Are you French?

The first daily ask of the second era.

At 2 p.m. this afternoon I was walking from Chipotle to a friend's car, in a parking lot in the charming seaside locality of La Jolla, when I spotted a svelte, older woman with short hair. Very stylish hair. A small car. And a certain sense of flair.

My first thought: French.

"Do you think she's French?" I whispered to my friend.

"I don't know," she answered.

"Should I ask?" We'd just been talking about my goal of putting the "daily" back into Daily Asker. "Like I was saying over lunch?"

"Sure."

I approached the woman, said "Excuse me," opened my mouth to continue, and froze. What was I going to say? "Are you French?" That would sound a bit bizarre. Walking past her in a parking lot, seeing the back of her head and wanting to know her nationality. I didn't mind seeming weird or forward, but what if I inadvertently insulted her? Or creeped her out?

Maybe I could ask in rapid fire French, "Vous-etes francaise?" That way, if she didn't speak French she'd think I sneezed, and if she did, then what?

Think fast!!

"I think we've worked together before. On some translations? Are you French?" I asked.

"That's interesting. I do speak French, but I don't recognize you. Where do you think we met?" Interesting. An accent. A very subtle accent.

"I thought it was on a French translation, a few years back. You look familiar."

"Really? I'm not French, but I am from Europe. I think maybe it was someone else?"

I glanced at her car then I saw it: a bumper sticker, with a red cross and the name of her likely country of origin: "Suisse."

"Of course -- sorry about the confusion!"

"No problem!"

Results: After six months of sporadic asking, a helpful little refresher. Wondering what's in store for tomorrow!

TWO DAYS LEFT!!!

June 28. Day 363.

I can't believe it's almost over!! I wrote Day 363 as if it were day 63. Unreal.

In a recent comment, IGC asked if I have any plans this week.

Nothing you can see immediately, but stuff is happening behind the scenes.

Starting July 1, I'm going to publish an analysis of all the data I've collected. I've been correlating and analyzing all weekend. Because this is indeed an experiment, a study, my goal was to understand more about how gender and other factors influence success rates in asking and negotiation.

Was I more successful in asking men or women?
Were people in New York or Milan more likely to indulge my request?
Was I more nervous when I asked alone or in a group, and when was I more successful?
And did I obtain more when inquiring on my behalf, or when asking for someone else?

That is a sample of the info you'll get.

I'm also finalizing a new website, which should be up in a week or so. It will be. Much. More. Informative. Interactive. Intriguing.

Meanwhile, you can help me in one way.

GET THE WORD OUT!!!

The year is almost over. And the more people that read this last week, the better!

Email my link to classmates, peers, reporters, researchers. Anyone interested in the results of a 365 day study about asking, gender, negotiation, persuasion.

Tweet and retweet the hell out of this post.

Send it to Facebook and beyond.

Post it to any blog or webpage about a possibly related subject.

Send me your comments or emails with what you've asked for over the course of this project, what questions it has left you with, or what you'd like to see in Year Two. I'll post everything!

And thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thanks to everyone who participated, read, wrote in, advised, asked, answered, or shared!!!!!!!

PS: Today, I asked Mr. A a question. A private, gossipy, nonbloggable question. Something about someone I was itching to find out.

Gained I: a cryptic answer... but cryptic good, not cryptic bad. =)

I also asked a cashier to give a friend a discount on a damaged shirt that costs $100, and he said no. Tsk tsk tsk, Nordsrom Rack.

Gained II: Nothing.

Want my seat? And why do you cheat?

Dear Reader,

I am back in Milano and back in wifi-ville.

Here we go!!! Cut and paste time. For even with no internet, in the Tuscan countryside, your faithful asker was jotting down blog posts on her laptop, blackberry and scraps of paper, knowing this day would come...

The teaser/recap, since I can't hold back: It rocked. Got tons of discounts, met charming people, escaped from a cranky elevator, even had a brush with haute couture... all by asking!

Read on, and drop a line if you're so inclined. To rant, or rave, or just to say ciao.

Ever thine,

La Roxy

***

June 10. Day 345.

In the train heading to Florence, I approached my seat, number 95 in cabin 11, and I noticed three children were occupying the entire booth, including my place. Their aunt (not mother, as I later found out) looked stressed.

I moved into a row across from where I should have sat.

"Want my seat?" I asked the woman.

"Oh, would you?!! Are you sure?"

"Certainly. It makes no difference to me. As long as no one needs this spot."

"Great, thank you so much!" And later, she said to her husband, who arrived after everyone settled in: "That girl just gave us her seat, so we don't have to worry anymore, as long as no one else has the other seat."

Soon after the train took off, the kids started stuffing their little faces with some homemade panini. Looked like prosciutto on a thick baguette. Everyone here, all the time, is eating. More on that later. But perhaps my favorite example, until now: Milanese bankers in tailored suits patching together a crumbling economy -- who still make the time for ice cream.

What a land.

(I snapped a photo of the chomping children, but I'll refrain from posting it here. Privacy, ethics, legal stuff. Instead, here's a picture of the Arno promenade at sunset, a few hours after I arrived in Florence.)

Gained I: Made someone's day less stressful.

Speaking of eating. Il Latini is the one restaurant I can't not visit when I'm in Florence. It is ancient (since 1911 I think -- old by restaurant standards, even for Italy). It is fetching, thanks especially to the ham hocks hanging from the ceilings and the wines lining the walls, not to mention the waiters who would probably insult your ancestors and your reproductive abilities if you dared leave sooner than three hours after sitting down or failed to drink your weight in chianti.

The food is delicious -- my roasted pork was so perfectly salted and so exquisitely balanced between its soft and tender interior and carmelized, slightly chewy exterior that, a day later as I write this, I can still evoke the taste and texture in my yearning tastebuds.

And the mood, barking waiters and all, is supremely friendly. The kind of place where, as a single traveler, I can always find a spot at the communal tables and instantly make friends for the evening.

During this particular dinner, seated to my left were two men of middling age. After getting the basics out of the way (who what where), the conversation touched the subject of relationships. One man had a girlfriend and the other was married, they informed me, and then they asked my status.

"In love," I stated.

"You are, aren't you," the younger one replied. "She is. Look at the smile."

"Lucky," the older, married man said, a tad sadly.

"Why lucky? Aren't you happy?" I asked him back.

"That's complicated," he answered.

"How long have you been married?" I tried.

"23 years," he sighed.

He had the tone of someone reporting he lost his business in a fire or found out the sugar he'd been putting into his coffee all these years was actually Equal.

Lingering disbelief, mixed with a recognition that struggling is futile.

At which point I asked this complete stranger, "Did you stay married just because, or are you actually happy? Or where did things fall apart?"

"Wow, that's personal!" he replied, but he didn't seem offended. Just surprised.

