The great elevator escape.

June 11. Day 346.

Italian elevators, like mediocre wine, are best enjoyed in moderation and ideally not too aged.

Italian elevators are like gnocchi in summertime: sound better than they taste.

Italian elevators are like Stalin. They suck.

Ok, so I'm not inspired tonight. But I think you get my drift.

All this because of the blasted Florentine ascensore of via Calimaruzza, 3.

I was running around all day, meeting with people, and I was pretty tired. All I wanted to do was leave some books in the hotel room and have a final meal before leaving this enchanted city.

I stepped in and hit the button labeled "4."

At the fourth floor, it stopped. I opened the inner doors. (Italian elevators are like trauma operating rooms: they have two sets of double doors and you're lucky to get out alive.)

Outside, the next set of doors was blocked.

Locked.

Almost sealed, save for a thin crack of light shining through.

I closed the inner doors, tried again. Closed them again, hit the "4." Then, the ground floor button. Niente.

A few thoughts went through my head. Fragments, disorganized, a cacophony of ideas, worries, possible approaches. All in a flash.

--Is it just stuck, or is something really wrong -- i.e. could it fall?
--Am I strong enough, or do I have any tools, to pry or break the outer door?
--Would messing with the doors cause the elevator to plummet?
--Should I wait for someone or take immediate action?
--Can people hear me if I scream?
--Would those hearing me be inside, or across the open window and in the next building or street?
--Am I liable, will the hotel blame me, or what's Italian law like?
--How long until someone passes by?
--Is there enough oxygen in here?
--How long is my cell phone battery going to last?
--Should I post this on Blogger, Twitter or Facebook? (I kid you not, I actually considered this, along with the next equally essential question:)
--Where would I go to the bathroom?
--Damn it, I'm really can't afford to miss my meeting tomorrow morning.
--Damn it, I really don't want to spend my last night in Florence in an elevator.

Several of the answers came indirectly, from the horrific and beautiful video clip I was now replaying in my head -- the video that made waves on Youtube a year ago. If you haven't seen it, DO. It's amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM679Zwpp8E

I saw I had a lot of cell phone juice left, and a strong signal, so I called the hotel.

I could hear it ringing, somewhere in the cavernous rooms behind me.

No answer.

I let it ring and ring, and finally someone picked up.

"Pronto?"

"Hello, I am a guest in your hotel, and I am stuck in your elevator. Can you help me?!" I asked.

"Ah! I'll be right out!"

A guy emerged, smiling but anxious looking.

He instructed me to try the door, try pushing a few buttons. Then he told me to press "ALT" or stop.

He said he'll be right back. I could hear him run down a flight of stairs, where he stopped. A moment later, the elevator car lurched down, then resumed its calm course to the third floor.

This time around, all the parts lined up, both sets of doors opened and I tumbled out.

"GRAZIE!!!!"

"I'm very sorry that happened. It happens quite frequently. They don't maintain the elevator very well in this building."

Italian elevators are like Italy, come to think of it: Ancient, attractive, comfortable, quaint, but rotten beneath the seams, and damnably predictable for those who know.

Gained: Freedom.

Make room for me too?

May 27. Day 331.

The scene around 3 p.m.: a dozen cars are funneling into an ARCO, which has the cheapest gas in a 5 mile radius.

Prices are up. Summer is definitely here.

In front of me, a guy in a white SUV pulls up to the second of two pumps. Another car is preparing to leave, from the pump in front of his. If this guy starts pumping gas, I'll be stuck waiting, and the other pump will be empty.

This is where The Daily Asker has definitely changed things for me: don't assume the other party will mind that you asked. Don't shoot yourself down by not even trying. With no hesitation, I roll down my window and, with a big smile, ask him to move forward.

"Is there any chance you'd mind pulling up so we could both get gas at the same time?" My words exactly.

Yeah, a roundabout way to express myself, but he gets the idea.

"Yes," he says soberly. Then cracks a big smile, waits for the other car to leave, and makes room for me too.

Gained: 7 minutes or so.

As I fill up the tank, Friday's troubling gas station encounter (scroll to the bottom of the post) gets a resolution, indirectly.

A preteen boy with a speaking disorder of some sort comes up, selling candies. One Snickers bar is $8!! No sob story, no pressure to buy a sketchy camera. The boys are night and day.

I don't have that much cash on me, but give him what I do. $4. I'd felt bad for ignoring the other's request, but this shows there are plenty of people who need help -- and this boy is earning cash through a supervised program. Even a $1 donation is a much better investment in his future.

Developments

April 6. Day 280.

Here are three items for your consideration.

1) Article in the Globe about retail negotiation mavericks. Lots of good strategies and inspiring anecdotes. I especially like the woman who said, "This is a ridiculous price" and got the manager to agree with her -- and take off 15 percent.

Nita, thanks for the link!

2) Graphic in the NYT about the highest paid executives in the U.S. Two remarks. Almost none of them are women. Yes, we knew that. Only 5 in the top 100, for starters. On the other hand, it looks like several of the top earning women got sizeable raises last year. I don't know if huge executive raises in this economy make a lot of sense (that's my polite way of saying, "they don't"), but looks like the women are as ruthless as the men! At least those who made it to the top. Hardy har.

3) Should women lie about their age? This Time story argues No!

I've wondered about how I'll handle that whole aging thing. Dye my hair when it goes gray, or not? Fall back a year, every ten or so birthdays? Seems petty to me. On the other hand, it's not about self esteem, but about others' esteem. If being seen as 47 hurts my chances for a job, why not make it seem like I'm 40?

So, ladies, do you avoid stating (or blatantly lie about) your age? Men, do you? On the flipside, is there an advantage for people to appear older than they are? Or does being sketchy like that come back to bite you in the butt?

