Portable Radios Aren't Dead Yet

Last night while running, twice I ran past a homeless man sitting on a corner across the street from me by a shopping center.  I felt bad for him since he was sitting all alone in a dark corner.  He wasn’t in a very good location for people to see him and stop.  And recently I happened to receive a lot of presents, and then when I got back in my palatial apartment I started feeling even sorrier for the man.  Here I have so much, and he is sitting by himself in a dark corner by the street.

So I hopped in the car and drove off to meet him to see if he needed any help.  When I drove up, he was situated such that he was on my passenger side.  He looked older, maybe in his 60s or 70s.  I called out to him, and Bob, as I later found out his name, got up and came over.

“Hi, do you need any help?”

“Yes, I need an AM/FM radio.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, at night I hear a lot of peoples' voices, and the radio helps me sleep.”
…
“This probably makes no sense to you.  But the radio helps cuts down on the voices.”
“I understand, but the problem is that I don’t have an AM/FM radio on me.”
“Oh that’s okay, Wal-Mart sells them.  You can go there and get one.  Incoherent part (we’ll come back to that).”
“You’re right.  Okay, just hold on and I’ll go get you one.”
“Okay, I’ll wait right here.”

I drove into Wal-Mart, which was in that shopping center, and lo and behold they had portable AM/FM radios for sale, two models actually, batteries naturally not included.  So I got him a radio, and a pack of triple As, (kept the receipt just in case), threw ten dollars into the bag, and drove back to him.

“Hi again, I’ve got your radio!”
“Thank you, what do I owe you.  (Ahh, now I realized that his incoherent part from before was him stating he was going to pay me back).”
“It’s a gift, enjoy it.”
“No really, what did it cost, let me pay you back.”
“That’s really okay, it’s a gift.  Sleep well.”
“Hey, thanks a lot!  Do you want to come sit and talk?”
“Oh, I am sorry, I really must be going.  But I’ll take some prayers!”
“Sure, I’ll pray for you, what’s your name!?”

And that’s pretty much the story.  I felt bad for not staying with him.  The poor guy probably would have loved the company.  But he also literally hears voices in his head, and he was in a very dark corner.  Although, I still feel bad, because that is really just an excuse.  If he had violent tendencies he would likely have been in prison, and he was very friendly and nice.  No, the reason I didn’t stick around and talk is because I really just didn’t want to get more involved.  Gah, that’s heartless.  I was happy to see he had food with him, and appeared to be in good spirits.  But it breaks my heart thinking he has no one to talk with.  Hopefully, he has a good group of friends.  It’s hard to be sure, because there are a variety of places around here for people to receive assistance be it shelter, job training, food, and so on.  Hopefully he makes use of those services, but sometimes, all we really want is someone to hang out with on our Saturday nights.

So keep Bob in your prayers, that he finds some good friends to talk with.

Breakfast for Two

On Friday morning, I woke up a little early.  While lying there, I realized I could go to Confession and morning Mass.  I really needed to go to Confession, and didn’t want to wait until Saturday evening.  However, I was very tired and I really didn’t want to go.  At all.  I wanted to go so little, I decided I was probably being persuaded not to go.  That made me grumpy.  It’s one thing when I am simply too lazy to go, but it’s another matter altogether if I feel like I’m being supernaturally tempted not to go.  So rather than letting the devil win in the very first skirmish of my day, I very grumpily got dressed and went out.

It’s about a 15 minute drive to get there, and is in a different city.  I live in a very well to do suburb.  When I go out at 6:45 AM in the morning, there is no one out, except for maybe the occasional disgusting person out jogging.  Show offs.  But then I get to the neighborhood of the Church, and it’s completely different.  It is in a poor neighborhood.  And people are everywhere.  The Church is in the middle of a residential neighborhood.  To get there, I drive by a gas station on the same street of the Church.  The gas station was a hub of activity.  Not with people getting gas mind you, just people going in and out of the store.  In fact, as I was looking at the people walking in and out, I had a brief scare when I looked back to the road, and saw a lady who looked like she was about to walk in front of the car.

