Strange

Every day has its oddities, but some days seem to have more than others.

Today on my lunch break, I strolled into Hyde Park to shop at a few of the ethnic boutiques in hopes of finding a small gift for a friend's birthday. I had heard about this place, What The Traveler Saw, and while the reviews I'd been given gave it 5 stars, I was more impressed with the cleverness of the shop's name than with the items inside the shop. The goods were scant, half were lubricant gels and kama sutra books and the other half were elegant, yet highly overpriced jewelry. (Although, on second thought, this store may be a perfect find for men. Purchasing the later may get you the former.) Needless to say, I left disappointed.

Heading to my car, I spotted an African shop. I possibly should have thought twice when I got to the door and read the sign. "Knock first". I knocked...waited...and then, tried the door. Locked. Seconds later a short, rather stuppy African women leisurely makes her way to the door. Unlocks it with a "Good afternoon". Lets me in and locks it behind me. Hmmm...The store is filled floor to ceiling with assorted, un-priced goods from places across Africa, Jamaica, African-Americana. A few moments after my arrival, this shopkeeper, dressed from head to toe in traditional African garb, begins lighting incense across the store...at every level. Some places at my feet, others at shoulder level, just above the cash register (you would have thought the register was on fire had you not known better). And when the lighting of the incense sticks was complete she turns on, to full volume, one of the afamed civil rights speech of Dr. King. About every 30 seconds, she mutters in affirmation, "Yes!"

The shop items ranged in their condition. Some were still in there plastic package, same as they came from across the ocean. While still others, with scratches or missing pieces, looked like they had been rescued from the garbage or bought with pocket change at a garage sale. When I inquired about pricing, I always recieved an interesting answer, "Ah, yes, normally $20, but for you, today, I give it for $16." Or for the knock-off Coach purse, "Ah, yes, $65, but for you today, I give it for $55. You know, I paid $165 for it." She, then, looks to me for assurance that she is telling the truth. Of course, I don't buy it (literally or figuratively), but at her insistent glare tell her I believe her.

In the end, at the counter, ready to purchase my few goods, I notice two things simultaneously. One is a big, black circular pin on her chest which reads, "We need a miracle today, Jesus!" written in white lettering. And the second, is the unlikelihood of a credit machine, along with signs stating she does not take checks. I ask, "You only accept cash?" She replies, "Ah yes, my credit machine is to arrive tomorrow." The cynic in me wonders how many days "tomorrow" has been the answer. But, rather, agree to come back later with cash.

She ushers me out of the door with a "Good Day"and locks the door behind me.

Early this evening, I walked about a mile to one of the great coffee shops in Bronzeville, aptly named the Bronzeville Coffee Shop. I walked there because I'd been told by the shop owner this winter that they have a great deck in the back, which they'd open when the weather got nice. I packed my bags with books and headed out.

Sure enough, they had a back deck. It was a far cry from shabby. The deck was freshly built, you could almost smell the new wood. A fountain trickled off to the left. New furniture and umbrellas covered the remaining space. I snuggled in for a couple hours with my books, espresso shake, and cell phone (for good keeping). Admittedly, I listened in to the various business dealings taking shape around me. (My family has always questioned whether or not I've missed my true calling as a detective, for I can eavesdrop with the best of them.)

The stange part, however, came as I was leaving the shop. I walked in the main shop area. Dropped the chair pillow on the couch I'd found it on. Just then, a large, clean-shaven black man (okay, I was the only white person in the place [and a woman at that!], but don't stare too much!) grabs my hand and says, "Yes, I will wash your feet. Please let me." Thinking I'd missed the joke, I asked "Excuse me? I'm confused." I looked to barista, but he was only smiling and looking on. "Yes, I will wash your feet. Let me. And tell you that you are single." I did that girly, embarrassed laugh. And he looks at his barista friend as says, "She doesn't think it's funny. She probably does have a boyfriend. I should go now." He walks away. The barista rolls his eyes and clearly is trying to think of a comment to explain or patch up his friend's action, but instead fumbles and watches me leaves too.

Strange.

I then get a phone call from a friend asking me to come out dancing tonight because another friend of ours has a horoscope reading stating that she is going to meet "the one" tonight on the dance floor. I suggest drinks or a lower-key night at a comedy club. But, he insists that the horoscope said the meeting would happen on the dance floor and that we must be there to watch it all unfold.

The dance floor it is, then.