Remember when I half-promised-sorta that I was going to post several blogs about my air travels in one week. That was cute, wasn’t it? Two weeks later…One of my favorite parts of any plane experience, is the safety instructions. It’s fun to see the first time flyers trying to remember everything. You can almost hear their frantic eyes saying, “Wait. What do I do in the unlikely event of a water landing? Should I be taking notes? Why is everyone so calm?” Then there’s the frequent flyers who rarely even quiet their conversations to “turn their attention to the flight attendant who has some important safety instructions for them.”
I’m at Starbucks near the harbor—close enough to mention, far enough to park for free—and I’m supposed to be writing about a past, flawed relationship. But facing my own naivety doesn’t seem near as fun as people watching, so I choose the latter.
Small groups of people are scattered around the patio, swapping life’s disappointments or the promise of the upcoming weekend, and I sit alone at a table for two.
An older, red Honda pulls into the parking space in front with the unmistakable crunch of bumper hitting concrete. There’s a collective gasp and the chatter momentarily stops. Mouths hang ajar as they watch the car reverse slowly, producing a scrape rather than a crunch this time.
When the older gentleman (maybe 60) steps out of the car, he smirks at the onlookers and I turn away. I’m embarrassed for him, although he seems relatively unaffected. The patio crowd continues to point at the car and talk about the event, even after he walks inside. They’re acting as though he rolled over a box of kittens, their blood giving his car its audacious color. He crunched his bumper. It happens.