I make it to Church, and I go in.  But, the door is locked.  Then I realized, that because it was a Friday in Lent, they probably canceled Confession and morning Mass, for Stations and Mass in the evening.  This did absolutely nothing to improve my mood.  I had another 15 minute drive back, and I wouldn’t be able to get to Confession until at least Saturday evening.

Driving back, on the same road as the gas station, I passed by that same woman from before.  She was on the same side of the street, as she when I almost “hit” her.  That seemed odd to me, because it looked like she was trying to cross again.  On seeing her again, I figured she should have either been in the store at the gas station, or already back and on her way.  Not going back in again.  As I drove by her, it seemed like she was trying to wave me down, and I thought I heard her shout something.  I kept driving, and thought “I didn’t want to go to Church.  I drag myself here, and it’s locked.  Now a lady is trying to flag me down.  Blast those Angels who got me out here, I just want to go home and back to bed!”  So I slam my hand down on the wheel, roll down the window, and put the car in reverse.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Can I come in your car and get warm?  I just want to sit and get warm, that’s all.  I’m freezing.  Here, feel my hand.”

I did and it was indeed very cold.  Now I had to think a little.  In this neighborhood, her asking to get in the car to get warm was not exactly the question I was expecting to receive from a lady at that horrible dark hour of the morning.  Ahem.  And given the nature of this neighborhood, and feeling that it would do nothing to improve my mood if I were to get stabbed, I asked her if she would mind getting in the back.  The words weren’t fully out, before she had the back door open and she hopped in.

“Sorry, about the back, I have a bunch of things up here in the front seat.”

“It’s fine.  Thanks.  Turn up the heat.  Are you Catholic?”  She noticed my Rosary hanging from the rear view mirror.

“Yes.  I was just on my way to Confession and Mass, but the Church is locked.”

At this point I didn’t get a good look at her.  She was white, of an indeterminate age, wearing a decent looking coat, and jeans.  Throughout this story, keep in mind that when I ask her questions that she doesn’t feel comfortable answering, she would mumble and give neither a straight nor coherent answer.  The poor girl was frozen solid and I asked her if she lived in the area.  Mumbling she said something that sounded like, “Yes, but I can’t get in right now.”  It sort of sounded like her roommate wouldn’t answer the door.  I figured they were asleep and for whatever the reason, she was unable to wake them up in order to get in.

Realizing it was a sore subject, I didn’t know quite else what to say, so I said she could just sit here as long as she needed.  After a brief pause in talking she asked, “Could you give me some money for food at the gas station?  You can buy it for me if you want.”

“Well, I haven’t had breakfast yet, would you like to join me?”

“Yeah.”  And she directed me to a little diner just down the street from the gas station.  This place.  I’ve driven by it many times.  And there is a reason I’ve never stopped.  I like dives, I go to many around here, but this place has a uniquely downtrodden atmosphere to it that has kept me from ever visiting.

As I turn into the parking lot she asks, “You were going to Confessing?”

“Yes, I’ve got a lot of demons, and I need to go.  But I suppose it was a good thing that it was locked, because then I would have never met you.”

We go in.  I was dressed in my work clothes, slacks, a nice button down shirt, dress shoes, and my best winter coat.  Each article may have cost more than the entire outfit of any given person in there.  There was a table of 4 older gentlemen, drinking coffee and playing lottery tickets before they had to go to work or start their days.  There was also a younger woman, who my woman (we’ll call her Kay) knows.  They talked for a little bit but in very hushed tones, and I couldn’t make out any of it.  I did hear that the other woman was looking for a phone to use, so I handed her mine.  A little shell-shocked by all of this, I didn’t watch her, but on later inspection I learned she either didn’t use it or deleted whatever number entered.

