Sensory Overload

the (mis)adventures of Snow Ninja

A few Tuesday's ago in March, deep in the soul-less darkness of a late-night Council meeting, a friend said to me, "Come snow camping with us this weekend!"  I thought I heard her say, "only a couple of miles to hike in," and "curl up around the wood burning stove."  It was late; I had a brutal cold; I was disoriented; I was unclear on the actual intersection of the concepts of "snow" and "camping."  So, I said "Yes." ~~~ I thought the weekend would look something like this:

The actual weekend was something like that photo ~ except without the cozy.....or the warmth.  Because it actually started and ended with hours of this:

Snow camping, it occurred to me too late, involves hours of trekking in the snow and wind to actually reach the mythical snow hut, where you imagine a cozy wood burning stove and plush pillows are waiting for you.  ~ But I am getting way ahead of myself ~ I need to back up, to explain how in the heck I found myself trekking through snow and wind and sleet and ice, on legs that felt like wet noodles after a few hours, wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to woman-kind.

So my two friends, who shall be known here as Mama Bear (MB) and Papa Bear (PB), are really great outdoor enthusiasts.  PB, in fact, is an extreme climber, skier, hiker, biker, and all around scaler of tall mountains.  So I should have know that when he said, "Oh it's just a few miles," that what he really meant was, "You will experience many Into-Thin-Air moments and you will feel like you are near death for most of the trip."  He and his friends call this "Type-2" fun ~ you know, not real hilarious "Type-1" fun but the kind of fun that you don't know is fun, until well after the shock has worn off and you realized you survived; then, it's fun.  But I didn't remember all this when I said, "YES!" to their invitation.  I figured they said snow trekking, in snow shoes, not skiing ~  anyone can do THAT!  I was glad we weren't going to ski up the trail to the hut.

Because you see, I have really only been skiing once.  Years ago.  I was too cheap to pay for a lesson, so a friend, an expert skier, gave me a few tips, which mostly involved his shouting "just go pigeon-toed!"  I didn't fall too much during the quote-unquote lesson, so I put on a brave face and said, "Let's do it!  Let's hit my first run!" . . . . the bunny slope.  Woo-Hoo!  It was my first time on a ski lift ~ and you know, those damn things move WAY too fast!  And how are you supposed to gracefully jump/slide/fall/slip off the lift at the summit?  I thought of all this as we went up, up, up the slope (OK, well, not too far up ~ it was the bunny slope after all).  On cue, I fell off the lift at the top of the bunny slope and ducked just in time before the chair bashed my head in.  Then, I tried to stand up boldly, as if I totally and completely meant to perform that acrobatic feat off the lift, but I had fallen down too close to the path of the lift ~ where it was pure ice, not snow.  Again, on cue, because I'm good for that, I started sliding, I mean skiing, down that run.  I was frantically waving my poles around, unsure how the hell to steer the damn skis.  I tried to avoid, and then purposefully hit, the perfect kids who were slaloming down the damn run.  I started gaining speed ~ TOO much speed ~ I got scared ~ I remembered that my friend told me that if I wasn't sure how to stop, that I should just DROP, just FALL into the gentle, soft, welcoming snow that will cushion your gentle descent.  So, I did that ~ except (a) you should never really just FALL OVER when you're racing down the run at an ungodly speed, and (b) my skis DID NOT POP OFF.  Skis are supposed to pop off.  They are supposed to do that so they are not in your way when you fall, and perhaps start rolling.  Mine stayed on.  Which means that as I tumbled down the bunny slope, I looked like a shambles of a tumbleweed as the skis pummeled me while I rolled down the mountain, I mean, bunny slope.  And, because this was the bunny slope, and I was near the bottom, the chair lift was very close up above.  So, I could hear people, literally, shouting, "OOOOH!" and "OUCHHHH!" and "UGHHH!" as they watched me.  Roll.  Down. A Bunny Slope.

And then I came to a full stop.  At the bottom of the bunny slope.  Face down. In the snow.  With my skis still on.  And little kids zipped past me wearing ski outfits that cost more than my car. 

So, that was the only time I have ever been skiing.  Remember this, OK?

