-- glared at them and cursed their youthful stupidity under his breath. He also carried a bouquet of flowers under his arm, though these were multi-colored, not all roses, and not all red. Also, his other hand was without child, and he walked with a loping gait.
Another couple blocks later, a young white man perhaps in his thirties, tall, lean, with square glasses rushed passed me in the opposite direction-- and still on the same side of the street. He was in a great hurry and walked with stiff legs, unable to take the time to bend them between steps. He also carried a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
It occurred to me suddenly that I had just walked by three individuals within the span of 4 city blocks carrying bouquets of flowers and in various states of rush and mood. It only took about another half-second for it to register in my brain that tonight was the eve of St. Valentine's Day.
A few hours later, on my own way back home, guess what I carried in my hand?
A bag of green grapes. Patterns are meant to be broken.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Non-temporality of Life
"Yesterday is but the memory of today; tomorrow is its dream." --Gibran
Considering time in terms of human cognitive activities (memory and dreaming) rather than as discrete, impersonal units...I like that. This statement is predicated on the assumption that time is subjective, a man-made concept, its own existence dependent on the existence of humans-- or at least a human. It predicates an observer, a thinking organism.
So, as for linguistic implications, instead of "What did you do yesterday?" and "What are you doing tomorrow?", we would be bound to ask "What do you remember today?" and "What do you dream of today?"; it always being Today. And different tenses being marked by "remembering" and "dreaming" rather than by inflection of the verb "to do". Not very practical, but very poetic.
Considering time in terms of human cognitive activities (memory and dreaming) rather than as discrete, impersonal units...I like that. This statement is predicated on the assumption that time is subjective, a man-made concept, its own existence dependent on the existence of humans-- or at least a human. It predicates an observer, a thinking organism.
So, as for linguistic implications, instead of "What did you do yesterday?" and "What are you doing tomorrow?", we would be bound to ask "What do you remember today?" and "What do you dream of today?"; it always being Today. And different tenses being marked by "remembering" and "dreaming" rather than by inflection of the verb "to do". Not very practical, but very poetic.
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Kinship with Fish
The longer I look at these moon shots, the more I think that we are like fish in the deep sea. The branches are floating strands of seaweed, the air is our water, and the moon the light in the distant surface of the ocean hinting at an entirely separate stratus of existence.
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| The Deep Air |
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
What to do when it's 2:30 in the morning and you just don't feel like taking out the trash:
Step 1: Visualize taking out the trash. Step 2: Eat Godiva milk chocolate creme brulee deliciousness. Step 3: Turn on music suitable for taking out trash. Step 4: Take out trash. Step 5: Have a dance party. Step 6: Build a Fruit Pyramid.
Step 1: Visualize taking out the trash. Step 2: Eat Godiva milk chocolate creme brulee deliciousness. Step 3: Turn on music suitable for taking out trash. Step 4: Take out trash. Step 5: Have a dance party. Step 6: Build a Fruit Pyramid.
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| Fruit Pyramid: Pommelo, cantaloupe, tangerine, grape |
Monday, January 17, 2011
Extraordinary-Ordinary Dichotomy
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| Bye Bye Birdies |
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Inheritance
Home from another day of work. Feeling fairly exhausted and strangely accomplished. You would think I was conquering the world, but actually I was just making and serving coffee all day long. Today, however, marks an important day in my training as a barista at LC: I am definitely, indubitably, without a shade of a doubt no longer in training. In fact, since plans for the new shop were announced, a handful of new people have joined the crew, and I, along with my other co-workers, have been doing my share of teaching them the works.
That flip happened a couple weeks ago. It has been fun so far to show the newbies the secrets of the trade: the essential play of teamwork, the need for speed and efficiency, the tricks for making the perfect milk, and of course, our colorful clientele. So far there are three new hires, all very different, and all likable in their own way. I've noticed that we've broken the unintentional tradition of hiring only tall, dark, and...lean males. The new ones are of short to average height. Their backgrounds vary-- a French-speaking Berber/Moroccan, a Canadian, and one all-American boy. One tradition carries on, however-- so far they are all male.
It is a strange fact about this place that both the crew and the clientele are very male-dominated. Whereas women are usually the objectified sex in any given situation, LC is known for its "disarmingly friendly", handsome male baristas. Which is totally fine with me. Moreover, the other day, Sarah made the keen observation that about 70% of the customers that walked through the door were male. Initially she made this observation of gender disparity by simply taking a look around, but then we designed an impromptu experiment by keeping a Male vs. Female tally on my coffee cup of all the customers that walked through the door for the next quarter-of-an-hour. Boy, was she onto something. What was it about this place that made it a male magnet?
