U.N.satisfied

Written September 5th, 2005:

When I was in New York I visited the United Nations. Not only did I visit, but I toured the facilities. Our tour was lead by a girl of mocha skin and big, bushy, rizado, black hair. I do believe our closeness in age and my predilection for being the nearest-to-the-guide when in a tour group lead to the events that transpired on that glorious day. Little did I know that it would lead me here by the River Piedra, to write down the lines of my story, and to weep.

She mentioned she was from Cuba, and looked smart in her azul power suit. She started taking us around the grounds showing us various gifts given to the United Nations from countries around the world.

We were going up the escalators, and she turned to me (and me alone, for who addresses a group of tourists on an escalator?) and asked:

"From where are you visiting us today?"

"Colorado."

The escalator kept escalating our passion. My turn to initiate:

"When did you leave Cuba?"

"Oh, well, I was three...I don't really remember Cuba too well."

Noted.

She lead the group by various other gifts and then we were at a window that had a panoramic view of a courtyard and the grounds of the United Nations compound. She told us that there are flags that fly for each of the countries that are members of the United Nations, and that they are flown in alphabetical order in English. She asked what the first one was. No one replied for a long time, because rarely do people who are not the 8th grade science fair winners who wear canadien tuxedos answer immediately in group situations.

Someone ventured: "Albania."

In my heart, mi corazón, I knew that this was wrong. She confirmed its shortcoming in veracity.

I answered in baritone: "Afghanistan."

Her eyes, sus ojos, lit up. She confirmed the correctness, and pressed the group further: "What is the last country, English alphabetical?

My father, mi padre, offered: "Zaire."

She grimaced. She is gentle, and she must be by necessity since she deals with tourists, the Bison of the East, day in and day out. She informed my father that Zaire no longer existed.

If sons pay for the sins of their fathers, then that day was the day of redemption.

"Zimbabwe." I asserted.

She smiled and commented, "Impressive, yes. Zimbabwe is the last."

Now, a quick note...there is obviously chemistry here. No. No. Serendepity. I do not know from where the answers to these simple questions came, but I felt eerie that I knew them - I am clueless when it comes to geographical matters...and even more clueless when it comes to impressing women.


The tour must go on no matter who is falling in love, so she led us to one of the group meeting rooms. She was telling us the purpose of the room was to facilitate peace talks. She asked us if we knew why the ceiling was unfinished. I put my 1.000 batting average on the line in the name of love:

"The unfinished ceiling represents that the business of the peace committee is unfinished so long as there are areas in the world that are in states of unrest."

As far as I can tell, she nearly fainted, and had to support herself on the railing. My answer was dead on - Cassanova dead on.

She summoned her strength and led the group onward. She started small talk with me and opined that Colorado was beautiful and that she knew this from first hand experience from spending past summers and winters in Aspen. She then strategically played a line that utilized what Cosmopolitan cites as an essential element to successful flirting:

"I guess you're always in the Mile High Club out there, huh?"

Oh sweet momma baby, sweet baby momma. I'm just a small town country boy...I'm not used to these souped-up, super-fast New Yorkers. I played it cool and volleyed:

"Uh, yeah. [chuckle pause nervous chuckle], because it is five thousand, two hundred - you know the rest, you know, the 80 feet."

She led the group into another room. I'm thinking of ways to possibly ask for her email address or phone number. Something like a "Hey, I am really interested in what the U.N. is doing for the betterment of the world, and was hoping to talk about your views on its execution of its mission statement." or something amazing like that. Oh yeah. All those years of reading Men's Health in Barnes and Noble were going to pay off.

She waited, like the great tour guide she was, like the beautiful and talented tour guide she was, until all of the group was seated in this new room. She then asked, "What do you think of when you hear the 'U.N.'?"

I was batting a thousand, and in the words of Mike Ness was feeling "as strong as a thousand armies" so I decided to up the ante in this intellectual dance of playfulness.

"Nicole Kidman."

This is not true (I actually vacillate between two thoughts when I hear 'U.N.': nations coming together to better the world, with concern for something grander than themselves; and, my dad's thought of it being a giant joke that would be funny if it wasn't so pathetically riddled with ineptitude). Regardless, I figured this was humorous, and could be found as au currant, since the movie The Interpreter was fairly recent (even though I did not see it).

My dad let out his horse-laugh and the timid father of the Indian family in the tour group flinched a foot out of his chair in response to the sudden uproar.

She did not even verbally acknowledge it.

Humorous...no.
Au currant... no.

If only looks could kill.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Ice Princess from Havanna!

She let the answer and the paternal equine jovality go down her back as water down a duck's. She called on a polite little girl raising her hand (grade school manners are useful), and the girl gave the obvious answer of "nations coming together to better the world, with concern for something grander than themselves."

From the mouth of babes!

Mi Cubana Mujer distanced herself from me in body language and mouth language. She was cordial, professional. I, like all the other men that looked promising in the Big Apple, were ultimately slimey little worms with bad jokes when it comes to world affairs.

No phone numbers were exchanged.
No email addresses were exchanged.

She would not let me keep my commemorative tourist i.d. sticker. She took no one else's sticker. Just mine. She then said that she was sorry that things couldn't work out, and said she would never love like that again. Ever.

Aspen. Our children would have been bilingual. Really smart. Just like their mom. Little Guillermo would have been a math whiz, and little Mariposa would have written a Pulitzer winning book entitled "Through a Child's Eyes" commenting on how lucky she was that when she picked up a toy she could be certain it was not a land mine.

But no. Humor is lost on those vying for peace. Just ask Sean Penn, or better yet, Seth Meyers.


Such was my first experience in the Big Apple.

Such was my first experience of International Love.