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[larrybrookworld]

Encounter on SQ Flight 67

“You like your job?” I ask the SQ flight attendant in the aisle of the 737. You smile with almond eyes.

 “My father was Portuguese, my mother Malaysian.

I am Euroasian.”

You give me your lineage – I wonder why:

To see how we might blend?

Your fingers would intertwine mine.

She confides, her eyes in mine,

“I will stay in Jakarta all day tomorrow.

I leave at 5 p.m.”

Why do you give me your day?

“Good." I announce. "We have time.

I will call you at your hotel and we will do Jakarta

with my heart in your palm.

To mark our time,

We will gaze on the eternal flame over the city;

we will visit the komodo lizard at Taman Mini.

We’ll have a ball

at the mall

steak and potatoes

and air conditioning."

But I say nothing. I am a married man. I love my wife, whose heart is gold and whose beauty matches diamonds.

“Excuse me,"

you say, your smile in my heart

“I must help others.”

And you move up the aisle.

[larrybrookworld]

Polka Dot Goddess

It’s time to move about the planet. I think back to a time when I was sitting in the departure lounge of the Larnaca, Cyprus international airport. I was waiting with other passengers for my Swissair flight to Zurich.

One of the passengers across from me was a young Greek woman in a polka dot dress. She was so beautiful my heart stopped. All I could think of was, “Whoever she sits by on the plane will be given a gift from beyond the heavens.”

It was time to board. We lined up. The polka dot goddess had walked away somewhere and was behind me in line. I thought of Juanita, my wife back in Illinois. She was real too. And beautiful. I felt better. I could introduce Juanita to the goddess. They would chat, while I listened from a distance.

We trudged across the tarmac to the plane. We climbed the stairway. I found my seat. A few minutes later, I heard a voice in the aisle, “I have that seat.” She stood above me. The flare of polka dots on her dress touched my left arm. Dumb as an airplane tire, I rolled out into the aisle. She swung into the seat next to me. She was sitting next to me. I was the one chosen from the beginning of time for her to sit next to.

We fastened our seatbelts. We took off. We were crusing across the Mediterranean, scallops of blue below. All the while, I am thinking, “What do I say to start a conversation?” I am thinking I need a Travel Aid: “Ten ways to start a conversation with a polka dot goddess on an airplane.”

Finally, I ask, “Do you live in Zurich?”

She responds formally, “No, I am from Athens.”

“Holiday?”

“OK.”

“I was in Lebanon. I train writers. The Druse army in the mountains were shelling us. We ran for cover.”

She stared at her fingers.

“Would you like something to read?” I asked.

She smiled, “Yes. Do you have book or magazine?”

I reached in my carryon and grabbed a small paperback, something manageable.

“Try this.”

“OK. Thank you.”

She had the book in her hands. In those hands! I let her read. I don’t know what I did as I let her read.

Five minutes later, she returned the book. “Thank you.”

What happened? Had I offended her Greek culture in some way? She inserted her ear buds and turned her head the other way.

I glanced at the manageable paperback book in my hands. My heart imploded as I read the cover. “Agatha Christi. Death in the Air.

[larrybrookworld]

I DID IT - 60 IN ONE DAY!

Larry is front row center wearing a wrist watch - plus my 60 writers

My goal today in Jakarta, Indonesia, is to train more writers in one day than anyone else in history.

Mee Fang and Margie Man, my hosts for a few days, drive me through Jakarta to the venue of the writers’ workshop, a six-story concrete building. The building is a popular Christian school on the outskirts of Jakarta

Lost in Jakarta

 I just read that the average Jakarta resident spends 400 hours a year in traffic.

The writers are coming!

The workshop room is on the sixth floor, furnished with fine desks and chairs, LCD projector and screens. Around me now filter in 60 -70 Indonesian writers of all sizes, of all colors of batik shirts and dresses, multi-shaped spectacles of all prescriptions, a panoply of leather shoes and flip flops. The writers are of all ages – from old to teenage. Two adolescents sit at one desk, self-assured in their youth and glamor. Avoiding eye contact, they respond stiffly to my greeting. “Hello, Teacher.”

A committee meets with me ahead of time to go over the learning. I am flanked by interpreters (like Arafat meeting with Jimmy Carter at the White House). Mee Fang, a whiz in English and Indonesian, is there to help assess the interpretation. After 10 minutes or so, she advises me to turn on my microphone “because many understand your English.”

How do you train 60 writers in one day?

I adjust my approach to the situation. But as always writers need to develop skills in using story with five senses. We organize around a writing map. And they draw their articles first using cartoons. This helps them write concrete instead of abstract. Now, for fun, given the realities of travel and culture, here are some more training tips to consider.

