What's my name?

 

I needed the receipt for a recent flight. Easy-peasy, right? It was mailed to my work account. Except it didn’t show up. OK, I’ll get a copy when I check in. Ooops. I forgot to ask outbound. My bad. No problem, I’ll get it on the return. Yeah, no. There was no staff available for that in the steamy Frankfurt airport. You can get it online, madame. 

Props to the clear web site, clicked on “get receipt.” A webform appears which wants my ticket number, which I have, and my name. Which I know. I paste in the ticket number, type my name and hit the button. Nope. Nope. “You must use the same name you booked under.” Did I mistype my name? I must have. (Thank you, Parkinson’s, typos happen more often these days.)  I tried again, no typos. Hit the button. No? No. “ You must use the same name you booked under.” 

Ok, was my name truncated by the computer system? I check my boarding pass. Yeah, no. My name is what I think it is. First and last. Do I want to chat with an agent? I do. The AI agent takes my information, suggests I try the webform that isn’t working, then offers to pass me to a human. “You are number 486 in the queue!” 

I am working, so leave the window parked in the corner and periodically check. By lunch (two hours in) I’m 276 in line. Am I still there, the AI wonders. You bet. I wait four and a half hours to get a human (who the AI confesses is helping multiple customers at the same time, so don’t worry if they are slow.) 

The human suggests the webform. I point out that hasn’t worked. Can they give me a copy? That is against policy. Well, I asked, what can I do? Silence. I can email it to you. Awesome. “Can you doublecheck the email?” Sure, sure. I type in my work email. That’s it, I’m assured. It will take 15 to 20 minutes. “Thanks again,” I chirpily type. The chat ends.

Thirty minutes pass. No email. Five hours in and I am still without a receipt. I check to see if I can retrieve it through my credit card. And that’s when the shoe drops. That receipt says the ticket was issued for FRANCL, MICHELLE PROF/DR. Oh. It thinks my first name is MICHELLE PROF/DR? It sure does. The web form cheerfully regurgitates my receipt. 

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I note the booking form asks for your first name separately from the title. 

Interestingly enough, the typing of people with Parkinson’s has a distinctive pattern, which can be used to screen for possible Parkinson’s. A bit about the development of the screen is here. I did the screen shortly after my diagnosis and correctly directed me to consult a neurologist as it was positive for potential Parkinson’s.

UPDATE: So, a funny thing happened. It’s been about a week since I had this conversation. At 6:33 am today, the receipt showed up in my email. 

Sic transit gloria mundi

I am transiting at Dulles airport, headed to South Bend. I’d never been to Dulles before. Somehow I had imagined a small airport, but it is a sprawling thing. I took the train from C to A, enjoyed the video wall art in the tunnel — ads, then a short calm video of ocean waves breaking — then walked the length of the elegant international terminal (I have two hours between flights). It was hushed, with its Dior and Chanel kiosks and sleek glass-doored lounges guarded by uniformed personnel with iPads. (The Etihad lounge was apparently full up, there was a tumble of people on the floor waiting to get in, leaning forward hopefully at every departure.) Spacious gates, a vaulted ceiling hung with flags, sunlight streaming in. From here you could fly to Paris. To Rome.

But my gate wasn’t here. I followed the signs up the escalator. Across. Down another. Down one more. The corridors grew narrower, the ceilings lower, the light more artificial. No fancy oyster bar — burgers and chicken tenders were on offer, TVs showed 5 different sports games, people spilled out into the corridor. A woman walked past dressed in a full-on cat costume, ears and all, tail twitching happily as she chatted on the phone,. Two little kids dressed in lederhosen (really, I promise) whooshed by holding hands and singing. Where, I wondered, was Maria?

I popped out in a spot where each gate has subgates — A1A, A1B…A2F— a dozen gates all squished together in the space of two in the cathedral above. The microphone system isn’t working right. It’s hard to get to the desks. “Raise your hand if you asked for a wheelchair going to Raleigh!” Finding a place to sit is a challenge. Finding a place to stand is a challenge. The building shakes when a plane takes off.  I think of Dante and descending circles.

But. But despite the chaos and crowding (because of the chaos and crowding?) there is something so warmly human about this place. It’s more than an hour to my flight, but I have no desire to return to the sterile marble heights. I score a seat, sit and listen to the man across from me wearing a gorgeous blue turban telling his grandkids he would see them in just over an hour. “Just 60 minutes!” He beams.

The world is filled with glory, fleeting, but no less intense for that.

