I have long loved Minnesota Public Radio's A Prairie Home Companion. Though I haven't listened to it very religiously, I occasionally happen upon it by chance on a road trip or at home, while aimlessly searching the frequencies. I particularly enjoy the segment News from Lake Wobegon, in which Garrison Keillor recounts recent events from a small, fictional Minnesota town full of Lutherans, hot dish, and plain & simple everyday life. Like Steinbeck (one of my favorite authors), Keillor has a knack for turning even the most mundane happenings into an emotionally-charged story. I love that. It helps me realize that all of life - especially all the stuff between "major events" - is truly an adventure and worthwhile story, full of interesting character development and surprise plot twists.
As it happened, I was driving a car yesterday evening when a particularly crappy pop song led me by chance to the middle of the News from Lake Wobegon. Keillor was telling the story of a man who was lovestruck, complained of chest pains and was mistakenly rushed to the nearest hospital - in St. Cloud, MN. I had just left St. Cloud. And I got this warm, fuzzy feeling of inclusion. Now I was a denizen of central Minnesota too! Who knows, maybe I was passing Lake Wobegon that very moment!
I continued to listen to the rest of the program, chuckling at the segment griping about "snow emergencies," a condition I am now familiar with, and the towing of vehicles failing to park off of the paths of the coming snow plows. I listened on as "Guy Noir" narrated his movements, down University Ave (a few blocks from my new apartment) toward downtown St. Paul. So much more context. Minnesota was already beginning to feel more like home...
The reason I was driving from St. Cloud, destined for St. Paul, is one on which I'll have to elaborate more.
The end of December and beginning of January for me was three full weeks of transportation, family Christmas gatherings and moving. In transit, my body moved a total of just over 2,600 miles - all on the road, either bus or car. Most of it was uncomfortable. I attended four family Christmases/gatherings. And I moved myself and about 200 lbs of my stuff from Pittsburgh to St. Paul, where I now reside.
On my second night in town - the same day I had secured an apartment, before I was even feeling settled - Brooke (my girlfriend and the reason I moved to St. Paul) got a call from her brother-in-law. Peter (said brother-in-law and a wonderful guy I had the pleasure of getting to know at their family gathering) works for an organization dedicated to helping out Chinese students - who have come to the Twin Cities to study - in every way possible: taking them shopping, making living arrangements for them, picking them up from the airport...
Peter was enlisting our help. He needed someone to pick up students from the airport and drive them to Saint Cloud State University and he knew I was strapped for cash. Brooke was busy, but I said I could do it. Peter and his wife (Brooke's sister) Ginger had already done so much for me (letting me borrow some essential furniture for my room, among other things) that I was willing to do about anything to help, though since the organization enlisting Peter's organization's help (is this getting confusing?) was offering money anyway, most likely this was just Peter trying to help me out some more. In any event, I said yes to... well I still wasn't quite exactly sure what. Peter is himself Chinese and though his English is excellent I'm still not convinced that we have 100% information transmission in our communications. But one of my life's philosophies (or so I try to make it) is say 'yes' first, ask questions later. I was told I would be emailed more information.
The email was a bit late in coming, but still on Friday morning - the day of the first chauffeuring - I received a forwarded list of places. Pick up students at airport, drive them to Richard's house, take them shopping for essentials at Target, drive them to St. Cloud, meet contact there, drive home. Okay. Sounds like fun... I did some Google-mapping, jotted down some directions in my little memo pad, crossed my fingers, and headed out to pick up the Chevy Astro that was to serve as my transport vehicle.
I suppose - technically speaking - that having done something for money, one becomes a 'professional,' if only for a particular job. That said, I have quite an interesting resume: professional forklift driver, professional finish carpenter, professional meat-grinder, professional wine-maker, professional cow-herder, professional millet-sower, professional deliveryman, envelope stuffer, quiz grader, roofer, vodka-bottler, musician, wilderness guide, ... And now I can add 'professional chauffeur' and 'picker-upper' to my list. I'm sure there is a better word for that latter term, but that was the wording a random dude in the airport chose to use as I was waiting for my students, sign in hand, Chinese transliterations of names printed on it.
"So, are you a professional picker-upper?" the all-too-friendly tall white guy standing next to me asked, thus beginning what became an extended conversation. He was waiting for his wife's (Korean-Chinese) family to arrive. While we stood together, now bound by the bizarre laws of random-stranger-conversationdom, he prattled on, interspersing interesting factoids about China with trying to teach me how to say, "you all come with me" in Mandarin (so as to impress my pick-up-ees). All the while, we were interrupted by frequent calls from his wife (also coming to join the welcoming party) and my newfound Chinese contacts Peter and Richard, asking about my progress.
Finally I got a[nother] call from Richard, telling me that not only were my students arrived through customs, but they were now waiting for one student's luggage at carousel 6. Apparently we had missed each other, despite my diligent holding of my sign. (I had always wanted to be one of those people - standing at the international arrivals gate, professionally displaying a name placard, patiently waiting... too bad I failed at my first real opportunity.) I found them, we waited still longer for the student's bags (Phew! - it was okay that I had missed them. No time lost.), and we finally hit the road, me very professionally loading their luggage and then ushering them into the back seat of the van.
On the way to Richard's house I debated whether to go all out in making these young students first interaction with American culture (on American soil) an exciting one - blasting some country music, honking the horn at every opportunity... but collective fatigue (mostly theirs) led me to keep the radio on some low-key alternative music. Very professional. I guess.
I could keep drawing out this story. The snowstorm, interactions with Richard (a very nice dude), conversation with students ("You like NBA?" "Uh, yes?" "Me too. I like Kobe Bryant. Who is your favorite? [Doh! Caught in a fib...] "Uh... I like... many of them."), snow, accidents, detours, 40 mph on the interstate on the way home... Suffice it to say I arrived home very late, barely wanting to repeat the process over again the next day. Fortunately, this second day was much much better. Less waiting, a delightful passenger (who spoke much better English, resulting in some actual conversation - interesting at that), a gift of good Chinese tea from Richard, sunny skies and clear highways, AND the joy of A Prairie Home Companion. All in all a good experience.
With that, I leave you with...
a picture of Brooke, the very talented ladyfriend/sled-jumper!
Garrison Keillor is a bigot and an idiot.
ReplyDeleteI lpve you man.
-Andrew