How much is that kitty in a stroller?

One fall I had to spend a weekend working at a conference in Berkeley, CA. It's two hours from home but only an hour from hubby's worksite, so we booked ourselves and our 18-pound cat, Charlie, into the pet-friendly hotel where the conference was slated.

First night: Charlie stayed under the bed, except for a brief time next to me in the middle of the night. Second day, he used the plastic shoe box I had filled with litter and set on the bathroom floor. I awoke at 3 a.m. smelling poo, and discovered that he had peed in the box but pooed on the floor next to it. I had brought a small broom and dust pan for such contingencies, and mouthwash to disinfect. No problem.

By 10:30 Saturday morning, I was free of all work obligations. Steve was working the entire Saturday, so I changed into jeans and took Charlie out in his stroller. A couple of women gasped, giggled, and then went, "Oh, how cute." A boy playing ball on the hotel lawn had the last say: "It's a lion."

Charlie and I enjoyed a two-hour hike along the Marina and the bay. Along the shore was a man arranging rocks in stacks that defied gravity. "Wow," I said as I passed. "Just something to do," he shrugged. "I'm all for it!" I called out, which brought a smile to his face.

We passed a couple of big dogs, but they were on leashes, so there was no trouble. Charlie retreated under the canopy of his stroller whenever he was feeling insecure. The rest of the time, his huge green eyes peered through the mesh, noting the ducks, the boats, the kids, the sources of different noises. He had ample room in the stroller to stretch out his two-foot furry blond frame and 16-inch bushy tail.

During our stroll, I met another hotel guest, an older woman who owns two Maine Coon cats she'd named Bart and Lisa (after the Simpsons).  Maine Coons are cousins to Norwegian Forest cats, so she had a soft spot for big cats like Charlie.

By the time we got back to our room he was much more relaxed. No more hiding under the bed. He patrolled the room like he owned it. I went to lunch at the hotel restaurant with a good book, then took a two-hour nap. When I woke up, I had a crick in my neck from the hotel pillows. I should've brought my memory foam pillow.

On Sunday morning, the three of us strolled along the shops on Fourth Street in Berkeley. So many people came up to point out, "That's a big cat." (Uh, thanks, we would never have guessed.) Either they owned regular cats or their kids wanted to look at the giant cat. A woman said to her friend, "He has a little pink nose, awww..." One woman glanced into the stroller, perhaps expecting a human baby, and exclaimed, "Oh my God."

Steve walked a few paces behind, catching comments I probably wasn't meant to hear, like, "That poor cat." That one got under his skin. He brooded about it. I left Charlie with Steve for a few minutes to browse in a stained glass shop. A woman came in and announced to no one in particular, "That cat is not happy." "What's the matter with it?" I asked her. "There's a cat oustide, in a stroller." "I know, it's my cat. What's wrong with it?" "His ears are pointed straight up." "Oh, he's overstimulated, that's all. Too many strange noises, " I said.

Later, Steve came up with what he would've said had he heard her: "Oh, he perks up when he's around intelligent people."

To wiggle or not to wiggle

I was at the dance studio one night learning the rather raunchy dance called bachata for a performance. Those of you who have been dancing a while will understand where I'm coming from.

I think you'll agree that the healthy perspective to take on sensuous dances is that since we've committed to dancing it, we may as well give it the sensuality it deserves. Otherwise, why bother? why go half-baked? why not just dance the waltz, for heaven's sake.

The reason I bring this up is that another dancer, a woman in her early 20s, shrieked her disapproval when she saw that I was showing one of the male students how the hips move in the bachata. We were both facing the mirror, no body contact, and I had offered the analogy of the Tahitian dancer with the sharp hip up-bump.

I never feel like I have to defend myself and my teaching, but it does annoy me to have such infantile reactions. Later, the same woman objected when she was dipped "too low" by her partner because she didn't think it was refined (what with one leg curled around the guy's leg, a low dip would expose your undies unless you planned ahead and wore bloomers or booty shorts).

For someone who flits from beau to beau in the lifespan of a fly, she struck me as someone who "doth object too much."

If I want to let my inner sexy girl out via dance I will, because my lifestyle is blameless and I have no need for putting on virginal airs. Unfortunately, I will also have to put up with people with saintly pretensions as they barf their hang-ups in my face.

Keep the change

Strolling along Union Square in San Francisco one weekend, we passed a beggar. Steve dropped a couple of coins in his hat. Next thing we know, he was right behind us, hollering, "You can keep your nickel." I take it he was insulted. Steve told him to give it to someone else if he didn't want it. I was relieved when he eventually quit trailing after us.

"I can't believe you gave him a nickel," I told Steve. "I gave him a nickel AND a quarter," Steve clarified, but he'd been too flustered to point it out to the man.

Who the heck gives a beggar such a paltry sum? But what nerve for the recipient to reject it. Doesn't he know it's not a beggar's market?

The church of St. Peter and Paul was a few blocks away. We entered and took in the grandeur of the interiors. Stained glass, balusters, columns, carved wood confessional booths, the works.
"There's something comforting about old churches built in the grand style," I whispered.
"Yes, this one reminds of me  Las Vegas," Steve  said.

By golly, he may be right. Doesn't one of the hotels recreate a baroque outdoor scene indoors, with convincing clouds on the ceiling and a thunderstorm?

"The clink of change dropping into the candle box sounds like the slot machines," he added.

Suddenly a short Chinese woman thrust a $5 bill at me. "Do you have change?" she asked softly. Turns out she wanted to light a candle, and the sign asked for $3. I thought, goodness, if you want a prayer granted that badly, just drop your $5 in and say, "Keep the change." Same thing Steve kept trying to persuade the beggar. Out loud, I apologized for not having change.

Buying our return ticket on the train, Steve was approached by an older man accompanied by his daughter.  They were from Baltimore -- "Baltimore, Maryland" he specified, as if I might not know where it was. "Welcome to California!" I said, and they ignored me. We showed them how to make sense of the route map and the fare chart. Steve kept telling him he could just drop $20 and get two tickets, and the change would remain on the tickets for their next time on BART.  But I could tell he didn't want to spend more than he had to, so I asked, "You'll likely be getting on BART again, won't you?" "Never," he said. Poor things. They didn't seem like they had a good time in California thus far. They just wanted to keep the change.