two evenings

I managed to speak with my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. C, before leaving Houston. She was busy with holiday obligations, but we had a pleasant chat. She was the first teacher to introduce me to English literature. Even now, “The Chronicles of Narnia” are among my favorite books. Best of all this time was that I spoke first to her husband, Mr. C, who seemed gracious and spirited. I guess I had always known there would be a Mr. C, but I had never really thought about how he would sound as an actual, thinking person occupying physical space. It's kind of like bumping into your dentist at the grocery store. I ran into Dr. K once at Den Toom by the frozen vegetable section. It was funny. I suppose dentists must need eat as well, though I remember wondering whether he ever bought anything sweet for his curly-haired children.

Mrs. C was a bit tired this year because they’d given her some problem kids and Special Ed children on top of her usual load. Consequently, the class is in some disharmony. The administration balances such hard cases with gifted and talented groups every other year. Why is it the case everywhere that everyone seems to be working more and getting less satisfaction in life? Why is everyone more tired and less compensated? Is it the speed of modern life without velocity? Is it cellphones? The internet? The interconnected, inter-watching wariness first illustrated in “Las Meninas”?

All the old haunts I return to look overbuilt, with unsightly new wings crammed on to accommodate more people with more needs. Gone are lightness and airiness, space to move and breathe—windows are taken down and walls put in for adjoining room. Even high school had suffered the same fate, I discovered last week on an impromptu visit after many years away. Maybe it is over-population. They’d fenced off the school to outsiders since 9/11, I was told, expanded the elementary school with an in-door play gym that threw the landscape of the front lawns into imbalance. Still, the kids cavorting in it looked pretty happy when I walked past.

Most of the favorite old teachers are still there, though I’m told they are almost all leaving in a couple of years. Some have grown beards; others have shaved them off or rumoured to have gotten plastic surgery. Some that had retired came back, to my happy surprise; others upped and went to teach in Bangladesh. A favorite might be retiring to Providence! I’d love to visit Mr. M there. I even made peace with Ms. B, whose iron policies regarding student punctuality I promptly poached during my spell as a language teacher at SD University. She and I had had an oddly dissatisfying chat the last time I visited, but this time, everything rang true. I told her about how awful I'd felt senior year when I couldn't get out of bed at 5 AM anymore to catch the bus and consequently had very, very late papers. One I didn't turn in till a month after it was due and I was so embarrassed to run into her in the hallways because she was so understanding. It's worse when they are tender-hearted about it: it just makes one feel like more of a jerk...

Then there was Mr. T, who'd received a copy of an artist's book I made during college because he had given me an essay about swallows and relativism upon my graduation. We chatted for half an hour (that was all the gentle, untalkative man could take of my flood of words) and it was clear that even if that was the last time we'd ever see each other, it was a good farewell. Mrs. I was back and looked more happy and radiant than I'd ever recalled seeing her. I was still a little afraid of her directness, perhaps nervous she'd randomly query me on whether I knew what a pyrric foot was, but it was for nought. I was glad to see them all, and now regret I'd been too shy to pull out the heavy camera I’d carted in the Donners bookstore canvas bag with some copies of my book. That was dumb, especially since I might not see some of them again, but que sera, sera.

In the last few years, I've learnt how important it is to let people know if they’d made a difference in one's life because at any time, it might be too late. Henceforth, I’ve decided to be more open about appreciation to everyone, because now’s every moment is the real life. It isn’t some rehearsal for a future life. Even if one is prudent, it is foggy at best and as much as is possible, I want to live every moment consciously and with some measure of interior joy, if it means to merely remember a thing of meaning. Tired but tireless, my old profs looked older this time, but comfortingly recognisable still and so very human.

* * *

N picked me up from HS in her new roomy VW. I waited in the rain for 20 minutes and felt the water fall into my open-toed shoes before I remembered that like me, she was rarely punctual. The umbrella Far lent me was big, however, so I hopped around a bit, trying to be perky about it, but still was a little sad that the bright, modern school I'd known in its coruscating youth looked uglier now. The sleek grey staircases with see-through planks had been replaced with much clumsier, solid, blah-blue plastic stuff. The bus bay also looked smaller and overcrowded because the new elementary wing nearly spilled out onto the sidewalk. I thought of my longtime bus driver, Jaap, a friendly grey Dutch gentleman who was very tolerant of our teenage antics and as a result, we were pretty well-behaved around him. He used to listen to either Sky Radio or Radio Nordzee and let us play our tapes.

A sparse train of cars came and went and still no N. I paced, considered going back to the warm, lit lobby, but worried she wouldn’t be able to see me under the eaves. Finally, a new strain of cars came by. A man appeared to my right and leapt for the first one. He really looked like he knew what he was doing, but then the driver waved him away from the opened door. She called out to me. I gratefully stepped off the curb and smiled at an old friend. She looked well, mature as ever, and preternaturally calm. I unfurled into a complete klutz for the rest of the evening, starting with my drippy umbrella which refused to close. I examined it and noticed that the push button and release parts had fallen off. Charming, but I nestled into the front seat with it anyway and buckled myself in.

N is a careful driver, as befits her personality. She and her boyfriend, whom I met briefly at a bar last summer, have moved into a flat together under the Dutch co-habitation law. Its stipulations are fascinating: pragmatic and almost unromantic considering how it's chief raison d'etre is for "living [keenly] in sin", but I am glad she and A are together. We drove through the rain on a road I used to know very well. Was it just my current state of mind, sheer forgetfulness, or were there now commercial buildings on the side of what used to be a paved country lane? The old farmhouses were still there, with their droopy brown thatched roofs and somber windows filled with candles and curios, but there were meretriciously lit square storefronts of chrome and neon, too, in giant blocks that patroled the road like checkpoints. The other cars on the road were dark creatures with cheery red tail lights. We caught up on the essentials and fell to comfortable silence. I fought with the sight of those strip-malls. Christmas songs jingled from the glowing radio.

Her flat was lovely and had REAL things in it: matching waterglasses, umbrella stands, wraparound couch, dusted shelves, dining set, spotless kitchen, and a shiny long-screened TV A had just brought home that day. Their friend, M, was over also, and the boys played on the computer while N and I headed to a luxe Chinese restaurant to order dinner. The quiet music and restrained décor of the place suggested quality all around and the food did not disappoint. There were tender chicken and fish dishes mixed with fresh greens, colourful manners of rice and bami, and pure orange juice. The discussion was animated because A was quick-witted and humorous and M was a good foil. N offered her own quiet commentary, but for the most part, was content to enjoy the friendly Punch and Judy show. Afterwards, we had some tea and watched “Ocean’s 11”, one of those movies I would have wanted to see while at the videostore, had I worked through my usual stack of sincere pretension and deliberate trash… I fell asleep at times because the food, conversation, and tea had been so soothing, but caught most of the action.

N drove me home with A and M in tow. I forgot some parts of the road so we overshot an exit and found ourselves cruising on one of the bridges leading out of Rotterdam over the river Maas. Finding a way to curve back wasn’t too difficult, but took some time, and I admired the widely spiraling highways. There were few cars and the open lanes were eerily beautiful between pools of ochre light. We passed one segment of a smaller bridge whose spine was intermittently blue with cool neon. It was cosy inside the spacious ride and I paused to savour sleepy bonhomie and the quiet of the night.