The Perfect Teacup
Mari is the only friend I've ever had whose path has crossed mine on four different continents. We met in Argentina as exchange students, and our chemistry was instantaneous. I don't remember exactly where and how I met her; probably at a party or on the university bus. We had other friends in common, but there was a natural ease with her. Maybe it was because she had been on her own since moving to the U.S. when she was 18. She wanted to study English so that she could understand the lyrics of New Kids' songs. By the time I met her, we were both within a year or two of graduating college, and we had traveled enough to approach a study abroad with some degree of maturity.
In 2000, I found out that three sets of friends - complete strangers to one another - were all either working or studying in Spain. Mari was one of those friends. She was living in Madrid. So, I went. She and I took a train to Granada, despite the subtle protests of her needy American boyfriend, a guy I knew by name and disposition, but never by face. He didn't like to go out much, and apparently, he didn't like for her to go out much, either. I could tell by the way that she dismissed him in Spain that his approval rating was irreparably low. Within months, they broke up, and he moved to Asia (Tokyo, allegedly). Mari's sister swears that she saw him there, once. He towers over most Japanese (and many Americans), so I'm willing to believe her.
I visited Mari in NYC a few years ago. That's where she's been living ever since college graduation. She has a studio apartment on 64th. The last time I was there was about nine months after 9/11. The sequence of activities is one streaming thought, now, which means that I think we did a little of everything. I remember that I bought her an iron after she confessed that she didn't have one. She has all of her clothes dry cleaned and pressed. "Well," I laughed, "I'll buy an iron and you keep it for my visits." Seriously, who doesn't have an iron...somewhere?
Our most recent international rendezvous was in Japan, 2005. I was in Nagoya (working for Nova), and she was sent to the Asian post of her employer for about a week or two. She emailed me, we set the dates to coincide, and I boarded the Nozomi shinkansen (a 300 km/hr bullet train) after work one night. She met me at the station, and we stayed at the ANA Hotel in downtown Tokyo for the next few days courtesy of her employer -- cha ching! She is originally from a small town just outside of Tokyo; her parents can see Mt. Fuji from their windows. She, her younger sister, Maiko, and a friend of theirs became my posse for the next few days. It was one of the few times in Japan that my travels didn't require any thinking and pre-planning. It was a blissful reprieve.
Mari flew to Georgia this weekend to pick up some Yorkshire terrier puppies that she has purchased from a breeder. She's very meticulous about the homogeneity of things; that's a long-standing attribute of hers. After living in Japan, I'm convinced that it's a bit of a hybrid of Japanese psychology mixed with some fair amount of New York City haute tendency. In Japan, small dogs are a symbol of wealth. Moreover, small dogs in sweater vests are a symbol of more profound wealth. Every substantial mall has at least one store devoted entirely to pet vêtements, with the prices often being as outlandish as the toile and taffeta, themselves. So, really, I'm not all that surprised that Mari chose to purchase purebred Yorkies and flew from New York to Georgia to escort the smaller ones home. Neither am I surprised that she (A) ordered customized kimonos for the first three and (B)more recently, paid for six Ralph Lauren doggie sweaters to be delivered in time for the colder weather. "But you know what?!" she said, "I had to order special small sizes, but Gizmo's is too tight. When I put it on him, he looks like gay man!"
With her job previously demanding so much time, I asked her how life in the apartment would be able to accomodate small creatures with paws and tiny bladders. She said that they do remarkably well while she's at work, and after she returns home, it's playtime. Her apartment allows pets, and she has discovered that other people on her hall are also dog owners. I think that she likes fitting into this new bracket of cosmopolitanism, but she has also seen that it can bring unwanted attention. Attention, for example, that comes in the form of a phone call from apartment management stating that someone has complained about her dogs barking while she's away.
"But Meeghan-chan, they don't bark. They never bark. Gizmo, he never barks. They have made a mistake. The dogs that bark are the ones across the hall. I saw their owner one day as we were both leaving the building. She opened door and they came jumping all over me. She laughed and I asked her to put them on a leash. That's apartment policy. She said that they were friendly and wouldn't cause anyone any harm. I told her that's not the point, and then I told her that her dogs have gotten mine in trouble. I got on the elevator and she followed me and said, I don't appreciate you talking to me like that. And I said, Well, I don't appreciate you moving in."
I convulsed with laughter, mostly because Mari - for all her Japanese hospitality and graciousness - is also one of the most acerbic Asian woman I've ever met. As further evidence, she was recently alerted that a parcel sent from her mother in Japan had been misplaced by her apartment's staff. She later found it stuffed in her mailbox without any explanation or apology. When she received a call regarding another complaint about her dogs, she mentioned the mysterious re-appearance of her parcel. "It was sent using a courier service, and they don't have a key to my mailbox. Therefore, it had to be signed for and then deposited into my mailbox without being personally delivered to me. If you're going to play games with me, play smart."
