title

Title ... what a word with which to quarrel...

It seems as though a maliciousness towards title has been brewing in my being for quite some time now.

I believe it first began while I was in Portugal.

I had taken an overnight bus from Madrid with my friend for a holiday weekend.  We arrived just after dawn and should have realized our folly when, before even locating the exit, Katie's wallet, ahem... and passport, was stolen.

Sticky fingers know no bounds... and US embassies in foreign countries are not as welcoming to their citizens as they claim to be in the travel books.  (Know how to say, "I was robbed" in the local dialect.)  So, Lisbon was without earthquakes and  Porto was cozy.  That may have been one of my favorite CouchSurfing experiences... delicious homemade risotto and a comfy, crawl-space attic with a palate to dream upon.

The metro ride to the airport, however, was laced with failure; I could sense it. My previous run-in with behemoth Berlin law enforcement, on my maiden CS voyage, had me on alert. I knew we had to be extra careful when interpreting the poorly translated self-help ticket booth:

Round trip or One way? One way... we were headed back home to Spain...

Line A, B, C? Whichever one led to the airport... that was the final destination... leaving on plane... 

How many titles? ...

We weren't really sure what that meant... titles? We discussed it in the little time we could with a line behind us and the train approaching the platform... Two.  There are two of us... it already knows we are headed, once, to the airport. Title could mean Dr. or Mr. or Miss... right? Surely... but the ticket monitors don't always come through your train.  We would probably get there and not even have to deal with the situation... probably...

As soon as we boarded I just knew it would be our luck that the ticket taker-uppers would come through.  They take such pride in dashing people's hopes of arriving to their destination on time... just because they get to wear a uniform.  They did. And we were mistaken.  We tried to explain, understanding that it was our task to provide evidence... in some places being a US citizen comes with the burden of providing reasonable assurance.  Guilty until proven innocent...

It took him, and his cronies, getting off at the next stop, going through the steps of the Portugenglish computer with us and, finally, asking him what, he believed, was meant by title.

Ha! Clearly it means trips, girls!

Why then, sir, would it ask if we wanted a round trip?

Well that is... In Portuguese... No... Well... Just buy another ticket because you both have to have one... and get back on the train... 

The most pressing of my conflicts with title is the one which is presented daily... with searching smiles and inquiring eyes.  "What are you doing now?" "What will you do next?" "Oh, but I thought you were a teacher!"  Well, I was...
And maybe I will be again... but no, I'm not now.  And I'm not anything... unless you want to take a look at my resume... my CV... my artist statement.  All of which list my accomplishments and titles; pedigree is announced and success is assumed, expected, commonplace... yes, but what next...

I do want to thank Momma for inspiring the title of this blog. One less thing for me to have to invent...
A long, long time ago... in a town not far from yours...
Mom saw stark white letters screaming an urgent message from an anonymous origin...
So we took pictures and posed in front of it... and I think it is now covered up.
I have carried this framed photo with me around the world.  It was the only one I took to Spain...

Really what set this rant off was a simple question that awaits me at the top of each blog entry... I wanted to simply announce that I have set up an online store through Etsy which I have titled The Loft.

I guess I am so vexed by this feat because I, myself, am one of those that does judge a book by it's cover... and title.