First, when in Indonesia, show off your Indonesian language skills. Explain  that you know that the plural of buku (book) is buku buku. And that every BULE (foreigner) worth his salt knows that while Laba means profit, Laba Laba means spider. If you shout out “Are there any desperate jomblos (single people) in the room?" everyone will roar.

Next announce that the only measurable goal of the session is for everyone, regardless of flip-flop size or list of publications, to learn to write one perfect sentence. Maximum number of words in the sentence – seven.

Finally, alert your writers to the logistics : to train 60 writers, you need to conduct 60 bi-lingual tutorials (where real learning takes place). If you commit to 5 minutes per tutorial, that is 5 x 60 = 300 minutes or 5 hours of tutorials (including time for interpretation). In a seven hour day, that leaves only 30 minutes for teaching, assuming you need 90 minutes for lunch. 

Of course, this is nonsense. You do what you can - talk fast, interpret fast, show basic principles, allow some time to write. Encourage everyone to share their writing in their next writers’ group.

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, my friends drive me home through Jakarta traffic. Predictably, I am totally lost after three minutes. (I am amazed to learn that Jakarta now boasts google maps, which guides drivers through the maze.) Still, I have no idea which road leads to the house.

One thing I do know: I will now wear a new T-shirt that proclaims, “60 IN ONE DAY!”

[larrybrookworld]

How do you get through the 16 hour flight to Singapore? —

What I notice after the first hour is that you have an assigned seat, which is hospitable, except Airbus didn’t plan on anyone having legs. Not to mention a face or head, since the person in front has the liberty to push back their seat, slicing off your face and head. I paid Singapore Airlines for a front row seat, which has rooms for legs and faces.

After six hours, I am sleepy but now I have to figure out what to do with my face and legs in order to sleep. I have room, so I crawl into the aisle, which is crowded with legless and faceless travelers, and yank out my carry on and place it before my seat for a leg rest. Then I lift up my legs onto the leg rest and crush my face into my neck pillow, and faster than the seven days of creation plus the entire Old Testament up to the destruction of the temple, I am sound asleep. At least for nine minutes.t

It’s time to look outside.

 I lift the shade, and sunlight pours into the dark cabin with the force of Niagra Falls. After a quick glimpse of the wiing and some clouds and the endless ocean, I slam it shut.

The Meal

Soon, we are served a meal and that passes the time. Except because I have no sense of time in space, I don’t know whether it’s dinner or lunch or breakfast. No omelette choice though so I’m guessing  it’s not breakfast. Eating on this plane is like cleaning out your belly button with a cue-tip. The chicken and the rice and brockley are millimeters from your stomach but instead of going straight in, I have to hoist them up to my mouth, and then they get swallowed down and so on.

Next blog - Wonder Woman, The Asian who speaks 6 languages, and How to Fit in the Restroom

[larrybrookworld]

Wonder Woman at 30,00 Feet

We are now into the 13th hour, and it’s time to watch Wonder Woman. I unlatch the video arm and haul it up past my knee. The monitor unhooks from my arm rest. I begin to worry when I discover a science fictiony glassy smooth surface with nothing to push or pull or click.

I rub my thumb over every centimeter, and nothing bursts into action. Finally, I ask Robert next to me how to watch Wonder Woman.

The Singaporean Linguaphile Who Knows about Video Machines

Robert is Singaporean, speaks 6 languages, and works for an Israeli auditing company. He slaps and nudges the screen - forget the monitor, he says. The screen blinks on, and soon I am watching Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman turns out to be an Amazon who was created by Zeus without a father. In fact, there are no men anywhere on little Wonder Woman’s paradise island. Wonder Woman rescues a pilot who turns out to be a man and a spy and a British fellow even though he is dressed in Nazi uniform. Wonder Woman leaves the island with the British fellow in order to destroy the God of war Ares. Instead, she fights the Nazi war machine with her little rope, a sword and shield, and atomic arm bands. I don’t want to say too much or it will spoil the movie for you. I really loved Gadot as Wonder Woman - her fierce face, and her swimming suit.

Martians and Air Plane Toilets

I had to stop the movie to go to the little toilet. If a martian landed on a plane and watched the humans taking turns entering the door to the little shrine, he would wonder what went on in there. He’d probably assume it was some religious observance, where people were making a sacrifice to a god, or lighting a candle in memory of another human.

In fact, people are only taking a wee or whatever. You first have to lock the door or someone will barge in just as you are strangling yourself with your trousers as you maneuver and shift positions. I like to sit on the seat and hoist my legs up on the door for three minutes to ease the circulation. Then I have to drop my legs without falling backward into the commode, which by the way has more suction power than a jet engine. I am always afraid it will suck me out into deep space.

I wash up, trying to hit my face with some water, but this is almost impossible as there is not room in the cubicle to move back far enough to bend over the sink.

When I return to my seat, I fall asleep and never do see the end of Wonder Woman.