With regards to the male-dominated crew, I don't understand the gender bend myself, but in my short time at the shop, I've always felt a dependency on the guys-- not because they were guys, but simply because they've been here for 2, 3, 13 years and are so impressively good at their job. I would watch my co-workers either from the sidelines (in the back kitchen) or at the register while I'm handling the business side of the job, and be in awe of their ability to remember so many drink orders in one go, their speed at making the drinks often even before the orders are placed, and above all their ability to keep cool and even hold conversations with the customers under the chaos of long lines that at times go out the door and don't ever end throughout the entire 6-hour shift. It occurs to me now that it's not the guys themselves that are impressive, but rather the job that makes them impressive.
Today, however, for the first time there was no guy behind the bar. It was just Amy and I. Well, one of the new trainees was there, but the main team was made up of two girls who had worked at LC for not even a year. By now, I've had some practice holding my own under the machines, but when the line got too long and I started forgetting and mixing up orders, I would just toss the job back to my co-worker and he would expertly kill the line. This time, though, I had no one to toss the job to in case it got too chaotic. In fact, the job was tossed to me and Amy. The Berber was put on the register for the day. As our manager put it, Amy and I "have been here a longer time and are next in line to inherit the machines." Inherit the machines. I liked the sound of that.
We transitioned into the afternoon shift and it was like someone pressed the power button on a machine, setting it in motion, and never came back to turn it off. I felt like I barely looked up from the machines and pitchers for the first four hours of my 6-hour shift. At one point, I found myself wishing for some face time with the customers, so I put the Berber on the machines for practice and went back to my old comfortable position at the register. Eventually, however, the line got too long so we had to switch back. Later, the Berber came back from a break in the kitchen sidelines.
"I don't know how you guys stay so calm," said he. I had to smile at that because I understood exactly what it must look like to him, this two-man machine. I replied with a truth I had discovered on the job: "You have no choice but to stay calm. If you go crazy on top of all this craziness, than it wouldn't work. It would be an impossibility."
Despite my growing comfort with the job, I've still yet to figure out the multitasking art of talking to people while I'm on the machines. I assume that once you've been doing the machines for a couple years, it become second nature and you can then put your mind on other things like the people in front of you waiting for their drinks. A trick that I learned from Sticks this past Saturday is that a shot takes about the same time to pull as the milk takes to pour and steam, so instead of constantly peering over to see if the shot is finished while you're stuck at the steaming wand, you can assume that it will be finished pulling around the same time or just after the milk is finished steaming. Thus, the best order of action at the machines would be the following: pull the shots, steam the milk, and there, while your steaming is where you can look out into your audience of caffeine-craving customers and either hold a conversation or take the next order. That can happen once you don't need to think to steam good milk. Hmmm, so much to do...
Toward evening, the loud buzz of conversation finally caught my ears. There are times when the cafe can become really quiet, but those times are rare, and today was not one of those days. This evening, the cafe was humming with life and connection that was not wifi, but human. As much as our customers are annoyed by the fact that we refuse to carry wifi, and as much as I understand their annoyance, I also realize that it is a gift. It is one of the not-so-secret ingredients that helped to create this cafe wonder and continues to define it. While cleaning, I suddenly became aware of the medley of human voices that rose quite above the monotonous bass notes of the cafe music. I peered between the display case and giant vase of flowers and the sight gave me pause: every seat was filled, and everyone was engaged. I saw a couple with fingers interlaced, elbows propped on the wooden table; another couple, he was tenderly stroking her hair. I saw two regulars holding some sort of debate that looked pretty serious. Others were engaged in lighter conversation, in groups of 2, 3, 4. Part of me wondered what they were all talking about, but the other part of me didn't care. It was an exotically beautiful sight to behold.
That flip happened a couple weeks ago. It has been fun so far to show the newbies the secrets of the trade: the essential play of teamwork, the need for speed and efficiency, the tricks for making the perfect milk, and of course, our colorful clientele. So far there are three new hires, all very different, and all likable in their own way. I've noticed that we've broken the unintentional tradition of hiring only tall, dark, and...lean males. The new ones are of short to average height. Their backgrounds vary-- a French-speaking Berber/Moroccan, a Canadian, and one all-American boy. One tradition carries on, however-- so far they are all male.
