Finalizations and Celebrations

Ecclesiastes 3
" 1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace."


Well, yall, 'tis the end of my Atlanta adventure. I have had two solid months' worth of learning and leadership, service and sightseeing. The bittersweet end of both of my internships was compounded by the fact that it was my birthday this past Friday. An unfortunate epiphany presented itself: the older I become, the more goodbyes I have to say. What a bummer. However, the Lord has taught me a great deal about myself and the limits/freedoms of independence; the importance of exploration and "forging ahead"* (see note at bottom); and numerous other omnibus lessons.

In fine, I thank all of you who read this (even if no one did, I sure had a fine time figuring out a pinch of CSS to format this baby as well as composing each blurb!) and wish you the best. I am home now and excited to find new adventures. :) Take care and God bless!


One final noteworthy lesson from this Idiot's Guide:

Take the rented DVDs out of your DVD player before trying to return them.

I rented two films highly recommended to me which I hadn't seen before, Sleepless in Seattle and Out of Africa. Packing all my stuff up to head home and checking out of my apartment, I intended to swing by Blockbuster on the way back. When I got to the store, I suddenly thought it might be a good idea to check and see if the DVDs were actually in the cases--sure enough, Out of Africa was out. Ah-ha! I thought. Left it in the DVD player. Which, as Murphy's Law would have it, was at the bottom of the biggest box on the floorboards of my car.

When I unearthed the player and triumphantly pressed the Open/Eject button, nothing happened. My DVD player happens to require electricity to work, you understand. A very nice boy who happened to be on break from his job was watching my progress from the car over, and he suggested I just find an outlet. Honestly.

So I marched into Blockbuster, DVD-player under my arm, and explained the situation. The woman at the counter was absolutely impassive, as though these sort of kooks come in all the time. I plugged it in, the DVD shot right out, and all's well that end's well, eh? :)



*My family has a few time-honored rules for travel that I think yall may enjoy:

1. Forge ahead! (if you want to go see it, better do it now. you may not pass this way again, or it could be raining later.)

2. If there is an available restroom, go ahead and use it. (my family typically travels with a lot of kids.)

3. If it's free and not harmful, take it. (consequently i have a lot of maps in my car.)

12. If someone/something looks weird, just say "Rule 12 at 4 o'clock!" Everyone will surreptitiously stare at the spectacle, and the parents are spared the embarrassment of a child saying "Look at that crazy with the pink mohawk and tattooed cheeks!" (and yes, it's rule 12--my family is obviously not bound by the niceties of standard numerical order.)

There are more...but I'll have to just publish a book on 'em. It's in-progress now, a detailed, true-to-life-but-sprinkled-with-exaggeration annals of a marvelous family with many memorable characters.

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Upcoming Publicity on CNN!

This morning I came in, proudly printed my latest project (46-pages of recipes for the Saturday/Sunday brunch, typed and edited in 1 day, booyah!) and went downstairs to deliver thank-you notes and sweets to the Cafe 458 staff. When I went into hallway, there stood 8 or so volunteers in aprons, lounging against the wall. They told me that because they were minors, they couldn't be filmed.

Filmed? I asked.

Yeah, they nodded glumly. You have to be over 18 and have signed a press release to be on CNN.

My jaw dropped--oh YEAH, someone did mention that a camera crew would be in the kitchen today. Why didn't someone notify me that it was a CNN crew?!

So I went back upstairs and didn't think more about it. NOT.

It suddenly looked as though the kitchen needed help (which they really did), as the majority of the volunteers were under 18 and barred from serving presently. I donned an apron and immediately went to taking orders--the regulars were glad to see that I was back, as I usually just help out on days when volunteers are short, my primary tasks requiring me to be upstairs in the administration offices.

When the crew exited to the next room for an interview with my boss, head chef Sara, the younger volunteers rushed back in and reclaimed my apron and restaurant pad.

