4:10 AM
Sho
I come home in the rain and wind at 10:30 a.m., an hour and a half before Bolaven is expected. I am thankful for the timing of this typhoon - two days ago I arrived from Europe, and my body clock is pulling a Charlie Sheen. A little confused, a little nutty. I lie in bed and watch my outer windows shudder. The wind is loud. It sounds like the ocean, like waves rumbling onto the shore. I decide that I don't want to nap in my window-lined bed and move to the couch.
It's stuffy in my room and my fan is on. The fan is pitiful compared to the powerful wind outside, and I tell it so, but not out loud because I am not crazy. I drift into sleep.
When I wake, I look out the window and see people standing outside in short sleeves. Their bodies are braced against the wind, and their faces are ecstatic. I have a flashback to when I window-watched Swedes walking hatless in negative degree weather in Sweden. Are these people the same kind of crazy? I want to yell at them to go inside. Occasionally a big gust rattles them for a few seconds, and they shriek in fearful delight, clutching umbrellas, running toward doorways. It is like watching a woman in labor. Pause, pause, pause, scream.
I go on facebook and people are having hangouts. Apparently my friends, too, are throwing caution to the wind; ignoring nature's warnings. The satellite on the building opposite me is reminiscent of a badly made weathervane. It shakes from side to side and I wonder if it will fall, if our neighbors lives will be changed in such a way.
Pizza. I want pizza. I wonder if they are open today, if they will deliver in this weather, if they will magically understand the konglish directions to my apartment. I grab some cash and head downstairs, thrilled by an excuse to experience the elements. Am I one of them? One of my pregnant neighbors?
I venture out the doorway of my apartment complex and feel the air twisting up around my body, mangling my bangs. Depending on your perspective, this is not skirt weather. The thought occurs that perhaps this isn't typhoon Bolaven, but a faded version of him - like Rocky without a comeback.
An old man stands in front of the doorway, contentedly watching the store signs on the building opposite as they shake and rattle. He is 5'9, with a straight back contradicting the deep grooves in his weathered face. We share a moment of silent solidarity, watching first the signs, then the occasional passerby. What wisdom does he have, what storms has he seen? It is good there is a language barrier, so that I am not disappointed on this score, for what could be more of a letdown than watching a storm with an old man and hearing him say something stupid or trivial? Especially when my fine mind has created such an excellent, seafaring past for him.
Heading out of the limited shelter of our front doorway, the warm wind greets me with the enthusiastic strength of embracing a long lost friend. Hardly the violent shove I was expecting. The trees that line our streets are shaking violently - they are thinner and weaker than I, and apparently on less friendly terms with our mutual acquaintance. I briefly imagine my dad's angry face when he discovers that I was struck by a branch while wandering through a typhoon. There have been complaints of my common sense in the past.
Well Dad, I was going to get pizza.
**
A big store sign has become a hazaard, perhaps knocked partly off the building, and a construction crew is being lifted to fix it. The boxy black lower third of our pedestrian crossing light has been knocked off, and a man is helping direct traffic as the lights madly dance like sufis.
I eat half my pizza, complete a tutoring session, and succumb to a demanding phone call from a friend who clearly cares nothing for the safety of my limbs.
"Come over," she demands. "We are having girl time. You agreed to this yesterday."
I tell her that I am busy, that I am blogging my experience. She laughs and says this is nothing.
"You can't," she announces, "tell people you were in a typhoon unless you journeyed through it."
"I'm in the middle of a fantasy book that I've rediscovered."
"We will have wine and watch a movie," she returns.
"Can we film a newscast in the wind?" As of this moment I've always wanted to do a fake storm newscast.
"Yes. And we'll do a photoshoot."
We hung up. I'm bringing my book, I texted as a final act of defiance. good idea. that'll save you from flying trees.
And so it was that I braved the elements once again and arrived at girls' night with an unnecessary red rain jacket and green boots. We played Twister and drank wine and pretended to giggle about boys. And we shot a typhoon survivor film, which I will upload and share here.
It's stuffy in my room and my fan is on. The fan is pitiful compared to the powerful wind outside, and I tell it so, but not out loud because I am not crazy. I drift into sleep.
When I wake, I look out the window and see people standing outside in short sleeves. Their bodies are braced against the wind, and their faces are ecstatic. I have a flashback to when I window-watched Swedes walking hatless in negative degree weather in Sweden. Are these people the same kind of crazy? I want to yell at them to go inside. Occasionally a big gust rattles them for a few seconds, and they shriek in fearful delight, clutching umbrellas, running toward doorways. It is like watching a woman in labor. Pause, pause, pause, scream.
I go on facebook and people are having hangouts. Apparently my friends, too, are throwing caution to the wind; ignoring nature's warnings. The satellite on the building opposite me is reminiscent of a badly made weathervane. It shakes from side to side and I wonder if it will fall, if our neighbors lives will be changed in such a way.
Pizza. I want pizza. I wonder if they are open today, if they will deliver in this weather, if they will magically understand the konglish directions to my apartment. I grab some cash and head downstairs, thrilled by an excuse to experience the elements. Am I one of them? One of my pregnant neighbors?
I venture out the doorway of my apartment complex and feel the air twisting up around my body, mangling my bangs. Depending on your perspective, this is not skirt weather. The thought occurs that perhaps this isn't typhoon Bolaven, but a faded version of him - like Rocky without a comeback.
An old man stands in front of the doorway, contentedly watching the store signs on the building opposite as they shake and rattle. He is 5'9, with a straight back contradicting the deep grooves in his weathered face. We share a moment of silent solidarity, watching first the signs, then the occasional passerby. What wisdom does he have, what storms has he seen? It is good there is a language barrier, so that I am not disappointed on this score, for what could be more of a letdown than watching a storm with an old man and hearing him say something stupid or trivial? Especially when my fine mind has created such an excellent, seafaring past for him.
Heading out of the limited shelter of our front doorway, the warm wind greets me with the enthusiastic strength of embracing a long lost friend. Hardly the violent shove I was expecting. The trees that line our streets are shaking violently - they are thinner and weaker than I, and apparently on less friendly terms with our mutual acquaintance. I briefly imagine my dad's angry face when he discovers that I was struck by a branch while wandering through a typhoon. There have been complaints of my common sense in the past.
Well Dad, I was going to get pizza.
**
A big store sign has become a hazaard, perhaps knocked partly off the building, and a construction crew is being lifted to fix it. The boxy black lower third of our pedestrian crossing light has been knocked off, and a man is helping direct traffic as the lights madly dance like sufis.
I eat half my pizza, complete a tutoring session, and succumb to a demanding phone call from a friend who clearly cares nothing for the safety of my limbs.
"Come over," she demands. "We are having girl time. You agreed to this yesterday."
I tell her that I am busy, that I am blogging my experience. She laughs and says this is nothing.
"You can't," she announces, "tell people you were in a typhoon unless you journeyed through it."
"I'm in the middle of a fantasy book that I've rediscovered."
"We will have wine and watch a movie," she returns.
"Can we film a newscast in the wind?" As of this moment I've always wanted to do a fake storm newscast.
"Yes. And we'll do a photoshoot."
We hung up. I'm bringing my book, I texted as a final act of defiance. good idea. that'll save you from flying trees.
And so it was that I braved the elements once again and arrived at girls' night with an unnecessary red rain jacket and green boots. We played Twister and drank wine and pretended to giggle about boys. And we shot a typhoon survivor film, which I will upload and share here.
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