February Food

For the second month (February) of our 12 Month Project, Charlotte and I decided to create a piece on the theme of FOOD. On a recent trip to Hawaii, I had the opportunity to learn quite a bit about the species of plants currently inhabiting the islands and how they're classified. Plants classified as "modern" or "exotic" came to the islands since the arrival of Captain Cooke, while "canoe plants" are the species that were brought over on canoes by the Polynesians. These were infrastructural and dietary staples like breadfruit ('ulu) and taro (kalo). It got me thinking- what would I bring on my canoe? What dietary staples would I need in a new land? My first thought, proof of my national identity, was PB&J.

Late to the Party & the 12 Month Project

I've heard that lateness is inherited. I think that this might be true, if not genetically then at least as a learned behavior. It's not important, really, except that this post is showing up pretty late to the party. And maybe not in a glamorous way, but in the my-car-broke-down-because-it's-older-than-me-and-I-had-to-use-my-sweater-to-wipe-up-the-oil kind of way. It's here though, and I offer it with the hope that it doesn't smell too much of gasoline...

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I'm thrilled to announce a project that I'll be working on with the very talented illustrator and my dear friend Charlotte- you can find her here and here. We've decided to do a collaborative project where each month we both make a piece of art on the same theme; January's theme was "an inspirational quote". I took this loosely, and picked a quote from the Tom Robbins book Jitterbug Perfume. Tom Robbins is an author, prophet, and crazy person. In any case, here's the print, and the context of the quote. Enjoy! And head on over to Charlotte's blog to look at her January print and other artwork. She's the best, right?

"If wild animals could talk, would they talk like cartoons? Would the dismal swamp resound with shrill, befuddled, childlike voices; a cute choir of cuddly Kermits delivering gentle froggy inanities?

"Or would beasts converse in the style of Hemingway, in sentences short, brave, and clear; each word a smooth pebble damp with blood; aboriginal speach, he-man speech, an economy of language borrowed by Gary Cooper from frontiersment who borrowed it from Apache and Ute?

...

"'Well how about you?' we ask a fox. 'Have you seen a couple in Byzantine garb heading in the direction of Bohemia?'

"The fox is slow to speak. 'Tonight I dined on loon at the pond,' he says. 'It was a good meal. Food has an excellent place in my values. Quiet has an excellent place in my values. The forest has been quiet tonight. It is a god thing being a fox when the forest is quiet.'

...

"Is that the way animals would talk?

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What a riotously unusual and usual season of thanksgiving this winter was. Both separate from family with whom I'm used to spending the holiday and together with family I assume are implied and all stitched up in the seams of my life (until someone says wait, what? And I respond, well...). We mused over how the holidays always bring up dramatic and teenage-worthy feelings of angst, abandonment, and suffocation. As surprising as these bulldozer emotions are, the truly surprising thing is that we're always surprised when they pop up again the next year. Thanksgiving is done and triumphantly so, and the next month was more of the same, if maybe this December was a little more stretched than usual. In all honesty, I can't say it wasn't perfect; I anxiously anticipated the arrival of far-away friends and the weekends off I'd scheduled months in advance in order that we might re-attempt a feat similar to our previously achieved watching of HIMYM in its entirety. I jest, this was not in the forefront of my goals for the season, but I was psyched nonetheless for the blisteringly-full weeks to come. I guess I'm very thankful for the holidays as a reason to celebrate, and for all those things in my world that are worthy of more frequent and outlandish celebration. So many things. Not least of which is having people to approach without fear of judgement or rejection with the suggestion, "Since it's Thanksgiving, let's face-paint vampire fangs. Get it? FANGS-giving?!" To have these people at the ready, unquestionably and endlessly present, to have some of them put up a bit of a fight, maybe roll their eyes, but in the end, we all knew who would win this one because it wasn't so much of a suggestion as a mandate, and they know me and I know them and we all knew it was a good idea, even if some of us (not me) did wash off our fangs immediately after the photo. It's ok, I'll take it. The tolerance of the escapade is the takeaway, and the fact that they'd do it for me, and that they'd do it at all because it's not like I'd want just anyone to be in my Fangs-giving holiday portrait. There's a reason I love the people I do, and it's not least because they find some humor in painting on fangs and taking a picture, even if it wasn't their idea.

    

That's a bargain, b*tch

Playlist

"I am stunting and flossing and saving money and I’m hella happy. That’s a bargain, bitch, I’mma take your grandpa's style. I’mma take your grandpa's style, no for real, ask your grandpa. Can I have his hand-me-downs?"

- Macklemore, Thrift Shop

Thrift Shop - Macklemore
(Quoted above) A true homage to the emergence of hipster culture into the mainstream, and to the economic downturn. Everybody loves a bargain. Thanks, Macklemore, for bringing art back into the realm of the every day. You are truly the Degas of our time.

As Long As You Love Me - Justin Bieber
The reality here is that love does not make up for poverty or hunger. Let's be real, Justin. Also, you are 12. But clearly this is not your first rodeo, as your song Baby debuted at #5 on the Billboard "Hot 100." Justin, this song, which you wrote when you were actually 12 (maybe?), includes the lyrics "I'll buy you anything. I'll buy you any ring." Don't be stupid Justin, you're 12 and shouldn't be buying rings for anyone. You are too young for marriage. 