Now back to the story.  We drove to Lake Tahoe Friday night, to stay with friends and get a little acclimated to the altitude, since we would be climbing so much the next day.  The next morning, it finally occurred to me to ask what the plan was for hiking in ~ by then, at least I knew the hike in was *6* miles, not 2.  But I can do 6 miles, so I wasn't too worried.  I just wanted to know what trail we would take in.

"Well, you see," started PB ~ "here's the beauty of my plan: we are going to shave off the first two miles of the hike!"  GREAT, I thought.  Four miles will be NO problem!  What do we have to do?  So PB begins to explain: "Well you see, we're going to take the Mt. Lincoln Express to the summit behind Sugar Bowl...."

"Wait, the what?" I asked.  "What's the Lincoln Express?"

"The ski lift!  That way, the LIFT takes us up the first two miles!  Brilliant, right?!" . . . . I stared in silence.

Then he says, "Oh, but wait, there is just ONE CATCH." . . . . My silence gets louder.

"You see, you have to actually have skis or a snow board to get on the lift ~ they don't want people snowshoeing up there behind the closed area, so we do have to take boards and skis with us."

I disregarded momentarily the phrase, "closed area," and asked, "Wait; skis and boards AND snow shoes?  Where do we put all that?"

"Oh! We're just going to strap you into my snow board, and we'll tie the snow shoes to your back pack.  We'll take the lift, jump off at the summit, trek in a bit, and leave the snow boards under a tree somewhere until we return."

Seriously.  PB said all this with a straight face as he sipped coffee and munched on wheat toast with jelly.

All I could say was, "OK ~ I'm just a passenger on this bullet train to hell anyway."  And then we took off to Sugar Bowl.  Here I should note that I did not have snow boots ~ I had waterproof HIKING boots.  "No problem!" smiled PB ~ "we'll strap you in tight to the board."  I admitted I've never been on a snow board.  "Haven't you been on a skateboard?  It's the same thing!" ~ This did not help.

We arrived at Sugar Bowl, bought our lift tickets, and meandered up to the Mt. Lincoln Express lift.  I tried to delay strapping into the snow board as long as I could.  At the end of the line, with little old ladies and toddlers speeding past me doing handstands on their snow boards, PB and MB strapped me in, one foot only, and then instructed me to SHIMMY or SLIDE forward, kinda sideways.  LIKE A CRAB.  Oh yes people ~ this is as sexy as it gets. 

When we reached the front of the line, we saw HOW FAST the lift was swinging towards us.  "OH!" I thought ~ "THAT'S WHY THEY CALL IT THE MT. LINCOLN EXPRESS!"  Oh yes, the altitude had made me slow, too. 

For now, let me show you the "Before" and "After" picture of preparing for the hike in ~ that is, Before having to suit up for the trek, and After shimmying into several layers of ninja-black fleece:

BEFORE ~ fresh-faced, naïve, unaware of what lay ahead.

AFTER ~ scared to death, I mean, ready to kick snow's ass.

 

TO BE CONTINUED ~ . . . . . .

 

no lazy mon here

I just finished the little translation gig I mentioned a few days ago ~ I translated campaign literature for a Green Party candidate outside of the Bay Area running for Congress.  It was fun ~ I really enjoy translating English to Spanish, especially phrases such as "Democrat/Republican cabal" and "clean sweep of Congress."  Technically, during that contract job, I was up to four jobs ~ my full-time policy job plus two others I won't even tell you about. 

Now that I'm back down to three jobs, I'm hustling for more translation or editing work ~ I feel like my Dad.  When I was growing up, my Dad always seemed to have 2-4 "entrepreneurial projects" going on ~ he always had his construction work, but then there was the used car dealership, the rental properties, a restaurant I think, and a few others I am probably forgetting.  My mom has always helped manage my father's businesses, but she's also always had her hand in various home business ventures, selling all sorts of "products for the home" to las vecinas y las comadres.  I grew up with boxes piled around the house, of merchandise from Stanley, Avon, and Tiara, to name few; and these days it's vitamin supplements which she swears will help you live to 100.  Bless her heart.