It is a strange fact about this place that both the crew and the clientele are very male-dominated. Whereas women are usually the objectified sex in any given situation, LC is known for its "disarmingly friendly", handsome male baristas. Which is totally fine with me. Moreover, the other day, Sarah made the keen observation that about 70% of the customers that walked through the door were male. Initially she made this observation of gender disparity by simply taking a look around, but then we designed an impromptu experiment by keeping a Male vs. Female tally on my coffee cup of all the customers that walked through the door for the next quarter-of-an-hour. Boy, was she onto something. What was it about this place that made it a male magnet?
With regards to the male-dominated crew, I don't understand the gender bend myself, but in my short time at the shop, I've always felt a dependency on the guys-- not because they were guys, but simply because they've been here for 2, 3, 13 years and are so impressively good at their job. I would watch my co-workers either from the sidelines (in the back kitchen) or at the register while I'm handling the business side of the job, and be in awe of their ability to remember so many drink orders in one go, their speed at making the drinks often even before the orders are placed, and above all their ability to keep cool and even hold conversations with the customers under the chaos of long lines that at times go out the door and don't ever end throughout the entire 6-hour shift. It occurs to me now that it's not the guys themselves that are impressive, but rather the job that makes them impressive.
Today, however, for the first time there was no guy behind the bar. It was just Amy and I. Well, one of the new trainees was there, but the main team was made up of two girls who had worked at LC for not even a year. By now, I've had some practice holding my own under the machines, but when the line got too long and I started forgetting and mixing up orders, I would just toss the job back to my co-worker and he would expertly kill the line. This time, though, I had no one to toss the job to in case it got too chaotic. In fact, the job was tossed to me and Amy. The Berber was put on the register for the day. As our manager put it, Amy and I "have been here a longer time and are next in line to inherit the machines." Inherit the machines. I liked the sound of that.
We transitioned into the afternoon shift and it was like someone pressed the power button on a machine, setting it in motion, and never came back to turn it off. I felt like I barely looked up from the machines and pitchers for the first four hours of my 6-hour shift. At one point, I found myself wishing for some face time with the customers, so I put the Berber on the machines for practice and went back to my old comfortable position at the register. Eventually, however, the line got too long so we had to switch back. Later, the Berber came back from a break in the kitchen sidelines.
"I don't know how you guys stay so calm," said he. I had to smile at that because I understood exactly what it must look like to him, this two-man machine. I replied with a truth I had discovered on the job: "You have no choice but to stay calm. If you go crazy on top of all this craziness, than it wouldn't work. It would be an impossibility."
Despite my growing comfort with the job, I've still yet to figure out the multitasking art of talking to people while I'm on the machines. I assume that once you've been doing the machines for a couple years, it become second nature and you can then put your mind on other things like the people in front of you waiting for their drinks. A trick that I learned from Sticks this past Saturday is that a shot takes about the same time to pull as the milk takes to pour and steam, so instead of constantly peering over to see if the shot is finished while you're stuck at the steaming wand, you can assume that it will be finished pulling around the same time or just after the milk is finished steaming. Thus, the best order of action at the machines would be the following: pull the shots, steam the milk, and there, while your steaming is where you can look out into your audience of caffeine-craving customers and either hold a conversation or take the next order. That can happen once you don't need to think to steam good milk. Hmmm, so much to do...