Give Me Everything Tonight - Pitbull
Pitbull sings: "Grab somebody sexy, tell 'em hey, give me everything tonight." Can you imagine doing that? In a club or something? Walking over to somebody you think is cute, grabbing them, and saying to them "Give me everything tonight." Can you imagine that working? What would that even mean? Though I guess we're in a similar realm here as Nelly when he says "It's getting hot in herre, so take off all your clothes" to which his lady friend replies "I am getting so hot, I'm gonna take my clothes off." Really? She's totally down. She even re-states his mandate as if it's her idea. It's interesting.

Ignition- R Kelly
Another winner. Mr. Kelly sings, "Sippin on coke and rum, I'm like so what I'm drunk. It's the freakin' weekend baby, I'm about to have me some fun." Yes, R Kelly. whatever, you're drunk, go have fun. It's the weekend!

Tik Tok - Ke$ha
And it's hard to know where to begin with Ke$ha. The truth is that it becomes more unbearable to me every day that I do not have a dollar sign in my name. Furthermore, Ke$ha's use of one of my favorite words - crunk, and her reference to "boys tryin' to touch her junk" make her untouchable (!) in my book. Not that I endorse boys trying to touch anyone's junk willy nilly, I just enjoy a good reference to one's "junk" every once in a while.

Sexy Bitch - Akon & David Guetta
Getting back to basics, the song that really brought me to my current love of mainstream hip-hop. It's really phenomenal; the premise is that this woman he knows is really hot, and he's trying to describe her without being "disrespectful". He's unsuccessful, though I can't imagine that he's really trying that hard. As he explains, "she's nothing you can compare to your neighborhood whore". Classic, Akon. But also, you can do better.

Two Reasons - Trey Songz
The morning after I posted this I woke up at, I kid you not, 6:30 AM thinking, oh no! I forgot about Two Reasons! I proceeded to sing the winning (and practically the only) line in my head on repeat - "I only came here for two reasons, I can't lie. I only came for the bitches and the drinks." Interestingly, having only heard it on the radio, I thought the lyric was "I only came for the ladies and the drinks" which I feel a little better about. Either way, it's worth a mention, and given that my attempts to incorporate the song into my everyday life have been largely unsuccessful*, here it is.

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I work as a nanny and mostly, I love it. Nothing's perfect, but spending lots of time with kids and getting to sleep in is a pretty good deal. I also have the great good fortune to have at my disposal my family's 2000 Toyota Sienna or, as it's become known, the Family Van. No swearing or disrobing in the Family Van. Just kidding, that's pretty much all that happens in there. From time to time the Family Van and my work come together in a magical car ride I like to call "Wait, are those your kids because you look a little young but your hair is disheveled enough that you could be their mom." And one time some kids honked at me as I drove along in the Family Van- clearly some type of Electra-complex situation. The other day, driving my kids back from school, one of them said, "I bet that people looking at you driving think that you're a mom." I started laughing hysterically and said "I bet you're right." I was laughing, I think, because it was either that or the tears. The kids were laughing, I think, at the idea that anybody could mistake me for a mom. Laughable.

I do like to keep things fresh though. I mingle with the youth from time to time, and I try to keep the Family Van's radio tuned into Movin' 99.7 (All the hits!). In the interim I try to keep a sense of humor about the way I spend most of my time, i.e. as a mom/minivan driver. I do things like the Family Van paper-cut above, and wearing my recently inherited maroon velour workout suit from my grandfather. I wore it out once as a joke, but the fun wore off pretty quickly and I felt trapped. Lesson learned.

*Once I sent a group message to a few of my good friends (I have recently discovered group messaging, much to the dismay of my loved ones), one of whom (Nick) is a tattoo artist, containing the following: "Will you support me if I get a tattoo on my lower back that says 'I only came here for the ladies and the drinks.' Also, Nick, will you do a tattoo for me?" The message was largely ignored (appropriately), except for one response, from Nick; he wrote "Yes. And yes." Another time, I went on a first date and when my gentleman friend started a sentence "I used to come here..." I finished it "for the ladies and the drinks?" He said, "Well, I came with my mom, so I guess I came here with a lady." He didn't get the reference.

Worlds Collide with an "Oof"

I drove up north about an hour to see him in the hospital with my cousin and uncle. He looked pretty bad- alarmingly so. I hadn't seen him so sick, and it was a shock. He was all drugged up and feeling rotten and skinny and small in the big bed. It's hard to know what to say, because "how are you feeling" is salt in the wound and it's hard to think about anything else. We didn't hang out long, because attention spans are significantly shortened by pain and morphine, and on our way out of the room, he said "Donald Trump is on the phone." I smiled and nodded, not knowing what to make of it, not wanting to think about it too much because I don't know that I'd want what I'd make of it if I did. My cousin said, "No, look at the TV. It says Donald Trump is on the phone scrolling across the bottom." And I realized that he was making a joke. I laughed, said "I love you" and "Bye."