Today, I asked for a break from a cop.

I was at the airport picking up a friend. He lives way north of San Diego, so I occasionally give him rides. I'd waited in the cell phone lot like a good girl, and he called to say he picked up his baggage so I zoomed over.

I pulled over at the no-waiting active-pickup area, he didn't see my car but I could see him, so I called him. That second, a cop whistled at me and motioned for me to keep driving.

Instead, I pulled up and rolled down my window.

Before she could say anything I blurted: "I swear I'm picking someone up. He's right behind me, but he couldn't see me so I just called him. He's walking over right now. Please."

"He's coming now?"

"In five seconds. I just got off the phone with him."

"Well, if you're actively picking someone up, then it's fine. But you can't wait here."

"He's almost here!"

"That's ok then."

It wasn't a question, just your average exhortation. But hey, I spoke up for myself and didn't circle back around the airport like a wimp. I'd call that a gain.

Gained: 6 minutes of driving, or who knows how much a ticket would have been if the cop was hellbent on my destruction.

Window Seat?

February 17. Day 232.

From Athens I had a few hours to kill in Amsterdam, so I rushed to my mom's favorite chocolate shop to pick up a few of her beloved truffles, crossed over to the post office to mail some twizzlers for E, and sampled a croissant in a cozy cafe with an open kitchen (pictured below). All I was hoping to do on the plane to the U.S. was sleep, but there was one slight impediment...

Before getting on the plane from Athens to Amsterdam, I confirmed that each of the three legs was a window or aisle seat. 12A, 23F, and 8C.

"Yes, they are," the check-in agent told me.

"Really. Because F is usually a middle seat on intercontinental fligts." ( I know big jets are rarely six seats across, where F would fall. If there was room on the plane or it was at all possible, I wanted to avoid the middle seat on the longest leg of the trip.)

He looked me squarely in the eyes. "No. It's a window seat."

His colleague looked at the boarding pass and confirmed.

"It's a window," she stated.

"Ok, great."

Only when I boarded the long flight in Amsterdam, I thought I'd ask again. I've never seen an F seat on a window on large planes. Just thought I'd check...

"Is this a window seat?"

"No it's not," the agent told me.

"Excellent. Two of your colleagues in Athens looked me straight in the eye and lied to me. I don't mind where the seat is, but I don't like being lied to."

"I'm sorry!" she replied.

"It's fine. But if anything opens up, would you mind switching my seat?"

"I'll try."

Meanwhile, my neighbors in line, a missionary minister and his wife who'd been preaching in Russia, asked what was going on.

"No big deal. I'm just annoyed because they told me I had a window and it's not."

They nodded sympathetically, and the minister told me it happens to him all the time. I felt I needed to clarify, since I probably sounded like a major whiner.

"I don't care about seat itself, but it's exasperating that they don't even have the courtesy to give you a straight answer. But, I've learned not to expect anything from airlines other than a place to park my butt and a seatbelt, so it's really no big deal. I just hope we get there safely."

A few days earlier, a plane crashed in Buffalo, killing everyone on board. I think that tragedy was on travelers' minds that day, both thoughts of sympathy and self-preservation.

Twenty minutes later, the agent called me back to the desk. She managed to find a comfy spot on the full plane, a window seat, perfect for dozing.

Score!

Gained: Exactly what I wanted, after making a bit of a racket.

TLC for TDA?

December 24. Day 177.

Before I left for Texas yesterday, I was still coughing up a storm. My Eastern European mommy has been checking up on the cough via email, phone and in person for the past few days, and she brought a homemade remedy to the airport: a tincture of boiled onions, lemons and honey. I took a few gulps while waiting in various lines. Sounds disgusting, but tastes like a slightly oniony lemonade. The security agents told me to leave it behind.

In Texas, still coughing, I turned to my daddy for the next round of remedies.

"Tata, can you make me a chaudeau? And please get me some medicine on your way home?"

Chaudeau is another Eastern European remedy, involving warm milk, sugar and egg yolks. Coats the throat. Works like a charm to soothe that nasty tickle. Don't read too much into this, but both Mr. A and my dad both make wonderful versions of this drink.

Then my dad called his doctor to ask her what would be the best medicine to pick up for me. And on his way home from work, he brought back some Tylenol Cold.

Hours later, I'm coughing less, my voice is creeping back, and I don't know if it's the Tylenol, the home remedies, or my parents' loving care.

Yes yes, the inner workings of some random chick's cold isn't blog worthy material. You wouldn't want to be reading this even if you were my friend, let alone a stranger living in Maryland.

But there is a method to this madness.

I'm almost 30. I've been living on my own for 10 years and self-medicated dozens of colds. Yet I can still turn to my parents when I'm sick, tired, broke or scared. Feel like a little girl again, once in a while. Curl up in bed and let someone else bring me medicine. That's not to say that I'm pathetic, a greedy Gen Y brat or a loser. Simply, that they're amazing.

Va multumesc, din suflet, pentru toate.

Gained: TLC from mom and dad. But there's nothing new there.

Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! And to all a good night!

Spreading out at The Gathering

December 7. Day 160.

As I drove a friend to the airport this morning, a former grad school colleague, I asked him if he thinks I can finish by this spring based on how much I've written.

"Depends how long your next chapters are," he replied. Code for: Don't get your hopes up.

After we parted, I found myself strangely itching to get some work done -- I can't imagine why...

By now, I'd estimate that Mr. A and I have been to about 80 percent of the viable cafes in central San Diego, laptops in tow, I writing and he reading.

Today we stopped at a new Starbucks in Mission Hills (new to us, that is), but were thwarted by a horde of preteens in soccer uniforms -- boys? girls? no idea, I just noticed they came up to my shoulders and were very noisy. So we walked a block due west, to The Gathering, a restaurant that's been a neighborhood institution for ages and recently survived a scary fire.