The interview was great--I was in charge of noise control (really tough with 80-odd people in-and-out and 4 doors) and Sara continually smiled over at me for reassurance. She was worried afterwards that she rambled, but I thought the information she gave was meaningful and central to the mission of Samaritan House of Atlanta.

I was chatting with the anchorwoman and thought to ask when this interview would be shown. She told me that CNN would air this as a segment for Anderson Cooper's 360 show.

Awesome.

Anyhow, the camera crews will be back tomorrow, and even though today was technically my last day, you can be sure I'll be in before the rest of the volunteers helping Sara out. :) Oh, another early Saturday!

Take care and God bless, yall!

P.S. So I enjoyed being a year older for the first time today--I am hard-pressed to think of a better, more exciting present than witnessing a CNN crew for Anderson Cooper do a great segment on Cafe 458!

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The Hidden ATL

My brother and I decided to use up a little down-time by taking a walk. We found this beautiful lake, a forest rife with trails and even a secret society hangout!!

Wandering around the lake (which I NEVER would have expected when he and I saw the adjoining highway!) there were Canadian geese, little turtles and even some birds of prey.

We ventured across a classic log-bridge to find a tall stone tower with broken windows and empty doorjambs. Inside were written some very suspicious Latin phrases (I only remember "mordus"--is that death?) as well as the statements "Secrecy," "Loyalty," and other characteristic secret society jargon. So cool--my brother and I felt like quite the spies.

You must admit my brother just proves his awesomeness to go on a nice mosey in the woods with his sister rather than vegging in front of the TV or snoozing. We had a great time and due to the horrific heat (I think it was hovering around 99 degrees F) virtually had the lake to ourselves. There's not enough I can say about the wonderful outdoors and my sibling--yay!

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An elegant, fancy, somewhat expensive...SPORTS restaurant?

Psalm 149:1
"Praise the Lord! Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise in the assembly of the faithful."

After picking up my incredibly cool (though at the time, sunburnt, sleepy and grumpy) brother from a tennis camp, I took him and his roommate to the ESPNZone restaurant. This entire edifice was covered with sports paraphernalia, from columns decorated with basketballs, volleyballs, soccer balls and footballs to an inside, wainscotted room covered with notable jerseys.

The boys loved it, as you might imagine.

In the dining area, there were 16 television programs (yes, all covering sports) and one gigantic screen. We even had a mini-television at our table! It reminded me of the CNN tour (see earlier post) when the tour guide explained to us that the directors watch multiple screens and select which one to cut to or fade in. We did the same with our small screen, first watching horse polo, then poker, then some SC Gamecocks football press conference.

Upstairs the boys blew some cash (insert disapproving sisterly look here) on arcade games, everything from bowling to water-skiing (nothing like the real thing, friends) to ping-pong.










We also discovered that the restroom stalls each feature a television--I guess no one wants to miss any part of the games. Bit disconcerting though.

It was certainly interesting, and a fun part of Atlanta--but maybe more fun if there was a particular game to watch. Oh, and the food? Very, very good--typical sports fare (burgers of all varieties) as well as consolation food for whatever poor girls were taken here on dates (salads and sweet desserts).

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Pictures from a Quirky City

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2nd Robertson Essay--an encounter on the street

Proverbs 19:2
"Desire without knowledge is not good; one who moves too hurriedly misses the way."

Proverbs 19:17
"Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and will be repaid in full."

After working all day at the Café, putting in an extra-long Friday in order to prepare for fancy brunch for the paying customers the next day, I headed to neighboring Java-ology for any sort of chocolate-y caffeine I could afford.

Crossing the parking lot, I saw a nondescript street man watching my approach. I subtly changed course so as to avoid confrontation, veering to the right and seeking the glass doors of the coffee shop. A week ago a wiry man in a handsomely-tailored suit had introduced himself to me as a reverend, delivered a meaningful homily, and weasled me out of twenty bucks. Yesterday two men were wandering the parking lot and asked me for cash, but I directed them to Samaritan House, which would aid them much more than my spare change.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” followed from my left. I walked a few steps and immediately felt rotten.