Toward evening, the loud buzz of conversation finally caught my ears. There are times when the cafe can become really quiet, but those times are rare, and today was not one of those days. This evening, the cafe was humming with life and connection that was not wifi, but human. As much as our customers are annoyed by the fact that we refuse to carry wifi, and as much as I understand their annoyance, I also realize that it is a gift. It is one of the not-so-secret ingredients that helped to create this cafe wonder and continues to define it. While cleaning, I suddenly became aware of the medley of human voices that rose quite above the monotonous bass notes of the cafe music. I peered between the display case and giant vase of flowers and the sight gave me pause: every seat was filled, and everyone was engaged. I saw a couple with fingers interlaced, elbows propped on the wooden table; another couple, he was tenderly stroking her hair. I saw two regulars holding some sort of debate that looked pretty serious. Others were engaged in lighter conversation, in groups of 2, 3, 4. Part of me wondered what they were all talking about, but the other part of me didn't care. It was an exotically beautiful sight to behold.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Passageways
Monday evening, I stepped into the stairwell leading to the studio and sighed with happiness. Too many days had passed since I'd seen these dirty khaki-colored stairs and bare walls. I began the ritualistic climb up the stairs, and happily rid myself of the delusion that I had a life and purpose outside of ballet-- a lie I've been telling myself for the past ten days. Piano music drifted down from the studio. I noted that the painting of the T-rex exhilaratingly riding a bike against a purple background was still propped against the wall on the second landing. The tree we had used for the Nutcracker production stood nearby unornamented. After the second set of stairs, I followed the cranes the rest of the way into the studio, a world of its own. Passageways, doors and frames create the feeling of going on a journey, or leaving one world and entering another.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
What We Do
If music could speak, would it ask, "What is the meaning of life?" Then why do we? If a star-strewn sky could speak, would it ask, "What is my purpose?" Then why do we? Because we are human, and that is what we do until we lose our bodies to the earth and our souls to the stars...if such things as souls exist, that is.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Annual State of the Self Address
It is December, and I've been working at LC for almost half a year now. Today, for the first time ever, I heard the Penniless Picasso laughing...It was the funniest laugh I've ever heard. It sounded like someone pretending to cry-- like an actor's mock-crying--, and it went on and on and on. It took me a minute to look over the register to see who was making such a racket and find out it was dear old B. I wondered what he was laughing at, and whether it merited such a laugh. I wondered what in the world could merit such a laugh. Last week, he gave me a 9th painting. I hung it up on my "Bartwork Wall" when I got home this evening, and lay on my floor studying it and the others, searching for cohesive elements and hints to his unusual inner world. It is nice to have meaningful artwork coloring my walls. I've been told it's a bad idea to write on the paintings and put holes in them because they might be worth something in the future, but I've done both, as I have no plans to sell them ever.
Once again, it is December, which means the year is almost out. I had some grand plans for 2010 back in January, and of course, most of them have not panned out. Some have though! More than anything, this past year has been defined by ballet (an understatement!). Now ballet defines me. This art form has brought such joys, pains, purpose, and multitudinous other dimensions to my life, none of which I could have predicted when I first stepped into the old studio on Sansom Street last October. A year later, I am transformed both outwardly and inwardly. A year later, I will be dancing the role of Clara in The Nutcracker in front of an audience of 4-to-9-year-olds at a nearby elementary school. A year later, I have come to know what it means to feel passionate about something, and driven. I have never felt either of those before all throughout college or ever in my entire life until this past year of ballet. For that and everything else that ballet has given me, I am eternally, utterly grateful.
The one problem that ballet has brought me is the conflict between staying and leaving. Virtually this entire year was spent in daily agony over the loss of my travel plans. After my year in the Mideast, I had a desperate need to see the rest of the world, but then ballet came along and tied me down to Philly of all places and annihilated all my plans to satisfy my wanderlust. Enter perpetual inner conflict. Now I have many things to stay for (mainly ballet and my job), and in the past couple months, the choices I'd made so haphazardly finally feel "right"-- like actual choices, not random draws due to indecision, ambiguous feelings, and impulsiveness. A couple days ago, however, I had a sudden realization that there are interesting places to visit in my own backyard-- places which I can actually afford to go to, for which I would not have to shell out a grand for the plane ticket alone. This evening, as I sat on the couch researching this idea, a memory came to me of an article I had read months ago about Nicaraguan Sign Language. And thus, an idea was born, of a pilgrimage...an awesome, nerdy, linguistic pilgrimage that will shape the coming year, and perhaps the years following. Who know what discoveries will come of this pilgrimage!
Between my colorful workplace and ballet-- and the mouse that lives in our house and my imaginative roommates-- I feel as if I am living a story (not storybook, mind). Work is more than just work, the studio is more than just a place to dance. Life has become organic and meaningful.
Once again, it is December, which means the year is almost out. I had some grand plans for 2010 back in January, and of course, most of them have not panned out. Some have though! More than anything, this past year has been defined by ballet (an understatement!). Now ballet defines me. This art form has brought such joys, pains, purpose, and multitudinous other dimensions to my life, none of which I could have predicted when I first stepped into the old studio on Sansom Street last October. A year later, I am transformed both outwardly and inwardly. A year later, I will be dancing the role of Clara in The Nutcracker in front of an audience of 4-to-9-year-olds at a nearby elementary school. A year later, I have come to know what it means to feel passionate about something, and driven. I have never felt either of those before all throughout college or ever in my entire life until this past year of ballet. For that and everything else that ballet has given me, I am eternally, utterly grateful.