Blame the wine, blame my lack of personal limits, blame this blog, but at that moment I pushed harder.

"Come on. We're strangers. We'll never see each other again. Let's talk frankly, shall we?"

It was a risk, sure. On the other hand, his tone and the general mood suggested it was ok to ask, and even to insist.

Suddenly, the conversation sprang from small talk to real talk. About recognizing and keeping love, and being decieved by chimeras. About the nature of commitment. Why people cheat. What it takes to make a relationship strong. Early clues of later joys or heartbreak.

"Do you like to hold your boyfriend's hand?" the younger one asked, as an example of such a clue.

"Of course," I answered.

"Good. That's good," he confirmed.

I wasn't sure how telling that test was was, because -- well, what couple don't like to hold hands when they're young and carefree? What honest marriage doesn't start with love?

Thus I was more interested in the perspective of the old guy, the married one. The one with the lover. Why did he get tired of his wife? What went wrong? Did he know from the start he'd want to leave her?

His story was typical -- and triste. He married because he felt he should and because he mistook enjoyment and company for a sufficient reason to built a life with someone.

And build a life they did. They have three kids. He's a successful [CAREER REDACTED].

Then he met a lady who truly understands him, with whom he feels he can speaking openly, about anything. And he realized what he was missing: a listening, curious, patient, and interactive ear. His wife was a mother, perhaps a lover, but not much more, for him.

Is this the story of every lothario? The collective narrative of rationalization that every little Tuscan boy learns to tell himself from junior high school onward, as his girlfriend waits in the cafe, wondering why Gianni never showed up -- only to discover that Gianni was looking up Sylvia's skirt?

Or is it the tale of a man who made the wrong decision half a lifetime ago and has been paying for it ever since? A man who doesn't have the heart to divorce the mother of his children, and who would feel as guilty for staying as he would for going? A man who tried to be good, do well, but failed?

Gained II: Emboldened by the anoymity, my dinner companions offered frank perspectives on love and life. I ended the evening completely stuffed and only partially enlightened.

Take me with you to Brazil?

June 5. Day 340.

When I was around 8, 9, 10, I was in airports all the time. My parents, who moved to San Diego a few years before I was born from a distant land, kept picking up and dropping off friends and family visiting from The Old Country, and various other countries.

These people came, stayed on our pull-out couch, and brought stories and strange clothes and strange habits from far away. I adored every minute of every visit.

At 11, my whole family pitched in for my first flight over the ocean, to see The Old Country. I stayed with my mom's childhood best friend, who had a son my age. We became friends instantly. And from then, I was hooked. Every time I went to the airport, I wished I was the one on the next flight out.

Little has changed since then. Airfare sale? Summer job opening? Research project? Study abroad? Spare couch? I'm there!!!

So when, tonight, I overheard a conversation between two people at a bar -- a travel agent and a friend who lives in this city -- about a trip they were planning to Brazil, I couldn't help myself.

The agent, two times older, cooler and calmer than the twenty-somethings downing cocktails all around him, proceeded to explain the trip he was envisioning in lyrical detail.

Arrive I forget where. Take a jeep to I don't know where. Travel around from south to north with his local guides, into rivers and swamps, where the jungle is so dense it looks like the deep of night. His fingers, pointing at an invisible map of Brazil, stopped at the top right corner, where the trip would conclude two weeks later.

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Can I come?!" I cut in.

They both looked at me, not exactly unfriendly, but a little taken aback.

"I've always wanted to go to Brazil," I added, as if that were a credential.

"Actually, she's a good traveler," my friend interjected, as the agent considered my somewhat frantic request. "She's been to Peru."

"Peru, really? Where did you go?"

"Into the jungle. The north. Got eaten alive by mosquitos and had a brush with malaria."

"Ok, then you'll come too," he pronounced.

The trip is tentatively set for August.

It would be a dream come true.

But.

The price tag, which he outlined for us at the end of the conversation, could top 3000 euros.

Pocket change for a successful corporate travel agent.

But for a daily asker used to budget vacations and occasional freelance gigs, with a car on the edge and a grad school stipend drawing to a close? Forget it.

Gained: Invited myself along on a dream trip to a Brazil, and got the green light to come. I realize I can't go. And yet... didn't dreaming about airplanes and faraway places get me here, now? So if not this August, with this group, maybe the next one, or the next, or the next...

Can you please explain your rudeness?

June 1. Day 336.

This afternoon, after a stroll of my temporary neighborhood, I sat down, ordered a coffee, and began reading "A Prayer for Owen Meany." I found it in a "give a book, take a book" coffee shop back home -- a far cry above the typical Reader's Digest classics those exchanges usually offer. So far, it's one of the funniest things I've read. Ever.

Half an hour after I finished my coffee, I realized I needed another. The only way to avoid a week of jetlag is to really push hard in the first 24 hours. And I can't afford to be sleepy. I'm here for work.

I ordered a second coffee, but the waiter said no.

"After six, it's happy hour. No coffee," he barked.

Too bad. I shrugged and figured that if he'd rather I sit there consuming nothing, versus consuming something, it was fine with me... even though it made me a little sad. No coffee because of some silly rule? And why was he such a jerk? How was I supposed to know his rules?

As I read, and tried to keep my eyes open, a pair of middle aged me sat at the table next to mine. Ordered two coffees. And got them.

I thought about it. A good twenty minutes, between people watching and reading. Thought good and hard. Part of me wanted to forget about it. They were locals, they probably knew the guy. They were regulars, or maybe they knew just how to ask the right way. I'd never be back. Who cared, really.

On the other hand, the waiter had been gruff, a living cliche. He simply figured he could tell the tourist "no" but act all buddy buddy with the locals. Assume I was too dumb to notice, or too helpless to do anything about it. What if I gave him a piece of my mind?

I composed a few lines in my head: "I'm curious why you declined to give me a coffee but served these gentlemen. Just to put things in perspective: I have been traveling for 24 hours, I'm exhausted and starved, and was thrilled to drink the first coffee. It was delicious. Would it have been that much trouble to make another, for which I would have paid, considering you did the same for those two men? Is it because I'm a tourist, or would you mind explaining why? I'm just wondering."

I asked him something like this, calmly, and in a much shorter version.

He looked shocked. Stung. Panicked.

"He's the owner!" he said. "He can have whatever he wants here. It's his place. Look, I don't make the rules. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry!"

"Ok, I understand. Thanks for letting me know. I was just a little surprised. No problem!"

I paid and left.

"Thanks, bye!" he called after me.

Later, I chatted with an acquaintance here who explained that until very recently, in boom times, this city was full of jerks. Salespeople, waiters, anyone with anonymous customers, pulled attitude, because they could. Refused to seat people. Rolled their eyes at the slightest request. Finally, they're remembering they need their customers as much as the customers need them. If not more.