Kay and I ordered.  We each had a slice of chocolate pie, and a normal breakfast too.  I ordered two eggs over-medium and cinnamon toast.  Kay ordered two eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and toast.  It was a huge plate of food.  It was like two or three of my typical meals.  Kay then proceeded to pour on a ton of salt, pepper, and ketchup.  In my mind she completely ruined the meal, but she ate nearly all of it.  It was impressive.  I was also able to take a good look at her.  She had dyed blonde hair, but there were some other shades in there from previous colorings.  It looked like spots were missed, so maybe it was hand done by a non-professional.  She had on a lot of foundation, but no other major makeup.  I could not tell you her age, or even make a guess.  Somewhere between 20 and 40.  She looked as though she lived a rough life.  She was of a healthy build, not under or over weight from what I could tell.  She appeared and acted completely sober.

She was very cold.  She drank a few cups of coffee but it took a while for her to warm up.

“Were you outside all night?”

Mumbling, “Yeah, well sort of, no, yes.”

Kay: “When you go Confessing do you do it in a small room like a box?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Alone?”

“Well, the Priest is there.”

“Oh yeah, right.  I’m non-denominational.  You’re a good Catholic.”

“Haha.  Just keep in mind that what makes a good Catholic, aren’t just the Saints, which I’m absolutely not, but also those who are making the struggle to try and be a good Catholic.”

“That makes sense.”

I tried to make chit-chat about restaurants and how I’m new to area and still exploring, and that I hadn’t been to this one before.  She told me she really likes a local Burrito chain, but that conversation didn’t last long.

Me: “Do you live around here?”

“Yes.”

“Is your family here too.”

“My parents are dead.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I do.  They live in Florida.”

“Oh, Florida is really warm.  You should go there.  When was the last time you saw them.”

“5 years ago.  Do you have children?”

“No.”

Without any hesitation, barely letting that come out of my mouth, and with no regard for the other patrons, she asks, “Are you a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“No, you aren’t!”

“Haha, I don’t know what to tell you.  I don’t have a lot of luck with women, and I want to wait until I'm married”

“I’ve never met a man before who is a virgin!”

“Do you have children?”

“No, but I want them.  What do you do?”

“I’m an engineer.  An electrical engineer.”

“Oh, I bet that pays well.”

“Yes, it pays the bills.”  Now throughout this, I didn’t always keep eye contact.  I knew some of my questions, even though standard get to know you questions, might make her feel uncomfortable, so I tried to avoid her eyes to make it a little easier for her.  I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad, or thinking bad things about her.  I was just curious.  Now once the initial shock of the situation wore off later in the day, I thought of possibly better ways I could have expressed myself, to maybe show a little more affirmation and love for her, but I did the best I could at the time.  For example, I avoided her eyes when I then asked her, “What do you do?”

Mumbling and displaying clearly uncomfortable body language, “I’m a dancer… Adult…Industry…KRWh.”  I couldn’t really hear the end.  I think she was saying where she works, but I couldn’t be sure and decided it was best not to ask her for clarification.

Towards the very end, she shyly asked, “Could you tell me what you were going to say at Confessing (she never did get the language quite right)?”  Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable.  I didn’t want to tell her and then have her think or say, “Really?  That’s you biggest problem?”  It could possible make her feel bad if it brought her to reflect on her own situation.  Also given her job, I wasn’t sure if she would understand some of what I had to say.  But I told her anyway.  Haha, but I’m not telling you!  I told her the 3 main things I was going to say.  For each of them, the only way I could describe her looks was motherly.  But like a mother who has a child saying they did something wrong, and is trying to look serious but is secretly hiding mirth.  It was the only time, she showed any sort of genuine happiness (well she did get a big hit out of my lack of experience with girls), but also hidden under a sincere mask of “yes, those are good things to work on.”

She decided it was time we headed out, and we left.  I cleared off the front seat, and let her in.

Me:  “Okay, can I take you somewhere that you can get in?”

“Yes, but I need some money to go home.”

Thinking she was talking about a bus, “No, don’t worry about it.  I’ll drive you home.”