When I started college, I didn't really need a job because I had a scholarship and was living at home ~ but I had worked since I was 14 or 15, so I didn't really know how to be just a student.  I found a job at a chiropractic office, translating for Spanish-speaking patients and other office work.  Then, one of the patients, who was some VP at Smith Barney, asked to hire me for cold calls to companies in Mexico.  So, I would wake up around 5 am, work at Smith Barney from about 7 am to 9 am, go to class, then go work at the chiropractic office for a few hours after class.  In law school, even though you're not supposed to work in your 1L year, I kept managing the law office I had worked at for several years.  During my summer clerkships, I would clerk during the day and work at the old law office at night.  It was only partially for the money ~ mostly I didn't want to abandon my old boss and his busy practice.  These days, it's for the money.  ~

Over the years, my side jobs have run the gamut from portrait studio baby photographer to pet food pusher to box office girl at a gay night club to posing as a "businesswoman of color" in several ads for high-tech companies; someone called me once to say, "I'm at the airport, and, um, there's a huge poster of you with the words, 'The Revolution is Coming'."  How's that for varied experience?

When I hear someone talk about their one job, I laugh and think of that 'Hey Mon' episode on In Living Color where the daughter brings home a doctor and the family exclaims, "ONE job?!?  HOW will he support you!?!?"  So, as I begin my on-line search for another job # 4, I leave you with this hilarious 'Hey Mon Airlines' episode ~ it's brilliant.

Visions and Villains

A year or so ago, I began reading Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran, A Memoir in Books.  I didn't know anything about the book when I saw it, but I was immediately interested in it because it was about exploration of the works of some of my favorite writers: Vladimir Nabokov, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James, and Jane Austen.  I also thought it would be an interesting way to learn more about the politics of Iran, the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, etc.  Plus, the book was "free" because I bought two other books that day.

Initially, I was captivated by the writing ~ it was at moments vivid, intimate, uninhibited, and, in certain phrases, simply lovely.  But after a few chapters, I found I couldn't identify with Nafisi and her personal story ~ she seemed to me (from what little I read) to have lived quite a privileged life (her literary and political family, her life before the Revolution, as a professor, as a writer, and later her life in the States).  I couldn't get past the image I quickly created about her; and so I put the book down (actually, I complained loudly and tossed the book back on my bookshelf).

Recently, for some unknown reason, I decided to give the book another chance.  I told myself that I do appreciate the beautiful writing and that perhaps that appreciation would outweigh, or even enrich, whatever criticism I had of her personally.  I also read a little more about her and about the book, and various critiques of the book ~ for non-fiction I do generally like to have the "back story" on the writer and the narrative in general.  I learned more about the wholeness of the story before I went back to consider the particular morsels of the moments that sum up the story.

I reached the chapter where Nafisi discusses how upset one her students becomes when she hears the label the others have placed on her, how they define her ~ whereas one is a poet and another a painter, they sum her up as a "contradiction in terms."  And today at lunch, sitting out in the sun, this part stunned me in its stark reflection of my reality, at this moment in time:

The sun and clouds that defined Nassrin's infinite moods and temperaments were too intimate, too inseparable.  She lived by startling statements that she blurted out in a most awkward manner.  My girls all surprised me at one point or another, but she more than the rest.
~
In class, we were discussing the concept of the villain in the novel. ~~ Humbert, like most dictators, was interested only in his own vision of other people.  He had created the Lolita he desired, and he would not budge from that image.  I reminded them of Humbert's statement that he wished to stop time and keep Lolita forever on "an island of entranced time," a task undertaken only by Gods and poets.

And I sat there on the warm grass, lamenting the cold reality of the visions and villains in my own life ~ of someone creating an image of me so idealistic that there was no living up to it.  And when I failed, as anyone would have, the dark rigidity of the image would not bend to allow any new light into its corners.  The darkness of this helplessness ~ as someone else shapes the ball of clay that is You, and then destroys it, and then never lets you place a hand on re-centering and throwing the ball of clay back onto the wheel, to reshape it ~ it is blinding.

Years ago, through some freak accident, I suffered from Vertigo.  I felt like I was spinning and whirling, completely, for about a week.  Everything around me seemed like it was moving, but then so did I ~ it was like a double dose of a swift orbit ~ around me and within me.  And recently this feeling has surfaced for me not only in the three-dimensional world of my reality, but in the simulated two-dimensional Web 2.0 world: you present and perceive certain images ~ of yourself and of other people.  I see now that when the fluidity of cyberspace and your real personality are confronted by the rigidity of the zeros and ones of our computers...well, reality and flexibility and lucidity are lost ~ and so are you.