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Things aren't ever simple. I've had this conversation with a number of people in a variety of contexts, but I think that this is one of the things that makes life and living so phenomenally beautiful. And even when they are simple they don't exist in a vacuum, and they are hopelessly intertwined with something essentially messy or confusing or inconvenient, so they're not really simple anymore. I've been feeling lately that worlds are colliding, but it doesn't look or feel like the big bang (as I imagine it), or like the parts of "Fantasia" that are all dark and color smashing into each other with dramatic music and cymbals* and fear and exploding light. It's more like fumbling or rolling or floating around in the dark, bobbing along without direction and then bumping into something soft and warm with enough force and surprise that out comes an inadvertent grunt, an "Oof." What was that? And then things move along, mostly like before, but there's some shame or embarrassment about the collision, and nothing and no-one is quite sure what just happened, of if it will happen again.

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My grandpa died the other day, in what can only be considered a whirlwind of insanity and calm and coming together and missing each other and talking and turning inward and reflection and confusion and grounding and feeling lost and really, who knows? We went out to dinner to celebrate him the day after, because it's what he wanted, and he didn't want anything else. We went around the table, a long one with family flown in from the east coast and the up north a ways and down south a long ways, and told stories about him. There was no need to innumerate the conflicts and breaks in communication or love or the anger and hurt that we all knew existed, and will live on in ways we can't control. We all knew that was there, but it wasn't time to air that. We were remembering our grandfather and our father, and with no pretense of covering up the dark or repainting the past, we shared.

They were all great stories, from all different parts of his life as well as ours. One of the ones that stood out was a story told by my uncle from when he was about 9, his brother a few years younger, and my mom about 2. It was on a camping trip, my uncle explained, that lasted the whole summer. The family went out in the family car and camped all over the country. One evening in Yellowstone National Park, a dinner of sandwiches and such was laid out for the five of them to eat on the tailgate of the truck. Maybe left out too long, or maybe not, the dinner attracted a bear who began to help him or herself to the meal. My grandpa, furious at the intrusion, grabbed a pot and went to town, whacking the bear away from the meal. These were days when we knew less about preservation, conservation, and bear safety. Apparently. Those of us who'd never heard the story before were slack-jawed; three tiny kids and his wife feet away and he's going head-to-head with a bear? He drove the bear away apparently. My other uncle added, "I remember it a little differently. I remember him getting in the front of the car and shoving the bear in the face with a broom while a neighboring camper shouted 'Wait! I'm going to get my camera!'" They noticed a yellow spot of paint on the bear's head (anyone else see where this is going?) and asked a park ranger on their way out of the park, how the bear's head came to be so marked. The parks had a system, explained the ranger, of marking and relocating bears that had attacked humans. They captured the bear in question, marked its head with a spot of yellow paint, and moved it far away from where humans might encounter it. Oh gosh. Defending life and dinner from a savage bear, a known enemy to humans? My grandpa was a damn superhero.


*Gosh, I'm the worst. I started out with this saying "symbols." Thank goodness I caught it, right? Like the time at camp when I thought I used the word "signet" when playing Contact with campers and staff on a hike. It was my mistake, because one of the kids guessed the other kind of signet, the kind that is a symbol (as on a ring or a necklace) and I had to give it up because even though he guessed a different word, it was kind of the same word. As I explained that I was thinking of the baby swan signet, my fellow counselor called me out and informed us all that the signet that I was thinking of was in fact spelled cygnet, like the constellation Cygnus, and that I was a dumb-face. He didn't say that, but we all knew it.

My tipi door doesn't have a key.

The first shift after a serious conversation with my boss about wages and employment, I'm opening the shop with a co-worker. I arrive and realize that I don't have my key. My heart stops. Well, I thought, my co-worker will have her key. Guess who wrote down the schedule wrong and thought she was coming in at 2? You guessed it, because I target a highbrow and overly-educated audience, my co-worker. And being the luckiest person on the planet, my father was at Peet's getting me coffee (I already said it, I'm the luckiest). So I coerced him into taking me back home and then back to work, keys in hand (not without nearly sliding down the stairs and ending it all much sooner than anticipated), all the while lamenting to myself  "My tipi door didn't have a key.What the heck!" And then I recall the dirt and the grit under my fingernails, and the sleepless (sleep-light) nights when there would come a shuffling, quiet and then louder, and then an "Aaaallleeexxx?" and I'd think WHY ME? There are THREE of us in here! and then the moment of recognition that I'm a little bit elated that it's me, and so I'd slip my feet into my shoes and pray for no slugs. And then I remembered that time, on our last day at camp, when one of my tipi-mates (one of the three) crept up to the door of our tipi from the outside and moaned "Aaaallleeexxx?" and a shock of adrenaline and dread zapped through me even though the kids were gone and it was 2:30 PM. And then I realized, and laughed out loud. But the store has keys, so I had to get them. And more luckily still, they were exactly where I'd thought they would be.