“That’s fine, but could you just please give me some money to go home?”

“No.  I just spent all the cash I have on breakfast (where we went only accepts cash).”

“You can go to an ATM.”

“Come on, you have a paying job.  I’ll just drive you home.”

At this point, I sensed a change in her.  There was the beginning of panic in her voice, and a change in body language that made me realize something was not right.  She then began the mumbling again.

“You don’t understand.  I need money to go in home…sqwpuk puwex…roommates are addicts…”

“Ahhh.  Okay.  Where I can find an ATM?”  I like to think she was just a little late on rent.  And I think about Jesus’ Good Samaritan.  He didn’t just address the person’s immediate problem, he gave the person some pocket change for later.

She told me the gas station has an ATM and that she thought she was going to cry.  Then I couldn’t help it.  I burst out laughing, “We couldn’t be from more opposite worlds could we?”

“I don’t know about that.  You’re Catholic and I’m non-denominational, but God looks on all of us the same.”

“You’re right.  That’s right.”  Inside I was still laughing.  Apparently it went completely over her head, that I’m a boring engineer in my boring apartment with my rut life, and she’s possibly a prostitute living in a crack house.  No discrepancy there at all.

At this point, she told me she’s writing a book about her experiences.  She also asked me to pray for her.  She made a point of telling me that, bringing it up a few times towards the end.  I told her I would, but that she needs to pray for me.  I didn’t tell her why, because I didn’t want to confuse her or upset her.  She is in a horrible situation.  No parents or other family around, apparently late on rent, and has to work all night long.  God is going to be so merciful to her.  But I have no excuse, and am generally deplorable.  So Kay, you storm Heaven for me.

As we pulled into the gas station she goes back to our conversation at breakfast.  “Do you date?”

“Sure I do.  I just don’t have much luck that’s all.  My last girlfriend decided to become a nun.”

“So that means she can never have sex, right!?”

“Haha, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

Now, I have another tricky situation.  She is cold, and the ATM is in the inside of the store.  She sees me hesitate and says, “I won’t take your car.”

“Please, don’t take my car.”

I’m so shell-shocked, I can’t even figure out how to use the ATM.  I had to ask the clerk to help me.  When I come back out, she looks like she is trying to sleep, curled up in the fetal position on the front seat.  Pulling out, there is a big pole that I’m trying to avoid on my left.  So I’m not paying attention to her or as much to my right.  All of a sudden the right window is down and she is talking to someone.  I look over and it’s a roughened black man.  I hear her say, “What!?” “Got a smoke?  Smokes?”  “Oh, no, I don’t.  I don’t smoke.”  To me:  “Sorry about that, I thought he was trying to talk to me.  You can go.”

Now completely out of it, I take her home.  But it doesn’t end there.  The house, was the same house she was standing in front of when I picked her up.  I was so confused.  If she couldn’t get in before, I didn’t know what changed now.  Maybe the residents were up?  Maybe she now had the money she needed to get in?  In any event, she told me again to pray for her, gave me a hug, and was gone.  I drove up a little bit, out of her sight, but waited and watched through my rear view mirror to see if she was going to walk right back out into the street.  She didn’t, and I drove home.

I came back to my boring life and apartment.  I opened the door, stepped in, and let out a big breathy contented sigh.

Memory Holders

Prior to the breakup (see immediately previous post), I had developed a number of the photographs from the trips to Malta and Spain.  After the breakup, I had to decide what to do with them.  For some reason, I have a hard time throwing out any photo of any kind.  Something about that glossy photo paper, just says I can’t throw it away where the memory captured will slowly decay into nothing.  Maybe I would be okay with burning them, like the American flag.  But I don’t have a fireplace, so I simply hold on to them.

