Going Global

C-- and I were passing a frisbee around yesterday in front of the university. C-- was working on his forehand, and I was working on my backhand. We were in our own little world, on the pretty lawn, with the trees' shadows lengthening as the sun set, and the bluing hills in the background.

It's a very scenic place that's perfect for touristy pictures. As usual, there were big crowds of Asian tourists. Some of them looked at us with curiosity. I felt a bit like a celebrity, throwing my frisbee for the onlookers.

There was one tourist in particular who was holding a camera with a very large lens. He nodded at me when I looked his way. This was suspicious. He seemed to be waiting for me to throw. As I did, he pointed his lens at me. I put my hand on my hip, and gave him an angry look for the camera. This showdown lasted a couple of seconds.

Now there's a family of pictures somewhere in China (I'm pretty sure he was Chinese.) They're called Angry White Girl Without Frisbee.

Finally he turned his camera away from me. He turned it straight to C--. Now, C-- was standing at most 10 feet away from this guy.

There's another picture in China, now. It's called White Guy's Facial Pore.

After a while, I noticed that this Camera Guy had a friend. This friend also had a very big camera. (Well, if they weren't friends, they were picture buddies. I saw them photographing one another later.) And this friend was taking a picture of Camera Guy taking a picture of C--'s pores.

At that point, it was too much for me. Surrounded on all sides by the Asian paparazzi, I made my tactical retreat back to the car. But somewhere, probably in China, my imperfect backhand is immortalized in what must be hundreds of family photo albums.