Cowgirl, Santa Helena and yet again I almost lost my cell
Life is this. 3.03 a.m. I am back from a farmer’s party. I was a cowgirl. Pictures to follow.
I have to thank Santa Helena. I might call my daughter Helena. Let me elaborate.
I went to the party with Francesco, one of my three roommates. We were in a hurry and took a cab. After the party, back home I realized that my cell was missing. It is something annoying to loose the cell, you loose those numbers that you care about, you loose the phone itself now you’ve learnt to like it, even if it is too big, too small, too cheap... We put the house upside down looking for the cell, thinking that maybe it was at home, under a cushion.
After 30 minutes I had a moment of craziness and decided to go to the street and look for a yellow cab. That’s all I remembered. The taxi was yellow and the taxi driver was from the Middle East.
I walked down Brattle and I crossed the local police guys. They told me “hey, cool cowboy boots”. I explained to them what had happened and they called a couple of taxi numbers. It did not work.
I stood at Cambridge square for 10 minutes, looking at dozens of taxis pass by, thinking, “oh well, it is just a stupid cell, who cares”. I stood there with my cowboy boots looking at the noisy ambulances, the drunk adolescents, the pizza eaters, the couples kissing in the corners and waiting for a taxi to go home and let their passions go wild, the beggars in front of the CVS.
I remained there and asked a Haitian taxi driver if he knew the number of the yellow cabs. “All taxis have different numbers”, he said. It was too difficult, almost impossible to find the stupid cell. It was time to buy chocolate cookies at CVS and forget about the cell via a chocolate injection.
Suddenly I saw Francesco in front of me. He was worried. He thought he would help me with this impossible search.
We smiled at each other. Unexpectedly a yellow taxi was in the middle of the road, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. He run towards the car. I run after him. “Are you the taxi driver who brought us to Myrttle Street 3 hours ago?”. “No”, the taxi driver said. He clearly did not remember us. “Yes, you are", we both replied. He was. We opened the door of the taxi and jumped inside. The phone was there, behind the back seat, in an impossible corner, between the belt and the cushion.
Francesco told me that he had made a prayer to Santa Helena. Well, Helena, thanks.
I have to thank Santa Helena. I might call my daughter Helena. Let me elaborate.
I went to the party with Francesco, one of my three roommates. We were in a hurry and took a cab. After the party, back home I realized that my cell was missing. It is something annoying to loose the cell, you loose those numbers that you care about, you loose the phone itself now you’ve learnt to like it, even if it is too big, too small, too cheap... We put the house upside down looking for the cell, thinking that maybe it was at home, under a cushion.
After 30 minutes I had a moment of craziness and decided to go to the street and look for a yellow cab. That’s all I remembered. The taxi was yellow and the taxi driver was from the Middle East.
I walked down Brattle and I crossed the local police guys. They told me “hey, cool cowboy boots”. I explained to them what had happened and they called a couple of taxi numbers. It did not work.
I stood at Cambridge square for 10 minutes, looking at dozens of taxis pass by, thinking, “oh well, it is just a stupid cell, who cares”. I stood there with my cowboy boots looking at the noisy ambulances, the drunk adolescents, the pizza eaters, the couples kissing in the corners and waiting for a taxi to go home and let their passions go wild, the beggars in front of the CVS.
I remained there and asked a Haitian taxi driver if he knew the number of the yellow cabs. “All taxis have different numbers”, he said. It was too difficult, almost impossible to find the stupid cell. It was time to buy chocolate cookies at CVS and forget about the cell via a chocolate injection.
Suddenly I saw Francesco in front of me. He was worried. He thought he would help me with this impossible search.
We smiled at each other. Unexpectedly a yellow taxi was in the middle of the road, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. He run towards the car. I run after him. “Are you the taxi driver who brought us to Myrttle Street 3 hours ago?”. “No”, the taxi driver said. He clearly did not remember us. “Yes, you are", we both replied. He was. We opened the door of the taxi and jumped inside. The phone was there, behind the back seat, in an impossible corner, between the belt and the cushion.
Francesco told me that he had made a prayer to Santa Helena. Well, Helena, thanks.
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