Talking Squares

The exit-door wouldn't open, and the enter-door wouldn't close. Several degrees below freezing, this meant it was cold inside Aldi this morning.

In winter in Kansas City, buildings and buses are heated so much I take off a lot of clothes when I enter. It means I'm the only one on the bus in a t-shirt, sitting among hatted, scarved, gloved people, padded up in coats that stay buttoned. My son laughs at me, but once outside it's my turn to laugh. So today for the first time I got to keep my coat on indoors. Of course I did take my hat off and undo the zips, as I gave the checkout lady 99 cents plus tax for the spuds.

Apologizing for the doors, she then escorted me so I wouldn't hurt myself walking through the same open doorway I'd entered by not but two minutes earlier. If this doesn't seem odd to you it's because you don't live here.

In the Midwest three minutes past seven is never 7 o'clock, it's 7:03; 25 feet away from 75th and Main is not 75th & Main; the weather is never warm or cold, it's 89 or 41 degrees; parties don't just start at stated times but they have end times;   and people just don't leave by the enter-door.

Today, going out the in-door was like I was a schoolboy standing on a desk for the first time, encouraged by Robin Williams to see the world from a different perspective. And like any good artist I was about to seize the day, until I remembered I'm from Dublin, where state-sponsored bodies were built upon the concept of going out the in-door.