Note: This story may be recorded for quality assurance purposes…

I was in the Crystal City Underground, returning from some mindless errand that I had decided to incorporate into my lunch break.  The "Underground" is a series of connected stores – a mall – that is in the collective basements of all the buildings in Arlington, a block or so from the Pentagon.

I decided to call my dad while I had lunch – an international call.  I carefully dialed the country code and number and was directed to customer service to activate "international calling" on my calling plan.

Now, I know I’m asking a lot, here.

  My carrier has notoriously poor connectivity in Arlington in the first place, I’m in a cave in the swamps of the Potomac, next door to a major airport.  So I didn’t really expect a miracle here, I was just hoping I’d get lucky from the spot I was in, which sometimes, though rarely, was possible.

No such luck.  We both made a valiant struggle to get through the conversation.  I even abandoned my food to go out to the subway entrance, where I’d get a line-of-sight to open air.  It worked – a little.  From this point we could both piece together slightly longer fragments of one another’s sentences.

I tried to explain that I was attempting to place a call to Costa Rica.

"Where?"

"Costa Rica!"

"Italy?"

"Costa Rica!!"

"I’m sorry, Sir.  Could you please call back on a land line."

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