Gained: A satisfactory answer. Better yet, stood up for myself in a foreign country. That's a first. Usually I just suck it up, try to be empathetic. Read: wimpy.

Here are a few pictures from the cafe across from mine. Hey, is that Mischa Barton, on the right, or does it just look like her? Consider these your next clues.

Can we have your numbers?

May 11. Day 315.

Boy and girl meet. Boy or girl asks for number. Boy or girl calls. Maybe.

A variation of that theme happened today, when I asked for the phone number of two guys.

Now, I'm not lookin' for trouble. Just some interesting conversation with some interesting local types.

Here's how it all went down.

I went to Pannakin, a cafe in downtown La Jolla that's sort of a local haunt -- the kind of place where the alternacool kids went in high school, and still show up 10 years later. Ahem.

I was there with a friend from high school, who's a painter today. She was back in town, and we simply had to hit up the Pannakin. Over chai lattes, we started making all these plans, like:

--I'll write a screen play and she'll direct and produce it
--we'll attend an internet law school, basically something totally cheap, and then open a boutique law firm specializing in defending whistle blowers, people whose insurance companies ripped them off, people with immigration emergencies and the like.
--we'll write fiction, details tbd.
--we'll spend a week in Taos, New Mexico, oil painting. I've never painted before, while her watercolors are displayed in London galleries. How would our approaches to oil differ, and intersect?
--we'll launch a mix of start-ups, with ideas far too lucrative and earth shattering to describe here. (hint: think bdsm and/or pet trends)
--we'll track down our high school English teacher and find out if he's ok (rumor is, he's not)
--we'll learn to make really good chai lattes

Amid this flurry of creativity, a pair of guys sat down next to us and started playing chess. I know, what a cafe moment.

We started talking, and it turns out they had opinions. About Harold Pinter, politics, San Diego, and the Cohen Brothers.

D'ali and I had to leave, since we each had plans that evening, but outside, we quickly conspired.

"They were pleasant," D'ali said.

"And smart," I concurred

"And local," she added. "Let's get their numbers!"

I hesitated. Could we ask for their numbers without leading them on, or would they get the wrong idea?

"Come on, Roxy, aren't you the Daily Asker or something? Where's your moxie?"

Touchée. She was so right. What were we, in high school? Worried what they'd think? Indeed, what did we have to lose by asking!

We stormed back in, explained exactly how our conversation outside unfolded (minus the blog part), and suggested we exchange digits.

Gained: Names and numbers of two people I'd enjoy chatting with again. In the era of Facebook and cell phones, I seriously can't remember the last time I traded numbers with someone for non-business purposes. Not emails, not business cards, but numbers. For hanging out and conversation. Wow.

Sunny side of the... patio

May 4. Day 308.

All right, people. Here we go. It's Saturday night, May 9, almost midnight as I write this. And after weeks of updating days after the fact, enough.

So with this laptop as my witness, I promise to finish the night up to date. (Or fall asleep trying.)

Blog or bust.

Yarrrr!

***

Monday, my college friend Eau arrived for a visit. She'll be here till Friday. For days we tried to come up with a name for her, since people who get featured in this blog knowingly get a pseudonym, if they so choose. (The rest get stuck with exciting titles like "the rug saleslady" or "the police officer riding a segway." Such are the perils and joys of semi-anonymous blogging.) We had so many ideas for her, I've actually forgotten them all. So I hereby dub her Eau, for she is, like water itself, life giving. No, she hasn't had many babies or worked as a hamster breeder. But she tends to spread joy and energy all around her. I think that counts.

I picked her up from the airport, and true friend of mine that she was, she instantly had food on the mind. Before dropping off her bags at my house, we went to Parkhouse Eatery, a former antique shop that now serves "grub." So says its menu.

We nabbed a table in the shade, since after days of May gray, the sun has finally come out in San Diego.

She ordered a salad. I, the club sandwich.

We chatted. We giggled. We laughed. We probably annoyed the man sitting next to us (and the only other person on the patio), since when Eau and I get together, there's nary a second of silence.

Eventually, I started feeling a little chilly, and I noticed her hugging her arms.

Could it be? Were we both cold? And were we both keeping quiet, lest the other one prefer the shade?

"Are you cold?" I finally asked. "Want to switch tables?"

"Yes!!!"

Gained: a spot in the sun.

Free tea, for no good reason?

April 1. Day 275.

Tonight, I asked for something just to see if I could get away with it.

After dinner, Mr. A and I went for a neighborhood walk looking for dessert (again). We stopped in one pastry shop, Eclipse Chocolat, where I had a great cupcake a few days ago. But this time the guy behind the counter was extremely disorganized. It took him 10 minutes just to take the order of the people before us, explaining everything, getting confused, making small talk. Then, he started making their drinks and he told us it would be "a second."

About 29 of those later, we hit the door.

The next stop was Pomegranate, a (Russian) Georgian restaurant with awesome atmosphere. An old piano covered in trinkets and candlesticks. Feisty menu, big wood tables. In thick crayons and markers, people have written greetings all the way up the walls, onto the ceiling, even into the skylight opening. Messages ranging from "A vodka a day keeps everyone away" to "Make love, not good grades" to "She said yes here in 1999. In 2003 we are still married and your food is even more delicious, just like our love" to "assez bon mais beaucoup trop cher" (pretty good, but way overpriced).

The waiter warned us that they only accept cash or personal checks, a management decision which, I suppose, tries to instill a sketchy 1991 post-communist feel to the place. Abundant portions. No credit.

We ordered two pieces of tort, which were unlike anything I've had in the U.S. so far, and as we ate, Mr. A showed me his pictures from Korea.

Meanwhile, I was getting ansy. I hadn't asked for anything and lately I've felt like I've lowered the bar by shooting for things I would have attempted even before this project. I mean, health insurance info? Hardly gutsy.

"Do you think I could ask for a free cup of tea? Say we only have cash?"

"You could try," Mr. A said.

"Do you think I'd get it? I don't just want to ask, I want to actually get something."

"If he's an authentic Russian, he'll say no. If he's Americanized, he'll say yes." Mr. A hails from that part of the world, so he's not being prejudiced. It's accurate if you're dissing your own peeps, I'm told.

As we ate, the waiter wandered over and asked where Mr. A is from, having heard his accent. We made him guess, and finally he gave up. I told him. (I can't tell you, alas, since I'm doing my best to keep him anonymous on this blog). Then, before he walked away, I asked:

"Is there any chance we could get half a cup, or a cup of tea? Because we're low on cash but it would be really nice with these cakes."

"I can do that. I will be right back."

"Spacebo!" I called as he walked away.

He yelled something back. You're welcome, probably. I felt welcome. What a great place!

I was beaming. Mr. A looked skeptical.

"You didn't seal the deal," he explained.