The plan: spread out at a table and work-o-rama until dinner time.

The question: would they mind? We weren't exactly a high-net-worth table, and it was close to dinner time, and it's a nice restaurant (not technically a diner or cafe). Would a couple of coffees and dessert, at best, cut it?

I walked in, candidly stated our intentions and asked the bartender if we could set up camp somewhere out of the way -- if it wasn't conflicting with their dinner schedule or whatever. He zoomed to the back area, looked for plugs, and welcomed us to the biggest table there. A waitress brought us endless cups of coffee and two oversized bread puddings with gooey tequila sauce. And... I made major headway on my chapter! In fact, in about two hours I finished this section. The same section that's been killing me since September.

And at a certain point during this cramfest, I turned to Mr. A with this revelation: "Once I'm done with this dissertation, I'll be able to come home after work, open a book and read for hours and... not feel guilty!!!!"

So

a) I feel the end getting closer

and

b) apparently, I'm looking forward to doing the exact same thing as I do in grad school -- reading around the clock -- only without the deadlines. Way to think outside the box, Rox.

Gained: A comfy, welcoming restauroffice. And a dash of hope. (And, just now, a new word! Restauroffice? Only one "valid" usage when I Googled it. Would you use it?)

Can you please move your purse?

November 20. Day 143.

When La Sorella and I were little, things would usually go down like this:

She would aggravate the hell out of me, provoke me with pokes or tickling, until I'd snap. Bend her pinkie back or pull her hair. She'd scratch me back, maybe stab me with a pencil. (She denies that, but I still have the scar!) Fight ensued.

I'd get annoyed for no good reason -- she wanted to hang out with my friends or play with the toy I was using. I'd do something mean to teach her to leave me alone. Throw a block close enouth to her head that she got scared, but far enough to miss (lucky every time, thank God). Fight ensued.

Or -- and this was most typical in the car -- she would pretend I attacked her, screaming, "Mama! Roxy hit me!!!!" and our mom would yell at me. Fight ensued. Later.

Or -- and this happened pretty much anywhere -- I'd pull rank. Tell her she was adopted and we had another year to decide whether or not to keep her, or demand the sweater she was wearing if it had been mine, or calmly explain that I was born first so I got to eat the bigger half of a chocolate bar we received. Generally she believed me, or else she pretended she did.

By about 14 and 10, all that died down -- because we knew we didn't have to resort to physical pain anymore in order to hurt one another, because we went to different schools and spent much less time together, and because she stopped thinking I was cool enough to bother with.

All that to explain that with most people, asking for something is just that -- asking. I make a request, open a dialogue, and wait to hear what the person says. Yes? No? Okay, moving on. But when I turn to La Sorella with a question, it's so much more complicated. Requesting her for help, advice, input, not to mention butting in with my help, advice, input, is second nature.

Well, this afternoon I picked up La Sorella from the airport. Less than eight hours later, I made my first imperious request: Can you please not put your purse on this table? I'm trying to keep it uncluttered.

On one hand, BBS (bossy big sister) makes a comeback. Poor girl is back in town after living four months in a new city. She's staying with me for 10 days. And all I can think about is keeping a table neat? I, who am hardly the queen of neat? Lovely.

On the other hand, I had just moved the table by the door, put a tapestry and a bouquet on it. The rest of the house is up for grabs. But I'd like to try to keep at least one corner neat. So I asked.

No prob, she replied.

No hair pulling or flying blocks.

No time-out, even though our Mama was standing right next to us.

Gained: 20 years, give or take, since the good old days...

Of smoking, and asking, and empathy, on the balcony

November 11. Day 134.

Mr. A's building has four balconies.

Those of you who know me might imagine I greatly delight in this fact. Those of you who don't, allow me to explain: I am writing my dissertation about balconies.

But I do not delight in these four balconies.

Because they attract smokers.

And smokers repel me.

It's only fair. I grew up with tobacco. My father smoked until this summer, and I'm ecstatic he has finally really and truly quit this time. One of my favorite t-shirts of his was yellow, with a "Smokenders" logo and a broken cigarette. I liked it even before I understood what it meant. Viscerally attracted to the bright color maybe, as a kindergartner.

All but two of my aunts smoke, which means foggy family dinners and hazy holidays. Love the aunts, hate the smoking. The worst of the pack is the one who drives with a cigarette and a manual transmission. She tries to exhale out the window, while shifting gears or steering, and the the smoke always gets sucked back inside. As a kid, I ended up accompanying her on a lot of errands for some reason. Cough.

Occasionally, cigarettes excite me. Mixed with certain perfumes, their scent reminds me of that sweet, petite grand mere who died eight years ago at 85. It's a hypnotic combination. Catapults me back to her apartment, her couch, the cocoon of childhood. She puffed happily until her final hours. And when I was euphorically drunk in Europe, I'd bum a cigarette off of corrupting confidantes and drink it in. Curiosity and revenge, mostly.

Outdoors, don't mind either. But inside, my nose just gets stuffy and I can't think of anything except "Finished, yet?"

For the past few weeks, the scent of cigarettes has drifted more and more often into Mr. A's apartment through the door and window seams of this old building. I could smell it as I was trying to fall asleep. I could smell it in the middle of the afternoon, eating lunch. I wondered: Has someone new moved in? Grad student or unemployed? Why is there suddenly a smoker on the balcony at all hours?

One evening, I poked my head into the hallway and saw a small group of friends, laughing. Didn't recognize anyone, so I smiled and closed the door.

I thought about putting up a sign on the bulletin board downstairs. "If possible, please try to smoke on the sidewalk" or "Some of your neighbors may not like the smell of cigarettes. Please be considerate." But that seemed awful.

