Working Girl

So lately, I am working in one of the 40 something twin tower buildings in Century City, Los Angeles.

Today was Halloween... which was not actually the strangest part of the day.

Today, I waited twenty minutes to take an elevator down nine flights, from the NINTH FLOOR, so I could wait fifteen minutes to take an elevator up fourteen, to the FORTEENTH FLOOR. (For security reasons you can only take stairwells going down and for big building reasons, certain elevators only hit certain floors, meaning the elevator that stops at the ninth floor does not stop at the fourteenth.) This is why I hate cities.... it was a half an hour commute to effectively get up five stories. That is stupid.

The floors are emphasized because post ship life, I have been referring to them all day as DECK nine and DECK fourteen. (The guy in the elevator laughed at me saying, "So I am guessing you worked on the ships.")

In talking to my sister today about big city work life, I casually mentioned something which I actually wound up finding fascinating. You can tell the women assistants from the real career women by what they wear. The assistants flaunt their looks; the career women dress them down. It is an interesting psychological and sociological statement. I am sure this has been discussed by countless liberal arts women's studies programs across the country. I still find it fascinating.

The scariest part of the day was the mandatory evacuation. (Crammed with hundreds of people in a high rise stairwell made me wonder if that was what the World Trade Center stairwells were like. On a much less serious note, I also noticed stairwells on land only have handrails on one side. The random thoughts that go through one's mind.)

Strange was the people I saw who may or may not have been in costume. Is that woman supposed to look like Foxy Cleopatra or does she always dress like that? Who wears a red turtle neck under a blue shirt.... oh wait... he is supposed to look like Spiderman.

But one costume was clear. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Moses was holding the door open...

Stupid: Spending a half hour to effectively go up five stories.
Cool: Situationally fitting costumes.

My mother, of course, will now worry about my saftey working high-rise.

(Last week it was the person who was arrested on my flight to JFK. I do my best to provide her with an unusual variety of things to worry about.)

An Image of Odessa

It is strange to wander into a cultural tradition, when you least expect it. I was mundanely crossing a bridge the other day in Odessa.

It did not pop into my mind, in flashing neon "Tradition Ahead." Of course not.

The thought was, "Oh, someone left their bike lock here." And there is another.

And there is another....

And I look up, across the length of the bridge and realize the entire bridge is lined with locks.



(The dark line 3/4ths the way up the fence is entirely locks.)

At this point, it is clear, people did not just leave these locks here accidentally. This is a statement.



So I began to study the locks. Some of them had no markings. Some of them had markings long worn bare. Some were ornately engraved with care and time.



The writing was mostly Cyrillic, which obscured the message initially.



But the presence of a date marking seemed consistent.

Then the prevelance of two words, unique on each lock.... not words, it dawned on me, names.

And then of course, the symbols, common with my culture, gave away much of the meaning.



These were symbols of love etched on steel symbolizing union, strength and unbreakable bond.

By the time I left the bridge, entriged by a tradition I had never known before, it was clear to me that the locks were engraved the names of those married and the date of their union.

The web later told me it is a common Russian wedding tradition followed by tossing the key into a river, so the bond is forever.

Cool: I stumbled on to a bridge, lined by railing, hung heavy with locks...How Romantic!