Blisters, irony and mercy

It is cold and rainy in London. Yes, it is July. Yes, I brought my umbrella. And yes, I’ve been walking everywhere or taking the buses. Yesterday I wore my “conference flats“ which are great for walking many miles in city streets. My day was ending with a visit to the theater, so I thought perhaps an upgrade from my sneakers was in order. 

My trusty flats have never given me blisters. That is until yesterday. Fifteen minutes into a twenty minute walk to the Underground the back of my heel was hot. By the time I got to Russell Square for a lunch meet up, it was raw. I grabbed a bandage from my little first aid kit in my bag and patched it. By the end of lunch, I’d patched the other heel. On to my next meeting. By the time I arrived, I had another blister. You would’ve found me sitting on the (very clean) floor of the  bathroom of the very prestigious journal publisher patching up my foot. 

When I left, I hit the button on my app for navigating the city for “less walking“ and was relieved to find I could catch a bus right in front of where I was that would take me straight to dinner.

By dinner, two more blisters had blossomed on my now sopping wet feet. My feet have not been such a hot mess since I did ballet in graduate school. As we headed home from the theater, my companions pointed out the perch I could lean against in the bus stop. “Ah,” I said, “a misericord. A mercy seat.” For sure it was a mercy for me at this point, at least as much as its predecessor must’ve been for the elderly monks of old. “Not really,” responded one. “ It’s unwelcoming urban architecture. No place for someone to lay down and sleep.” I sighed. There is an irony in having  a mercy seat that doesn’t offer mercy to those most in need.

Gates of hell on Chestnut Street

I was driving down Chestnut Street in Philly to 30th Street Station, worried that I cut it a bit close to make my train down to DC.  I needed to get almost 30 city blocks, park, and walk the last block to the station in 30 minutes.  This sort of time pressure usually results in my pouring my anxiety into the Jesus prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”  Who couldn’t use a little mercy in those moments?  Or really, in any moment?

But one by one, as I approached the lights, they flashed to green. Four minutes after I had turned onto Chestnut, I was at 52nd, only another 20 blocks to go.  Suddenly Jesus’ remark to Peter flashed through my mind: “…and the gates of hell shall not prevail against you.”  (Mt 16:17-19)  I laughed aloud.

Prayers, you might conclude, were answered in that moment.  True, I would say, but not the prayer that I get there on time, or the prayer that I be less anxious or even the prayers offered for those with real worries, real difficulties. But the promise made at the end of Matthew, “I will be with you until the end of time.” (Mt 28:20)

It was the sense of presence, rich with humor and delight, that felt like the answer.  Dashing to the station, too late for the train or just in time, green lights or red — I am with you, finding the humor in unlikely coincidence.  Joy, the surest sign of the presence of God. 

Zombies revisited

Crash and Math Man were due to rendezvous in a Chicago airport tonight, then fly home to Philly.  Crash's plane had mechanical difficulties and had to return to Seattle.  He's still waiting for a flight to Chicago, so won't get to Philly until tomorrow.  Meanwhile, Math Man's plane is delayed.    The Boy and I are beat, a combination of late nights, early mornings and jet lag. Zombie-like would be a good description.

Meanwhile, Crash is passing the time writing about zombies other than his family.  Better yet, he writing about the odd culture he has encountered on his travels:

"3:58 PM PDT - I approach the altar. The red-clad priestess assures me that we will take care of you. I do not who this we is, but she hands me numerous slips of paper. One, she insists, is worth much money and the others will grant me passage home. It looks like no money I have yet seen in this strange land, but I accept it and await further instructions."  And the revolt....

Use caution when opening the overhead bins...

...as contents may have shifted during flight.

I spent less than 2 hours on the ground at SFO yesterday night, all but 25 minutes on one taxiway or another. Despite my short sojourn there, I had many adventures (of the Chesterton¹ sort.) I managed to retrieve my carry-on² a moment before it vanished into the maw of SFO's baggage handling; I got lost looking for my ever changing departure gate³; and I got my head bashed by a small marble statue (I think that may have been the culprit) which fell, you guessed it, from the overhead bin.

After a mad dash across SFO and to the international terminal, I was almost the last person on the plane. I was grateful to find enough open bin space to stash my book-crammed carry-on, dropped into my seat, bent over to tuck my daypack under the seat in front of me and suddenly stars bloomed. When they vanished, the young man from the row ahead of me had in hand a small marble statue (roughly the size of a 16 oz can of peaches -- why I thought of peaches when this happened, I cannot hope to tell you) caught before it hit the floor. Not alas, before it had hit my head. Clearly one should exercise caution around open bins period, regardless of whether we've been aloft yet or not.