And that's how she is: a lifelong friend who always - ALWAYS - greets me with wideflung arms and giddy laughter, but whose words can be as sharp as her pointed heel tips.
Gizmo (the largest), Neo, and Kiwi (the princess)
In 2000, I found out that three sets of friends - complete strangers to one another - were all either working or studying in Spain. Mari was one of those friends. She was living in Madrid. So, I went. She and I took a train to Granada, despite the subtle protests of her needy American boyfriend, a guy I knew by name and disposition, but never by face. He didn't like to go out much, and apparently, he didn't like for her to go out much, either. I could tell by the way that she dismissed him in Spain that his approval rating was irreparably low. Within months, they broke up, and he moved to Asia (Tokyo, allegedly). Mari's sister swears that she saw him there, once. He towers over most Japanese (and many Americans), so I'm willing to believe her.
I visited Mari in NYC a few years ago. That's where she's been living ever since college graduation. She has a studio apartment on 64th. The last time I was there was about nine months after 9/11. The sequence of activities is one streaming thought, now, which means that I think we did a little of everything. I remember that I bought her an iron after she confessed that she didn't have one. She has all of her clothes dry cleaned and pressed. "Well," I laughed, "I'll buy an iron and you keep it for my visits." Seriously, who doesn't have an iron...somewhere?
Our most recent international rendezvous was in Japan, 2005. I was in Nagoya (working for Nova), and she was sent to the Asian post of her employer for about a week or two. She emailed me, we set the dates to coincide, and I boarded the Nozomi shinkansen (a 300 km/hr bullet train) after work one night. She met me at the station, and we stayed at the ANA Hotel in downtown Tokyo for the next few days courtesy of her employer -- cha ching! She is originally from a small town just outside of Tokyo; her parents can see Mt. Fuji from their windows. She, her younger sister, Maiko, and a friend of theirs became my posse for the next few days. It was one of the few times in Japan that my travels didn't require any thinking and pre-planning. It was a blissful reprieve.
Mari flew to Georgia this weekend to pick up some Yorkshire terrier puppies that she has purchased from a breeder. She's very meticulous about the homogeneity of things; that's a long-standing attribute of hers. After living in Japan, I'm convinced that it's a bit of a hybrid of Japanese psychology mixed with some fair amount of New York City haute tendency. In Japan, small dogs are a symbol of wealth. Moreover, small dogs in sweater vests are a symbol of more profound wealth. Every substantial mall has at least one store devoted entirely to pet vêtements, with the prices often being as outlandish as the toile and taffeta, themselves. So, really, I'm not all that surprised that Mari chose to purchase purebred Yorkies and flew from New York to Georgia to escort the smaller ones home. Neither am I surprised that she (A) ordered customized kimonos for the first three and (B)more recently, paid for six Ralph Lauren doggie sweaters to be delivered in time for the colder weather. "But you know what?!" she said, "I had to order special small sizes, but Gizmo's is too tight. When I put it on him, he looks like gay man!"
With her job previously demanding so much time, I asked her how life in the apartment would be able to accomodate small creatures with paws and tiny bladders. She said that they do remarkably well while she's at work, and after she returns home, it's playtime. Her apartment allows pets, and she has discovered that other people on her hall are also dog owners. I think that she likes fitting into this new bracket of cosmopolitanism, but she has also seen that it can bring unwanted attention. Attention, for example, that comes in the form of a phone call from apartment management stating that someone has complained about her dogs barking while she's away.
"But Meeghan-chan, they don't bark. They never bark. Gizmo, he never barks. They have made a mistake. The dogs that bark are the ones across the hall. I saw their owner one day as we were both leaving the building. She opened door and they came jumping all over me. She laughed and I asked her to put them on a leash. That's apartment policy. She said that they were friendly and wouldn't cause anyone any harm. I told her that's not the point, and then I told her that her dogs have gotten mine in trouble. I got on the elevator and she followed me and said, I don't appreciate you talking to me like that. And I said, Well, I don't appreciate you moving in."
I convulsed with laughter, mostly because Mari - for all her Japanese hospitality and graciousness - is also one of the most acerbic Asian woman I've ever met. As further evidence, she was recently alerted that a parcel sent from her mother in Japan had been misplaced by her apartment's staff. She later found it stuffed in her mailbox without any explanation or apology. When she received a call regarding another complaint about her dogs, she mentioned the mysterious re-appearance of her parcel. "It was sent using a courier service, and they don't have a key to my mailbox. Therefore, it had to be signed for and then deposited into my mailbox without being personally delivered to me. If you're going to play games with me, play smart."
And that's how she is: a lifelong friend who always - ALWAYS - greets me with wideflung arms and giddy laughter, but whose words can be as sharp as her pointed heel tips.
Gizmo (the largest), Neo, and Kiwi (the princess)