2002-06-13 - 9:43 a.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "Star Wars" theme, still

Yesterday, I dropped a plate on my foot. Go, me.

It was perched rather precariously on the edge of the counter (a 1.5-foot wide by 2.5-foot deep space), because there were some dishes drying on the rest of the counter. As I reached for the Pop-Tarts in the cupboard, I knocked it off and it bounced off my foot onto the floor, where it broke.

It was like a toe-stubbing, but it took longer to get past the OW!OW!OW! stage into the dull throb stage. I shrieked a bit. Then I actually put ice on it for about half an hour, which amazes me. This is the part I am proud of myself for. Being cold is PAINFUL, so much so that generally the injured part hurts less. This was no exception, but since I walk everywhere now I REALLY didn't want unnecessary swelling making things worse.

It seems to have worked. I have a sore spot but the bruising and swelling is minimal. And I can walk. Unfortunately, it hurts to have shoes touching the spot, so I can only wear one pair of shoes (well, the same pair in three colors) -- my five-dollar KMart sandals. Since the weather just changed to COLD and RAINY, this is annoying, but I persevere. I walked about 3 miles last night in those things.

Did I ever mention the afternoon I went to Rittenhouse Square to work?

I took my laptop over there, with every intention of sitting on a bench and working. For a while I did exactly that. But then an older (70ish) gentleman sat down next to me, eating banana chips, and occasionally commenting to me or asking questions about my computer.

He seemed to want to talk, and I am a sucker for older folks, so I finally gave up on working and engaged him in conversation.

He was an interesting person. He'd traveled all over the world in a fashion I'd call "seat of my pants". He kept a cab license in New York City, and he'd buy an open round-trip ticket and go someplace -- Europe, Asia, wherever -- until he ran out of money. Then he'd fly home, and give people cab rides until he had enough money to pay for a night in a hotel, and then he'd look for real work the next day.

He'd spent at least four years in school after high school -- possibly more -- getting an education for the sake of learning. He'd want to learn something -- law was one of them -- and he'd go study that for a while. Then he'd study something else. Back then you could make a living without a college degree, so it was neat that he'd spent so much time in school just to learn.

As you might expect, he spent a lot of time talking about the "good old days". He complained that the Chestnut/Walnut area is dead at 5pm nowadays; he remembers when it was bustling until the wee hours of the morning, with people going to movies, clubs, and bars. He mourned that people don't trust each other anymore, that they used to be a lot friendlier. And, after he gallantly picked up my sunglasses for me when they fell off the top of my head behind the bench, he noted that young people aren't very chivalrous anymore.

It was interesting that he still misses the "good old days", because he was black. The times he was talking about had to have been the 1960s, before the civil rights movement really had any kind of effect. Hunh. I wonder if people just tend to remember the good times and forget the bad? Or if prejudice and racism were so ingrained then, seemingly so immutable, that it was easier to ignore it if you wanted it to?

Anyway, I really enjoyed talking with him. I told him that maybe I was living in the wrong time period, and he said, "Well, when you're older you'll have 'good old days' too." "But," I said, "I don't know that my 'good old days' are necessarily going to be as good as yours."

He gave me his business card and told me that although he was officially retired, if I ever needed any information or advice on his various areas of expertise, I should give him a call. When I got home, I looked him up in the phone book, and there he was. Pretty neat.

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