The Next County Over
For all of my drive to leave this nation again, there are times when it genuinely surprises me.
My constant state of business has mostly precluded my hopes to familiarize with the family I am living with. The house is: the mother, father, and son of Argentinian descent, two teenager foster children, a middle aged white lady (perhaps a traveling nurse?) who shows up one weekend a month, and myself. You might say it's preposterous for me to choose such a living situation. That is, you'd say that if you confused me for someone who actually cared about the American dream of chandeliers, two car garages, overpriced Italian-leather couches, and gated communities of segregated McMansions.
Of course, many of you choose alternatives, be they minor or major ones. Living in a house like this might not provide the atrophy-inducing comforts of excess, but it does continue to surprise me. I actually feel lacking to have not spent more time with everyone.
Last Saturday, while watching a soccer match on television in the living room, I was surprised to hear the Argentine father say he had just come back from playing a pickup match. I wanted to slap myself - I'd been haphazardly Googling around the bay area for pickup games the last two weeks! Equally shocked, he offered a chance to join him the next day for his next pickup game. My esteem for him ballooned - here was a resilient middle aged man who'd never lost the love of sport. I gratefully accepted, denying any problem with a 9am start.
Well of course there was a problem with 9am, but I managed to rush everything together just in time to jump in his car (missing its back bumper, "i'm fixing it") only to painfully realize I'd left my cleats in the trunk of my car. We couldn't turn back, since we were already late and only the first 22 who showed up could play. The Argentino asked my shoe size, and said I was in luck, since he had a spare set. But I was devastated. Any soccer player will tell you: without cleats, you're a laughing stock on defense, and playing with someone else's cleats is the equivalent of learning how to kick straight with someone else's foot. I eventually accepted his offer, but the extra inch of space in the shoe was enough for me to make a burro's debut. With a hell of a sunburn to boot.
No matter, I'll be back next week.
Why? Because I've confirmed that California's frontiers are as close as the next neighborhood. I entered a Sunday of soccer which brought entire families of supporters, ranging the gamut of Latin America. You had a generator with two extension cords powering a chorizo parilla. Oh, and another cord connecting a swapmeet sound system, pumping out Bolivian tunes. You had dogs shitting at your feet. You had teenage girls asking what you'd like from the ice bucket of water, Pepsi, and Corona. OK, so that's a little too far. What? You thought the dookie reference went too far?
About halfway through my fullest enjoyment of the day, I realized there's a lot to love about even one county over.
Not that this changes anything. Don't you dare think that!
My constant state of business has mostly precluded my hopes to familiarize with the family I am living with. The house is: the mother, father, and son of Argentinian descent, two teenager foster children, a middle aged white lady (perhaps a traveling nurse?) who shows up one weekend a month, and myself. You might say it's preposterous for me to choose such a living situation. That is, you'd say that if you confused me for someone who actually cared about the American dream of chandeliers, two car garages, overpriced Italian-leather couches, and gated communities of segregated McMansions.
Of course, many of you choose alternatives, be they minor or major ones. Living in a house like this might not provide the atrophy-inducing comforts of excess, but it does continue to surprise me. I actually feel lacking to have not spent more time with everyone.
Last Saturday, while watching a soccer match on television in the living room, I was surprised to hear the Argentine father say he had just come back from playing a pickup match. I wanted to slap myself - I'd been haphazardly Googling around the bay area for pickup games the last two weeks! Equally shocked, he offered a chance to join him the next day for his next pickup game. My esteem for him ballooned - here was a resilient middle aged man who'd never lost the love of sport. I gratefully accepted, denying any problem with a 9am start.
Well of course there was a problem with 9am, but I managed to rush everything together just in time to jump in his car (missing its back bumper, "i'm fixing it") only to painfully realize I'd left my cleats in the trunk of my car. We couldn't turn back, since we were already late and only the first 22 who showed up could play. The Argentino asked my shoe size, and said I was in luck, since he had a spare set. But I was devastated. Any soccer player will tell you: without cleats, you're a laughing stock on defense, and playing with someone else's cleats is the equivalent of learning how to kick straight with someone else's foot. I eventually accepted his offer, but the extra inch of space in the shoe was enough for me to make a burro's debut. With a hell of a sunburn to boot.
No matter, I'll be back next week.
Why? Because I've confirmed that California's frontiers are as close as the next neighborhood. I entered a Sunday of soccer which brought entire families of supporters, ranging the gamut of Latin America. You had a generator with two extension cords powering a chorizo parilla. Oh, and another cord connecting a swapmeet sound system, pumping out Bolivian tunes. You had dogs shitting at your feet. You had teenage girls asking what you'd like from the ice bucket of water, Pepsi, and Corona. OK, so that's a little too far. What? You thought the dookie reference went too far?
About halfway through my fullest enjoyment of the day, I realized there's a lot to love about even one county over.
Not that this changes anything. Don't you dare think that!
posted by bhoundstooth | 10:30 PM
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