 

So for 6 months, I had these photographs sitting on my desk, in those little cardboard carrying cases that you get from the developer, while I thought about what to do with them.  A large part of me said to throw them out.  If I should change my mind in the future, I always have the digital copies.  I should throw them out because it helps the process of moving on, and is emotionally easier.  Additionally, it could be awkward if I should ever happen to find another girlfriend and she sees them.  But I didn’t like these options for a number of reasons.

 

First, who goes and looks at old digital photos?  No one.  This culture has gone digital and it is not for the better.  We have lost a layer of intimacy.  What produces the more profound emotion, holding an actual photograph of your memory, or seeing it on a computer screen?  There is a difference.  More of our senses are involved with the actual photograph.  We can touch it, hold it close, maybe even smell it if we are keeping it in a box that has scents from the experience.  It is more personal.  And we are far more willing to pull out a photo album and reminisce, than we are to pull out the computer and load up the photos.  Plus they are great coffee table fillers.  Digital copies should serve as backups and nothing more.

 

Second, why are we always so eager to do what is emotionally easy?  If we have an incredible experience and some tragedy occurs afterwards, that doesn’t mean we should stop remembering the good times.  When your spouse of 40 years dies, do you simply decide to burn all the memories and forget you were ever married?  We mustn’t live in the past, but we also shouldn’t pretend like it never happened.

 

And as for future girlfriends, they’ll just have to get over it.  I had an adventure and I’m not going to hide the fact.

 

So, while it took me awhile to make up my mind, I decided to keep the photos and get an album for them.

 

Which brings us to the purpose of this post.  Photo Albums.  Picking one out was a terrible experience.  I was appalled, offended, and ready to scream.  The albums were devoid of any quality.  They were flimsy, cheaply made, messes.  Pages were wrinkled, easily ripped, and offered insecure holdings for the photos.  Think about who buys photo albums anymore.  Despite all my comments above, most of today’s culture won’t buy photo albums, because their digital backups are their main means of presenting the photos.  That means the people who buy photo albums are those who really have something worth preserving, at least in their lives.  These are some of their most cherished memories, to be shared and remembered, and the offerings to preserve some of those memories were cheap filth.  That the makers of the albums, and the stores that sold them, felt these were in any way suitable was what got me so mad.

 

After going to 3 different stores, my fourth stop landed me at Jo-Ann Fabrics, where I was able to find a photo album that didn’t make me want to throw it against the wall.  As a side note, I noticed it also happened to be made in America.

 

It isn’t a perfect album, but the main problem I have with it is not its fault, but has to do with the mechanism for keeping the photos in place.  I have what they call the magnetic paper.  That’s where you lay the photo on a sheet of paper in whatever orientation you want, and the paper is slightly sticky to keep the photo in place.  Then you place a thin transparent plastic sheet on top of the page.  That thin plastic sheet is a huge pain!  It is staticy which means dust loves it.  And once that dust touches the sticky paper, you’ve got a mess on your hands. And it is really hard to keep out air bubbles, due to the thickness of the photos themselves.  The thin plastic sheet is meant to lie perfectly flat, but the photos add the smallest of change in height from an otherwise flat surface, and the think plastic sheet doesn’t know what to do about it.  So you get air-bubbles.  And because the pages are slightly flimsy, you can get more or less air-bubbles just by simply flexing the sheets.  But the benefit is that the photos aren’t going to budge, and you can orient them however you want.

Flowers

After the trip to Spain, Mellen and I essentially became pen-pals for the time being.  With her still being over there, until later this month, there was little we could do other than write each other letters and Skype.  Unlike myself, Mellen's days are full of activities and true to the Spanish culture sometimes she is out until about the time I wake up to start my day!  But she has always found sometime to talk.

 

We talk about all sorts of things, such as what I had to get Brittany for her birthday, and how what I wanted to get her was all wrong.  She also has the tendency to find 20 things I am doing wrong, and 100 ways on how to improve myself.  Haha, I always like guessing what new thing she's going find that I need to do.  Like how I need to go to Mass more, or pray more, or read more, or play less video games.  She even got me to change my brand of milk!  But it is all enjoyable.  And we talk a lot about our future plans and God's will for us, and how He is calling her to the religious life.