Actually, he was right... I was timid, and vague. Half a cup? I merely assumed he'd understand I was asking for it for free. I never said the words "on the house" or "complementary."

A few minutes later, he returned with two cups.

"One is on the house," he said, smiling.

Fair enough.

Gained: $4 cup of free tea, and $4 spent on tea. Net: $0. Or, through some more appealing accounting methods, we could say: Paid $4 for the tea I asked for, and Mr. A got a free cup, i.e. 2 for 1. Net gain: $4. What do you say -- should this count on my tally as a $4 gain, or not?

By the way, I'm feeling roused. Enough of this blogging-about-what-you'd-ask-for-anyway. Time to shake things up.

I have just the idea for tomorrow!

'nite,

La Roxy

Daily Asker: Here To Stay!

March 25. Day 268.

Faster than you can say "Daily Asker Taskmaster," this project is becoming something else. Months ago, I used to be on a constant lookout for opportunities and set out thinking of ways to ask -- and if I didn't find any that day, I used to go out of my way to ask at, say, 1 a.m. Some of my favorite posts grew from that desperation. (Sorority and Pedicab, for example.)

Now, I'm still pausing in the evening to make sure I've asked -- but almost always, I find that I have. In other words, it's getting to be natural and spontaneous, and less about me saying, "I'm must ask for something today! Ak! Ok, I guess I'll ask the bus driver if I can take over for at the wheel for five minutes." Lately, I wasn't even thinking about it. I didn't make a particular effort or feel my heart racing out of anxiety or excitement.

It wasn't contrived.

In other words....

I've made asking a routine. This is both fantastic, since it means that after 9 months of doing it daily, I've finally raised the bar to where looking for opportunities and becoming assertive is approaching second nature.

It's also worrisome, because, type-A that I am, I am not easily satisfied with my results. My next natural question is, what next? How do I bring asking to the next level? How do I become not just a daily asker, but a better daily asker?

A few ways come to mind.

First, I need to plug back into the news. At the beginning of this project, I was always looking for "negotiation" and even the word "asking" in the news. I'd post the links here, and it was food for thought. If I start doing that again, it will help me see others in action, and keep asking on my mind.

Second, I need to raise the bar in terms of what I'm asking for. Not every day, but whenever the opportunity arises. I think I've gotten comfortable with the notion that I've asked, and that's that. But maybe I shouldn't be satisfied with a free cookie anymore. Maybe I should ask for the recipe itself. Aim bigger. Aim realistically, practically (or not!), but bigger. Stop being so comfortable. One amazing thing this project has done was force me to evaluate what I want and need, what are my priorities, who and what I'm willing to speak up for. Whether it's my grandmother's dignity, or silence on a bus. Well, I can keep up the routine, but find ways to stretch. Optimize. Constantly reevaluate. Ask for the pony because I want the pony, not the kitten. And get the pony.

Third, I need to develop new methods that actually get me what I want, and look for different opportunities, not just more of the same. Of course, "just opening my mouth and asking," which was the initial catchphrase of this project, has led to many fantastic gains and experiences. But there are many things I did want, and didn't get. Why did I get rejected? What could I have done differently? Time to take stock. Since I'm not often buying cars or negotiating house down payments, I think I need to outsource. Myself, that is. Find people who are approaching larger transactions and offer to step in, with the guarantee I'll back off the moment the want me to. That would be an essential way to use my new skills, and develop newer ones.

Fourth, and I think this is a big one. I need to tap into the experts. That's what got me started in the first place: the book Women Don't Ask, which changed my approach to transactions and interactions from the first chapter. It was a wake-up call. I recently bought the authors's next book, Ask for It, which I'm about to start reading. Well, how else can I keep learning? Who else is out there? What other writers, researchers -- or bloggers -- are approaching this or similar subjects? What other books are good on this subject?

Fifth, I need to get the word out. Do you have any friends who are reporters or bloggers, who could write about The Daily Asker? Do you read any websites or blogs that could link back to me? How about you send them my link! Having people visit this site and leave comments is a major motivator. Otherwise I could ask and not document it, or skip a day and no one would know but me. You guys keep me on task. So... if you know anyone who might like this site, please take a moment to email them the link or mention it next them they could have -- or should have -- asked. Women, men, kids, grandmas, employees, bosses, friends. This post would be a good place to start, actually!

Finally: Long to-do list. So little time. Between finishing grad school, finding work and living my life, there's no way I'm going to get this all done in under three months. So... I'm starting to think that I can't stop in July!! I mean, I had all these plans. Nab a great starting salary. Ask for a better car deal. Ask for a tour of Asker, Norway. Ask for a segway ride. I'm not even halfway to where I want to be, in terms of negotiated gains. I've parked my fear at the door and learned to speak up, I've looked for slick ways to get what I want, but there's so much left to tackle.

And so... at the bottom of this long post, for anyone who is still reading, I'm announcing that unless my lips get sealed shut on July 1 or I develop the Negotiation Superpower overnight, I will keep on asking! And keep blogging about it!!

Thanks to all of you readers who have been following my adventures, sending me your ideas, questions and encouragement. You've brought this project to a whole different dimension!

Speaking of asking... I was playing around on cooltext.com, a logo generator, and came up with about 12 possible logos for this site. Just for fun, ya know? I made a file with them and today, I asked the man sitting next to me what he thought. Within about 10 seconds, he told me he liked the second one. Hands down. It's also one of my favorites. I have a few more ideas for year two. The logo is just frosting. Stay tuned!!

Gained: 266 days of asking, and counting.

Can I have one?

March 11. Day 254.

I can't believe just did this. Even I am shocked. But desperate times call for....

The day flew by and I asked for nothing. I spent a few hours in my new favorite haunt, a Starbucks with free parking and crappy wifi conveniently located next to a Trader Joes. A one stop shop.

But, nothing needed or wanted there, so I kept my mouth shut.

Around 7, Mr. A called from work, suggested we go out for dinner. Great! Besides seeing him -- which is the only reason I said yes, I swear -- I'd have the added opportunity to identify a need or want, and ask for something.

We went for Thai food, and then we decided to switch places for dessert. We ended up at IHOP. I still hadn't asked.

We ordered -- two fried cheesecakes with bananas, strawberries and caramel sauce -- and still, nothing.

At a certain point as we waited for our desserts, I don't know what motivated me to do this, but I turned around and glanced at the booth behind me. There was a woman, a woman with long black hair, waiting for her date to come back from the bathroom. This woman had just received a basket of mixed appetizers and a few entrees. Appetizing appetizers. And then, before it was too late, before whatever accursed boldness melted away like the butter on her pancakes... I asked.

"At the risk of sounding very rude or strange, could I please try an onion ring?"

She froze. I froze.