The one problem that ballet has brought me is the conflict between staying and leaving. Virtually this entire year was spent in daily agony over the loss of my travel plans. After my year in the Mideast, I had a desperate need to see the rest of the world, but then ballet came along and tied me down to Philly of all places and annihilated all my plans to satisfy my wanderlust. Enter perpetual inner conflict. Now I have many things to stay for (mainly ballet and my job), and in the past couple months, the choices I'd made so haphazardly finally feel "right"-- like actual choices, not random draws due to indecision, ambiguous feelings, and impulsiveness. A couple days ago, however, I had a sudden realization that there are interesting places to visit in my own backyard-- places which I can actually afford to go to, for which I would not have to shell out a grand for the plane ticket alone. This evening, as I sat on the couch researching this idea, a memory came to me of an article I had read months ago about Nicaraguan Sign Language. And thus, an idea was born, of a pilgrimage...an awesome, nerdy, linguistic pilgrimage that will shape the coming year, and perhaps the years following. Who know what discoveries will come of this pilgrimage!
Between my colorful workplace and ballet-- and the mouse that lives in our house and my imaginative roommates-- I feel as if I am living a story (not storybook, mind). Work is more than just work, the studio is more than just a place to dance. Life has become organic and meaningful.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Mission 11/17/2010
Make dinner for roomies + my new friend Naama.
-Acorn squash is delicious. Peel the rind off though. Thanks for the advice, Sarah!
-I forgot to squeeze the lime juice into the chili-lime vinaigrette. So it was just chili-...vinaigrette.
-There IS a difference between les haricots verts (French green beans) and regular green beans. The latter is more beany; the former is more leafy.
-If the recipe says use ice water, do not substitute "very cold tap water". The ice makes for a flakier crust for your Alsatian onion tart.
-However long you think it will take to cook a big dinner, double that time (at least). We ended up eating at 10pm instead of the appointed start time of 8pm.
-Cheez-its make a great dessert. I drew a mouse on my emptied plate with sriracha sauce and fed it a crumbled up square of Cheez-it. The real Hamouse, our newest house pet, never showed up, though he had been invited. His prolonged absence is disconcerting. It is likely that he is busying himself with building more cheese bombs. Also, there is a fish in the house, and no one knew except for Kathleen because it is in her room.
-I love our house and the residents of our house and my new friend.
-Opened with Goosebumps today. Made a double leaf! Aw yeah...right in front of the Master Barista, too! Happiness abounds. A tiny baby boy with a tiny bald head came in for a coffee. His pajamas matched my socks. We were green-&-blue stripe buddies!
-Acorn squash is delicious. Peel the rind off though. Thanks for the advice, Sarah!
-I forgot to squeeze the lime juice into the chili-lime vinaigrette. So it was just chili-...vinaigrette.
-There IS a difference between les haricots verts (French green beans) and regular green beans. The latter is more beany; the former is more leafy.
-If the recipe says use ice water, do not substitute "very cold tap water". The ice makes for a flakier crust for your Alsatian onion tart.
-However long you think it will take to cook a big dinner, double that time (at least). We ended up eating at 10pm instead of the appointed start time of 8pm.
-Cheez-its make a great dessert. I drew a mouse on my emptied plate with sriracha sauce and fed it a crumbled up square of Cheez-it. The real Hamouse, our newest house pet, never showed up, though he had been invited. His prolonged absence is disconcerting. It is likely that he is busying himself with building more cheese bombs. Also, there is a fish in the house, and no one knew except for Kathleen because it is in her room.
-I love our house and the residents of our house and my new friend.
-Opened with Goosebumps today. Made a double leaf! Aw yeah...right in front of the Master Barista, too! Happiness abounds. A tiny baby boy with a tiny bald head came in for a coffee. His pajamas matched my socks. We were green-&-blue stripe buddies!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Babies
Once you are out of school, you have to give yourself assignments.
Walking home from ballet with a female classmate much older than I. She was going home to a husband of 37 years of marriage this December.
"Wow, congratulations!" I meant it. "I wish that upon myself."
"Oh, it'll happen! You've got to marry your best friend."
