Q's day 8 reflection: PoPo Part II and why Quyen's got the Blues

The thing about driving in states where it snows is that they do all their road construction during the summer, meaning every few files, there’s a construction zone where the fine for speeding is doubled or a flat $1000. The construction zones cones are placed about 5 miles from the actually zone of construction. Being the road warrior that I am, wouldn’t you know that it would be just my luck that I’d get flagged in Omaha on our way to Chicago by a cop for entering the construction zone at 75 instead of 55. The regular speed limit is 70.

To clarify, I was driving 45 through the construction zone where I first noticed that a cop car was following us and when I got pulled over he stated that he stopped for ENTERING the construction zone at 75 a few miles back! Well golly officer, we’re from out of state, I say. So I didn’t realize we were in the construction zone until we started seeing the construction site. Can I see your license please, he says, all business. Damn, I think. He’s not gonna listen to me talk him out of this one. And Mr. Terminator is not the flirting kind. And plus I’m Asian. He’s not gonna cut me a break.

While he checks out my driving record (clean), Angela wonders out loud how much the fine will be. She gasps when I tell her the signs said $1000 for speeding in the construction zone. We sit in silence until Mr. Terminator returns, ticket in hand. All right, now I wrote you up a ticket. I start moaning, NOOOOO. Now wait a minute here, he says, before you get too up set, I’m cutting you some slack. I took 10 miles off your speed, and I didn’t site you for speeding in the construction zone. So all in all, your ticket is only going to cost you $76. I heave a sigh of relief. How nice of him! Really, I say that with no sarcasm at all.

Now, he continues, I know you girls are from out of state, so here’s an envelope to mail in your fees but if you decide to show up for your court date, here’s the address. Good thinking PoPo. Cause there’s no way I’m going to show up at the Omaha county court house. Where you girls headed, he wants to know. New York, Angela says. New York, he exclaims! I’m going to grad school, Angela explains. Well, now, here’s a little bit of advice. Once ya’ll hit Illinois, watch the speed. They’re even worse than we are. Thanks officer we squeak. Have a nice day now, he says and takes off.

Wow, you just saved $900 on your Gieco insurance, Angela says. Leave it to me to get a ticket when I don’t even own a car anymore. Damn Asians.

I have to say though, getting a ticket in Omaha was about the most exciting Omaha is ever gonna get. It’s another bland state full of corn fields, country music, and big teased hair. Even more interesting is the way all the white folks out here like to stare. Especially if you’re Asian. Maybe cause they can’t figure out if you’re Asain or Native American. So Angela and I decided to give me a Native American name. Thus, in Nebraska through Omaha, I was not Quyen, aka Trinhity, but rather a Native American named Le’ahlani, if anyone asked.

The highlight of the day though was getting to Chicago and listening to some real soulful blues. We listened as The Killborn Alley Blues Band tore up the house and little old black ladies screamed out, sing it baby! Oh yeah! Sing it, sugar! We should have sat with them. Smitten with the band, we bought two of their albums. Love Chicago!