“Yes?” I asked, stopping and turning to face him.

The man was African-American, my height and clad in a navy cap, shirt and baggy jeans—I didn’t notice much more because his eyes were the most unusual blue I have ever seen. Not contacts, because I would recognize that unnatural blue—not the milky-pale of blindness, either—just clear and unquestionably blue in a dark, worry-lined face.

He stayed about seven feet away, mumbling and trying to raise his voice above the traffic rushing by us.

“Can you—help? I need to eat.” He put his hand gingerly over his stomach, putting his hand on his shirt, allowing me to see there were noticeable inches of free air between his shirt and stomach.

“You should try the Samaritan House,” I offered knowledgeably, nodding with encouragement. “They’ll help you out there, it’s just over—”

“I tried there,” he said. “They don’t have anything.”

“Yes they do,” I argued. “They’ll help you there.”

“No, they don’t have anything,” he repeated. “Can you help me?”

I fumbled around for some pat verbal negative. “Well…I don’t carry cash,” I rushed, hoping to end the conversation easily.

“Please help me!” he suddenly yelled in broken desperation. He knelt down on one knee and covered his face with his hands, not looking at me. Every façade of mature aloofness I had tried to build up abruptly vanished.

“Oh—please—please don’t do that—”

It felt like everything in me was being squeezed, like the feeling of utter worthlessness was pressing on me from everywhere.

He stayed kneeling, top of his cap toward me and the cars whooshing by.

What the hell have I ever done to have, to be privileged, and for him to have not? Who am I that this man has just completely given up his dignity in public to compel me to give just a few dollars?

Squat, zip, zilch, nada and nothing, that’s what.

It hit me, in that overwhelming feeling of inferiority and cruelty, that it didn’t matter to this man I had volunteered all day from 8 am until 5:30 pm and would come in all-day tomorrow on a Saturday free for everyone else. It didn’t matter to this man that I had fed approximately 64 people delicious, nutritious food so they could find jobs and overcome their addictions. It didn’t matter that I was a college student, saving my money and hoping to get the skills and education to help more than one person a day. All that mattered to this man was a little food, from somewhere.

“Stay right there—I’ll be right back,” I said to him painfully, turning on my heel and walking straight into the locked doors of Java-ology. I walked around the corner to unlocked doors, went inside and stared at the menu, unseeingly. I ordered a drink, mocha-something or other to get some cash back, and a hefty bottle of water.

When I exited the doors, he was waiting, leaning against the brick wall and watching the ground. I handed him the bottle of water and a five-dollar bill.

“This is the last time I can help you like this,” I said, trying to sound stern and admonishing. “What you need to do is go to the Samaritan House. I promise you, they will help you get food, clothes, even a job—that’s their purpose.”

He nodded, holding the water and watching me.

“I’ll—I’ll be praying for you,” I said to him.

His cheeks lifted in a slow smile. “My name is Elijah, ma’am.”

“Good to meet you,” I responded automatically.

“Elijah Upshaw,” he continued. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Suzy,” I replied, feeling like the lowliest person alive. Samaritan House upholds polite courtesy from volunteers as essential for homeless people to regain dignity and take charge of their lives, and here this man was on the ball, introducing himself and asking my name before I could say a word.

He held out his hand.

The previous homeless shelter in Chapel Hill at which I work admonishes volunteers to never shake hands with the homeless if you can help it. My mentor’s words were written on the hand held toward me: If they are homeless, you can have no idea where they have been, what they have used those hands for. If you do have to shake hands, wash yours immediately!

His hand was dark black with crooked fingers, a slightly deformed and lumpy set of knuckles, the sort of hand they would show slowly emerging from behind a door in a horror flick.

I grasped his hand firmly and looked him straight in the face. “Take care of yourself, sir,” I said, not using a casual “Elijah,” and trying to give him the dignity he deserved just as much as anyone.

Back in my car, I clicked in my seatbelt, looked down at the forgotten mocha-something in my hand and all the sudden shut my eyes against hot tears.

