Diwali bowl

I met the "mayor of Cleveland Park tonight." He gave me his seat and that of another to my friend Sara. When the other guy returned, he shouted, "Beautiful girl!" and knocked me in the shoulder. The mayor stood up for his decision and the man said we could stay but only because we were so pretty.

It might have been a line, but I felt awfully good in that very moment, and really, that was enough. Somebody calling me "beautiful girl" and telling me I was pretty. Enough for a Thursday night.

I would have worn something different if only I could have found an outfit to transition from work, from meetings that stretched all day after a rainy commute to a Peace Corps fundraiser followed by a Sinatra night. I left my purple patent leather go-go boots in my desk and wore a bright purple trench. Khakis. Henley. Big, comfy sweater. None of it fit into any of my plans, much less all of them, but I was warm on a cold, rainy day and the mayor's friend thought I was pretty.

At the fundraiser, I hugged friends of my brother who were friends of my own. One girl I didn't know knew exactly who I was.

"Scott's sister," she said. "I've heard all about you. You're Kristin, right?"

And I was. I am. I didn't know what to think about that, but I smiled and shrugged and admitted the group was my own, just as much as my brother's, even if I didn't serve in the Peace Corps. They'd adopted me as clearly as I'd cleaved to them, and my life was all the better for it. I talked to the girl so recently married who was trying to work out visa issues so she could move to London with her husband. Her wedding pictures were gorgeous and I'd seen many of them. I'd given my camera to one of her guests. Our host for the fundraiser. A friend.

"The pictures were beautiful" and "how was the trip?"

She explained her current frustrations with red tape and bureaucracy and I smiled.

"You're going to be married to Sean for the rest of your life."

She wanted to start sooner rather than later, and I couldn't blame her. I was just glad to see her in DC.

"I hear you're making progress in your backyard," I said to another. "What's the name of your neighborhood – I have a friend moving to Baltimore and I wanted to tell him how great it is."

He told me the name and of travel, of trips to the Minnesota State Fair and Guatemala, Quebec City and Montreal. He told me stories of home. His partner. His life. And I hugged him again before he left.

I talked with a man who served in the Peace Corps a decade ago. He loved rugby and cooking, museums and plays. His 6-year-old son. Nachos. Good beer.

When the prizes came and went, I held the tickets I bought and those of people I didn't know, people who left somewhat earlier after chatting a bit about the state of the world at large and the nonprofit, in particular. I claimed four prizes in all. A plate and bowl for oil during Diwali. A set of prayer flags. A painting from Kenya. A cotton tote and a t-shirt. Only half came with the tickets I bought and I passed the rest to our host for the night, telling him they belonged to his coworker.

"You know you could have taken them all," he said.

"I know," I replied, "But they're not mine."

I gave up half the prizes, the ones from the tickets I didn't buy. I didn't think about what I had won or what I had wanted but rather my promise, nonbinding as it was, to people I didn't know, to give them their prizes. Their bags and t-shirts. Their prayer flags. I was just too honest. I couldn't help it. Not that I knew what I would do with my Diwali bowl.

I'd figure it out.


Tag: Thursday night