The woman to my right is wearing all black and a face full of wrinkles. Her eyes are dark, sunken, and she has a hook nose, and veiny, strong-looking hands. She looks like she's done a lot of hard work, but I don't know what it is about her appearance that makes me think that. We met when I asked her if we were sitting at the wrong gate, and she nodded and shook her head and smiled and said, "No English." Twenty minutes later, when people with ties and briefcases and boxes on wheels formed a single-file line, she looked at me and said, "No Raleigh! No Raleigh!" Our gate had furtively turned into Boston.

An hour later I tried to explain a convoluted announcement about our flight by holding my boarding pass parallel to the floor (pretending it was a map), making an airplane with my hand, and pointing at my watch. I've been speaking to her in broken English, and she's been speaking to me in what I think is Greek; I wonder why she speaks in her language, since I clearly don't understand it, and she probably wonders the same about me. But we continue.

Our communication success rate is low, but she did, perhaps coincidentally, give me a piece of candy minutes after I told her I couldn't find any food in the airport. It had been in her black leather bag for a while; it adhered to the wrapper with a fierceness that new candy doesn't possess. It tasted like cherries, and I chewed it into nothing immediately, the way I'm always compelled to do.

Another hour. She urgently waved me over to the new gate, saying something that rang of importance. The words sounded curved and soft, like doodles on a page. She sat by me at the new gate; she stood by me in line; she deliberately sat in a seat that wasn't hers on the plane and suggested that I sit next to her. I took my own seat, figuring we'd eventually have to do that anyway, and she followed me and sat directly across the aisle from me.

She covered her wavy hair with a scarf that she tied under her chin and held her black bag in front of her, both hands gripping the handle. Soon after we sat down, the anal-retentive flight attendant (who took roll three times before we left the ground) made her move to her assigned seat. She cleverly protested, "No English," but he didn't let her stay.

...

By the way, my new bionic arm (somewhat disappointingly) did not set off the airport's metal detector. I accidentally said, "Really?" after the man waved me through, but he apparently didn't hear me.

There's a restaurant near my office that steals pennies. For every order that doesn't come out to an amount divisible by 5 (such as, say, $6.88), the restaurant rounds the price up, quoting a price that disagrees with the reading on the cash register ($6.90). The first time it happened, I thought it was a mistake; I've heard of restaurants rounding down, but never the other way around. I watched as other people in line unknowingly or shruggingly donated pennies; I was not alone. The only way around it, I've discovered (besides embarrassing yourself by grappling over a few pennies), is to give the cashier exact change.

I cannot stop going to this restaurant, not that a few pennies matter enough to change my lunch habits anyway. It sells the best veggie burritos, the staff is incredibly nice, and it's the only place in New York where I can order my food and ask for "no bag" without opening my mouth; I just stand at the counter, and they immediately begin throwing my food together, assembly-line style, and hand it to me minus the brown paper sack that the other customers receive.

The other day I went to the restaurant with no money whatsoever, asking whether they accepted debit cards or personal checks (although I was pretty sure they didn't). The manager/owner/cashier confirmed my suspicions, but told me that, on that particular day, I could order whatever I wanted at no charge, and even tried (unsuccessfully) to push a free drink on me.

So it seems that they are not stealing pennies at all; instead, they are something of a bank. I had no idea.

...

Spotted on the street recently: (1) A family feeding their dog a bright orange traffic cone. (2) The set of Sex and the City, on 18th and Irving; the red-headed actress was eating her lunch as curious passers-by gawked. (3) A staggering one-year-old putting a dollar in a saxophone player's open case, with help from his father (it appeared to be the father's idea).

It was a new experience for both of us. It had been suggested by friend of mine, and I talked Sarah into joining me, with little effort. We stepped off the subway and threaded the border between Chinatown and Little Italy, alternating between blackout-sized throngs (Chinatown) and pesky restaurant hostesses who try to swindle you into dining with them (Little Italy). We finally found it on the Chinatown side, right on the edge.

"A fifteen-minute back massage for ten dollars?" That was the promise. A slight Chinese man waved his arm in a circle, and a woman with long dark hair and a single curler lodged in her bangs walked past us. Sarah and I instinctively followed her. We walked several blocks, weaving among people, trying to keep up with the woman with the curler. We glanced at each other, shrugging and smiling.