Oh my.

On March 20th, she let me know that we can no longer date because she felt a strong internal push towards the religious life and that she needed to explore this.  We decided that we would talk again on Father's Day to see how things were going, but until then communication was "illegal".  I lasted a good two days.  But then I got quiet, and nearly a month later we came to Father's Day.

On Father's Day she said that she was still feeling a strong calling to the religious life.  But the conversation was good and not too awkward.  Or at least I felt I did a good job not being tremendously awkward, just my typical really uncomfortable awkward.  We planned our next conversation to be a little sooner.  This time we decided to talk on July 5th.  Actually, she planned to talk on July 4th, but because I couldn't stop laughing about the idea of us "celebrating our independence day", she made me wait another day which brought us to the 5th.  And that is today!

The first span of quiet time, that part leading up to Father's Day, wasn't too bad.  The night I received the news, I felt the only appropriate thing to do was to go get a carton of ice-cream.  I brought it home, and was looking at it, but then decided the most appropriate thing to do was not have it.  So I gave up ice-cream and pop, and still haven't had any since.  I felt this would also allow me to have an excuse against any particularly obscene flair ups that I might have at completely inappropriate times, such as at Brittany's upcoming birthday 5 days later.  Fortunately however, I did not have any flair ups, and the month went by alright.

The second time span, even though it was only around 2 weeks was much more difficult.  Haha, I even started learning Herb Alpert's "This Guy's In Love" on the piano.  Actually I'm still practicing it, but wow am I tone deaf.  You may not see it posted up here anytime soon.  This goes beyond vanity and is more out of charity to your ears.  A part of the difficulty is that for various reasons I strongly believed that Mellen and I were supposed to be in the relationship.  So if she is really meant to join the religious life, then that means I am mistaken.  So I had to re-evaluate some things and pray.  Eventually I finally (finally because I've known about them for a long time but never took the time to bother looking them up) came across St. Teresa of Avila and St. Therese of Lisieux.  They fixed me right up.  Actually if you ever wonder what Mellen sounds like to talk to, just read St. Therese of Lisieux's autobiography.  Mellen sounds identical (in engineering, 'identical' is how we say something with 5 exclamation marks) to St. Therese of Lisieux.  So these readings and others were comforting and helped me at least get my mind rightly oriented which is to say focused on God rather than on "poor poor pitiful me".

Which brings us to today's conversation.  Today, she told me that now she absolutely believes she is not called to be married.  And so now it is a matter of her determining what sort of religious life is meant for her.  This naturally means that our story has likely come to a close.

Lean Eats

Pamplona was incredible and a bit of a culture shock even though Spain is still a "Western" country.  But first, a word on flights.  The first time I flew to Madrid (going on to Malta), I flew American Airlines, and the second time I flew Delta.  Overall I preferred Delta.  The one area they slacked on was the hot towel.  Other than that, I preferred the meal and the in flight entertainment.  But I think both were very comparable overall.  There was plenty of legroom in both cabins.  However, for these long trips, I advise getting a window seat.  In general, I prefer an aisle seat, but on the long trips a window seat gives your head a prop.  When I flew to Madrid the first time, I had an aisle seat, and quickly learned that not being able to lean yourself up against a surface can become very uncomfortable.  You think you can simply tilt your head back on the headrest but that requires muscles and when you sleep, so do your muscles which brings your head forward and bobbling around.

At the Madrid airport, Mellen was waiting for me with a huge sign so I couldn't miss her.   We planned a time to meet and a gate to meet at.  I arrived very early and she got delayed so I had about an hour and a half to kill.  We were going to meet at a particular cafe at Terminal 4, which is where international flights go.  So I found the cafe, and anxiously tried to read for class.  The hour and a half came and went.  Another half an hour went by and I got a little concerned.  We had a backup plan that if we should miss one another, I would purchase a ticket and take the 6 hour bus ride to Pamplona from Madrid and meet her at her apartment.  I started walking around, and learned that I was at Terminal 1.  I was supposed to be Terminal 4!  And I had no way of contacting her!  So I hopped on a bus, and rode over to 4, and immediately found her walking around with the huge sign.  She had had a 6 hour bus ride and I the 9 hour flight, so we were very hungry and we had our second date, this time at the airport McDonalds.  Chicken nuggets and a chocolate shake never tasted so good.