How can I help these kindly folks in the Samaritan House program who are working their way through personal accountability plans and then walk out into the parking lot and nearly refuse a starving man? How is it possible to help dozens of folks like this every day, clients who are working on that sense of dignity by allowing me to serve them in the café and request dishes, men and women who are eager to tell me of their success with holding down a job, people who compliment me by letting me know they want to see me again, and then restrain myself from helping someone who really needs it right then and there?

I am reminded of walking with fellow ’09er Toni and her GA Tech friend Stephanie along some gorgeous park a few weeks ago. I stooped down to pick up a bit of Styrofoam along the trail, only to see a scrap of a drink, then a shard of glass, then a crushed cigarette. I can’t clean the entire park, should I just stop after one piece of trash and consider my good civic duty complete?

I can’t help all the homeless of Atlanta. They outnumber my entire hometown, I’m sure. But I can keep using my skills in the café, and I can help people on the streets who ask me. Yes, they might take the few bucks and trade it in for substances they ought not to, but who can say I didn’t give them the chance, try to direct them to better help and say honestly and clearly, “Go with God”?

I hope to see Mr. Upshaw in the Samaritan House, eating meals with the rest of the café-goers. It is fulfilling and wonderful to help out large numbers of people getting on their feet in the café, but I can’t pass up the smaller, individual and unexpected opportunities along the way.

And you know what? I’m glad I can help.


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MegaFest!

Matthew 18:20
"For where two or three are gathered together in My Name, there am I in the midst of them."

Three thousand people linking arms, singing, some crying. I have rarely seen something so moving as the gigantic Georgia Dome filled with thousands of strangers calling one another "brother" and "sister," praying for the unknown struggles in each other's lives and admitting their failings.

Welcome to MegaFest 2006, an annual symposium of Christians from all over in Atlanta.

I attended the opening general worship session with two coworkers, Ms. Helen and Ms. Francis. They invited me, feeling it was important that I experience one of the most widely-anticipated events in Atlanta. And by "widely-anticipated," I'm not limiting this to Christians, no--apparently the MegaFest week boosts Atlanta's economy considerably as people travel from all around to hear renowned pastors preach and successful musicians praise their God.

It was an absolute, unutterably wonderful time! After numerous introductions, an effective call to donate funds, and a heartfelt welcome by his wife, Bishop TD Jakes took the stage to speak with great fervor and fearful honesty. His topic was the Biblical story of the boy possessed by a spirit that threw him into fire and water to destroy him. Reverend Jakes' point was that when Jesus was met with this situation, after His disciples had already vainly attempted to rid the boy of the spirit, Jesus addressed the father of the boy rather than the spirit or boy. I had never really considered that before; typically it seems that the disciples and Jesus speak directly to the spirit, but in this instance Jesus discusses the matter with the father. Jakes took this to say that the Lord was using the boy's possession to teach the father true faith in deeds, rather than just verbally--the father recognized this when he cried, "Lord, I believe--forgive mine unbelief!"--sort of a conflicted outburst, no? Anyhow, I found it fascinating and applicable.

We were also privileged to have Vicki Yohe and BeBe Wynans lead us in some very moving, deep-throated and frequently melismatic worship. But again...the most powerful part for me was when everyone clasped hands and said to one another--"I'm praying for you--God will do something great for you this week." At first, to be honest, I felt a little awkward about this whole situation. I come from a very traditional church background, am naught but a little white girl, and I'm not even from Atlanta--however, in that sea of 3000 primarily African-American men and women all linking hands--I felt very comfortable calling these folks my brothers and sisters in Christ. There's nothing like that feeling, friends.

The MegaFest events will continue through Saturday with performances, sermons, prayer sessions, etc. Lots of the events are free, but I think there are dinners requiring some moulah.