The simplicity of the advice is striking. And so sensible, too...I do hope my best friend is not a dog. Sometimes I think it might be a baby. I spent an hour in the children's section at the bookstore "studying", which is Arabic for "playing with babies". Being a baby is so exciting. You get to throw fistfuls of autumn leaves into the air for the first time. You get to alternatively give and take contents of your mother's wallet to a stranger over and over again, with increasing delight. You get to explore everything from books to feet with your teeth...even if you don't have any yet. Everything is amazing and new, and you are adorable just because you are so small and alien-looking and acting and because you walk funny...if you can even walk yet. Hah! Babies...
Walking home from ballet with a female classmate much older than I. She was going home to a husband of 37 years of marriage this December.
"Wow, congratulations!" I meant it. "I wish that upon myself."
"Oh, it'll happen! You've got to marry your best friend."
The simplicity of the advice is striking. And so sensible, too...I do hope my best friend is not a dog. Sometimes I think it might be a baby. I spent an hour in the children's section at the bookstore "studying", which is Arabic for "playing with babies". Being a baby is so exciting. You get to throw fistfuls of autumn leaves into the air for the first time. You get to alternatively give and take contents of your mother's wallet to a stranger over and over again, with increasing delight. You get to explore everything from books to feet with your teeth...even if you don't have any yet. Everything is amazing and new, and you are adorable just because you are so small and alien-looking and acting and because you walk funny...if you can even walk yet. Hah! Babies...
Saturday, November 06, 2010
New Perfume
I smell like work..."caramel, nutty, and fragrant". Or is it "uncommon, rich, and full"? Whatever the particular coffee smell, it's in my hair, in my clothes, on my hands, and in my very skin. The grounds are stuck under my nails, too. Every time I grind a bag of beans, and shake it down to settle the grounds in the bag, I like to imagine the tiny brown particles flying all over my face and in the air like an earthy, organic pixie dust. It's no wonder I come home smelling like I do. Today, my co-worker and I took turns being latte-making machines. The line of customers did not clear until three hours into our shift, and only for a minute then before the next wave began. Wow...as a newbie, I'm still wowed by this.
"How do you say 'factory' in French?"
"Usine."
"Je suis une usine!"
"How do you say 'factory' in French?"
"Usine."
"Je suis une usine!"
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Rhythm in Work
A facebook friend just tagged a dead man in one of my photos. I didn't even know of his existence, or that I had "seen" him without really seeing him before. But there he was in my photo-- two of my photos actually--, and now he has passed on after his body was hit by a car a couple days ago. Strange feelings abound. I memorialized a man with my camera. Just coming out of a photography moratorium, I am driven once more to pursue this line of work/art.
Work is wonderful. There are moments when customers get on my nerves, but for the most part, I consider myself lucky to be behind that bar. It's getting busier and busier as the season progresses into winter, so it's good that I am getting better and better at hitting a stride with my regular weekend co-worker. Last week, during a very busy shift, I was facing the machine pulling shots when suddenly I heard a woman's voice behind me say "It's like a ballet!" This made me look up and come out of a "zone" that I hadn't even realized I'd been in until that moment. I saw that we were being watched like performers on a stage by our customers as they waited for their drinks. Apart from the usual compliments about our coffee and service, this had to be my favorite customer comment of all time. Rather than a ballet, working behind the bar when it is super busy can feel like being on a swing. The rhythm of teamwork is tangible. It is the presence of rhythm in a given process that makes it comparable to an art like dance or music.
It occurred to me later that night that the entire process of working behind the bar at LC is a creation from nothing. There was no absolute rule that governed the process of making and serving coffee; no rule that placed one at the register and the other at the machines; no rule that governed how to deal with dirty dishes and spoons; no rule that detailed how the person at the register was supposed to assist the person at the machines and vice versa, and when. And so on. Nothing had to be the way it was, but because of the way the machines and other equipment were set up, and the given roles and the way the roles were trained to interact, a process was created that eventually came to be regarded as a dance by one customer.
Work is wonderful. There are moments when customers get on my nerves, but for the most part, I consider myself lucky to be behind that bar. It's getting busier and busier as the season progresses into winter, so it's good that I am getting better and better at hitting a stride with my regular weekend co-worker. Last week, during a very busy shift, I was facing the machine pulling shots when suddenly I heard a woman's voice behind me say "It's like a ballet!" This made me look up and come out of a "zone" that I hadn't even realized I'd been in until that moment. I saw that we were being watched like performers on a stage by our customers as they waited for their drinks. Apart from the usual compliments about our coffee and service, this had to be my favorite customer comment of all time. Rather than a ballet, working behind the bar when it is super busy can feel like being on a swing. The rhythm of teamwork is tangible. It is the presence of rhythm in a given process that makes it comparable to an art like dance or music.
