By Helen Brun
An “Other Voices” piece
On Dec. 14, my friend in New York woke me up with a phone call: “They captured Saddam, turn on the TV.” After listening to the reporters and the president I went about my Sunday as usual. I walked to downtown Los Altos for coffee, something to eat and the paper. On my way a woman said “Good morning.” It surprised me. I had not noticed her, and around here people do not say anything when they pass by unless they know you or are talking into a cell phone. “Yes, good morning.”
Inside Le Boulanger with the paper and my breakfast in front of me, my first cup of coffee half downed, it hits me: Saddam has been captured in Iraq, and while that fact in itself will not fix the world I feel joy and peace. The Christmas lights are in friendly competition with the bright sunshine outside, and the restaurant is full of relaxed and smiling people. Have they heard the news? It has not made it into the papers yet.
I look at the people around me. I do not know any of them. A middle-aged man and woman, deep in eye contact and conversation, sit in the corner.
Either they are dating or have just reconciled’ I decide. Outside, a young couple lean against their SUV while eating pastries. When done they get in the car and drive off. “They don’t allow themselves to eat in that car,” I say to myself. Across from me two lesbians hold hands and drink tea, creating a private little circle. At the table next to them are two older woman, a fat and a skinny one. Both are dressed in expensive coats and high heeled boots. The skinny one gets up to get more coffee for them both.
Behind me by the other counter a 5-year-old red-haired girl balances on a stool. She is absorbed in her own thoughts, but I know she is 5 because a woman asked her and she held up five fingers. Her dad is busy with her very active younger brother who is wearing cowboy boots. The children are dressed in Christmas colors and almost too cute for words, swirling on those stools eating cinnamon buns with swirls of frosting. I am hoping the parents are not divorced. A surge of testosterone goes through the room as four athletic men in tight bicycle outfits walk by. They decide to sit outside.
Next to me is a young Chinese couple with two very young children. The baby takes every opportunity to escape and practice walking. His mom patiently gets up and gets him whenever he stumbles or ventures too far away. The father reads the paper while the older child sleeps in his lap. The Mexican busboy clears a table for a quiet, unassuming man who immediately goes to work on his laptop. And when I look in the mirrored end wall I see that I, who immigrated from Denmark when I was 20 and took 29 years to develop tenuous roots here, I too belong in this picture.
Today I feel grateful to live here in an affluent American suburb and wish that people everywhere could have what we have. Not the SUVs and the stuff, not the slick surfaces nor the not knowing our neighbors, but what we also take for granted: having breakfast in comfort and peace with people free to be whoever they are and free to go wherever they want, most of them clearing their own tables when done.