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Race and Legacy: Conversation between Jimmy Carter's Grandson and Nelson Mandela's Granddaughter

This past Monday one of the ladies at the Southeastern Council of Foundations (and consequently one of my mentors--I have roughly 7 bosses! ) invited me to an event hosted by the National Black Arts Festival held here in Atlanta. She informed me that Jimmy Carter's grandson, Jason Carter, and Nelson Mandela's granddaughter, Princess Zaziwe Dlamini Manaway, would be discussing living in the shadow of their renowned grandparents and confronting issues of race in South Africa.

The theme for this year's National Black Arts Festival involves drawing comparisons between the American South and South Africa in artwork, performance, history, race relations, literature, and various other aspects of life and culture. (Read more by clicking here, if you'd like)

Anyhow, Ms. Francis and I trekked a short way to GA State's Student Center to learn from these notable personalities' grandkids. I must say I had my doubts as to how informative the session would be, as these were clearly not Nelson Mandela and Jimmy Carter themselves, but mere descendents.

I am now properly ashamed of my judgementality.

Unfortunately Princess Manaway was unable to join us (she was home celebrating her grandfather's 80th birthday, I believe, but she is currently a Coca-Cola Scholar and goes to school here in Georgia!). A vivacious woman with blonde hair, a fire-engine red suit and matching lipstick spoke for a few moments on her behalf--she was by far one of the best public relations officials I have ever seen in action. She talked a mile-a-minute but clearly and with a smile, had everyone laughing along softly and quietly expressing sympathy at the appropriate times, taught us a few words in Zulu informatively yet humbly ("ubuntu" was the only one that caught my attention--friends of mine use that computer server whose name means togetherness/community), and basically made us feel like we'd met the Princess and fulfilled every life goal. Incredible.

After her performance, the "conversation" session transitioned into an interview with Mr. Carter.

His story was fascinating! He was raised in Georgia, heavily influenced by his parents and grandparents to serve in philanthropy, and after completing his undergraduate years at Duke University decided to join the Peace Corps and work in South Africa. The stories he told had everyone in the crowd murmuring in awe and support. Mr. Carter and Corps coworkers lived in a very underdeveloped village, carrying water from the river daily, and yet they were three-and-a-half hours from an Internet cafe where he communicated with friends and family.

He spoke at length on the newness of being a minority, the solitary white male in over twenty square miles. In the United States racism is often discussed at length in thinktanks and forums, but he said it was possible for him at times to forget it. In South Africa, however, he was continually, constantly conscious of his race as villages poked his white skin to see if it would rub off and asked questions about his features.

As a fellow white student possessing of the opportunity to travel to South Africa, his words absolutely clarified a number of questions I'd stored up. First, is it possible for a white person to help out?

His response: as a white male, his effect in the community was significantly different than the accomplishments of African-American fellow Peace Corps volunteers. The South African communities have been living with legislated apartheid and bantu training so long as to have adopted the mindset that they need outside help, whether white or foreign or from big cities, to improve. Mr. Carter says that he was trying to make the point that these people could utilize their resources more effectively and pull themselves up, and they interpreted it as yes, they could do so, but only as long as this white man was here telling them they could.

Mr. Carter found the apartheid mindset to be practically ubiquitous. He told stories of white men pulling their cars over to solicitously inquire if he, a white man in the midst of fifty black friends, was ok all alone. Imagine that: a caring man who actually stops to see if someone is alright but cannot understand how a white man could feel comfortable surrounded by other people of a different color!

That was very disheartening to hear. Perspectives are the hardest things to change, in my opinion. What changes could I really effect while in South Africa?

However, his other stories of acceptance, the rich oral traditions, religious experiences and the wild beauty of the area really have encouraged me to consider South Africa as the stronger international summer choice.

Afterwards, I introduced myself as a Duke student possibly gearing up for South Africa a year from now--he asked me what I would be doing, and I felt rather idiotic and half-baked for saying I didn't know. He did appreciate that I told him he had answered some questions though not all would be answered until I got off the plane and lived there for a time.



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Hit or Miss

Alright, much as I hate to say it, not everything in Atlanta makes for a fantastic outing for everyone.