On the way, Sarah pointed out an enormous gray trash can full of living, blinking frogs, creatures who were piled on top of each other and submersed a broth of water, ignorantly waiting to lose their legs. She pointed out rows of fish, and litter.

We made our way down a narrow alley that had been painted yellow, briskly chasing the elusive curler woman. When we reached our destination, Unicurler pulled up two blue massage chairs that had been resting on the wall, the sort of chairs in which you lie in a forward-reclining position and put your face through a hole, like the silly painted bodies you try on at amusement parks. I got the woman with the curler.

I couldn't tell what time was doing, exactly. It could've been racing or crawling, but, to me, it felt completely still. I was nervous that my bag was sitting beside me in a busy lobby, out of reach, while I was being asked (via my shoulders) to forget about my bag. (At this point, I still believed my wallet had been stolen a few days before, which inflated my anxiety.)

The woman with the curler kneaded in quick, strong swoops, and remained completely silent except for the few Chinese words she exchanged with Sarah's curlerless woman. She didn't seem to tire. When it was over, Sarah and I stumbled out of the building and down the alley, dazed; we agreed that it felt like our experience hadn't happened at all, that it was like a story inserted into our memories from a paperback, or a dream.

[thick accent] "It is Victor. Dishwasher. I found your pocketbook." Click. I played the message over and over again, not able to discern in what establishment Victor worked. It had been over a week since I determined that my wallet had been stolen, a week since I canceled my debit cards, a week of procrastinating canceling or replacing anything else. One of the more simultaneously hopeful and frustrating messages I've received: Victor. Dishwasher. Pocketbook. Click. Fortunately, another message followed, from the owner of the establishment.

Everything was still inside, including the money, but it had been hastily rearranged, as if Victor had been searching for a phone number. He was in the back of the restaurant (earning his title) when I met him. Skinny and short, he had an impressive mustache, one that curled up at the ends and formed a roof over the broad smile he produced when I thanked him. He twice refused the modest tip I offered before accepting it, protesting, "It's my job."

I hope other recent bad news is as succinctly misdiagnosed: the fatal chromosome disorder that my week-old niece has taught us about, or the potential diseases my father is said to house. Strange medical words that are new to me, ones I'd rather not learn.

See the whole picture. (The couple [above, left] = my grandparents; the man with his hand on his cheek [Oct 9] = my great uncle. I once told my grandmother that I liked this picture, and weeks later it showed up in my mailbox.)

He wears his pants high on his waist, he has a thick head of gray curly hair, and he tells unrelentingly bad but well-meaning jokes that make you feel a tinge of guilt (or maybe it's embarrassment) if you don't laugh. (So you produce a little forced something, even if it's just a half-smile.) He is Tony and he is FRIENDLY.

I'm going to be spending lots of time with Tony; he's the one who will watch my arm slowly return to normal and who will chide me for not doing my exercises more faithfully. He will pull my hand toward him and then away from him (he's terribly indecisive), and he will remind me to be sure to tell him "when," when I feel the muscles in my arm protest.

On Monday we had a physical therapy lesson mixed with an English grammar lesson. It started when he asked me to explain the difference between "lying" and "laying," as in, "Do ten repetitions of this exercise while (lying/laying) down." Which led to a discussion about where to put punctuation in relation to quotation marks, something he said has always confused him. I'm not sure how he knew that I knew.

In exchange, he promised to teach me how to better wrap my Ace bandage, and I gave him a little half-smile. I think his giving me my arm back is plenty.

Robin brought me a half-gallon of sweet tea, all the way from North Carolina. Erik brought his guitar, and Skip brought educational films. It was a little strange, seeing so many Raleigh faces in Brooklyn, but in a good way.

It's a much more social place than the gynecologist's or the dermatologist's or almost any other doctor's office I can imagine. In the orthopedic doctor's office, people compare their bone injuries like trophies and are anxious to exchange stories. One woman sitting across from me, determined to communicate despite limited English, pointed to body parts to indicate what was wrong with her before asking me: how? "Bicycle," I responded, and she made a face that meant "pain."

I was wrong about Wednesday would be like. My favorite nurses were nowhere to be seen, and no stitches were tugged through my skin. In fact, they tell me, the stitches will fade into nothingness all by themselves. Smart stitches.