"I'm just curious how they are," I added, as if that could make the supreme discomfort shared by both of us somehow fritter away.

She daintily reached for the one sitting on top of the pile and handed it to me. Much easier than arguing with the crazy lady.

"Thank you," I replied, and smiled. She turned back to her food. Her hubby came back and they spoke in hushed tones in a foreign language.

Not the reaction I was hoping for. Maybe a laugh, a "Sure, they're totally addictive!" or "Only if you trade me for a bite of your dessert, hardy har!" Instead, I think she thought I was very odd indeed, or making fun of her.

Once again, tested the limits of propriety and social decorum. Sank where I never thought I'd sink before. Mortified myself, my dinner companion, and an innocent diner. But gained: a yummy onion ring!

The strange case of the secret eater

March 5. Day 248.

Another day of asking just to ask. Some days I shoot for the moon, and others, I reach for the filth between my toes and stop stretching because my lower back hurts...

I was sitting in Starbucks, writing. My neighbor was grading papers. I asked, "Are you grading papers?"

He replied yes. We talked about his papers. We talked about grading. And then we stopped talking.

Ok. Fine. It was lame. I didn't buy anything but some avocados and tomatoes at the supermarket. Oh, and I had lunch at the divine Burger Lounge and asked the waiter for ketchup. I didn't plan my career or embark on a funky new adventure.

I had a macchiato and made small talk. Some days, that's precisely what's needed.

Gained: Human interaction during a long stretch of work.

But wait? What's this? A second asking, creeping up out of the shadows?

Could it be?!

After dinner, Mr. A and I went for a walk. Our conversation rolled around to dessert. We were craving ice cream, but every restaurant around the neighborhood was closed.

"We have some strawberry ice cream in the freezer," he pointed out, relieved.

"We do?" I asked, nervously.

"Yeah, I found it in the back, stuffed into a plastic bag. So we're saved."

He was beaming. I was... not. He found my stash! My secret ice cream stash! The stuff I keep in the back of the freezer for emergencies, hidden in a nondescript bag so no one else will be tempted... because anything left in front of the freezer disappears about 12 hours after we buy it. Last time I bought a pint of Haagen Daaz strawberry, which Mr. A insists he doesn't like, I found the container empty -- still in the freezer. Taunting me. So the next pint of strawberry, I hid. For later. For seeecret eeeating.

Of course, I should have known he would find it... since besides being a talented technical type and an excellent dancer, he also has these foraging skills that are fine tuned for sweets and chocolates. When we travel, he finds exotic candies and pastries. At home, no chip is left unchomped.

So I explained why the ice cream "just happened" to be in a plastic bag shoved in the darkest corner of the freezer, behind the okra. And then I asked, "Could we stop by AM/PM and pick up something else? I'm kind of... saving that... for later."

Gained: A fresh pint of Ben and Jerry's Vanilla Caramel Fudge.

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.

Are you happy?

January 31. Day 215.

"Three frustrated women!!!""

These was La Divina's conclusion, to myself and a 24-year-old visitor from Germany who's in town for an internship, after we each lamented all day that we have no idea what to do with our lives. We're all at transitional points -- about to graduate or between jobs -- and we each have a selected path -- academia, biology and marketing -- which neither of us wants to pursue. Are we picky? Blessed with too many options? A trio of damn fools? Or just figuring things out, like anyone between 15 and 40 these days...

"Don't worry," I replied. "It's not like anyone else is happy. Everyone is frustrated. Who's actually happy out there?"

"Why don't you ask?!" she replied.

So I did.

***

The Security Guard

He was standing outside an art gallery in La Jolla, where we were strolling, working the Saturday night shift. He was also the first person I saw, ten seconds after we hatched this idea.

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"

"No."

"All righty."

"Just kidding. Sure."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Thank you."

The working woman

Just before we got to my car, a woman walked by.

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"

"I'm in a rush! On my way to work. What?" she called as she bounded past us.

"Are you happy!" I called after her.

"Yes!" she bellowed back, halfway down the block.

The caricaturist

We dropped off the visitor from Germany, and on the drive home Jem called propose drinks in Old Town. Since we got there first, La Divina and I strolled around the smorgasbord of souvenirs shops and came across a youngish artist.

He was sitting on a bench, hunched over, drawing, and he looked quite happy to me.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Would you like a portrait?" he asked, in return.

"No, thank you. I was actually just wondering, are you happy?"

"Depends on the day."

"I see. Thank you."

"Why?"

"I'm doing a poll."

"I see. Well, I don't know if this is good material for your poll, but I don't think anyone is just happy, or unhappy. I don't know if I can answer so directly."

I would have liked to talk more, but it looked like a small crowd was gathering -- potential customers -- so I thanked him and wished him a nice evening.

The contractor

We took a seat at the bar of the Old Town Mexican Cafe, which is known for its margaritas. Next to us was an older man who seemed eager to talk to chat.

First he asked La Divina where she's from and decided she couldn't possibly be from Italy. When she slipped out for a cigarette I took her seat, next to him. He smiled and opened his mouth to find out where I'm from.

"And you?"

"Me? I'm from here. San Diego. And I'm wondering something..." He waited for me to continue. "Would you say you're happy?"

"Happy. What do you mean by happy? Are you sure you want to know if I'm happy, and not content?"

"I'm pretty sure I want to know if you're happy, but if you want to talk about contentment, we can do that. Which do you think describes you better?"

"I need a little more guidance. I can't just answer that."

"On a scale where this is happy, and this is content, where do you fall? Or are you off that scale?"

"What about you?"

"I'd be happy if I got and answer."

"I am happy."

"That's great!"

"Why are you asking me this?"

"I'm a missionary."

"Really. Are you in town working for Fifth Street?" He sounded disgusted. 5th street??

"No! I'm from the Vati-- I'm totally kidding. I'm just doing an informal survey. No religious affiliation. Just pleasure."

We talked more about happiness versus contentment, and he suggested I phrase my question with some context. Are you happy about your life, about the present, about your job, whatever. You can't just ask "Are you happy," since that is a meaningless statement, he said. You need to be happy about something, for a reason. You're not just, simply, happy.

I asked him what he's doing in town, and he replied he's an engineer working a short term job. Visiting from Maryland.

"So is it fun to be here? Kind of like vacation?"

"No! It's really stressful! It's a lot of work, I have a lot of material to absorb in a very short time."

"So then you're not happy?"

"I'm totally stressed out."

The gossip girls

"Excuse me," I asked two dolled up middle aged women who were dishing the dirt about their ex-boyfriends in the bathroom. "Do you mind if I ask you a question? I'm doing a poll."

They waited for me to proceed.

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, I am."

"I'm happy," they both answered.

"Who would say they're not?" the first one mused.

"I've had a mix of answers. Some people do admit they're not," I explained.

"Really? Well. I would never say I'm not happy."