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My first temper tantrum since I don't know how long, and it feels so familiar, and so like an ugly but well-used work-shirt unearthed from underneath dust and notes written in on graph paper that say "you're cute". But mostly so stupid. That's the takeaway here. Work life, love life, home life, school life, thug life- all in a snarled mess that, surprisingly enough, wasn't resolved one bit by throwing my shoes at the wall. The body's natural tension-reliever of bursting into angry and self-pitying tears though was a relief, if not a solution. Curling up and snuggling down was a relief too, treating myself (and all those other things that aren't towing the line) with benevolent disapproval and reflecting on the alarming realization that my day inevitably ends much better if I've spent some time sweating. Who knew? (I'll tell you- everyone. Everyone knew.)

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My first visit with Isaac, Sam, Eleanore, and Lisa in a year went by in a haze of Star Wars talk, frozen yogurt with so many toppings, hugs given in passing or not at all because it was all just too much, and stories. What a gift. Cider, the cat even came through to make an appearance, and Sam said,

That's Cider.
I thought so. Did you know the first thing you ever told me was that Cider is a hunter?

No response. Kids have the good sense and the lack of hindsight to have no use for nostalgia of their own lives. Who needs it? There's so much to come. Isaac is all full of light saber talk:

I'm going to build a light saber.
Great! I think if anyone could do it, you could.
The only thing I've got to figure out is the power source. I might just use electricity instead of crystals...
Sure.
...because the way that real light sabers are made is very complex. I might just have to forfeit the laws of science.
Forfeit the laws of science? Well, honestly, people do it every day. So it sounds like you're well on your way.

And I'm glowing.

Good/Bad Things I do(on't do)

I am frequently struck with the intensity of the sense of morality, or good versus bad, in young children. Spending lots of time with a certain three-year-old this past spring, photos of people and animals we passed on the street often were classified as "BAD!" or rather, "MALO!". When I asked why, I typically got another hearty "MALO!" and we went on our way. This typically takes me by surprise I suppose because using words like "good" and "bad" doesn't hold much utility for me any more. It always feels a little like a hand-full of cold water in the face, just a surprise. What could it mean, really? I guess the world doesn't seems to lay out so simply for me anymore.

In conversation with my friend Dahlia a while back, she was really into characterizing people as "weird" or "crazy". As in, "You're weird!" or "My mom's crazy!" and at one point asking me, "Are your friends weird?". The question itself took me by surprise and I responded, "Well...yes, I guess they are all weird, but I think that's why I like them." And I couldn't substantiate this in any kind of legitimate way, but I bet you'd be hard pressed to think of even one person who isn't weird, or stupid, or crazy in some way. What are we without our quirks? And whether we classify them as good and positive, or bad and negative, don't they make us so fabulously interesting? A good friend of mine recently said to me, "It's so weird that you're so into Harry Potter. I just wouldn't expect that of you." Neat, right? Maybe he thought I was cool, and Harry Potter is lame (or possibly the opposite...) and his brain was working overtime trying to fit the two together. Either way, I think that I and Harry Potter are pretty great, and doesn't that make for interesting conversation?

I understand that it's a part of the developmental process, wanting to understand and label things as good or bad, learning about boundaries and rules and eventually how to make them for yourself and evaluate the ones set for you by others. It's just interesting. And when I think about it, even though I don't frequently make use of the words themselves, the idea of good and bad run pretty deep in the ways I look at and move in the world.

good:
make art
hum all the time
laugh
love people
hang with animals
hang with kids
be myself
dance in spontaneous situations
think a lot
feel things really strongly
see beauty
trust myself
love Harry Potter
travel
use words to communicate
use art to communicate
do really cool stuff


bad:
run away from things that make me happy
hum all the time
fear physical activity
judge myself
judge other people
hide in bed
think a lot
characterize things as "good" or "bad"
judge other people for the above
spell correctly (guess how many times it took me to get the word "legitimate" right? I'll never tell.)
look at other people and wonder why I'm not like them
carry on habits of a 13 year old
feel guilty
worry
don't trust myself
feel things really strongly
stop myself

Don't worry though. While I figure it out, I'm keeping busy.

Blowing smoke-rings of belly-steam

Things get confusing when I'm scampering all over the country, specially when the aforementioned scampering follows a more global-type of scampering. It gets even more complicated (or perhaps, less) when my post-summer vocabulary has been, as it always is, whittled down to about 1/3 it's original size and the vast majority of my feelings, observations, questions, hypotheses come out as "Rad!", "Shut up!", "Classic!" and the like.

I left camp, after 3 months of living on a little island where dirt under the nails was the norm and the introductory packet, which I haven't read for 3 years, tells you don't bother to bring a hair dryer. I headed south, through a city in which I spent a year and left feeling drained and confused. Though in this visit, I left with an understanding that I'd found a family during that year when I felt sick and tired for the majority of the time, a re-writing and a re-wiring of the stories I'd told myself about that time up north. As I traveled south this time, I felt encircled by a group of really special people who think that I'm really special, and it felt really good.

I drove to Corvallis with a great new friend and had some good family time with she and hers, ate fresh-caught tuna, played with kittens, bakes scones, and went on my way reluctantly.

