Word: picked
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...drive to the end, where the throng thins. We nod to a woman, and she jogs forward and gets in. Dayami is about 30, lipsticked, in tight black jeans with a black mesh shirt over a sports bra. She's a doctor, on her way to pick up her daughter at school. We ask if it's hard to get medicine. After all, on the way from Havana, a billboard had read: YANKEE EMBARGO: GENOCIDE AGAINST CUBA. She says no, not really...
...Mart does face some challenges. It's the leading logistics company in the world, but it is not set up for shipping directly to consumers, an essential link in the e-commerce chain. To fill the gap, Wal-Mart has contracted Books-A-Million and Fingerhut to pick, pack and ship online orders--most likely a short-term solution. The company will also have to grasp how online shoppers shop. Choosing products to splash on its home page isn't like stocking razor blades by the check-out. "This is where it's behind the learning curve," Cooperstein says...
...working against the established grocers. Priceline.com the site that lets you name your price for airline tickets, is doing the same for groceries in Manhattan and Philadelphia; it expects to go national by next May. The catch: you still have to push a squeaky wheel around terrazzo flooring and pick up the items yourself. Savings kick in only at the register...
...drop the cake-bearing girls on the corner just past Guanabo's main drag and pick up a much older woman, 60 or so, who's been visiting her mother and needs to go just a little ways out of town. Ten minutes later--ĦAqui, Aqui!--she gets out. She smiles thank-you, and we smile goodbye--and again we're empty. We don't like to be empty. Through the Cuban countryside we feel ashamed to have the back seat unpeopled--all this room we have, all this fuel. It's getting dark, and as the roads...
...drop Estelle and Javier in Australia and pick up a family just outside of town. Grandfather, mother, daughter. They had been visiting a friend at the hospital and are going where we're going, to Playa Giron, home of the Cuban monument to the heroes of the Bay of Pigs. Our merengue tape, bought at a gas station, tinkles quietly from the speakers. We offer them--we offer everyone--water, cookies, crackers. They decline, and like most riders, this family says nothing unless we speak first; they don't even talk to one another. They watch the countryside pass, content...