Hug a mailman

As a generally awkward person, I am growing alarmingly accustomed to cringe-worthy social encounters. Every now and then, however, I endure a truly spectacular exchange that leaves me shuddering for weeks. Unexpected meetings (such as a chance encounter in a store) amplify the awkward meter by about a billion. Marie Osmond once said, "if you're going to look back and laugh about it, you might as well laugh about it now." Words to live by for the perennially awkward person.  In an attempt to cease the cringing and start the laughing, here's what happened today:

After being pumped through the Costco checkout line, Amber and I headed to the bathrooms before exiting the store, our long receipt trailing behind us. The bathrooms at Costco are tucked far into the side corner of the store, but in spite of their inaccessible location, they are always busy busy busy with people walking in and out of the doors almost constantly. The men's and women's restrooms share an entrance: turn right to enter the women's, left for the men's (a stressful setup in an of itself with an escape artist wild-runner-child like Amber). Before we entered the bathroom, I parked our cart outside the door, covering the beautiful books I bought with a giant bag of pretzels to deter any bathroom heists. We took care of our business and I actually got Amber to pee a little in the toilet for once. She only touched the bathroom floor three times after washing hands. Things were moving along smoothly. As we were retrieving our heavy cart by the door, a guy walked past us halfway into the bathroom, then paused. I paused. We looked at each other, both recognizing the other but clearly shuffling through trying to place the face. It dawned on me at last: it was our good ole mailman from Grandview! 

Backstory: we lived in Grandview (ten miles away from our current house) for six years. We had the same mailman all of that time. Since I ran and walked with the kids in the stroller often, we would see him out delivering mail in town almost every day. He always waved at us and we waved at him. One day after a couple of years of waving, the mailman pulled over his truck while I was pushing the stroller. He asked me a question about running, and after that we had the runner's bond--that automatic kinship that exists between humans who choose to run. I was a little bit sad when we moved to Sunnyside because it was such a cozy feeling to live in tiny town Grandview where our mailman was so nice. But I didn't even know his name, and we really only ever conversed beyond a wave a handful of times. 

So there I was, standing with a loaded Costco cart by the bathroom door, face to face with our long-lost mailman. He said hi, and then stepped forward, slightly raising his arms as he moved and I thought he was going to hug me, so... I hugged him. He's a nice friendly fatherly fellow, maybe 15 years older than me, so it wasn't horribly weird in general, but I usually hide from people I know in stores, not go up hugging them in the bathroom doorway! Immediately I realized that he meant to simply shake my hand, but WHAT ON EARTH is mailman etiquette anyways? I wanted OUT of there from the sheer awkwardness of the situation. Blessedly, in spite of my internal cringing, I did not blush. I can blush at the thought of blushing, and it is a true miracle that for once in my life full of awkward conversations, I did not blush and set fire to the toilet paper with my flaming face. 

We had a short conversation that felt long wherein I told him we moved to Sunnyside and he told me he had knee surgery. Before we parted, I realized that I still did not know the man's name (and I had felt bad about that for six years), so I ASKED HIM in the most delicate, tactful way: "I don't even know your name!" (groan) He told me, and then I told him my name, even though he had delivered my mail for six years straight so he probably knew it. By this point I was drowning in awkwardness--not even flailing around anymore, just resigned to it and sinking in hopelessly, even welcoming the water into my lungs in an attempt to end the misery. With a last "good-to-see-you, see-you-around" exchange, he went into the bathroom and I pushed my cart  towards the exit. The end.

Except my insides were cringing in on themselves and I felt that I'd be happy never to converse with another non-family human being again at all ever in this lifetime. It was all so awkwardly mortifying. And there's the stigma of the housewife and the mailman, which while not my style in any way, amplified my cringing over hugging the poor man. I can't even really pinpoint why I felt so horrifically embarrassed--I have never been able to explain why talking to people I know in stores is so embarrassing for me. All I can think of is the unexpected pressure to CONVERSE sprung upon me when I thought I was in my safe little anonymous shopping-bubble is beyond stressful. 

I was wrong. Writing about such a fresh blow is not cathartic. I'm still cringing. Laughter, you can come any time now. 

Moral of the story: don't hug the mailman. Just wave.

A few pictures from this afternoon to clear the air:

After a long morning of errands, the temple is always our best, most favorite stop.

And the kids got in some jumping time this afternoon. We resuscitated our windblown trampoline by un-bending the frame and snapping off the mangled net enclosure. What a relief! I don't know how to be a parent without a trampoline. Thankfully, nobody has fallen off yet without the net. In fact, the absence of the net has made them a bit more cautious and there have been less tears and injuries since we removed the net. Take that, safety regulations and 30-40 mph wind gusts!