We then got on the next bus out, and rode to Pamplona.  I don't remember sleeping.  I think we talked the entire 6 hour ride.

The entire time I was in Pamplona we had a blast.  Unlike Malta, the bus schedule is not as frequent, so we missed a lot of buses and had lots of down time as a result.  This was not so bad, because instead of running around everywhere, it meant that we could simply pal around like chums and take things at a more relaxed pace.  That was first time we simply hung out like normal people.

The culture shock, as you might guess, was the food.  In Spain, they don't really eat much.  Portions are much smaller, like they might have half a chicken breast for dinner.  On the final night, I made Mellen and her roommates, stuffed peppers with mashed potatoes, and Mellen made brownies.  The Americans who joined us were so happy to have a proper meal!

First Date in Malta

Malta is a beautiful country.  The citizens are friendly and English-speaking, the food is great, the cities are safe and the scenery is fantastic.  I met Mary Ellen at the Madrid airport the following morning of my arrival to Madrid.  Being unfamiliar with the area and airport, I got there first by about an hour.  Turns out, if I knew what I was doing I probably could have shown up about 1hour before my flight and had time to spare.

 

When Mary Ellen arrived I immediately recognized her.  Happily, she was not a 300 pound creepy looking man.  She looked just like her photos.  Not wanting to make the initial greeting awkward we had already decided that we would follow the traditional Spanish greeting of kissing cheeks.  Upon further inquiry I learned that this actually meant kissing the air, and that you lean left first.  So we did that and then had about 1.5  - 2 hours to talk before the flight.  So we did that.  It was primarily a mixture of chit-chat and indepth discussions.  I don't remember having any awkward moments, but there was a bit of anxiousness on my part and she probably had some too.  Recall that we had not even spoken on the phone prior to meeting.  Outside of e-mails, and just a couple text-based chats, this was our first time having a real conversation.

 

During the flight, it was more of the same.  However, I remember we brought books in case we felt that we needed breaks during the trip from one another.  We are both taking classes and we made plans before hand to have time in the afternoon to study.  So during the flight she pulled out a spiritual based book on lesson's learned from "It's  A Wonderful Life", and she had me read the first chapter aloud.  We were going to read a chapter a day.

 

None of this really creeped me out.  Actually I greatly approved of one of her books, the writings of Josemaria Escriva.  He is awesome.

 

When we landed we got a taxi and road to our Bed and Breakfast.  Mary Ellen heard of this place that charges only $35 a night, and is located in the heart of beautiful Valletta.  The Bed and Breakfast was run by an 80 year old 4 foot tall lady.  She was incredibly sweet, and like anyone her age would not suffer fools.  Mary Ellen caught her yelling at someone who wasn't behaving.  But as far as guests in the Bed and Breakfast, it was just her and I for all but the very first night, where there was one other guest.  We had huge separate rooms and our own showers.  So it was very nice.  At nights we would sit in the kitchen and watch movies on my computer since the Bed and Breakfast had free wi-fi.