I drove to Arcata, and had the best time. I stayed longer than I'd intended (thank goodness), mostly because my understanding of days, dates, and times is shaky at best since 3 months of staring at deer and exclaiming "Wait, what day is it?!". Great food, great days of extended sleeping, great family time, sister bonding that usually goes in fits and bursts and in the company of a whole host of other people, events and exhaltations.
"This is my sister!"
"Oh, wow! It's great to meet you."
"You too!" Me beaming. Hug Sarah. Things couldn't be any better, I swear.
And for a few days I forgot that I really miss my island with the deer and the dirt, and loved the fog and the layering in clothes that weren't entirely fleece-based. And I loved the heat when we caught up to it (outside of Arcata, of course), and the river and drinking beer (one is plenty after the summer I've had) and reading (endless pleasure after the summer I've had), and making new friends even as I'm relishing in those ones I've forgotten how to be without.

I left (implied: later than planned, even if still on the day), and felt like this for a million reasons when asked how I felt about going home:

Ummmmm...

And there are different parts of this "um"- the home part, and the returning part. They're different questions- am I returning home? How is it returning?

Back in the Bay, I've got not much to say except that I'm here, and my brain's come loose.
Why then, Alex, would you choose to share this with your vast and exhaustively literate audience?
Great question reader. You tell me. No? Well. Moving on.

I'll leave you with that. That's to say, with nothing more than a mind gurgling with things that are hard to articulate and give off a scent that's alternately intoxicating and revolting. Life, right? Classic.

Via del Burro and Ice-cream City

Comfort born of intimate knowledge and best best friendship pervaded my stay in Rome. What a gift, to begin my further travels with my great friend Loren, and her sister Gracie too! We talked about traveling, living, love, home, being women and girls, eating, spaghetti carbonara, gelato, landmarks, walking, blisters, thinking, tiny penguins and dancing cats, being late and getting lost, cooking, growing and growing gardens, where we'll live, how we'll live, how activism lives in our lives, how that's different for everybody because, guess what? Everybody's different. I know, shocker.

Maybe I'm laying the gratitude for friends on a little thick here, so let's be real for a minute (as if I'm every anything else): my life these days is absolutely marked, shaped, formed, and transformed by the support of those closest to me. As much as traveling has shaped me, it wouldn't mean anything if I extracted from that travel the ways in which the love and presence of my loved ones has buoyed me at the same time. And the fact that I've had the opportunity to see so many of those so close to me during my travels, well it makes the celebration of those friends that much more inevitable. So there's that. And honestly, I'm plagued just as much (more? Probably not...) as anyone else with doubts about friends, friendship, being liked and loved, being likable and lovable. Maybe it's just that these relationships and connections seem like the most noteworthy things in my life right now. As much as I struggle with the presumptuousness of writing my thoughts and feelings and publishing them, these friends and friendships seem to me worthy of sharing (to be clear, sharing on this blog, i.e. with my mom). Just laying it all out on the line here; dropping some knowledge. Like I do.

I bought a stuffed goat (not taxidermied, worry not!) for Per in lieu of leaving behind a friend of George to keep him company. I toyed with the idea of leaving George, but I can't quite bring myself to do that. So a goat it is. A goat named Marco; he's Italian. Marco slept with Loren, George, and me once he joined our little caravan, and he and Loren in particular became fast friends. Let me share with you a memory that I will pull out whenever a melancholy mood threatens violent takeover:

I went to the bathroom getting ready for bed while Loren laid in bed, preparing mentally I suppose, for the same.

Loren: What's that?

Marco the Goat (Loren): Maaaaa.

Loren: I know, she's taking forever.

MtG: Maaaaaa.

Loren: Don't worry, she'll come back. She's just in the bathroom.

MtG: Maaaaaaa.

Loren: I know, I totally agree.

MtG: Maaaaa.

Loren: Hahahaha. Don't worry. I won't tell her.

I can't imagine a life without friends like this- ones that converse with toy goats and imaginary ghost people and take everything you say and sing it in a throaty Tom-Waits-meets-the-Rolling-Stones kind of way. This kind of creativity and silliness is my life-force, or maybe the butter in life that makes it worth eating, and occasionally overeating, but never eaten with regret when all is said and done. What would we do without these friends? What would we do without butter? Vegans stutter- I know, I know, you do do without butter. I wish I could. But I can't. Or won't, if we're being real.

We cooked dinner the night Gracie came to visit, and it turned out magnificently under the benevolent kitchen-dictatorship of Loren.

Gracie: If you keep taking pictures of me, it's going to look like I'm on some kind of weird cooking show where I do random things that don't add up to anything!

Loren: Now, add the flour and eggs together. Do you think the cake will be OK without baking powder and baking soda? Yeah, probably. Right?

Alex: Uh...

Loren: Yeah Gracie, just mix them all up together, equal amounts, and then whip the eggs.

Alex: I'm trying to help, but I'm just in the way. Should I just get out of the kitchen?
Loren: NO! I need you to help me spice the veggies. You're not in the way.

Alex: OK.

Gracie: Is this good?
Loren: No, keep stirring.

Alex: FOREVER.

The cake was very dense, and everything was delicious, and don't worry, we finished the entire can of whipped-cream by the time we left Rome. What would I do without friends like these? I honestly have no idea. Certainly not eat gelato twice a day. Which we did.