"Hmm, that's good to know. Thank you. You're right, people are probably not always honest with me."

"I would be honest," her friend interjected.

"You would?" the other replied.

"I absolutely would. Until recently, I used to be miserable. I was so so unhappy. And now I'm out of that stage, and I'm very happy."

(Something to do with the ex?)

The cashier

After nursing our margaritas, we headed to Saffron, a Thai place nearby, for some shrimp salad rolls.

"Are you happy?" I asked the cashier. "I'm doing an informal poll."

Her eyes shot up, to the right, pensively. She was about my age.

"I would say that I'm..." she paused, and thought some more... "I'm content, but not happy. I don't know, I mean, contentment describes more than your current state, so in that sense yes, but happiness, I mean, I'm..."

People were behind us, within earshot, and I suddenly felt intrusive. "So you're content, but not happy happy! Got it. Thanks."

"Sure," she smiled.

Over dinner, Jem offered her opinion: "Being happy is a decision you make. It's an attitude, it doesn't just happen."

She related a story about a work retreat she just had. Her department convened at the beach to deal with some sticky management issues. At the end of the day, when everyone was completely bored and disgusted with the whole process, the leader asked them to go around in a circle and talk about how they felt about the day.

People replied cautiously but honestly that they weren't too thrilled to be there. Then, one woman said, "I'm actually thinking about what's on the other side of the horizon [that would be China, fyi]... just how different things are over there, how much people work, for so little, and here we are on the beach, with jobs in this economy, complaining about how bad we have it."

No one said anything, but their eyes lit up with a flashes of recognition, gratitude, guilt.

It kind of reminded me of a proverb: Happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want.

The tango pro

Our evening continued at Tango Del Rey, my favorite tango venue in San Diego.

After a dance -- or was it before? -- I asked one of the pillars of the tango community what he thinks. Is he happy?

However, by that time, I'd had some wine and swirled around the dance floor a few times. I wasn't concentrating anymore... and I've forgotten what he said! I do remember we talked at some length about tango moves and pretzles and bagels... and I remember he was making some compelling arguments for (or against) happiness... but darn that cabernet and seductive music!

The high school chompers

We rounded out the evening with burgers and shakes at In-n-Out.

It was almost 1 a.m. -- exactly seven hours since this quest began.

We were about to head out the door, when I thought of asking someone in the restaurant for a finale. Everywhere, groups of teenagers were chomping and slurping in fancy clothes. School dance? Or just a Saturday night?

I approached a table with three girls and a guy. They caught my eye because the girls, who walked in 10 minutes earlier, rolled their eyes and mumbled about some people in front of them.

"Can I ask you guys a question?"

"Sure," the guy replied.

"Are you happy?" They stared at me for a second. "I'm doing a poll. Asking around, you know?"

That was enough to mobilize them.

"Yeah." "Yes." "Yeah!" "Yeah. When it's not finals," a girl said.

"Is it finals now?"

"No! When it's not finals, we don't have to study anything," she said, smiling now. "That's how we're here."

"And so you're happy?"

"Eating In-n-Out after midnight. Of course I'm happy," the guy said.

Gained: Seven hours thinking about happiness. No conclusions...

Do you have a favorite balcony?

January 23. Day 207.

Like anyone obsessed by her area of study, I tend to build my dissertation topic -- balconies -- into my everyday conversations. For example...

Friend: On the sixth night, we stayed at a gorgeous hotel that was overlooking the Taj Mahal, and our pillows were made of this gossamer thread that was actually woven from rose petals. The scent was unbelievable. We rode up on horseback, and there were trees on the grounds with raspberry truffles that actually grew back the moment you plucked one.

Moi: Did your room have a balcony?

Friend: No.

Moi: Laaaaaaaame.

OR

Friend: My dad is redoing his guesthouse and he added one of those things to his kitchen... what do you call them... they're round and let you reach your spices easier.

Moi: Like a balcony?

Friend: No... a lazy susan! yes!

Moi: I think the technical term for that is "balcony."

Likewise, I tend to ask (here we go... the asking cometh) high and low for suggestions, references, ideas. The conversation goes something like this:

[Choose your favorite setting. Party, waiting room, airplane.]

"Hi, I'm Ebenezer."

"Hi. I'm Roxy."

"Roxy? As in ROXANNE! You don't have to put on the red light. Have you heard that song?"

[Chirping laughter -- a kinder alternative to replying "Yes! I've head it 23,000 times!"]

"So Roxy, what do you do?"

"I'm a grad student."

"What do you study?"

"Comparative literature."

"Interesting! What area?"

"Balconies. Mostly nineteenth century French and Spanish, with a few earlier Italian examples. Do you have a favorite balcony?"

"Romeo and Juliet."

"Interesting."

After enough such conversations, and enough surveys about balconies from strangers and friends alike, today a dear childhood friend I've recently reconnected with sent me an email with an amazing find.

Subject: Thinking of you

Hey, I saw this at the Getty the other day and I thought of you!

WOW! That's the earliest balcony I've encountered, in literature or painting. I've heard babylon had balconies and read about ancient Rome's, but a Roman fresco dating from 9-14 AD??? Located in Los Angeles, so I can inspect it myself?? AMAZING.

Thank you, S!!!!!!!

Gained: Very precious research material.

By the by, gentle reader, do you know of any cool balconies in literature or art? Or do you have a favorite balcony in art, or life?

can you/would you/wouldn't you/couldn't you/please do/please don't/ARGH!!!!/AHHH...

January 10. Day 194.

I would love to do a proper narrative of Saturday's events, because it was quite a day.

But I'm on vacation. In Hawaii... Outside, I hear rustling waterfalls and birds chirping. My arms and shoulders are exactly at that delicate border between sunkissed and sunburned. I am happy.

I should not be holding a computer in my lap and typing. I should be out frolicking, imbibing mai tais or cliff diving into crystal clear waters. Or both.

So how about I keep fast forwarding through the past days, rather than doing the normal write ups, since I reeeeally want to get to here and now.

Mr. A and I have moved in, as you know, together. After doing about a fifth of the move on Friday, Saturday was all about disassembling, moving and reassembling furniture, retrieving all my stuff from my mom's house, and packing the final loose ends (i.e. more than half of our possessions were still left over). Meaning enough work to fill a week.

And I was leaving the next morning at 5:30.

This rushed situation, and the fact that our small aesthetic differences instantly became a practical rather than theoretical subject, led to not one, but maaaany requests, implorations and exhortations, on both sides, all day long. INPO (in no particular order):

Can you make room for my chair?

Can you make room for my rugs?

Can we throw away this lamp?

No, how about we keep the lamp?

Do you really need this?

Well, do you really need that?

Can you help me clean up the kitchen?

Would you stop worrying about the kitchen?