Miss: Chetan and I decided to partake of "Improv at the Park," the successor to "Screen on the Green" in Piedmont Park. The show consisted of four large men in a group called "No Laughing Matter" or some similarly clever title. The men proceeded to enact a set of comic games stolen from Drew Carey's far superior "Whose Line is It Anyway?", with the twist being that every scene dealt with homosexuality. Chetan and I aren't sure if that was the intent, but the consistent style of humor definitely wore on us quickly. Here are our faces after the improv skit involving a gay vampire and small children:

We were happy to experience what Atlanta natives enjoy, but left rather quickly to find nice shots of the nighttime city skyline.

Hit: One day after work I toured a bit of the Coca-Cola factory along with Underground Atlanta. The Coca-Cola factory's vividly-colored facility and inspirational music gave me that magical Disneyworld feel, minus Mickey and Minnie. The Underground was just as I remembered from previous visits, a dark tunnel of tourist traps and wholesale-purchased purses 'neath a busy street. There were uncountable teens milling around, photobooths on every corner, alluringly greasy food counters and focused spraypaint caricature artists.

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Soccer and Shakespeare

My jaw dropped nearly to the table when I and my Cafe 458 coworkers witnessed Zidane's astonishing headbutt into an opposing Italian player's chest. The man fell back heavily in response to the French team captain's attack, and we immediately shouted "WHAT?!" in unison disbelief. What a crazy thing for a team captain and professional to do!

I had joined fellow volunteers at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican tapas bar in an Atlanta suburb to chill with them and watch the highly-anticipated World Cup. Sadly, I had not kept up with the games leading up to this one, but the fellows surrounding me speculated loudly and knowledgeably (especially the two German boys, Patrick and Vanye, who opted for a year of civil service in the States rather than military service in Deutschland). As I know relatively little about the game and have only a few years of elementary school league experience to draw upon, I spent the time making wisecracks and asking inane questions about the PK shootouts and off-sides. So much fun!

They forgave me my interruptions, however, for I had brought homemade brownies decorated with sweet vanilla icing and either French- or Italian-themed Hershey's Kissable candies. :) Sorry I didn't take any pictures, they were snatched too quickly!

My fellow viewers were mostly volunteers with Missioneer, a yearlong Christian program that funds men and women to wholeheartedly serve areas in the US. My friends are mainly in their early twenties, a mix of married and single, and generally hailing from the North and Midwest. Each that I have met is dedicated to giving of themselves unrelentingly, though they frequently gripe about the program's multiple restrictions. Apparently in an effort to ensure that all funds are going to volunteer-work, Missioneer disallows its participants from watching TV (will lose focus on your community), starting any new relationships (dating = money), driving your own car (where do you need to go?), or even going to the church they choose! (they go to church together to make sure everyone is going). I really admire these folks for giving up an entire year's freedoms to do what they love: serve God indirectly by serving people in need. They do not evangelize, just meet people where they are--give them the food they need, shelter they require, teach classes to help them out.

Anyhow, everyone was cheering Italy, so I supported France to be ornery and provide friendly taunting. And France lost, tsk tsk.

Afterwards I met up with fellow Robertsons Nandini, Kevin, Chetan and Samson to check out the Shakespeare Tavern on Peachtree Street. The tavern boasted nightly performances of all Shakespeare's works as well as tasty food from that period (well, not food prepared in that time-period, as we joked, just prepared the same way!).

The show was utterly, unexpectedly hilarious! The troupe of three male actors spoofed all of Shakespeare's works in rapid succession, even going so far as to perform "Hamlet" backwards as fast as they could! Quite a feat. They had us in stitches, laughing helplessly in the back row.

Crazy Robertson kids:

On our way out, we discovered the purple plastic flowers the actors used as props in the performance. We hammed things up a bit ourselves.


Leaving the theater, we decided to do some acrobatics on the lawn of Emory-Crawford hospital--either for kicks or to digest, you pick. :) Another fun day of being silly with the Robertsons and finding out all the random Atlanta attractions.

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Officially the Best Taco Buffet EVER!

