Children at the Museum

Today, I went to a small museum. Though the exhibits themselves were informational and entertaining, as usual, I found my interest drifting to that of the people.

Today, the topic is children.

On the way to the building, while I waited at a crosswalk, a schoolgirl shuffled past me. I stepped out of her path as she walked - too absorbed in her smartphone to pay attention to her path. Her left hand gently pressed her earphones in place. Listening to music? Playing a game? Well, her expression was far too grave for either of those, her lower lip crinkling in a scowl.

She was clearly a schoolgirl from her attire - a uniform - white button-down shirt tucked into the waistband of a plaid, pleated green skirt. A rule-abiding student, or one from a stricter school than some other youths, her hem fell well past her knees. Her white socks extended well above her ankles, though too loose since they fell with every hasty step she made. She wore weathered pink sneakers with grey accents, white laces stained with age.

She seemed to be in a hurry.

Once I entered the museum, I found there was a field trip, a large gathering of little boys and girls no older than eight years old. Their teacher was distracted to the side, leaving the guide to try and entertain the vivacious group. Some of the children listened to the guide-woman's speech on the geography of their country. Others let their minds wander, lost in the fantastical depths of their own imaginary worlds. Some bolder children chattered to their friends, oblivious to the guide's enthusiastic explanations.

Of this group, I took notice of one particular little girl.

She didn't listen the guide, not even pretending to look in the woman's direction, but she wasn't inattentive in the least. Instead, her gaze flitted from one exhibit to another, practically sparkling as she took in the sights to see, the text to read... her mouth was pursed in concentration.

She wore a flouncy black knee-length dress with a pattern of small grey printed skulls. Around her waist was a ribbon, lavender, the same as the one that tied her dark brown hair into a high ponytail. The straight cut of her bangs obscured her eyebrows and forehead, but left her eager dark eyes clear..

She wore bright white sandals which strapped around her ankles.
Probably new.

Another child was a boy accompanied by his 'father'. Both wore plaid red shirts with blue and white stripes, long orange shorts, and came down the same flight of stairs. The man wore orange slippers and carried a bright red camera. The child wore grey sneakers with red accents.

As it turns out, as I left the museum, the two parted ways - not father and child after all, but two strangers who had worn uncannily identical outfits.

The world works in strange ways, indeed.

Olive Oil

Picture taken at Dugawon

There's something oddly fascinating about the food served at fancy restaurants. There's always something to notice, and today as well, there was something to catch my eye: the dipping for freshly baked bread.

Olive Oil.

Balsamic Vinegar.

There's something pleasing just looking at it, the contrast of the two warm hues. The dark, translucent yellow-green of the oil and the brown of the vinegar, darker still, bordering red... I've yet to see that same blend of colors anywhere else.

Perhaps my interest has something to do with how the two liquids refuse to intermix. The vinegar draws in on itself, tightening, like a person huddled to avoid a crowd, to not take up too much space. Or, strange metaphor aside, perhaps I found amusement in how the brown bubble slips and slides, skimming over the surface of the olive lake. A pool upon a pool. It's merely a difference in density - I know this well.

However, this knowledge doesn't mean I can't see the simplistic beauty in it.

The food itself was fine, though perhaps not completely suited to my tastes. The serving waiter today was older than those working in the restaurants closer to my home - early forties, I'd assume. Of all the people I've noticed today, he has become the subject of today's post. I am not particularly sure why this man caught my interest, so perhaps if I leave as detailed a description as I can manage, someone will have an answer for me.

The same as all the waiters of that restaurant, this man wore suitable attire - white dress shirt, black vest, black bow tie, black slacks, black loafers.

He was Korean - black hair, dark eyes - his skin a shade off of fair. The faint, just-forming wrinkles upon his face betrayed his age, despite a youthful figure. Matured, but not old. Five birthmarks dotted his right jaw, patterned like that of a dice, and yet another marked his left cheekbone. His hair was styled conservatively (unlike another waiter who had a heart carved into the short hairs above his neck).

He wore a large watch, black with silver accents, roman numerals, which seemed somewhat expensive, on his left wrist. On that same arm, he had a thick silver band upon his fourth finger. A wedding ring? Perhaps, though the unconventional styling of the ring - centimeter wide, snake-like designs embellished and winding around the circumference - and the tarnish made it unlikely.

His smile was professional, clearly a service employee, but not at all like I assume would be his usual - not large enough a smile to crinkle the laugh-lines that had already set into his skin. What caught my notice most, however, was that slight tremor of his arm as he poured the people at my table their glasses of water.

The waiter with the heart in his hair didn't tremble.

Well, all the same, there is one more observation I would like to jot down before I bring this post to a close. Today, from my seat at the table, I could see another group further off - four office workers, laughing and dining to their hearts content.

The positioning of their legs intrigued me most.

The first sat with one shoe on and one shoe off. The man's left foot was set firmly, sole-down, upon the floor, his discarded loafer lying crooked beside it. His right foot, shoe-free, wrapped in a grey sock, was perched upon his left knee.

The second sat with ankles crossed. He sat with knees together, ankles crossed, feet tucked beneath his chair in a manner that reminded me of my brother's cello instructor when she wore a long skirt. His weight was on the balls of his feet as he leaned forward, yet didn't support himself with his arms upon the table.

The third sat in a most peculiar manner, with his feet balanced on the points of his loafers. His feet didn't shift the entire meal, completely stable in what otherwise would have seemed an uncomfortable posture. Humorously enough, looking at his feet, I thought of ballet dancers and their toe shoes. Perhaps he had been a ballerino in the past? Well, I wouldn't bet money on it, but just a thought.

The fourth's legs were hidden from my sight. Perhaps he had tucked them up an knelt upon his chair or sat cross-legged? More likely, my seat didn't allow me a clear view of him.

In any case, today was an enjoyable day.

On the way home...

In the middle of the street, on the dotted yellow line
There was a shoe.

Not a pair.
Just one.

There was nothing particularly eye-catching about the shoe itself.
It was pale blue.
Clean, free of tire marks.
A velcro sneaker.
Small.

Maybe a toddler's.

It was there on the middle of the street, resting perfectly -
A little crooked, but sole-down, saddle-up -
Right on the yellow line.

Just something to think about today.