Would you start doing this/that?

Can't you see I'm doing something else?

Can you come here and do that/this?

Would you stop telling me what to do?

Would you tell me why you're pissed off?

Would you just piss off?

At midnight, we climbed into the truck for the final transport, and the silence hung heavily upon our brows.

At 1 a.m., we were putting things away in the new house and shooting meek smiles at one another.

At 2 a.m., Mr. A went out to get a snack and I started packing again -- for Hawaii. I could only find bikini halves, no t-shirts, no flip flops, no sunscreen, so I just grabbed what I could and shoved it into my weekend bag.

At 3 a.m., I crashed on the mattress and fell asleep a second later. At some point after that, before we woke up at 4:45 to go to the airport, I remember him curling up next to me, and I remember smiling.

Gained: Moving day -- Finito!!! We talked, we asked, we argued, we pleaded and we negotiated. I didn't always get my way, he didn't always get his, but we both have something way better: each other!

Fear of asking... and free fajitas!

December 28. Day 181.

Leah Day discussed fear of asking in a comment Friday:

I plan to start asking questions immediately, starting with this one:

Do you ever deal with feelings of fear when asking questions? Has
anyone ever attacked you for asking for something?

Those two questions are a great place to start thinking about asking. First of all, no one has ever attacked me, rebuked me or given me anything more than attitude. And attitude is what I get just as frequently if I don't ask. In fact, I truly didn't expect people to be so open, friendly, generous, engaged, or up for anything. Especially when it comes to welcoming me into their world or showing me something new. If I was cynical, I might think they're flattered by my interest. But I rather believe they are ready and willing to share.

In financial, commercial or other transactional contexts, where I get turned down a fair amount, I suspect people simply don't need to be cruel or mean to refuse. They've mastered a different art: saying no. They've gotten so good at it that they know to blame "the manager," "the owner," "how things are" -- while keeping that permasmile on their lips. They've discovered the power of these five words: Sorry, I can't do that. (The only exception are two library guards at my graduate school, who are sadistic in their denials. See here and here. They're on par with Eastern European customs officials, and I've dealt with my share of those!)

My own fears and inhibitions are another thing. Of course I've been nervous. Asking for the raise was probably scariest, because a) I'd never done it before, and b) I felt I had something to lose. My career, unlike a discount on a skirt, matters. What if he viewed me as inconsiderate or ungrateful? But what if I sounded too sheepish or childish, and he lost some respect for me? I wrote out a script and imagined all sorts of possible responses, just to build up the courage to make the call. And my pulse was racing as I formed the words aloud.

Another occasional concern is how people I know will judge me. What if your friend thinks you're greedy or pushy or weird for asking her, or someone else? Strangers I could care less, as long as I know I've been courteous and fair; but with friends and family, I don't want to be repetitively pushy, or drag them along or waste their time as I try to negotiate, if they're not interested.

But perhaps I'm not frightened enough. Perhaps I should be taking more risks -- bargaining harder, or pushing more boundaries. Perhaps if I want a real challenge, I'll open it up to readers with poll: What should Roxy ask for? And go with the most popular, or most controversial, asking. Hmmm...

Today is actually a good example of getting over fear of judgement.

I went to Taco Palenque, the best Mexican restaurant on the planet. I'll probably lose my San Diego residency for saying this, but McAllen wins.

I noticed a young man wearing a kitchen apron standing in the dining area, so I sprang out of my seat and asked him if he could share any fajita making tips. (Ok, it wasn't that abrupt. First I told him I love this place, come here sometimes straight from the airport, nothing like it anywhere else.) He said he'll bring the manager. Immedately, I could sense my stepmother was squirming. It was her hometown, a restaurant she frequents, and perhaps she felt I was taking up people's time for a silly or self-indulgent purpose, or coming in and calling attention to our table.

The manager explained that the spices come from their supplier premixed, but that if I want good fajitas at home, all I really need is salt and lemon. No marinade, no preboiling, no fancy tricks. Just sprinkle and grill over low heat. He invited me to the kitchen and showed me how it's done (minus secret ingredients, unfortunately).

I thanked him, and when I sat down again, he returned to our table with a $10 certificate.

Gained: A free fajita plate. Muchissimas gracias, Felipe!

Voyeurism and consumerism in McAllen, Texas

December 27. Day 180.

In McAllen, Texas, a city of about 100,000 with no downtown and no uptown, where strip malls have swallowed fields of watermelons and the center looks a darn lot like the suburbs, La Plaza Mall is the alpha and omega of fun on a Saturday afternoon. Friends plan days ahead to meet up in the food court, and they dress up, way up, guys in their baggiest jeans or crispest polo shirts and girls peeping manicured toes through high heeled sandals -- just in case they run into boss, grandfather or secret crush in those air-conditioned hallways.

On the Saturday after Christmas, recession or not, it was hands down the center of the city. My father miraculously found parking 10 seconds after entering the lot (he's blessed that way), and we headed inside.

Just a few days ago, I was flirting with the idea of diamond earrings. But I've quickly sobered up. I did find my way to a jewelry case, though, and spotted a gorgeous smokey topaz ring.

"Now this is interesting," Tata concurred. "It's striking."

The ring was originally $450, reduced to $132. A great price. I had the Christmas cash on me. But now, NOW was the chance to apply all those lessons I'd learned in previous retail attempts: identify a flaw, complain, talk to the manager if denied, wait at the checkout stand rather than in the aisles, turn the discount into a trivial obstacle in making that sale. (See the comments on this post for advice from two enlightened readers.)

I asked for a specific discount -- 10% off -- which was denied. I asked for the manager, but she had left for the day. So I'll head back Monday and try again. It's not the money, at this point. The piece is beautiful and the price is right. But it's the chance to do everything in my power to obtain the elusive retail discount, and see what happens. It's an experiment.

Gained I: Nothing, yet.

I may diss this city for being provincial, but in truth it's an economic powerhouse. It's grown like a mushroom, and keeps on going.

On the way home from the mall, we drove through some neighborhoods with interesting houses and we gossiped -- architecturally. (The two sketches I've posted are his.)

"Look at the windows on that one," my dad scoffed. "They make no sense. Why would someone put them so close to the roof? I mean, those proportions are way off."

"I've always wondered who the architect is. That wrought iron work is gorgeous."

"Who would put a wall there? It needs a window, a balcony, a rosette, some kind of opening. It's oppressive. The window frames are nice, though. Works with the English cottage look."

I was listening, learning, commenting and (yes) asking.

We made a final detour, to his favorite, a hacienda-style rambler on Jackson Street.

"Man, I love this one," he said, eyeing it from across the street. "What an interesting mix of Mexican and Precolumbian -- "

And then, something strange happened. A figure in the giant creche on the lawn moved -- it was a person, putting away the statues. The owner?