Hi gang--I realize I have been quite slack in the blogging department as of late. Things have become very busy, as you rapidly discover when working six days a week as the lackey willing to do the built-up grunt work the regular employees avoid.

However, there is still time yet for fun! Pictured above are some photos from Officially the Best Taco Buffet EVER. And yes, I'm licensed to say so because we dubbed it officially the best and lamented the fact that some of our fellow hard workers were working too hard to join in our taco festivities. The gals and I pulled together not only all the key items in tacos (freshly diced tomatoes, shredded cheese, iceberg lettuce, chopped onions, hard and soft shells, tasty turkey meat), but also a rice and bean dish, a freshly delicious fruit salad and strawberry kiwi lemonade with floating orange slices for added effect and flavor. :) Oh! And who could forget the angel food cake with cool whip?

We had a minor mishap; upon returning to our apartment laden with groceries, we discovered that the three purchased cartons of strawberries were AWOL! Sadly, we still have not found their whereabouts--there is approximately a $7.54 reward for them. :)

Chetan came to join us, and we went on a quest for more strawberries (who can have fruit salad or angel food cake sans strawberries?!) and we found the biggest, reddest, most tasty specimens at Publix. They also were surprisingly pricey--alas, only the best for us!

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Looooong Typically Wonderful Day-Cafe 458 and "Bodies"

Ecclesiastes 2:24
"There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and tell himself that his labor is good."

I awoke this morning at a nice 7:20 am--not so unusual for an 8am-3pm workday, until one blinks, thinks hard, and remembers the day is Saturday. I'm working six days a week because it's fun, and I get out by 3pm anyhow--plenty of time and energy to spend on sightseeing!

This morning I was especially needed at Cafe 458; my mentor Christy nearly went into shock after 7 volunteers cut out on volunteering Saturday. She makes a practice of doublechecking on those who have signed up by giving them a call Friday afternoon--these 7 claimed either lack of transportation or family emergency.

Result: When I tootled into the Cafe today, there were four sous chefs and expert chef Sara but scarcely anyone in the cafe. Result of that: I got to dismantle the tables, rearrange them, mop floors, check/clean restrooms, prepare food, prepare drinks, orient slowly-incoming volunteers, set up outside tables and umbrellas, etc. It was nice to feel truly needed and to have finally achieved a level of familiarity with the kitchen and cafe that I could help quickly and efficiently.

As it is the weekend, Cafe 458 is open to paying customers from all around, letting them know of the entirely-volunteer staff (almost an apology in advance, say the cynical), that all proceeds including tip go towards helping the homeless (aka Tips are Great!), and that the Specials today are absolutely, absolutely fantastic. Anyone curious?

• Roasted Salmon, Corn, and Scallion Omelet with Creole White Sauce and Sweet Corn Bread,
• Veggie Benedict with Roasted Tomato Salad,
• Cinnamon Apple and Raisin French Toast with Caramel Sauce,
• Lemon Pancakes with Blueberries, and
• Spinach, Artichoke and Provolone Frittata!

Oh goodness--and let's just say there are certain benefits accompanying volunteering beyond that warm fuzzy feeling--such as furtive slices of upside-down apple pancake and the extra orders of poached egg with hollandaise. :) Quite good, my friends. Do come and visit! 458 Edgewood Ave, Atlanta, GA!

Anyhow, I had my first difficult brunch customers (the homeless weekday lunch clients can be extremely picky, but paying brunch weekenders aren't usually particular--funny, eh?). A couple with many connections to Duke University engaged me in conversation about the lacrosse team and proceeded to systematically send back each of their seven dishes back to the kitchen for further preparation or redo TWICE. A very nice couple, just insistent on perfection.

Another first: I was tipped $19--TWICE! A few of the clients asked me lots of questions about the Samaritan House and I've finally soaked up enough info to give a decent summary of its operations and mission--they were so intrigued as to give me their contact information for volunteering as well as the generous tips! What a happy day.