I considered posting an article from the Sunday Times about a noise conflict among neighbors, but that seemed too oblique.

I asked Mr. A about the lease rules, but before he could check he left to Prague.

Tonight, the smell slinked in again.

I opened the door. It was a neighbor from few doors down, holding her cat.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hey."

"Were you smoking?" I asked this casually, like I might have come out to join her next.

"Yeah. I kept the door closed. Was it bothering you?" She started walking to her apartment.

"Oh, no! Just wondering. Good night."

"Good night."

I smiled, again, and closed the door.

And then, yes, then I opened it again!!!

"Hi." She turned around. "Would you... do you think you could, if it doesn't make a huge difference to you... use the other balcony? ...I can actually smell it when you smoke... it comes inside the apartment."

"Of course. I'll just use the other one. I'm sorry!"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't want to be the crazy lady who comes out in the middle of the night with complaints. You have every right to use this balcony if you like it. I just didn't know if you don't care either way."

"I don't. It's no problem at all."

"Really!? Thank you so much. I really appreciate it."

"Of course! It's all about consideration."

We traded names, I asked her about her feisty black cat, which had started wriggling in her arms, and I offered to feed it if she's ever out of town. Anything to return the good will and say thanks.

Gained: A nice neighbor. The satisfaction of addressing a delicate issue personally. And the relief of having empathy for both sides, the smoker and the smokee, but still speaking up.

If I was timid in this whole encounter, it's because I'm a firm believer in the LALL school. I could perfectly relate to her pleasure in smoking on that balcony, having a corner to herself, a ritual. And I know how much smokers cherish their Camels. I didn't have any greater claim on that space, or the air in the hallway, than she did. Balconies, after all, are transitional spaces - inside/outside, public/private. In this case, communal as well. And if I'm the only one it bothers, why should she change her ways to accommodate me? And yet, the smoke was seeping into a private area... so thanks to this experiment, I decided I would just try to ask, just try to check with her. Perhaps both balconies were equally appealing to her -- her door is halfway between them, in fact. So asking, I'm thinking now, isn't about suspending empathy. On the contrary. But it does mean that after you consider the other perspective, you don't let yourself necessarily be seduced by it. Instead, you open a dialogue.You give yourself as much consideration, as much value, as the other party. Something that can be hard to do judiciously. And hard to do, period.

What's the most effective alternative to silencing a tortured violinist?

November 7. Day 130.

I headed to Twiggs this afternoon to do some dissertation work. I’m on the final phase of this chapter – writing, after months of reading and thinking. I love the feel of this café. Perfect for diving into the world of 19th century dandies and eccentrics: A gigantic wooden carving on the wall – seems south asian, but I’m no art historian. Dark red walls. Interestingly upholstered couches and divans. The latte was one of the best I've had in San Diego. Plus, there’s this:

Books as a makeshift chair support? To funny looks from people studying next to me, I knelt down to see what they were. Swanson on Swanson and Civil Procedure. Love it!! The bluntest review I've ever seen. (I know what some of you might say. A book on the ground? Where's the love? But I think there’s something so decadent-yet-practical about using a book you’ve stopped reading for new a purpose. Gives it life again, in an era when books are so often empty decor anyway (e.g. coffee table materials, collected works that look pretty on the shelf, antique bindings you never touch for fear of ruining them, all that). Why not put a volume to better use if you'll never read it again? And if it sucked, there's the added benefit of being able to rest your feet, or better, upon the offender. Poor Gloria!)
But my bubble of paradise quickly burst when an old violinist set up a donation station on the sidewalk outside and started tuning his instrument. And tuning. And tuning. And then I realized: he was playing something!

To mitigate the immediate reaction to run out there, give him $50 and invite him to stop playing for the rest of the day, I started imagining his back story. He’s come here every weekday afternoon since 1989, when the San Diego Symphony fired him after he slept with an intern. He worked hard his whole life as an airport mechanic, put four kids through college, always dreamed of seeing the pyramids, and now he plays; he learned in high school and found the violin in his mother's attic after she died; he knows he's not that good, he was never really good at anything -- but he's worked hard, he's gotten by, now it's finally his turn to be a little self indulgent, damnit. He used to teach elementary school French, before the budget cuts. Now, all he can do to supplement his medicare check and pay for dialysis is squeak for alms. I mean play. He’s a neighborhood character, loaded, always drunk, and this violin is only of his many caprices. Everyone loves him! Frankie!

Anyway, after a few minutes of trying to turn this obstacle into an opportunity, I realized it was really working against me. Believe me, I support even the meekest attempt at creative expression. But there could be no writing to such a soundtrack.

I sidled up to the counter and put my request in these delicate terms.

“It’s my first time here, and I don’t know if I’m about to break some tradition you have, but could I close the door, or could you turn up the music? That violinist is playing outside, and it's kind of hard for me to concentrate."

The cashier laughed. “Sure! Close the door!” And then he pumped up the volume. After a few people came in and left the door open, he even put this sign on the handle: "A closed door is a happy door!"

Occasionally – when the songs change or someone enters or exits – I can catch strains of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I hope his wish comes true. Mine did! I can write. I mean blog. I mean dissertate.

Gained: A diplomatic resolution to a territorial conflict of sorts.

An asking for the ages! And my own tiny victory over prejudice.

November 4. Day 127.

What a day! What a night! What an asker!

I generally try not to get political here, since negotiation is all about bring opposing sides together. Seller and buyer. Boss and employee. Right and left. Basically, I don't want to ramble about my personal views (unless the those views involve asking, raspberries or cruel library workers).

But... Let me just say this... A black man from Chicago asked people to vote for him. The grandson of a Hawaiian secretary-turned-exec asked for change. A junior senator with magnetic oratory skills asked America to listen.