The flight originated in New Zealand. There are many tired and cranky people on board who would like nothing better to get to Philadelphia. By the time the flight attendants are fully apprised of all this, we have pushed back from the gate. Am I OK? Do we need to go back to the gate (please God, no, I can almost hear the chorus of thought bubbles around me wailing)? A large ice bag, and checks from the flight attendant while we waited in the long, long line for take off, and many prayers (on my part certainly and I'm willing to bet on many of my fellow passengers' parts) and the decision is made to go.

I can't tell you how glad I was to see Victor this morning. And my own MD.⁴

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1. "An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered." G.K. Chesteron's definition of an adventure (from a column he wrote on the spectacular flooding in his London neighborhood)
2. The tiny plane I took from near my dad's can't accomodate carry-ons larger than a small briefcase. You leave your carry-on as you get on the plane and retrieve them when you get off. I got off, everyone else's bag was there, but no sign of mine. I flagged down a guy on the ground crew, who queried the baggage handlers, who dug through the checked bags loaded for transfer, wherein they found my bag. I now have 5 minutes less to make my (very tight) connection, but I have my bag and I am thankful! Traveling mercy number one.
3. Who knew that the flight to Philadelphia would be leaving from the international terminal? It had 3 gate changes between the time I boarded in San Luis Obispo and finally located the gate in the other terminal.
4. Who reminded me about Liam Neeson's wife (who died of a head injury that at first had seemed minor) and assured me that nothing like that would ensue; I told her that until she said that, I hadn't remembered the story. Another traveling mercy to be grateful for.

Spaces of light in Tokyo

A traditional Japanese breakfast looks like lunch. There was rice, a small iron pot of broth and tofu set atop a flame, whole salt cured fish the size of the palm of my hand, pickled plums, square egg omelets and miso soup. And a terrific cup of green tea, very hot.


Well fortified, we headed out to see the Tokyo Church of Christ, which is near the Harajuku neighborhood. The church was designed by Fumihiko Maki, within constraints imposed by the neighbors, including that it could not cast a shadow over the smaller houses nearby. It's a fascinating space, wide - almost squat, when seen from the pulpit. From the congregational side it soars up like wings.

Getting to Harajuku was an adventure in itself. We got on the train at the station near our hotel, switching to a second line at Mita (at last, kanji I could read, I could recognize the sign for "three" and learned the sign for "fields", see the photo of the tiles set into the station floor -- these may not be here yet, I'm posting photos by mail!). We reached a station, and stopped, and waited, and waited. The announcements were all in Japanese, but I didn't need a translation to know that there was trouble on the tracks. They all had the same tone as a SEPTA "there's been a delay." The only difference is that Japanese rail apologizes profusely for the trouble.

The delay grew, so we bailed on the train and took the subway. An hour, three subway lines (including a stop in the station where the sarin attack took place) and a taxi ride later we were at the church, the only thing lost in all the shuffling was my hat. Our patience was intact.


From the church we walked through the Harajuku neighborhood, down Takshita Street, which is a funky collections of shops targeting teens. Think a cross between the mall and the Wildwood boardwalk. Higher end shops and trinkets all jumbled together. We replaced my hat at Muji - the famously brand less Japanese brand. My kids will find it suitably appalling, but it meets my requirements: packable and will keep the sun from crisping my nose and neck.

Lunch was at an omurisu place, thin egg omelets wrapped around rice with various fillings. Ice tea with gum syrup (simple syrup?) in little containers of the same ilk as the cream containers at home.

We looked at the Russian Orthodox Holy Resurrection cathedral as well, a pre-war building (rare in Tokyo after the fire bombings of WW II) It's a small space, not much larger than Our Mother of Good Counsel inside, but elaborately decorated. Yesterday, we got incense to burn at the temple, today we each got a candle to place in front of one of the icons. You couldn't go into the sanctuary, and we didn't know that they celebrated the liturgy of the hours at 7:30 and 5 each day, to which we certainly would have gone. (Though apparently it is in Japanese.)

And I have met and, if not quite conquered, at least coped contemplatively/competently with, the Japanese squat toilet. We walked back to the train station through Yoyogi park, where Meiji shrine is located. There we stopped to use the facilities. Things to remember: be sure to have your own toilet tissue where you can find it quickly in your purse, and a towel to dry your hands with - neither are supplied. Try not to laugh. Though I will admit that when I finally emerged to meet my two (male) colleagues outside, I totally cracked up.