Off Again

And so the journey continues. From Zurich to Rome.

From Rome, with only a few tears, to Istanbul.

Istanbul, not bad, right? Guess what? Turkish, it's a great language. It's related to Finnish, and guess what else? HUNGARIAN! The world tends to line things up in surprising ways.

More later- trying to spend less time on the computer, and more time in the city, though even with the lure of the computer ignored, I've been spending a lot of time lying in the sun with this; it's like a drug. The family thinks I'm sleeping in but really, I'm reading. What's becoming of me? I remember this with Harry Potter. Curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of my parents' room, as was my habit in those days, with a headlamp and the Book. Being in middle school, I remember my mom sitting up eventually and telling me to go to sleep. With a plaintive look in my eye, I would say "But mom, I'm almost finished, and Harry's battling Voldemort!" She, with a look of pity and understanding and resignation, would say, "Alright." 

And in the morning, I would be exhausted, but exhilarated. Basically the best.

George (not curious) cake for Ashley's 1st!

 Watch out Martha, I'm comin' for ya!

Just kidding, Martha would laugh in my face if she had time to spare between whittling homemade marshmallow sticks. Even so, here he is. Next stop, here... Seriously though, I just want to make those cookies that have a cutout to put on your teacup. Genius, right?

"I can't talk!"

Love,

Alex

Great Friend and the Great Plain

The other weekend, I had the magnificently good fortune to visit (again) with my great friend Dianna. We met in Hungary, where Dianna has been teaching medical English to medical students at the University of Debrecen (yeah, she's kind of a big deal). It was lovely and warm and whispy dandelion seeds floated around everywhere making it feel like I was in some kind of blissful dream.


Furthering the sense that this trip was some crazy dream was...the Hungarian language. I will tell you this for free- Hungarian is crazy. I am not joking. I am eschewing my inner jokester with a firm hand in order to communicate to you with all seriousness that Hungarian is unlike anything I've ever come across. Maybe Hindi made more sense to me because I expected it to be crazy (linguistically speaking) because of the Devanagri script. Hungarian blindsided me, though if I had done any research prior to my trip, it wouldn't have. Hungarian is a member of the Finno-Ugric group of the Uralic language family. It is an Ugric language, a classification which is shared with Mansi and Khanty, spoken in western Siberia. Sibera, as you may know, is the place where Perchik, the husband of the second oldest daughter in "Fiddler on the Roof" was jailed because he was a Bolshevik Revolutionary. I say this not because it is relevant, but because (with the exception of conjunctive words) "Siberia" is the only word used in the previous sentences that has any meaning to me. I'm bringing it back down to my level. Like when someone starts talking about the bible and my response is, "Well, that's not the way it happened in 'Jesus Christ Superstar; " with a smugness born of the knowledge that my information is infallible not only in an academic sense, but also because it has come the mouth of God. In song. 


So, the takeaway here is that if you, like me, have been lulled into a sense of security and superiority because of a passing familiarity with French and Spanish because hey, you can even understand some words written in Italian! then think again my friend. There's a whole other linguistic world out there. And it's called, well, I wrote it above. And DON'T ask me to pronounce it.


But really, these were just pieces of a lovely, dreamy, delicious few days spent with the lady I can see myself spending the rest of my life with (yeah, I said it. Watch out, Chris...). So here are some photos. And guess what else? I got home, and remembered this quote which, in my typically omniscient and psychic fashion (not), I had copied out of the book when I read it and saved it on my computer. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, the crane is not, as far as I can tell, the national bird of Hungary. But who cares, right? Tom Robbins is a freakin' genius. Just go with it.

The crane is the bird of poetry. It was Robert Graves who pointed out that the crane has been traditionally connected with poetry all the way from China to Ireland. The crane is the national animal, the totem animal of Hungary...Graves says, 'While there are still cranes in Hungary, poetry is bound to continue.' He's right. And if poetry continues, Hungary will continue. Religion and politics are unnecessary to the culture – or to the individual – that has poetry.

- Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

Love,

Alex

The Walk with Per

Kids are great, and Per is no exception. The exception to them not being great is not that they're not great, it's that you're not great, in that moment, and don't have the patience for their greatness in the form it is coming in. Sometimes, that greatness takes the form of whining. Or playing with trains when it's time to get ready for school. And I find myself thinking to myself "I will kill you" and I know it's time to take a self-enforced timeout.

The walk to the daycare from the nearest tram stop is rife with things to look at and comments to be made. They're the same things and the same comments every day, and while it's sometimes agonizing, it's usually just enchanting. Every day, it's the same things that garner a pause (sometimes a long one) and conversation nearly identical to the one we had to day before at the same spot.

"¡Mira! ¡Que bonita!"

¡Mira! McQueen..." (check out those boots)

"¿ Dónde están los patos?" (crossing the bridge over the river)

"¡Mira! ¡Como tu!" (I wear dresses.)

"¡Mira! ¡Como mi!" (Per has a little white rabbit like these.)

Tell me you're not enchanted. I dare you.