And America did!!

From a purely intellectual standpoint, Obama's campaign and his quest for the White House have a lot of takeaway points for my own project: Persevere. Believe in what you ask for. Make givers (voters, in this case) confident there's something in it for them. Learn from those who are more experienced. Stay civil and focused on the target even when you think you're going after an impossible goal. Know that nothing is impossible.

I spent Election Night at a GoObama party, where I met a man who butted into my conversation with a friend in a most brazen fashion. Middle aged, white, buzz cut, in the military since high school.

I asked him why.

Because he graduated from school with an interest in accounting and electronics, and the military offered a career doing electrical work on ships. He joined, got money for college, and then went back to the army because he wanted to make a difference. A seasoned fighter. He deployed to Afghanistan on 9/11, he's been to Iraq 5 times, and he's proud to be in the military and fight for America abroad.

I asked him why.

Because he belives in what America is doing. He believes the military has the Middle East's priorities at heart. Democracy, not oil. He has to believe it, or else his career and so many lives would have been lost in vain. But he doesn't agree with the methods. He thinks they should help the Iraqis govern themselves and then phase out. Stop fighting. Reduce the majority of troops. And stay the hell out of Iran.

I asked him why.

Because Iran can fight back. Because he's seen too many of his friends die. He just buried two of his closest friends at Rosecrants. He's had enough. He knows we'd be in trouble if there was another war. Most of his coworkers agree with him on this. Most people would be surprised at how many people in the military are are voting for Obama.

I asked him why.

Because they've also had enough.

It was an intriguing conversation, because his perspectives and opinions are different from most in my social and family circle. I don't know anyone in the military, and talking to John opened my eyes in a new way to the thoughts of someone serving in the armed forces. I never suppored this war, but when I meet someone who faced gunfire and worse, with the earnest belief he's helping someone like me cross the street in safety-- be it someone in California or in Fallujah -- I have to respect him.

Gained: A new president. A more nuanced view of what it means to fight for what you believe in.

Get me out of here!

September 29. Day 91.

Living at home as an adult (or spoiled post-graduate moocher, as I'm sure some others view me) has its ups and downs. Yesterday was a down. Pile onto that: a car that has become dangerous to drive (stalls and shuts down while in motion), a growing list of deadlines I can hardly keep up with, a day spent in front of a computer screen, and not much sleep the night before, and I was itching to leave the house.

The phone rang. It was Mr. A.

"Get me out of here!" I wailed into the receiver.

"Wow."

"Yeah," I confirmed.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

As it happened, he was in the area after playing tennis at UCSD. He picked me up and we met his friend at Croutons, one of my favorite "nouveau California" establishments. Not surfer, not silicon valley, not smoothies, but perky high-calorie salads disguised as health food, favored by slightly chunky college students who like to pretend they're dieting. Mmm.

They probably would have hung out by themselves, and I might have kept on craigslisting for apartments, but instead I ate a salad and grilled cheese sandwich and talked about religion in India.

Gained: Change of perspective.

Would you stop yammering?

September 22. Day 84.

Pop quiz:

You're on the bus, sitting next to someone who won't stop talking. You left Penn Station twenty minutes earlier, and so far you've learned all about how she's really excited about the venture capital she's raised for her cloud computing company, or his seven year old's soccer tryouts, or the laptop he's been thinking of buying, or how she's got some ridiculous blog about asking people for shit.

You'd love to hear what this neighbor has to say. If you were deaf, that is.

Do you:

a) Listen attentively and ask questions as long as the other person is pumped, because that's what Jesus would do?

b) Reply to questions and offer the occasional flat "mmhmm" while trying to read, and conspicuously avoiding follow up questions?

c) Plug your years and exclaim, "No more!! Pleeeeeease!"

Today, I went for option C. And it felt amazing.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't nearly as brusque as you may think I was. Still, I didn't hold back or take the passive aggressive route, as I normally would have. Instead, after I put in some ear plugs and he tried to talk over them, I told him:

"Wow, looks like we might be hitting some traffic... I think I'm just going to relax and do nothing for a while, just take in the sights and clear my mind after a long day. Do you mind if we chat later?"

"No problem, I get it," he said, smiling. So he didn't take it personally, and I was relieved.

Here's an asking update: I met with the New Yorker reporter today! Between writing and reporting, he took the time to talk to me about the magazine's history and his work. And I am indeed grateful.

Gained: Silence and conversation.

I'm commandeering your outlet! ...please?

September 14. Day 76.

so tired... asked for something electrically oriented, but i am too tired to write it... spent the whole day in the car, driving from maine to boston. i'll fill this in tomorrow morning, or else i'll fall asleep at the keyboard.

x,
Roxy

UPDATE:

A few days ago, I dreamed I bought a motorcycle and then experienced tremendous buyer's remorse. It was red and pretty sleek, and I paid around 8 grand for it. Once the transaction was complete, I instantly had two thoughts:

Why the hell did I just buy a motorcycle? I don't need a motorcycle! I don't WANT a motorcycle!

and

Why didn't I negotiate?? How will I show my face again on The Daily Asker?!!

And that, dear reader, is the first and only dream (so far) I've had about this experiment.

As for yesterday's asking:

I was driving down the New England coast, as you know, from northern Maine into Boston. About halfway there, I realized I really needed to make some phone calls and check the directions, but my cell and laptop were out of batteries.

I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts, but it didn't have any plugs. Drove by another fastfood place, but it was closed. Then, spotted a McDonald's.

Now, as much as I may have loved their Happy Meals growing up, it's not my practice these days to go to McD's more than once every few months, let alone twice in the same vacation. But desperate times, you know...

I spotted the plug, which had a child safety blocker, so I decided to check if I could use it. Maybe it wasn't working?