I could live off of their laughter.

Warmer weather and longer days, here we come! 

Les iles et Notre Dame

Notre Dame cathedral is on an island, (ile) in the middle of the River Seine, at the thousand-year-old heart of Paris. We saw it nearly every day during our one week visit. On Thursday (Feb 15th) we walked all the way down one side of the cathedral and back through the narrow streets of the tiny Ile de la Cite, across the bridge and onto the nearby, even smaller, quieter Ile de St.-Louis, then looped back across the bridge, finishing at the other side of Notre Dame. I marveled at how isolated and quiet the ile felt compared to the enormous, bustling rest-of-Paris. It helped me visualize the original Paris of a thousand years ago: a fortified island in the middle of the Seine, with the foundations of Notre Dame being laid. Can you even imagine anything taking 200 years to build today? I hold Notre Dame in the highest regard. It was an excellent walk in spite of the damp grayness of the day.

 It is so big and intricate!

 And Gothic!

 I always forget how BIG it is.

 Rainwater was flowing from the gargoyles' mouths.

 Can you spot tiny Shaina? Maybe it's because I'm a six foot tall woman, but I love the sensation of feeling tiny--dwarfed by something so much bigger than myself.

 A "small side door."

 Gargoyles everywhere!

 Buttresses abounding out back.

Jeff, carrying a backpack in preparation for some book shopping after our walk. He used his classroom budget to purchase a large stack of French books and 8 crepe pans while we were abroad, and I faithfully helped him lug it all home. I doubt his teenage students have any idea how lucky they are.

 I already forgot which building this is... L'hotel de Ville maybe?

 The Seine was SO HIGH from recent heavy rains that no boats or barges could even fit under the bridges. Those circular towers are part of the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was held prior to her execution.

 The entire quay we enjoyed jogging on last year was under water.

I get such a thrill from cozy European street scenes like this one. I decided that rainy days really are the best for enjoying Paris. Only the very most touristy sites like the Eiffel Tower were crowded. 

 I mean, a narrow cobbled street, bike-with-basket, and window boxes, all on a tiny island in the middle Paris's river?? Gush.

 Notre Dame's spire peeking out at us from afar.

 Quai d'Orleans was absolutely charmont on l'ile de St.-Louis.

 Our Lady, viewed from the next ile over.

 Reflection in the muddy water

 I was wearing my dress because we were planning on going to the temple that afternoon, but we ended up being too sleepy and going on the arch walk instead.

 How awesomely creepy-Gothic does it look through all of those bony wintry trees?

 Having sold a house in the intervening year, I was intrigued by Paris real estate. Some brief research revealed that the average tiny 200 square foot Paris apartment costs about a thousand dollars per month to rent!

 In front of the world-famous bookstore. I'm still slightly confused how an English bookstore in Paris became so famous. It was closed when we walked by, but I peeked in the windows at the satisfyingly musty looking shop and saw lots of lovely old books. I don't aspire to owning first editions, but it is still a cozy historic thought to SEE them in a shop.

We made another photographic visit to Notre Dame on Saturday, Feb 17th at sunset. The sinking sun turned the stone a warm gold and it glowed. As we were walking towards Notre Dame with a hope of going inside for a look at the stained glass in the sunlight, magic happened. The bells started ringing--not chiming the hour or anything so mundane. They were RINGING, back and forth and all over each other, chiming joyfully on a Saturday at 5:30pm. When we got inside, we found out why. It was a call to Mass. We got caught in a jam of tourists who had stopped to watch the priest and his people walk up the hall to the front of the church. I felt awkward watching so many lame tourists with their phones out taking VIDEOS of it. I mean, I'm not Catholic, but it seems like any religious worship service deserves a bit more respect than phone videos. 

 Since I thoroughly photographed the stained glass here last year, I snapped two pictures to test our new pocket camera's low-light stained glass abilities, then simply walked and soaked.

History hung in the air. I keep writing enthusiastically about history, but I have to admit that I usually only get excited about history when I get to SEE visible vestiges. Then I want to know ALL about everything that happened in and around that site or that building, preferably from firsthand accounts rather than a textbook. I wish all history could be taught via primary sources and travel.

 Pictures like this make my brain remember Notre Dame much smaller than it actually is up close. (note how much the river water receded off of the walkway down low after two days)

How many sunsets has this building seen?