It occurred to me later that night that the entire process of working behind the bar at LC is a creation from nothing. There was no absolute rule that governed the process of making and serving coffee; no rule that placed one at the register and the other at the machines; no rule that governed how to deal with dirty dishes and spoons; no rule that detailed how the person at the register was supposed to assist the person at the machines and vice versa, and when. And so on. Nothing had to be the way it was, but because of the way the machines and other equipment were set up, and the given roles and the way the roles were trained to interact, a process was created that eventually came to be regarded as a dance by one customer.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
A New Friend
I picked up the cello last night. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful...friendship.
If there's a cello lying around the house, one should learn to play it, yes? Yes indeed!
I struck my first note (a low C). "It sounds like a boat!" were the first words that flew out of my mouth.
Who picks up the cello at the age of 26? But then again, who picks up ballet at the age of 25? I, I.
I begin with Bach's Suite. It's gonna be my one-hit wonder.
If there's a cello lying around the house, one should learn to play it, yes? Yes indeed!
I struck my first note (a low C). "It sounds like a boat!" were the first words that flew out of my mouth.
Who picks up the cello at the age of 26? But then again, who picks up ballet at the age of 25? I, I.
I begin with Bach's Suite. It's gonna be my one-hit wonder.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Immunized & Primal
Longtime customer of LC wanders into the back kitchen. "Hey, do you need a flu shot?"
This year, I got immunized while perched atop the metal milk repository in the back kitchen of my coffeeshop. This is the best health care I've had since turning 18. After getting injected, I went back to chowing down on the most delicious falafel I've ever had.
Today was a good day. I got to open with Goosebumps. Endowed with an incredible ability to read my mind and mood, he makes me feel safe and taken care of. As soon as he goes on break to chow down on his own falafel, I set the pot of coffee dripping into the to-go cup, and forgot to watch it while grinding beans and ringing up the register. Coffee flowed all over the counter.
The day just got better as it aged into night. I was on my A-game in the best modern jazz class I've had yet. The teacher had beautiful form-- simultaneously powerful and dainty--, she didn't fuck around, she nitpicked, and she broke down the steps in an easily digestible way. The music was haunting and moving, and the choreography style was very Koresh-- lyrical and primal. Always the touch of jungle fever.
Ballet never leaves my bones, but here, in a modern class, it was important to move more instinctively. Also important to associate key movements with count as Kip always reminds us and not try to fix everything at once and consequently get overwhelmed and lost.
As I walked home from my usual evening study hall at the gelato shop, I swung the world by the tail and bounced over the white clouds, a la Allison Krauss and Robert Plant.
This year, I got immunized while perched atop the metal milk repository in the back kitchen of my coffeeshop. This is the best health care I've had since turning 18. After getting injected, I went back to chowing down on the most delicious falafel I've ever had.
Today was a good day. I got to open with Goosebumps. Endowed with an incredible ability to read my mind and mood, he makes me feel safe and taken care of. As soon as he goes on break to chow down on his own falafel, I set the pot of coffee dripping into the to-go cup, and forgot to watch it while grinding beans and ringing up the register. Coffee flowed all over the counter.
The day just got better as it aged into night. I was on my A-game in the best modern jazz class I've had yet. The teacher had beautiful form-- simultaneously powerful and dainty--, she didn't fuck around, she nitpicked, and she broke down the steps in an easily digestible way. The music was haunting and moving, and the choreography style was very Koresh-- lyrical and primal. Always the touch of jungle fever.
Ballet never leaves my bones, but here, in a modern class, it was important to move more instinctively. Also important to associate key movements with count as Kip always reminds us and not try to fix everything at once and consequently get overwhelmed and lost.
As I walked home from my usual evening study hall at the gelato shop, I swung the world by the tail and bounced over the white clouds, a la Allison Krauss and Robert Plant.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Red-Eyed Tree Frog
Why you should be fascinated by red-eyed tree frogs:
(a) They are living mood rings. Normally a bright lurid lime green, depending on their mood they can change to dark green or a reddish-brown. Obviously, frogs only have three kinds of moods: happy, sad, and jumpy! Besides the green, their sides are striped by blue and white bands, and their feet are red or orange. They really are beautiful creatures.