"Excuse me, is there a problem if I charge my phone really quickly in that outlet? I'll order something, of course."

The young lady manning the register, Kayla, dropper her jaw like I'd approached her talkin' Mexican.

"Can I use your outlet?" I tried again.

"Umm, let me check with the manager. K, cum'ere! They wanna use the plug." It was more of a complaint than a request.

The manager, Kaycee, thought about it for a few seconds before she gave her verdict. "They can't do that."

Now I was having trouble following. The restaurant was empty. The plug was available to the public, as it was in front of the counter (not behind it, or in the kitchen, or somehow difficult to access). It was blocked to protect children, I presume - a member of whose group I was not. I was a traveler asking for a few minutes of cell phone juice so I could get on my way.

Of course they had every right to deny me. But was it logical? Was it friendly? Was it American?

I decided to do something I rarely have the guts to. I pulled rank. Kaycee and Kayla were at that precious age when Crisco foreheads begin to mattify and summer jobs turn full-time for those without the prospect of, or interest in, secondary education. Around 18, that is.

I figured that with a decade or so on them, I could at least sound like I had some authority.

"There's no reason for you not to let me use that outlet," I said calmly but firmly, in the closest thing I have to a patient mom voice. "Now, I'm only going to use it for a few minutes, because I do need to make an important phone call. Is that fine."

"I guess it's okay," Kaycee conceded, no longer interested in asserting her managerial hegemony. Or perhaps I had simply convinced her that whatever dangers lurked before had evaporated like the alcohol in her misty hairspray.

Gained: Internet access, directions and a phone call to confirm housing for the night.

Emergency sandwich stop?

September 13. Day 75.

There are two things you need to know about me before we proceed to today's asking.

1) I am obsessive about food. Not obsessed -- that would imply I sit around at night drawing muffins or dream I've turned into a lucious piece of fois gras that's about to be devoured by an acappella group on tour in Dijon. I am, however, obsessive. What I eat, and when I eat, and whether I eat, matters a great deal to me. The where, how and why are secondary. I take unspeakable pleasure from the little things: watching a pat of butter melt on a skillet in anticipation for the steak it's about to caress, or the taste of a single grain of kosher sea salt. Consequently, I get very specific, and very insistent, cravings.

2) I love a quality cheesesteak.

Moving on...

I woke up this morning hungry. Maybe it was the Maine aire, or the spirit of fall quickening in my bones, or the fact that on the day of the wedding, i.e. yesterday, I skipped breakfast and lunch and supped on three blueberry mohitos, a delish Indian dish and a handful of hors d'oeuvres.

In any case, the official plan was to wake up at 8, head downstairs for the inn's delicious breakfast and then proceed to a farewell wedding brunch. But a few snooze buttons later, it was checkout time and I was still in bed. In a rush of packing and getting ready to leave for brunch, I realized the destination was a 30-minute drive away. Did I mention I was hungry?

Mr. A was in action mode -- carrying suitcases, imputting addresses into the GPS, checking under the bed for socks. I interrupted him with a critical request.

"Can we stop for a sandwich?" I was referring, of course, to the place we'd grabbed a sandwich a few days earlier, a hole in the wall 24-hour convenience shop and gas station in a neighboring town. You'd never guess it, but that place had the best cheesesteak I've had on the east coast. (The western division winner is, and always will be, I.B. Hoagie on Durant Street in Berkeley.)

"I don't think so. The brunch already started, and then we're having lunch with my parents."

"Come on. It's a quick detour."

"Do you really need a sandwich when we're about to eat brunch? And then lunch?"

To be clear, we had back to back brunch and lunch plans with friends and family in town. And I was indeed asking to stop for a sandwich. (See notes 1 and 2 above.) His wasn't really a question, but I answered anyway.

"Come oooon. That place was soooo good. By the time they seat us, and it's just a mile away, and you must be hungry too, and I didn't eat breakfast yesterday, or lunch, and we're going hiking after lunch so I need my energy, just a mile away, and if we don't go I'll never get to go again because let's face it I am never going to come back to this place even though it's beautiful because it's so remote, and it was sooooooooo good, come on!!!"

Okay. So that wasn't exactly an asking anymore. It was more of a "blizzard of words" (to quote Charles Gibson). But I wonder if men have an evolutionary mechanism that lowers their hearing threshold by ten or so decibels when the rate or pitch of their female companion's voice increases by more than five percent. Meaning that I was ranting, and he was admirably still focusing on what he was doing.

As he pulled out of the hotel, I resigned myself to no sandwich. Big loss. I didn't need it. I was just clamoring for it because it was a craving, a selfish whim, when we were about to eat twice and we were running late. Why was I asking for a detour when the right thing to do, the best thing to do, was drive in the opposite direction? And, most harrowing of all, was the possibility that first sandwich was somehow a glitch and the second one would be gross, perhaps made by someone else and burned or missing cheese, and it would deflate the memory of that perfect one?

One cheesesteak later, I was a happy girl.

I asked him why he decided to stop.

"If I didn't, you'd bug me about it for the next year."

And then I realized. I'd won the cheesesteak, which was every bite as good as the first one. But he won the right to tease me about it for the rest of our relationship. Or at least until something better comes up.

Gained: One beloved cheesesteak
Lost: Any claim, real or pretended, that I'm low maintenance

Adjust my cocktail?

September 8. Day 70.

In this recent string of askings, tonight's will seem monumental, but only because I've set the bar so low recently. So low. With upcoming travels and chances to spend money left and right, I hope to do right by you, o reader.

I went to a bar last night, completely not what I should have done -- and exactly what I needed to do. I'm leaving for two weeks, Mr. A and I haven't had much time together, so between packing and laundry and digging around for my snakeskin flats (finally spotted: in his car) we went out for a drink.