 

Our first official date was in a cafe not more than a 5 minutes walk from the Bed and Breakfast.  Although due to the disorienting layout of the city, we had to ask for directions 3 times.  We both had the lasagna.  It was interesting watching one of the locals feed a pigeon part of her lunch while sitting inside the cafe.  The food in Malta was excellent when it was good and unedible when it was bad.  By unedible I don't mean that the ingredients were spoiled, I mean that the cultural differences between their taste and American taste are not necessarily the same.  Our first night, I ordered a dish that came highly recommended by our waiter.  Mary Ellen tried it and then proceeded to laugh at me the rest of the night as I had to eat it or go hungry since it was so late and no other place would be open for service.  While hers was delicious.  But one night we found a restaurant called Nenu.  Oh my.  The chicken.  You have not experienced chicken before.  We had to go back the next night for more.  In fact, we discussed that if we were to marry, Mary Ellen would have to fly the chef (remember the girl's family is in charge of the reception) out to our reception hall, and everyone would eat this chicken dish.  There would be no other vegetarian or meat options.  Just chicken, and everyone would be the happier for it.  I have no idea how it was prepared.  It looked liked a piece of chicken was beat thin, then rolled into a tube without stuffing, then cooked over a charchol grill, and served with a vegetable-based sauce.

 

Mary Ellen and I grew close very fast.  The entire trip was a blast, primarily spent hiking through towns and up and down cliffs, and eating.  We probably ate 5 - 6 times a day.  Mary Ellen is a practicing Catholic who goes to Church every day and that did not change in Malta.  However, I would be surprised to find anyone who would complain about going to Mass in Malta.  These Churches were jaw dropping.  For example, one of them had the floor tiles decorated with skeletons and Death (and also interestingly a seemingly random chicken).  Then as you started to raise your eyes to the ceiling you started seeing the angels and finally at the highest peak the Trinity.  And every view was a masterpiece.  So no complaints.

 

At one point Mary Ellen decided she wanted to be in a relationship.  She wears one of those rings with a heart and depending on how it points it means if you're taken or not.  So when she decided she wanted to date, and I certainly wasn't going to disapprove, she turned her ring around.

 

The final night was actually spent in Madrid.  I was to fly out early the following morning and she was to take a bus back to Pamplona, where she is currently studying.  That night in Madrid we took a taxi to downtown Madrid and had a steak dinner.  The steak seemed very expensive at first.  Then I realized the price was per kilogram.  A kilogram is 2.2. pounds.  And a 2.2. pound steak is quite a thing.  So we ordered one which is served on two very hot plates.  The plates are hot so that the steak does not get cold while you are eating it.  Steaks in Spain are served with french fries.  No baked potatoes, or brocolli, or whatever else you think might go with steak.  French fries.  The idea is that you are to use the french fries to soak up all the juices from the steak.  And what a steak it was.

 

Finally the trip had to come to an end.  When we got back Mary Ellen told her parents.  She did not tell them beforehand!  Could you imagine if your college age daughter were to call you up on the phone and say, "Hi Mom and Dad.  I just got back from a 5 day trip to California (assume you live in Eastern America), which I spent with a guy I had been talking to for the past two weeks online.  We had a blast and now are dating."  The appropriate response is to flip right out.  But no, her parents were thrilled.  Perhaps it's because she is 1 of 10 siblings, but their happiness about the situation caught me by surprise.

 

Since then we continue to talk everyday through e-mail and usually text-based chats.  Typically once a week we have a Skype-date.  And right now I am typing this in the Atlanta airport, because I am currently on my way to go visit her in Pamplona.

Help From Above

The trip to Malta required some planning and I decided to seek the help of a travel agent.  Marilyn, the travel agent's name, helped me book plane tickets and lodging in Madrid.  The idea was I was going to fly to Madrid and then from there fly to Malta with Mary Ellen.  It would be in the Madrid airport where we would first meet. 

Marilyn was very helpful, she booked the flight, found me a hotel with English speaking employees, and she was even able to convert some American currency into Euros.

Recently, my friend's Mom died from cancer.  She had been sick for sometime.  My Mom had told me I needed to pray for her, but I wasn't told why.  So for several months I prayed for my friend's Mom, and then around Christmas I was told the sad news.

It was maybe a month after this time that I started speaking with Mary Ellen.  The interesting thing about all of this is that my friend's Mom name is Marilyn and her daughter (my friend's sister) is named Mary Ellen.