It was on Friday that I gained permission to undress my arm, to let it hang there, fragile, bent, and naked, and to take my first normal shower in a month. My hinge will still be part of my life, however, and I assume the consequences of that will continue: Terminator/robot comments, curious glances from strangers, and questions.

My mirror tells me that the back of my elbow has a smile that is ugly and crooked, but instead of being upset, I'm mostly curious and timid. Curious, because this is the first I've really seen of my new elbow, and timid, because I actually feel that, like the Terminator, I'm made of something nonhuman; I worry that if I bend my arm too far, that my seam will rip and my metallic bones will poke out of my flesh. Today I told my physical therapist something to that effect (I neglected to mention that in my imagination my bones were metal), and she smiled and assured me that wouldn't happen.

According to a giant plastic protractor that was compared to my arm, my current range of motion looks something like this:

She told me that by the end of the visit, I'd gained 10 degrees, but I think she was being generous.

I won't talk about the film I was in Sunday night except to say that my only scripted line was, "This is a freaky bar." And that the film was so bad that it was actually pretty funny, albeit unintentionally. Prior to shooting, I'd made the joke that I needed to review the film before deciding whether I'd agree to be in it (implying that I could afford to be choosy). Foreshadowing.

Tomorrow I will come unstitched, at the hand of one of the nurses I distrust. She will pull out the thread like she's letting out the waistband of a tight pair of pants, transforming my Frankenstein elbow into what I imagine to be a scarred Freddy Krueger elbow. My elbow is nervous; it gets comfortable in its imperfect state, and it fears change and pain. Personification.

We watched homemade airplanes get shoved off of a platform and fall, nose-first, into the Hudson River. The various crews sometimes jumped in after their motherships, chasing them to the depths of the Hudson and then bobbing back up again. From my angle, the airplanes—which were flamboyant and didn't appear to be especially aerodynamic—refused coast on the wind at all. Instead, they rather hopelessly stepped off the ledge like deliberate suicides. Simile.

I love traveling by train. Getting dropped off directly at the platform, throwing my bags in a seat, and watching as the town and the people shrink and disappear, hands in the air. We slice through hearts of small communities, spying on the people who walk down sidewalks, play soccer in fields, and wait at stoplights. We see the backs of buildings, dilapidated relics and newer, flat cinderblock sheetcakes. We cut through forests and industrial parks, and we sail over water.

There are no seating assignments or metal detectors or check-in gates. Just old paper tickets which get decorated with a puzzling pattern of star-shaped hole punches that litter the train floor like confetti. Conductors wear round flat-topped hats; they call out names of unheard of towns and (really) yell AllAboard, singing it as one word. It feels like visiting the past, minus the reminders: cell phones, SUVs, fashion, Wal-Marts.

My grandmother is 90 years old today. It's impossible for me to know what that means, really; it's like trying to fathom the size of Saturn, or the amount of money spent on the war on Iraq. When she was born—my uncle read to a room full of relatives earlier today—her family had no electricity, and radio had not yet been invented.

In the corner of the room was a collection of pictures of a younger woman with features I recognized. She was absent in one of them; it was of her immediate family and had been taken before she'd been born. Faded and yellow, it was the kind of picture in which no one smiles and the subjects stare ominously back at you from the unfathomable past. I'd brought a couple pictures of her as well, but I accidentally left them, kissing each other, in my bag.

I knew (or had known) most of the people in the room, though few very well; my favorites are still my favorites. We spent three hours (plus) catching up, before returning to our various corners of the country.

...

A man just walked through my car yelling, "Bruce Springsteen tickets! Goin' cheap!"

In my head, my parents stopped aging at about 40; they don't have gray hair or many wrinkles or any of the other signs that bodies display to announce their place on the deterioration timeline.

Whenever I do notice that they are, in fact, no longer 40, I subconsciously transform them back into the airbrushed versions, the people whose health and appearance are stubbornly static. (I'm pretty sure I reserve this habit exclusively for my parents.)

Of course, people I no longer know—such as the boy named Ricky who busted his head on the elementary school playground, or the girl named Paula whose brown eyes and dimples I admired—have cheated time as well; they are permanently children, not successful or married or fat or tall or dead. In fact, Ricky still has stitches in his forehead, and Paula is always sitting on a bench in the cafeteria, talking, smiling, exercising her dimples. If I ever went back to that cafeteria, I would half-expect to see her there.