In a pique of solidarity with a decidedly and perhaps accidentally woke company, I deactivated Google-maps and used MapQuest for my trip to Stanford. Though it took me off the highway too soon, over the wrong bridge, and thirty-five minutes longer than it should have, I wasn’t mad. Lake Ontario deserves better, as does the Gulf of Mexico. I made it with forty minutes to spare and reported to the first floor attendant, who took my name and date of birth before handing me a card which he directed me to use at the scanner on the second floor. Just like that, I had officially reengaged with the august team led by Dr. Jaime Lopez, whose name I would later articulate as something different, to my great dismay.
Dr. Lopez carries his compact frame with the quiet dignity of the truly talented. He performs brain surgery for free, and often remotely monitors such procedures as doctors in faraway countries perform them with less skill than he possesses in two brain cells or the synapse between them. He donates his time to any who ask, and told me once that he does it “because of all the good this country has done for [him].” I wonder how he feels now, watching the good people of his mother country being shunned by our orange leader. I sighed at the mere thought.
Today I saw a young protege of his, but not before an uncaring gentleman at the front desk declined to answer several questions that I put to him. I wondered, quietly but clearly, how much longer the wait would be (he didn’t know) and, more importantly, why they had turned the ADA-compliant counter into a plant stand and signage caddy (not his job). The wait stretched long enough for me to send an email with an illustrative photo to the patient services department which, hopefully, will consider it their job to inquire.
Eventually, I made my way to an extremely sweet patient tech (she let me decide on my weight and height; I did not lie) and then to the patient room where my new doctor stood to greet me. Two hours later, the young man had managed to get a detailed history of relevant facts, perform a thorough neurological exam, and form an opinion based, in part, on the records of my prior treatment by the great and wonderful Dr. Lopez. We devised a plan, and shook hands in the hallway. Next appointment scheduled, I made my way to the car, and dialed the hotel address into MapQuest. . .
. . . which managed to take me to a deadend on the wrong end of Pacifica. Since I had not eaten, and desperately needed to rest after a late work-night and an early departure, I despaired and temporarily re-activated Google Maps, which got me to the hotel in ten minutes.
It’s a run-down old place, with only one handicapped spot, dirty linoleum, and two sets of stairs down to the ice machine on the back parking lot. But the manager saved the parking spot for me with an orange cone when I left for my traditional late lunch / early dinner at Nick’s on Rockaway Beach, and a smiling housekeeper who spoke no English helped me unlock my room with the recalcitrant keycard.
After dinner, I wandered into a boutique at which, seven years ago, I bought a gorgeous pair of cashmere socks that just recently wore so thin that I had to discard them. I spent thirty minutes talking to an artist on duty there, and paid far too much for a “sourced” wool beret which she had expertly adorned with antique buttons. I could have paid half as much for a bare hat and a handful of the old buttons for sale on the counter, but where would the fun have been in that?
My reward came five minutes later as I leaned on the hood of my car, watching a flock of seagulls answer the evening call to order on the rocks. A lean, greying man with a German shepherd stopped as he walked past. That’s a beautiful hat, he said, in a somewhat astonished voice. Did you make it? I admitted that I did not. I like the buttons, he continued. I told him a local artist had done the adornment and he nodded. Nice! For all I know, it was the lady’s gentleman friend, recognizing his lover’s work. But the compliment validated my purchase.
I stood for quite some time, watching the waves lumber to the beach and the gulls gather for evening service. Eventually, fatigue rippled through my stiff muscles and wobbly limbs. I made my way back to the funny little building that is home for the night, got some ice, and slid the lock across the bar. One night in Pacifica, nearly over. I’m not mad about it. I’ll even give MapQuest another chance in the morning, but not before coffee. If you’re going woke, you might as well be wide awake.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
