This week I am being trained (a professional class I am attending) by one of the leading trainers of the environmental subject I am supposed to be a specialist in. I have learned more about an Environmental Management System (EMS) from he, and my long-time friend, than any other team or program provided by the Department of Defense (DOD). As your life progresses and this story unfolds, you might start seeing a lot more of these acronyms, and understand just a bit more about yourself.
The instructor for the course, for a very long time, has enamored me with his deliberate verse of the International Organization of Standards (ISO) 14001. The instructor has an enormous background supporting his keen British, English or what may have been described by himself (after a mocking of him during class), an Australian accent in the International Standard of an EMS. Listening to him deliver any message with his dialect is often interesting in itself.
First thing my readers need to understand is that an EMS (on the environmental front) is nothing more than a way of doing environmental “stuff”. Basically, how we do environmental ‘stuff’ where I work? What is our system? . . . in a written and documented format . . . requiring certain ‘elements’ to ensure it meets an ‘International Standard’. All Federal Government agencies are required to abide.
So throughout the four days of this class I was able to dump another couple jars of my signature Chimichurri (my friend calls it Chubascomoenvea, . . . or something like that). Hopefully my Chimichurri will soon become an “International Standard”. The class was being held in Point Loma at one of a popular hotel chain’s conference rooms that supported our government employee’s sloppy learning comforts for those four days (all the very icy water available, . . . that seemed to be all). The hotel location was adequate with some mysterious parking arrangement adjacent in the city owned lot next door that perplexed every classmate and the teaching staff the very first day. Turns out the lot next door is fair game for up to 72 hours (constant). So it was easy to park and access the training site, because anyone not staying at the hotel was only there for the day. But since the training site was at a distant location from my home, I was never able, or necessarily prepared for bringing my leftovers as lunches to the training location. There was no obvious hotel staff nearby or microwave that I noticed, yet I think some of us brought some non-perishables from home anyway for sustenance.
As the first day broke for lunch I already had my plan to extinguish my sandwich fix from Brown Bag Deli ( a long time favorite of mine and 8ft sandwich caterer for my military retirement). I also had a fresh workmate (New Guy) with me and I was eager to show him ‘my place’ to have a sangwich. I enjoyed my lunch, as New Guy and I had begun to learn a bit about each other over a sandwich; however the sandwich wasn’t the same as I remember, New Guy thought there was just a bit too much of ‘the green stuff’, referring to the avocado/mix that is used. I said to him, “no, never get the avocado”. I had forgot to tell him about that. Maybe it is the bread that I remember, cause that simply rocks; and I believe they have had the same bread for many . . . many years. I don’t remember if they make it at the Point Loma location (they have only one other shop near 32nd Street Naval Station), or if they buy it from another bakery. Good stuff!
Anyway the second day takes us further on an ambiguous road trip through Point Loma searching via cell-phone mapping app, to find New Guy’s favorite place to eat a sangwich in that area. You see, I had not totally realized this “New Guy” had lived in, basically, Southern California his entire, guessing 34 year life; and I had found out that his father was a multi-restaurant/café owner in San Diego and previous Executive Chef of the RMS Queen Mary in Long Beach. But with every conversation we began to reminisce about various Southern California (I’m So Cal born and raised as well) locations. I even brought up another restaurant (must have been before his time), The Velvet Turtle in Redondo Beach, where in front of that restaurant is where I rolled the first VW I had owned. We remembered and actually shared a lot of the same locations and experiences of living in Southern California together. We even recognized some of the same events with our 20 year difference.
So New Guy (this is still day 2) takes me to his favorite ‘deli’ that he says, “It’s in the back of a market, but it’s my favorite sandwich in Ocean Beach (OB)”. Again I was still learning that New Guy has lived in So Cal his whole life . . . literally! After the hand-held navigation on New Guy’s phone damn near killed us 3 times, we end up at Olive Tree Market, an international foods market that has been in this location for some 40 years, owned and operated by a Greek family that New Guy was acquainted with. I guess he had lived just down the street from this market for some time. I am walking through and checking out the market and some of the foods available. I notice this place does not carry a Chimichurri. Stumped, I become curious as to the other ‘worldly’ things this guy carries at his market as New Guy is now conversing with the store owner. New Guy calls me over for an introduction to Chris, the store owner. I am somehow surprised this ‘international food’ market owner does not have an accent that I somehow anticipated being of Greek ancestry and being introduced by another Greek . . . the New Guy, and he doesn’t have an accent either.
So I missed an opportunity to talk Chimi with Chris, but had hoped for a reintroduction later that week to drop off two jars of my Chimi and talk shop . . . and restaurants, since I had learned that Chris now owns the entire building and the restaurant next door, Ulivo, where the family’s Mediterranean cuisine may be enjoyed. There’s still another Indian food restaurant, Sundara, that has been there for years occupying the end of that building. We didn’t try either restaurant, but we did order a fresh sandwich from the deli inside of the Market. As was with New Guy’s interpretation of ‘the best’ sandwich, my experience was just played as a reverse role. My Rueben sandwich was overpowered with their 1000 island dressing. It made for an awkward eating along some part of the boardwalk wall that he had navigated us to not far from the market. As we sat along the wall eating our sandwiches and talked more about living in the area, we would become increasingly interrupted by one of the various beach transient people staring, gawking and asking questions about where we scored the sandwiches. New Guy seemed at home telling them the Market was just up the street.
I learned a thing or two about New Guy, a couple restaurants I may elect to try in the future, and a bit more about an EMS and myself, now realizing that I am increasingly less of the “original” Californians living in Southern California, cause I keep running into long-time residents with roots that run deep . . . just without an accent.