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.

++++++

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.)

++++++

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.

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

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

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.