“The bird spooked my dog and she hid in the closet the rest of the day. When will you be taking it home?” Sonia said to Heather at lunch today.
“I should ask my husband. He doesn’t know yet.”
Hurry,” Sonia said.
Sonia lives in a Victorian house with her husband and dog one block away from the office. A yellow cockatiel landed on the doorstep last week. It had no identification or passport. It was shivering. Nora, one of the residents, found him and brought him indoors. She bought a cage, food and toys. The bird is thriving in the kitchen with the noise of cooking and the residents talking to it everyday. At night it shares Nora’s bedroom. By the end of the month it should be talking in full sentences.
“Tonight,” Heather said.
“Call me,” Sonia said.
If Heather does take it, it will have a swanky life in Tiburon with a view of water and trees to look at, but nobody to talk to. Heather and her husband work all day.
I’m hoping it stays in the Victorian with its fans who already enjoy it’s company. Sonia will just have to teach her dog bird-speak.
Calvin says, “That Burmese Mountain dog is all drama. She needs to get over herself.”
While the Warriors played their championship win this week, I noticed an interesting cultural phenomena on my street Tuesday night.
My Indian neighbors – those who have come to the US for the tech jobs – were hooting and hollering like the best of us over the game.
Their voices flowed out of their open windows and crossed the street to my house.
The American assimilation had begun.
One family has two children, a white Lab, and a Volvo. They’ve already been seduced.
Another family has a daughter in the elementary school around the corner. I often hear her arguing with her mother in perfect kid-lingo, sounding like a typical spoiled American child, while her mother answers her in her language.
I grew up in foreign countries.
I know what it’s like to be on foreign soil, eating different food, hearing another language all day long.
So a basketball game makes a lot of sense.
There’s no need for subtitles.
A basket is a basket.
A foul is a foul.
And a shouting coach needs no interpretation in any language.
I remember going to bullfights.
I would always cheer for the bull.
Calvin says, “You would. You prefer animals to people anyway.”
I asked my seatmate on the subway this morning what station he was getting off at since I needed to get out. It turned out to be the same as mine. I noticed an accent, so I asked him where he was from.
“Zimbabwe,” he said.
I was waiting to hear Berkeley.
“Have you been back recently?” I said.
“Oh maybe 12 years ago. I’m more a native Californian, been here for 28 years,” he said.
“Do you miss it?”
“Not really, it’s a mess.”
“The world’s a mess,” I said.
He agreed. He was a man in his 40’s, fair skinned, blue eyes, blonde short cut hair. He looked like the average American except for his accent.
I looked around the subway car. The world was in there – African Americans, Latinos, Asians, Koreans, White, and this morning the man from Africa.
Who says America is no longer the melting pot of the world?
They just haven’t ridden a subway lately.
Calvin says, “You want melting pot? Visit your local doggie daycare. It’s dizzying.”