The place we picked, selected randomly because it was the only place open at midnight on a Monday, was a gay bar called Bourbon Street, I think. From the street it was quite calm, but inside there was a clear N'orleans theme.

I tried something new: chambord and tonic. Light, fruity, bubbly. Neither of us wanted to get tipsy, since we had a lot of work left.

The result was something sweet, really sweet, too sweet really, but tolerable if I convinced myself. The question was, should I or shouldn't I convince myself? Given I hadn't asked for anything yet, the answer was obvious.

"Could you adjust this, or make me one with more tonic please?" I asked the bartender.

"This your first time here?"

"Yeah."

"You want something stronger?" He was about 25, muscles bulging from here to Tulsa, wearing a wifebeater.

"No, just more tonic."

Gained: a more drinkable drink. (I don't recommend it. Guess raspberries aren't good in everything.)

House hunt haggles

August 25. Day 56.

Please let me indulge in 5 seconds of shameless marketing-- not for myself, but for readers!

From Boston:

I was totally inspired by you a few weeks ago at the
farmer's market to bargain down the price of some end-of-the-day corn. I only saved $0.50, but you know, it's the principle. :)

From Ohio:

It's totally rubbing off! I saw a late charge on my credit card, called up to say I'd been traveling and hadn't received the bill. She took off half, but I persisted with you in mind. If she can take off half just like that, surely she can take it all off: "Are you sure you can't remove the entire charge?". And then she took it off! Gained: $40. (Though I am of the opinion it shouldn't have been there anyway.)

From California:

My mother, analyst by day and jeweler by night, told me she talked down some strands of beads for her next creations. (Ok, fine, it's my mom.)

Awesome!! Thanks for writing. As I hear of future askings, I'll add them to this list. I wonder what we can gain together by July 1, 2009 -- the end of this experiment?

My own asking today is still a twinkle in my eye. More soon.

UPDATE: I saw an apartment today. A really great apartment. Two bedrooms, dining room, hardwood floors, right price, right neighborhood. Only drawback listed in the ad: I'd have to split a $100 monthly cable bill. But I rarely watch TV. (Well, I do watch some shows online -- House, Grey's Anatomy, and various nostalgic reruns; but I get my news from the internet and, gasp, papers. I just don't have time to be at these channels's beck and call.) So, I owed it to myself to find out if...

"About the cable, I don't really watch TV, so I wouldn't be interested in sharing that. How would that work for you?"

"Oh. Well, it's expensive. I mean, it's like $100 a month. I didn't have it before my last roommate, but once she got here and we got cable, I started watching more TV. I could do without Showtime, but I have to have my other shows. And there are lots of good movies."

"Netflix?" I tried.

"We get that too. But I never watch them. See? There are four here. We got them a few months ago. Live four months ago. 'Galapagos.' I forgot we had it. Movies are easier to watch on TV."

"So, you're only looking for someone who would split the cable with you?"

"Yeah."

Maybe I could have coughed up the extra $50 per month -- it was a really great place, actually -- but I couldn't imagine living with someone who talks as much as she does. In ten minutes, I'd learned about her job, her roommate's job, how far away her mother lives (4 miles), what highway she takes to work, the location of the Starbucks she once walked to (Laurel Street) and something about how her roommate eight years ago was psycho so she changed the look to her bedroom.

Gained: A refocus of my priorities as a renter. Up a notch: tranquility.

Lucky at Lulu: Can we share your table?

August 2. Day 33.

By midnight every Saturday, downtown San Diego turns into one magical frat party. Girls spilling out of their dresses, and guys spilling onto their dresses, as the lovely scent of beer wafts through the air.

"I didn't realize the fashion these days is to wear a dress shorter than your underwear," Mr. A said as a gaggle of coeds tottered in front of us.

"That's not the fashion these days. Some looks are timeless," I answered.

We wandered towards Lulu, a corner of chill tranquility, only to find a velvet rope blocking the door. That was a first. It's a hookah lounge, and the kind of place that doesn't need a bouncer because, paradoxically, it's too classy for downtown.

Waited ten seconds. No one came. Waited five. No one was watching. So Mr. A lifted the rope, and we were in.

There was a single empty table. I rushed over to claim it, and he went to order drinks. Seconds later, a waiter swooped over to inform me the table was reserved. There was a couple outside, he said, waiting. He disappeared and returned with the couple. I got up and started walking away as they approached, but I thought I'd try something first. I turned to the girl.

"Would it be okay if we shared your table?"

"Oh, you can have it," she said, cozying up to her friends at the table next to the reserved one. "We're sitting here."

So apparently they hadn't reserved it, and no one was claiming that table but me. Before this exeriment I would have respectfully walked away, without a question. Instead, I was drinking Pinot Noir and smiling at Mr. A through hookah smoke from across the table.

Gained: A table on a crowded Saturday night

Would you move over?

July 31. Day 31.

Today I had a perfect asking opportunity and passed it up. The owner of a coffee spot I love (the spot, that is, not the owner) made me a cafe au lait. It was abominable. A soupy, translucent something. Coffee it was not. Normally, the waitresses prepare the drinks, but today he was understaffed.

No matter. I didn't complain, because I felt kind of sorry for him. He's an older man who's always sitting at a table by himself, staring into space as tangos from bygone years fill the air. Once in a while he chats with a friend, but usually he sits alone, staring. It's an easy place to retreat into reverie, with comfortable old chairs and vintage clocks hanging from walls and cabinets and ceilings, each a few minutes off.

In any case, I wasn't really in the mood for coffee. I ordered a drink as "rent" and proceeded to work on my dissertation.

But then, from across the room, he spotted my cup -- still full two hours later -- and eased over to my corner with a sad look. "You don't like it?"