Love,

Alex

A Market for Birds

If you're thinking, hey now, would you please clarify? Is this a market run by birds, or does it cater exclusively to birds, then you think like me and let's start a club. We'll call it "Imagination is Better than Reality" or something clever like that. These photos were taken at the Sunday Bird Market (regrettably, a market that sells birds and a few other animals) on the Île de la Cité. I could've spent all day there, but my traveling companions didn't like the look in my eye and indeed, I was hatching a plan to steal a couple of rabbits and free a particularly high-spirited cage of birds. Ah well, at least I have these photos, and a series of adventure-fantasies in which myself and a band of ruffians (the rabbits and birds) take Paris by storm, freeing pets all over the city and eating pizza every night in our surprisingly cozy sewer-home. Wait, am I thinking of something else? Here are the photos, in any case.

Love,

Alex

Travel with love

Another glorious weekend if imperfect perfection. I visited Vienna for the first time and saw my dear friend Dianna for the first time since June. Long overdue. The weather was mostly gloomy, and we talked and talked and talked and talked about love and travel and solitude and happiness and emptiness. We've both had lots of changes over the past year, and are both forging new paths into thrilling and death-defying territory. And these past two years have been big ones. We're growing up, if by that we mean meeting new joys and challenges and learning to love ourselves for all that (growing, but not grown).

We talked about what we want and need, what we expect from the ones we love and why we love them. When you're traveling, which we both are, you spend a lot of time with only yourself for company, and when you're in a new place, under new light, you look different, even to yourself. You question all these things that you didn't have to when you were at home, and after so much travel and self reflection we were both bursting at the seams. And it was Easter, so we ate a ton of chocolate.

So it was good, and tough, because when you're in a vulnerable situation like traveling, you organize your thoughts and emotions so that you're more stable and better equipped to move. Some thoughts get put on the back burner to make room for new thoughts. Those new thoughts are stored away so you get at them if you need them, but also in a way that doesn't let them overwhelm you. I think my brain is like a big, huge, industrial wearhouse with high ceilings and lots of dust and light and darkness. When you get in there to reorganize, to pull out things you've been storing up to show someone with whom you feel safe, everything gets less orderly and a little more difficult to manage. Ideally though, you've got your friend there to help you put things back into place and maybe reorganize in a way you hadn't thought of before. Reorganization is hard though, and anybody who has seen my room knows that organization doesn't often make it to the top of my list (who's going to watch that episode of Parks and Rec for the 5th time if I don't?!).
It's confusing when things feel right, or like they're headed somewhere important but they're messy and not altogether comfortable. In these times when things are not easily quantifiable, we look for non-traditional heroes, oracles that teach us things that make us squirm a little. Tom Robbins knows- just listen:


Flowing white hair and a dirty bathrobe, weathered face and hand-made sandals, teeth that would make an accordion jealous, eyes that twinkled like bicycle lights in the mist...He looked as if he had stolen down from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, by way of a Yokohama opium parlor... He looked as if he rolled out of a Zen scroll, as if he said “presto” a lot, knew the meaning of lightening and the origin of dreams. He looked as if he drank dew and fucked snakes. He looked like the cape that rustles on the back stairs of Paradise.


Right? Teeth that would make an accordion jealous. I'd follow him into the mist, that's for sure.

Love,

Alex

Why do you travel?

I had a great conversation with a new friend of mine who is Polish. Her name is Alexandra too, but she goes by Ola. We were talking about what we know about each other's countries.

Ola: When I tell people I'm Polish, they look at me like I've got something like "I'm easy!" written on my forehead! They always seem so surprised.
Me: Yeah, but that's because it's such a small country, right?
O: It's actually three-times the size of Switzerland.
M: Oh... You've heard that Americans are really bad at geography, right?
O: Yes. I heard that they think that Europe is one big country.
M: Well, I wouldn't necessarily go that far, but still...I mean, I consider myself to be a relatively well-educated person, and I go saying things like that! It's so embarrassing. I'm sorry. For all of us.
O: Well, nobody knows much about Poland.
M: Still...
O: I mean, when you say that you're from California, to me that just means "the States". I don't know anything about the different states!
M: (Mental note to not assume people know where California is. Don't be such an American snob! You've clearly no right, given the evidence above.)
O: Here's what I imagine it would be like driving through the United States. We're in a car- it HAS to be a Cadillac...
M: Yes, of course.
O: ...and we're driving and driving and driving and it's all totally flat. And then those things roll by (arm gestures a circular motion), I don't know what you call them in English...
M: Oh! Tumble weeds!
O: YES! Tumble weeds! And then we're driving and on one side of the road there's FOREST, and on the other side it's FLAT.
M: Um hmm.
O: And there are lots of huge trucks. And all the men are wearing these shirts (she gestures at her shoulders)...
M: You mean, white tank tops?
O: No, they've got lines like this (she crosses her fingers so she's making two peace signs that are layered on top of each other, perpendicularly).
M: Oh! Plaid!
O: Um...
M: Kind of like this (I pull out my tartan scarf)?
O: Yes! Like that! (we're both laughing now)
M: You know, there are actually parts of America that probably would look like this. Like, Kansas maybe.
O: Yes! KANSAS! (She recognizes that state. We laugh more.) And wait, then we stop at a restaurant. We walk in, and sit down, and a lady walks up to us (she mimes walking kind of like a cowboy, or someone with a strong gait) and says (with an accent that's reminiscent of...the wild west?) "Coffee?" So we say, "Yeah, Coffee" (in the same out-west kind of accent) and we also get omelet! (The laughing escalates. Omelets- always funny.) And when we get to California! Everyone is very tanned and beautiful.
M: Yes, true.
O: And everyone has these (she indicates with her fingers on either side of the bridge of her nose) because they've all just gotten nose jobs (I start losing it for real.). AND...(in a dramatic pause, she gives me a look that is equal parts seduction and excitement)...ROLLERBLADES!
(We are both gone. And peeing in our pants. It's all true, every word. Once we calm down, she asks in a tone that suggests she already knows the answer) Do you rollerblade?
M: Well...(I'm trying to figure a way out of this one) yes, I have... (Ola looks triumphant. She wins. What I didn't tell her is that I took rollerblading for an entire quarter of P.E. in high school. If I could get this girl to Golden Gate Park on a sunny Saturday, it would BLOW HER MIND. )
(And then she asks...)
O: How do you imagine Australia?
M: Everyone wearing that sort of beige, out-back kind of gear, you know?
O: Yes, and Kangaroos. EVERYWHERE.
M: Yes! EVERYWHERE!