"Tata, I have an idea. Do you want to take a risk? Ask them to show us the inside? It's for my blog... and you're an architect, it makes perfect sense. We won't seem creepy, I promise."

We pulled into their driveway and the woman walked up to our car and greeted us. "Hi..."

"Hi!" I started, and made my pitch.

She told us a little about its history and welcomed us back for a tour on Tuesday afternoon.

Gained II: An appointment to scope out my dad's favorite house in town. I'll take pictures!

The Daily Asker on NPR!

December 26. Day 179.

I just found out I'm on the radio today!

What: NPR's "Here & Now"
When: Local times vary.
Where: Click for a link to the segment.

If you're new to the site, welcome! You can read about how this project started or learn about the book that inspired it. So far, I've shopped with chefs in Seattle, requested a seatmate in New York to stop yammering, gotten my first raise, and saved wads of cash in discounts and upgrades. I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to drop me a line at thedailyasker at gmail or to subscribe, using the button to your right.

It was my first radio or media interview ever. I taped it a few weeks ago, and I was convinced when I hung up that I talked too fast. Thank God for sound editing technology, or the three valiums I popped beforehand (just kidding -- really. No, really.).

I listen to "Here & Now" whenever I'm in Boston, so how cool to talk to them about this project. Thanks for having me on the show!!

UPDATE:

Most of the things I ask for are either impromptu or a natural development from that day's activities. But since starting this project, there are a few requests I've been planning -- either because my life is leaning that way (higher starting salary, new car discount), or because it's something I've long wanted to do (drive a stranger's cool car or see the inside of someone's beautiful home) or because it's a taboo/inhibition/hang up I want to get over (like trying on a stranger's shoe -- not exactly polite dinner party conversation, but what's the big deal, I discovered).

That last category included asking a physician for medical advice at a party. You know, sidling up to that neurologist and complaining about your latest headache, or telling the shrink standing by the stereo equipment about that recurring nightmare you have about that blog post where you can't find the space bar. Curses!!

I'd never want to be that kind of guest. And yet, I do. imagine having the balls to just go up to a specialist and get a free 5 minute consultation? Just to do it, once? Live a little?

Well, I got my chance tonight, since we had dinner at the home of a pair of doctors -- he's a cardiologist, she does internal medicine -- and their other guest was a doctor from Venezuela.

The conversation jumped around from diabetes to Obama, so it didn't feel at all weird when I spoke up about my deep, dark health affliction.

"How many colds do you think is normal for a person to get in a year?" I inquired.

"Here, or where? Depends on where you live," the Venezuelan replied. "Here, people are sick all the time. A lot of times, it's actually allegies -- mold, humidity -- "

"I don't live here.. So for a cold, for an average healthy person living anywhere, is... eight times a year too many?"

"Yes, I would say so. That's a lot."

"Five times a year? Three?"

"Maybe three is more normal."

"Because I keep getting colds," I pressed. "And they're not allergies. It's a recent thing -- the past year or two..."

"Then your immune system must be down. Get your sinuses checked out. It could be something chronic, that makes you more susceptible to getting sick."

Gained: $100 -- value of a clinic consultation. Or $10 -- value of my copay. Or an insight into my health. Or a realization that there are worse things than being the pushy party patient. It's a tossup.

Asking in the airport

December 23. Day 176.

"Look at all those people," my Mama pointed out as I was checking in at the curb. I was getting about to leave to Texas, to spend Christmas with my dad and stepmom. A line of travelers with suitcases was stretching all the way from the terminal to the parking lot, over the skybridge (pictured, line-free).

And then it struck us: Those people weren't waiting to check in upstairs. That was the security line.

For all the disadvantages of living "in America's biggest small town" (to quote a reader who commented here a few months ago) one of the big plusses is the airport. No. Lines. Ever. I've traveled in and out of San Diego at least a dozen times in some years, so I can say I've seen this airport from midnight to midnight in all seasons -- and there has never been a security line like that.

I asked the baggage handler if I should try to cut to the front: "My flight is leaving in 30 minutes!"

"You should be fine. It's moving fast," he answered.

No fast enough. From the looks of it, it would take at least 30 or 40 minutes.

So I did what anyone would do, asker or otherwise: When I got upstairs, I went to the First Class/priority lane. "My flight is at 11:30--" I began, and showed my boarding pass.

"G0!" she replied.

Gained I: Caught my flight.

The flight left late -- and landed late. I had a tight connection, with the next plane boarding in 10 minutes, two terminals away. And I was sitting in the last row.

I'd learned my lessons years ago, after so many mishaps and misadventures: Don't ever expect to make a tight connection if you're sitting in the back of the plane. Don't expect people in planes to move fast or get out of the way because others are in a rush. Don't expect the man with the connection clipboard to send you to the right gate or even right terminal. Don't expect the gate printed on your boarding pass to be accurate. Don't expect anything from anyone when flying.

So as the plane was taxing, I asked my neighbor to let me out so I could sprint ahead. When the plane reached the gate and people started getting out of their seats, I waited about a minute to see if the line would move, saw everyone standing still, and did what would have once been unthinkable: squeezed through the full aisle, saying: "Can I please get through? I only have 10 minutes to my next flight. I'm sorry. Happy holidays!"

People made room, some wished me luck, and I caught a go cart to terminal E -- and made the flight.

Gained II: happy holidays. Thanks, Continental passengers!

Are you lost, or am I?

December 11. Day 164.

A few feet from my car, on an empty street corner near downtown just after nightfall, I noticed a man. He was standing by himself and rocking from side to side. As I walked down the block, he didn't advance at all. Just stood there, rocking gently. As I got closer, I thought he seemed old and fragile.

Was he okay? Lost? Waiting? Just chilling?

A small laminated plastic card, hanging by a string around his neck, reflected the light of a street lamp. Was it an ID? The address of his nearest relative? Or perhaps a fashion accessory or his favorite baseball card?

Maybe he noticed I was watching him, because as I got closer he suddenly started walking. I sat in my car, following him in my rear view mirror. It was a slow stroll, relaxed, like anyone's grandpa would take after dinner. Then, he ran across the street (though no cars were approaching), and continued walking slowly.

Something seemed off, but I wasn't sure if he was disoriented or just a little eccentric. Didn't want to automatically assume he has Alzheimer's, but didn't want to let him get more lost, if he did. I started following him in my car for a few blocks, parking once in a while so it wasn't too obvious, and then catching up. Then, an idea occurred to me: Pretend I'm lost.

"Excuse me," I called, from my car. "Do you know where 5th Avenue is?"

"Fifth? That's over by the park."

Good sign, but not good enough.

"So am I headed the right way? I'm so bad with directions."

"No, you need to turn around. First You'll hit Fifth, and then Sixth, which borders the park."

"Oh! Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

Gained: Directions.