"What? No! It's good! It's just that I was working so hard, I forgot about the coffee. It's very good!" Such. A. Bad. Liar.

"But it's cold now. I will make you another one."

"Oh, no, thank you. Thank you! That's very nice of you to offer. But I like it more when it's cold, so I let it cool down. It's such a hot day outside. I'll just ask for some ice. Refreshing." Choke.

He didn't buy a word of it and left.

I could have gently asked for a different drink. But I think it would have meant too much to him, and too little to me.

What, then, did I ask for?

Earlier today, I dropped off my grandmother from a trip the doctor and then lunch, and when I pulled up to her building, an office supply truck had stopped in front of the ramp -- a ramp that she, a walker with a walker, needs to climb to get onto the sidewalk.

"Can you move?" I yelled from my car. "I need to unload my grandma!" This wasn't a time for niceties. Busy street, cars roaring by, and some truck blocks the ramp the little old ladies use to inch their way home.

At first he looked surprised. Who was this chick yelling at him? Why didn't she wait a second for God's sake? But a second later he smiled and nodded, and I pulled into his spot. "How nice of him," Grandma beamed.

Gained: Access.

I'm ditching the ditch, cool?

July 19. Day 19.

This morning I stopped by a consignment shop where I bought a painting, but it was already an insanely good deal ($5 for a small still life with flowers) and I didn't feel like asking for a dollar off, just to ask.

Later, I blew an opportunity at dinner. I ordered nachos without beans for the table and -- oh, gasp! -- the order came with beans. Send them back? However, by the time I spotted the beans, a pasty mess spread across the bottom of the plate beneath the nachos (interesting approach), everyone had devoured almost everything, and I'd also had my fill. So the kitchen messed up. We all mess up. And they were yummy, so who cares?

Most of the rest of the day was at the beach, and there's not much more I could ask for there. "Excuse me, sun, would you mind setting an hour later since I'm having such an awesome time? And waves, why don't you lap at my toes at a slightly more obtuse angle. There we go. Ahh."

Nah.

Could it be that I spent an entire day without asking?

But now, as I hear the clicking of the keyboard as I assemble this procrastinatory, throat-clearing introduction, I realize what it is I asked for. I asked for a break.

For between the antique shop and the beach, I went for a bike ride in Tecolote Canyon. For those who have never been there, this is San Diego's equivalent of [insert ugliest natural landmark in your city here]. A narrow ditch running between arid, gnarly knolls on one side and a golf course and various large fenced electrical apparati on the other. Occasional dog poop peppers the route. It was the first time I'd ventured there, and definitely not my ideal locale for a picturesque hike or bike ride. The scenery, coupled with the headache I got from riding over the rough terrain, was enough to make me want to stop.

So I did. "Guess what," I told Mr. A. "I have a headache. I want to head back, slowly. Why don't we meet at the car in an hour?"

May not seem like a big deal. So I cut out early. Big whoop. But the truth is, Mr. A's fitness puts me to shame. I practically pant up the six steps that lead to the intercom gate. He zooms up all three flights, holding six bags of groceries in one hand, and my hand in the other. An eight hour hike is exhausting for me. For him, it's just the warm up. And, coup de grace, I recently asked him to check out my bicep. He wrapped his fingers around my arm, and I beamed at him proudly. "Ok, you can flex now," he encouraged. "I am flexing!" I wailed.

When we starting dating, I would have charged onward, redfaced, heaving, in the spirit of "keeping up." Even now I push myself to keep up, basically because without his prodding I'd be a complete sloth and, I'm afraid, two dress sizes bigger. Not to mention that it can be fun. But there's a line between healthy discomfort and pain, and I've learned to discern it.

Gained: Two extra strength Tylenols from the glove compartment. A great afternoon at the beach, post bike ride.

Can we use your shower?

July 6. Day 6.

sovietuk/flickr

On our last day in Sequoia, we decided to forsake the mountain crests and relax by the pool. (I say we, but ok, it was me. Mr. A would have loved another day of hiking, but two out of three was enough for me, and I didn't even have to ask for a change of pace, he gently acquiesced.)

But as I lay on the threadbare hotel towel, airdrying my hair, I decided I'd really like to shower before the six-hour drive home. So when the manager walked up to the pool area, I knew it was my chance.

"Hi. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." He was smiling. Good sign?

"We checked out at 11, and I realize that after swimming I'd love to take a shower before the drive back. If the next guests aren't here yet, could we use the shower in one of the empty rooms? Really quick?"

He made a slightly pitying face, like, "Please don't ask that. You know what I'm going to have to say."

And then he said it. "I can't let you do that. All the cabins have been cleared out, and they're almost done cleaning the last one. I can't ask them the stay late and clean another bathroom."

I nodded. Fair enough.

Then he had this suggestion. "But, what I could do, well, there's this spot in the river that's almost like a little waterfall, and I could show you where that is. It's really refreshing, I love going down there. Much better than a shower. Just come to the office when you're done with the pool."

I nodded and thanked him. Mr. A. was sitting next to me, and when the man left we conferred. Icy streams are not my cup of tea, and he wanted to start the long drive home, so we passed.

Gained: Zilch.

Lost: confidence that my bikini-clad body has any persuasive powers over the male psyche.

A takeaway: This is for when I'm on the receiving end of an ask: There's a friendly and an unfriendly way to refuse a request. Terse versus apologetic. Bristly versus sympathetic. Each has its place.

Another takeaway: Instead of flatly refusing, he offered something in exchange, something I didn't want -- so he ultimately let me be the one to refuse. Maybe this wasn't his intention and he really wanted to show us the stream; but maybe it was an elegant way to get out of his refusal. No bad blood, no negative reviews from his customers. It was a genteel -- and smart -- move.