Love,

Alex

Jerks, abroad.

They're here too. They're everywhere. It's almost like they're everywhere I am. And I surely can't have anything to do with it.

Let me give you an example. I went to an English language bookstore to find a guide to Zurich. Now, I acknowledge that there is a certain level of jerkyness that is endowed me merely by virtue of the country from which I come. Canada. Ha ha. Just kidding. Anyway, this is my cross to bare, for in return I reap the rewards of that fair country (which shall remain anonymous), namely fifty-two different types of flavored Cheetos and the right to say "Hella" and have it be mostly embarrassing, but also a little bit cool. I'm also knocked down a few notches by the fact that my German is limited to 'spielplatz' and 'schniede' and no, I don't know if those are spelled right but I know where the first ones are and I can help you with the second as long as you say please. Add in the fact that I sometimes use a backpack (I'm just trying to get my back-support on, you know?) and that I sometimes wear Keens, and that I sometimes wear both at the same time, and I'm pretty low down on the totem pole on the streets of international and refined Zurich. I know this though, and I let everyone else know that I know this by spending most of my time looking sheepishly at the ground, and the rest of my time eating chocolate and yogurt.

So, back to my example. I went in with Ashley in the stroller to look for a book. I noticed that there was an upper and a lower floor to the bookstore, which appeared to be accessible only by stairs. I noted this with some disappointment, but recovered quickly. I then saw an elderly lady and a mother with her young daughter getting into an elevator right next to the counter. I probably would've though it was an office or storeroom if I hadn't seen it functioning in its more vertically-inclined role, and on closer inspection saw that it was not marked at all, and that even the buttons were silver and unmarked. I decided, given the mysterious and standoffish nature of this elevator, to just double-check with the store patron before pressing the wrong button and potentially unleashing the highly punctual and Victorinox-armed guard dogs. She had spoken in English to the woman before me, so without preamble I asked:
Me: Excuse me, is this elevator available for customer use?
Jerk: (Look of disbelief and mild disgust) Yes, if you press the button.
M: Oh, Ok. (I felt the need to qualify my question as it was met with such disdain) I thought that maybe it was just for employees.
J: (Another pause, as if contemplating my idiocy, and then a patronizing look at an little chuckle) Oh, hu hu. No, no.

And as she turned, she was introduced to the business end of my ninja chop. I know, I know. I didn't really, even though Ashley would've made an excellent Ninjetti. Instead, Ashley and I got into the elevator, our moral high ground indisputable. But I will tell you this for free, we were not happy.

Most unfortunately, our first attempt to go to the top floor from the bottom did not go as planned. We got back in the elevator and I pressed what I estimated to be the correct button, again without the aid of relevant signage. The doors opened, I paused, and realized we had gone back to the same floor. I pressed the other button, and as the doors were closing realized that we had in fact gone to the right floor and that we were now headed to the ground-level floor, captained of course by the chief Jerk herself. The elevator smoothly (Everything in Switzerland happens smoothly. Even crunchy peanut butter. What a contradiction.) came to a halt and the doors opened as I pounded the button to go back up again while looking wide-eyed with panic, willing our benevolent bookstore dictator not to look over and see us standing like idiots who can't operate an elevator. She didn't. And so we didn't look like that. People who can't use an elevator. Because we can.

Love,

Alex

Post Script

To be honest though, I haven't come across that many jerks here. People have been pretty nice and down to earth and friendly, in spite of all the reasons (mentioned above) why I deserve less. And except for the parents of a young man I met who named that son Adonis, nobody has been outright cruel. I didn't even really meet them, so it can't really count, right? Switzerland has been good to me. Unlike Adonis' parents were to him.