Sunday, July 5, 2009
Scones for Everybody!
Annika's cell phone went in to the pool last night. No wonder she didn't text me back. Annika, with phone in jeans pocket, got pushed into the pool at the fireworks party. Can you even imagine -- 16 year old Annika with no phone? Annika, who sends and receives 400 text messages a day? Never mind North Korean missiles, with Annika phoneless, will the world end? We take this communication so much for granted. Back and forth, across town, across oceans. When Kaia was in South Africa for four months, we were never out of touch save for a period when she was living in 'maphandleni' -- the rural areas, with a family, beyond reach of cell or any other phones. When I'm in Poland, we text and chat and Skype as if we were merely a few miles away, or across the room. Now, Annika's phone is dead. How on earth will I know what she's thinking this very minute? Kaia and I were joking yesterday about our goofy failure to comprehend that Breakfast at Wimbledon is only breakfast in the States! It is 3 p.m. in Warsaw, two in the afternoon when the play begins in London. The boys are practicing their serve. It is high time for tennis. It's time for a Corona with lime. In Littleton, the fam is covered in crumbs from freshly baked scones, the sofas basically a mess. Strawberries are being dipped in cream. Dave is sitting in the chair wondering if he should go to church. Kaia is flipping back and forth between tennis and the Tour de France, making everyone crazy. Annika is holding a memorial service for her phone. Daisy dog is crowding Kaia, curled up on one end of the short sofa, snoring but not, the girls can tell you, as loud as me. She's got her head plumped up on the oversize arm cushion, curly ears flopped over the edge. She's given up on any hope of stealing a bite, especially if I am not home to sneak one to her. The coffee is strong, the conversation is sparse, with only the occasional groan or exclamation, depending upon whom you're cheering for. We can chat online in real time. "Did you see that shot?" And they split sets. One all. "Look at Rod Laver's hat! Isn't it cute!" We could speak those words across the coffee table. Or send them through cyberspace. "Andy!" we exclaim, "if you're going to dink a little poof ball across the net, don't hit it right to him." It goes on. Dave is still sitting in the chair, wondering if he should go to church. Annika has moved through the denial stage of grief and is on to bartering. "Maybe it can be fixed; the smart chip still works." Kaia has given up on cycling for the day and Daisy dog has sprawled out on the floor. Roger won the third set. But Andy broke him early in the fourth. Another Corona. Pita with pesto is as close as it gets to scones in the Champions Bar on Jeruzolimskie Street in Warsaw. But the tennis is the same. As is the chit-chat with the fam.