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What are you waiting for?
I'm not sure if I should even be writing about this, but I just feel like I have to tell someone. It all started with an excited call from my friend Tyler at about 10 pm last Thursday, August the 19th.
My phone is vibrating in my pocket as I talk to a lovely woman, just inches away in the crowded bar. Not wanting to be rude, I ignore the phone as I continue explaining the values of rare alpine plants, and how interesting Trinity county can be when you really get out and see it. I try not to babble on too much, as this is one of my favorite subject to talk about. She may really be interested, or she may just be an incredibly good actor, it's still early to tell, although, she has not made any attempt to leave our conversation yet.
"Native plants are one of my hobbies." she explains as I study her shoulder length auburn hair as it hangs just below her ears in an early 20's style that has made it's way into the new millennium. She is rather slender but also has a slightly athletic build, and looks as though she might actually get outside and hike or exercise occasionally. Promising.
"I belong to the Native Plant Society." she mentions, at which point my excitement is crushed like a small bug under a dooming heel. "I go on their plant walks all of the time."
Not a big fan of the Native Plant Society, and even a lesser fan of their plant hikes, I am not impressed. While many plant people find this group to be a validating social club for their hours of botanical study at one university or another, I find many of these people talk about how studied they are and have fairly limited field experience.
"My name is Karen." she says as she offers her hand with a look that begs a response on my part. I think of making up a name, but am slow to come up with anything on the spot.
"Bill." I mutter, wondering if the alcohol has affected my judgment as much as it has retarded my creativity.
The deep hollow sound of the congas is flooding the room, drowning any other sounds of other boisterous patrons at the bar. "Machito and the Afro Cubans" are playing a live set at "The Palladium", following a short set by "Chano" and Dizzy Guillespie playing "Mandeca". Most people in the bar are getting their groove on almost subconsciously as they talk about various aspects of their weekly business.
Karen must sense I'm getting distracted as she babbles on about her botanical accolades and she changes the subject. "Where did you study?" she asks.
I have always known about plants. It is in my blood generations back on both sides of my family, both Cuban and American. This is nearly impossible to explain to people. Don't get me wrong, I have studied both botany and horticulture in a college and university, but my education started much earlier in a family nursery and orchard in Fruitland, Idaho, way too early to remember.
"I never graduated from school," I explain, " but I have taken some classes at Humboldt State University and College of the Redwoods." Karen looks nervous, as if she does not completely trust me now.
The enchanting sound of the cuatro, played by Yomo Toro and accented by Hector Lavoe, is dominating the air in Willie Colon's "La Mourga" as I look nervously toward the bartender, then back to our empty drinks.
"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask, fully expecting her to offer some lame excuse and wander off into the crowd.
"I'll have a Cuba Libre." she offers "It is latin night after all."
I am once again interested in this mysterious woman before me.
(to be continued)