(b) Sometimes, they eat smaller frogs. Can you imagine if humans ate smaller human beings? I would not live to tell the tale.
(c) They (and frogs in general) are an indicator species. Because of their ultra-sensitivity to changes in their environment, if anything is wrong, frogs are the first to feel the effects. If you hear less ribbiting at night, it means your ecosystem is not so healthy.
(d) Contrary to what their freakishly red eyes might lead you to believe, they are not poisonous. The color is used as a startling mechanism.
(e) They look funny and adorable. Bulging eyes, wide mouth, flat head...cuter than your average chihuahua.
I became curious about red-eyed tree frogs after a meeting at my coffeeshop with a Rainforest Alliance representative. The meeting was casual, yet informative, and now I know what to tell my customers when they ask if our beans are "Fair Trade certified". Answer: "No, but we are Rainforest Alliance certified. Check out the cute froggie sticker on our packaging!"
(a) They are living mood rings. Normally a bright lurid lime green, depending on their mood they can change to dark green or a reddish-brown. Obviously, frogs only have three kinds of moods: happy, sad, and jumpy! Besides the green, their sides are striped by blue and white bands, and their feet are red or orange. They really are beautiful creatures.
(b) Sometimes, they eat smaller frogs. Can you imagine if humans ate smaller human beings? I would not live to tell the tale.
(c) They (and frogs in general) are an indicator species. Because of their ultra-sensitivity to changes in their environment, if anything is wrong, frogs are the first to feel the effects. If you hear less ribbiting at night, it means your ecosystem is not so healthy.
(d) Contrary to what their freakishly red eyes might lead you to believe, they are not poisonous. The color is used as a startling mechanism.
(e) They look funny and adorable. Bulging eyes, wide mouth, flat head...cuter than your average chihuahua.
I became curious about red-eyed tree frogs after a meeting at my coffeeshop with a Rainforest Alliance representative. The meeting was casual, yet informative, and now I know what to tell my customers when they ask if our beans are "Fair Trade certified". Answer: "No, but we are Rainforest Alliance certified. Check out the cute froggie sticker on our packaging!"
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
H Sound
Semitic languages are so interesting in both structure and sound. I
love the deep throaty H sound of Arabic (like the sound you make when
blowing on your glasses before wiping them). Such a beautiful, breathy,
yet full sound coming from deep within. It's a shame the English
language lacks such a sound.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Initiated
I just worked my 5th shift in a row at LC. I feel like a real barista now, especially since during this last shift, Handlebars entrusted me with making the drinks for half the time. Also during this last shift, one of the signature ceramic cups shattered and drew blood from my right middle finger. I feel initiated. Welcome to the LC baristahood, Angie Chung.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Union
How strange! I can hear my heart beating through my ipod! My heartbeat
melds with the strains of Tchaikovky's Violin Concerto. This piece of
music is so unbelievably gorgeous and exalting at times that it makes
me want to scream or cry-- or some other form of release from this
corpus cage.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Consumed
Lately, I've been struck with this fine idea that I'm spending the
next few years or many years in anticipation and preparation for the
homecoming of whoever I'm destined to be with. It's a wonderful idea.
I'm not wondering, I'm simply waiting. The difference is the element of
inevitability contained in the latter, and the lack of it in the
former.
In the meantime, my study of ballet has taken on a level of seriousness that I never would have predicted not a year ago. I go to class nearly every day, practice and stretch for another hour (sometimes more) after each class, then go to my favorite gelato palace to take notes and think about ballet for awhile before cracking opening my Arabic book. It's become rather obsessive, I admit, and all-consuming. Absolute bliss.
Because of this all-consuming dedication to ballet, I am left with little time for socializing, and so find myself leading a rather solitary life of late. In another lifetime, this would have bothered me greatly, but nowadays, I am driven more by a sense of purpose than by a desire for camaraderie. It's a different sort of fun.
In the meantime, my study of ballet has taken on a level of seriousness that I never would have predicted not a year ago. I go to class nearly every day, practice and stretch for another hour (sometimes more) after each class, then go to my favorite gelato palace to take notes and think about ballet for awhile before cracking opening my Arabic book. It's become rather obsessive, I admit, and all-consuming. Absolute bliss.
Because of this all-consuming dedication to ballet, I am left with little time for socializing, and so find myself leading a rather solitary life of late. In another lifetime, this would have bothered me greatly, but nowadays, I am driven more by a sense of purpose than by a desire for camaraderie. It's a different sort of fun.
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