Christy gave me the oft-bemoaned task of kitchen and cafe cleanup. Now, I've never worked in a restaurant prior now, so I hadn't realized the intense setup and cleanup sanitation practices. I mean, bugs and bacteria can thrive on kitchen nooks and crannies with food constantly passing through. That's why the cafe keeps plenty of "H and G" on-hand--two chemicals with very long names but nicknamed "Hello" and "Goodbye" for their order of application. These chemical-cleaners apparently have toxic cleaning powers, frightening to behold and awe-inspiring to yield. Christy finally felt I was up to the very important task of disinfecting the entire kitchen, sinks, pots, tables, and my least favorite but doubtless important, the floor.

Another point of happiness in the day: one of the staffmembers asked me if it was alright she had put me down as a reference in a recent and highly desired job application. I feel quite honored--she's been at the cafe for years now and I'm but a newbie, but she esteems me that much!

Point of extreme discomfort: Cleaning out the take-out cup box in the pantry--an utter swarm of roaches flew/scrambled out at me from all over the box (which of course I had lifted from far over my head). Stifling a scream and backing out of the pantry quickly enough to almost trip over the mop-bucket, I found Christy and Mike and informed them of the situation. They asked me to go back and please put the box outside.

That meant touching it again.

In an inspired, rapid motion that either Superman or my cross-country coach would applaud, I had that box outside. Mission accomplished. Now to clean the pantry from inside to out, using plenty of H and G. They say where you see one roach, there are at least one hundred. Ugh.

After cleaning the five sinks, four bathrooms and 15 tables and give or take a few hundred pieces of silverware, the cafe is ready to go for tomorrow! I tell you what, it may sound masochistic or just pathetic, but working like that is an incredible feeling. Cleaning something that people will use, making it not only look nice but be safe and functional is a feeling of worth and competency that sometimes just gets lost in writing papers and studying books. I like the work, the activity, meeting 70-80 people with such fascinatingly different lives each day. And, of course, the fancy food. :)

Anyhow, my cafe day finished up around 3ish and I traveled to meet fellow Robbies Chetan and Kevin at the much-vaunted "Bodies" exhibit at the Atlanta Civic Center. The exhibit's premise is this: roughly eight to ten human cadavers preserved in a corrosive mummification process, where the skin disintegrates away, revealing the amazing musculature, skeleton, and even blood vessel system. The exhibits were well-designed, clear, inevitably educational, and at times, very beautiful.

Thoughts:

It was nearly impossible to think of these mummified, rubbery skeletons as former people--they stopped looking real after a while, just like incredibly similar models.

Sometimes the exhibits made me think Wow, seems like all we humans are is just meat, but mostly And they say there isn't an intelligent designer? How is it possible for veins to have systems to stop blood from clotting and bone can heal itself and the brain to function so mysteriously? I would almost go to med school just to study the body--very cool.

Odd--most all the bodies we saw were male. Either females don't donate as much or don't present muscles and skeleton as well. The first females we saw were in the "Obesity" section. :( Why?!

Fond Fun Facts:

Axon cells are the longest cells in your body.

There are over 60 thousand miles of blood cells in a single human body.

Female brains constitute 2.5% of their bodies; male brains constitute 2% of their bodies.

Neuroelectric signals typically travel at 270 mph.

1 in 3 Americans are obese. :(

All the blood in your body travels through your heart at least once every minute!

Anyhow, if you'd like to go, it's a whopping $20 bucks for this educational and intriguing exploration. I tried to play the "I'm a poor volunteer and college student to boot" card, but those ticket-ladies are veterans of withholding discounts. Chetan, Kevin and I all joked (in front of her) we should just go back to the corporate world and forget this philanthropy folly, as the world just doesn't appreciate it anymore. Heh heh.

That's the end--more to my day, but it was mainly comprised of eggplant parmigiana, getting lost going to Ikea, Publix and Kroger, visiting with friends, watching a cheesy movie, and preparing for sleep...

Take care and God bless, everyone! World Cup's on tomorrow!

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