And as long as we are on the topic of toilets, the one at the hotel this afternoon greeted me, (at least I presume it was a cheerful greeting - given the state of my Japanese there is no way to be sure), then started playing the sounds of a babbling brook. Again, try not to laugh.

Now we are on the shinkasen - the bullet train, headed from Tokyo to Kyoto. We could catch glimpses of Mt. Fuji - enormous and its top shrouded in clouds. When the bullet train stops at Tokyo, an army of pink uniformed ladies swarms the train. They switch the seats to face the direction of travel, dust the seats, replace the head cloths. As we came up the stairs to the tracks, I was startled to see a tiny door (1/2 the usual size) open up in the wall on the stairway and out pour these pink-clad women.

And why are there blue roofs?

Gyrovague

gyrovague, n. an itinerant monk. From the Greek gyrus- (circle, circuit) and the Latin vagus (wandering).

It's not a compliment - at least in St. Benedict's mouth. "The fourth kind of monks are those called gyrovagues, who spend their whole lives seeking hospitality in province after province, monastery after monastery, staying three or four days at a time; always wandering and never stable...Of the most wretched life of all these it is better to remain silent than to speak. Leaving these behind us, therefore, let us proceed, with the help of God, to make provision for the cenobites–the strong kind of monks." [ed. note: I've left out the worst of Benedict's characterization of the wandering monastic - which I feel safe saying does not apply to me.]

The last of Ellis Peters' wonderful mystery novels about Benedictine Brother Cadfael, Brother Cadfael's Penance, takes up this theme. Cadfael leaves his monastery, to which he's vowed stability, to go to France. His abbot worries that Cadfael will become a gyrovague. Cadfael ultimately returns, though it was a struggle and he ends doing penance prostrate on the floor of the abbey church (a place I've actually been, though Cadfael is quite thoroughly fictional).

I'm packing up to leave one more time, for a short residency in Virginia. I'm having a hard time putting my clothes into the suitcase, I've no desire to leave again quite this soon. I've ended up packing far more than I usually would, carrying along some comforts of home (hot chocolate, a vase for flowers with the notion I'll stop at the supermarket near the campus) and tons of books. And so this time I'll drive instead of taking the train. Returning via I-95 may be penance enough, no need to prostrate myself!

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Photo is of Shrewsbury Abbey church. From Wikimedia commons.

Burn these clothes

After wearing the same clothes for 36 straight hours of brutal travel, I wanted nothing more than to burn them, or toss them down a oubliette, or throw them into the replicators to have their molecules re-arranged into something (anything) different.

I settled for a good wash. And a very long shower.

Last traveling mercy? A "ten minute beat up" by a lovely young woman staffing the express spa (isn't this an oxymoron?) at Heathrow. The massage left me in such a puddle I wondered if I'd be able to get on the plane.

Traveling Mercies

I feel like an itinerant scholar these days, teaching and writing far from my usual haunts. The last few weeks have seen me traveling up and down the Northeast corridor from Princeton to Washington DC, and as I write this, I am on a layover in London, en route to Singapore.

Several friends wished me "traveling mercies" before I left, an expression I first encountered in Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. I sometimes think of traveling mercies as just in time grace, and so often grace with a wry sense of humor peeking through.

There have been traveling mercies in my wanderings. A partial list of the ones I've noticed:

• the young woman who helped haul my suitcase packed with books up the stairs on the Washington Metro (the escalators were out) and then blessed me
• realizing that my passport had expired BEFORE I got to the airport (two weeks before, in fact - time enough to go into Philly, get it renewed and have lunch with a friend)
• Math Man's willingness to trek across Philly to pick up the passport when it was ready (since I was off on another trip and stressed that picking it up 24 hours before I was due to travel was cutting it a bit close)
• the kitchen staff who produced plain chicken and mashed potatoes when I was recovering from a stomach bug on the last trip
• the young man who signed me into the college network so I could answer student email
• an extra seat next to me on the plane to London
  
• the bracingly hot and sweet cup of tea - real tea - the flight attendant produced in when I declined coffee
• a moonbow - with a nearly full moon, seen from a bus as it followed its serpentine route between Heathrow terminals

Now having recharged my batteries (literally and figuratively) I'm off to see if I can find the gate for my next flight which boards in about 3 hours and a new watch - mine having come into two pieces midflight (!).

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Photo is of the front door of Eastern Point Retreat House. I had a couple of hours or so to wait until my taxi came to take me to the train station, but grace descended in the form of another retreatant's sister, who lives in Gloucester and wouldn't hear of my sitting there. I got a ride to the train station and brief tour of Gloucester along the way. Traveling mercies.