fringes of Chinatown.
My Louboutin stilettos echo in the lobby like rapid-fire bullets ricocheting off the black granite floor and glass walls. The security guard checks my name against a register, gives me a passkey, and directs me to take the express elevator to the twenty-eighth floor.
When the doors open, I step out of the elevator into a sleek reception area with floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic views of the city and bay.
The receptionist is wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and seated at a Lucite desk with a computer monitor built into the top. It’s very Tony Stark-ish. I am not a big movie-goer, but a date took me to see Avengers and I’ve been crushing on Robert Downey, Jr. ever since.
She smiles at me and taps the computer screen.
“Good afternoon, and thank you for calling Each One, Teach One. How may I help you?”
She pauses. I use the opportunity to study the picture on the wall behind her of African teens constructing an elaborate pipeline-like structure. The picture dissolves and is replaced by another—grinning school children in a thatched hut in Panama or Guatemala or Honduras. La Vache! That is so cool. A hidden laser is projecting the images onto the glass. Totally slick. Totally Stark Industries.
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist says, pressing her finger to her earpiece. “I would be happy to announce your call. Will you hold, please?”
She taps the tabletop screen and then looks at me.
“You must be Ms. Moreau.”
“Yes.”
“Won’t you please have a seat?”
She nods her head at the low-slung white leather sofas arranged in a U behind me. I take a seat, cross my legs at the ankles, and casually stare out the window at the clouds in the wide blue sky, as if I am not completely impressed by this trop stylé office.
“Evan,” the receptionist says, in a low modulated voice. “Mr. Eggum is calling with Feed the World. Shall I put him through?” She taps the screen two times and says, “Rachel, Ms. Moreau has arrived.”
A moment later, the receptionist is standing in front of me.
“Ms. Moreau, if you follow me”—she gestures for me to follow—“I will show you to the conference room.”
I stand and follow her down a hallway of opaque windows until we come to a large conference room with a sleek circular mosaic glass table. I take a seat in one of the white leather chairs and rest my hands on the arms.
“Finn and Rachel will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, can I offer you some jugo de papayo? ”
I frown.
“It’s a South American juice. We make it fresh each morning using pawpaw, lime, and carambola.” She smiles. “It’s quite delicious.”
“It sounds delicious.” I return her smile. “I would love some, thank you.”
Each One, Teach One has this whole Tony Stark meets Deepak Chopra vibe going that totally bewilders me. Should I take my shoes off and sit cross-legged, forearms resting on my knees, thumbs and index fingers touching to form circles? Or should I play it cool and unfazed, as if their slick offices and laser beam photographs are unimpressive, almost passé?
I opt for cool and unimpressed, because it is closer to my natural state and takes far less effort than attempting to pull off the New Age-y thing.
Once, Vivian forced me to visit a Neoplatonism practitioner with her for an article she was writing about the art of meditation. We were shown into a dimly lit room—the Golden Temple of the Etheric—where we were instructed to lie on mats. A tall, gangly man with a long, dirty gray beard promised us he would be our guide on a mind-bending out of body experience that he called astral flight. Yeah, it was utterly outré . Beyond bizarre. Vivian thought it was relaxing and said she thought her soul might have left her body for a few minutes—that she heard fiddle music and saw herself floating over the Irish countryside. I thought it was complete bullshit. And Vivian’s out of body experience? It was probably due to our having
My Louboutin stilettos echo in the lobby like rapid-fire bullets ricocheting off the black granite floor and glass walls. The security guard checks my name against a register, gives me a passkey, and directs me to take the express elevator to the twenty-eighth floor.
When the doors open, I step out of the elevator into a sleek reception area with floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic views of the city and bay.
The receptionist is wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and seated at a Lucite desk with a computer monitor built into the top. It’s very Tony Stark-ish. I am not a big movie-goer, but a date took me to see Avengers and I’ve been crushing on Robert Downey, Jr. ever since.
She smiles at me and taps the computer screen.
“Good afternoon, and thank you for calling Each One, Teach One. How may I help you?”
She pauses. I use the opportunity to study the picture on the wall behind her of African teens constructing an elaborate pipeline-like structure. The picture dissolves and is replaced by another—grinning school children in a thatched hut in Panama or Guatemala or Honduras. La Vache! That is so cool. A hidden laser is projecting the images onto the glass. Totally slick. Totally Stark Industries.
“Yes, sir,” the receptionist says, pressing her finger to her earpiece. “I would be happy to announce your call. Will you hold, please?”
She taps the tabletop screen and then looks at me.
“You must be Ms. Moreau.”
“Yes.”
“Won’t you please have a seat?”
She nods her head at the low-slung white leather sofas arranged in a U behind me. I take a seat, cross my legs at the ankles, and casually stare out the window at the clouds in the wide blue sky, as if I am not completely impressed by this trop stylé office.
“Evan,” the receptionist says, in a low modulated voice. “Mr. Eggum is calling with Feed the World. Shall I put him through?” She taps the screen two times and says, “Rachel, Ms. Moreau has arrived.”
A moment later, the receptionist is standing in front of me.
“Ms. Moreau, if you follow me”—she gestures for me to follow—“I will show you to the conference room.”
I stand and follow her down a hallway of opaque windows until we come to a large conference room with a sleek circular mosaic glass table. I take a seat in one of the white leather chairs and rest my hands on the arms.
“Finn and Rachel will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, can I offer you some jugo de papayo? ”
I frown.
“It’s a South American juice. We make it fresh each morning using pawpaw, lime, and carambola.” She smiles. “It’s quite delicious.”
“It sounds delicious.” I return her smile. “I would love some, thank you.”
Each One, Teach One has this whole Tony Stark meets Deepak Chopra vibe going that totally bewilders me. Should I take my shoes off and sit cross-legged, forearms resting on my knees, thumbs and index fingers touching to form circles? Or should I play it cool and unfazed, as if their slick offices and laser beam photographs are unimpressive, almost passé?
I opt for cool and unimpressed, because it is closer to my natural state and takes far less effort than attempting to pull off the New Age-y thing.
Once, Vivian forced me to visit a Neoplatonism practitioner with her for an article she was writing about the art of meditation. We were shown into a dimly lit room—the Golden Temple of the Etheric—where we were instructed to lie on mats. A tall, gangly man with a long, dirty gray beard promised us he would be our guide on a mind-bending out of body experience that he called astral flight. Yeah, it was utterly outré . Beyond bizarre. Vivian thought it was relaxing and said she thought her soul might have left her body for a few minutes—that she heard fiddle music and saw herself floating over the Irish countryside. I thought it was complete bullshit. And Vivian’s out of body experience? It was probably due to our having
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