And all of these themes ~ control, betrayal of vision, fear, deception, loss ~ are beautifully portrayed in one of my favorite films: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.  I adore James Stewart ~ but I was struck more by a simple line uttered by Kim Novak, as Madeleine: Only one is a wanderer; two together are always going somewhere.

And that's all I thought about today at lunch ~

The trick is to just hold on ~

For the past several weeks, I have been sorting through countless boxes of the documentation of the past 10 years or so of my life.  I have been ruthless in sorting items into boxes marked for 'shredding', 'recycling', or 'Goodwill'.  Four boxes to the shredder, 10 boxes to Goodwill, and countless trips to the recycling bin.  There remains a small box of items I am cautiously keeping, for now.  One of those items is an envelope of photos of a weekend whitewater rafting trip I took years ago with 10-12 friends.  Through the magic of modern technology, and the nice guys at Ritz Camera, I was able to convert the film to digital, and now I may toss out the photos anyway.  But here I have the digital proof of the string of moments that made it all so memorable.

The memory of the trip is as vivid today as the roar of the rapids that weekend was deafening.  You can't really tell in the photo above, but we had an "all-chick" raft to take on Maytag, a Class V cascade on the north fork of the Yuba River.   As  you approach the bend in the river where Maytag lurks, you have to pull over and park your raft, then hike over some boulders to scout the rapid.  Maytag cascades violently down into an electric shock of white foam that you have to quickly navigate to either pull out into the eddy or get sucked into the next cascade, Son of Maytag, a Class IV rapid.

As we all parked our rafts and hiked over, we heard the roar of the rapids before we caught a glimpse of its brutal force.  Even before we reached the top of the boulder, some people were saying, "No way!"  Then, as we all stood shakily atop the slick slab of massive rock, the rest, in unison, said, "NO fucking way."  Maytag leered at us, spitting its foam up, daring us to get closer.

There was good reason for the resounding refusal of most of the group to even consider Maytag.  Earlier that morning, our raft had capsized in the raging river, swollen from the recent snow melt.  A massive wave pushed the front of the raft straight up into the sky and literally tossed everyone out...except for me.  Somehow, I had held onto the rope at the front ~ I was completely vertical as everyone else, including our guide, fell out; and then I came crashing down, face first into the raft.  When I peeked back up, I saw heads bobbing up from under the freezing water, their eyes full of confusion and fear ~ it all happened in a few seconds.  Someone's shoe floated by; I heard people in the other rafts shouting directions, but the words were drowned out by the wailing of the waves around me.  I grabbed a paddle as it floated by and scurried over towards the shore; then a friend's head bobbed up right beside me.  Somehow, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into the damn raft ~ I have no idea how.  We made it to shore and we saw the others had reached the sides of the rushing river ~ lying back on rocks, panting and shaking. 

Because river rafting is such a clear metaphor for life ~ when you're deep in the middle of it, there's nothing to do except to get back in the damn raft and start again; the rapids only flow in one direction. 

Fear or no fear, there was no going back, and no one to pick us up midway through.  So, when we reached the boulders overlooking Maytag, many in the group had already been slapped around enough by the river.  Six of us, though, all women, stayed silent.  I don't think any of us looked at each other for reassurance, but almost all at once we said, "Let's do it."

My heart was pounding as we checked our gear and climbed back into the raft.  Our guide, a woman, told us to lean forward as much as we could, until we could almost fall out of the raft ~ to face the rapids head on, paddle furiously, and then hang on for dear life and DUCK into the raft at her signal.  She was amazing ~ shouting direction to us as the first rapid belted us back a few feet.  Then, as I felt the free-fall start, my heart soaring up into my throat, she screamed at us to duck ~ in perfect synchronicity we all turned in towards the center of the raft, and hung onto the rope as the raft did a nosedive into the foaming mouth of Maytag.

We slammed down, hard, into the center of the rapid, and immediately sat back out on the edges of the raft ~ to paddle furiously over to the eddy before getting sucked into Son of Maytag.  The roar of the rapids and my heart was deafening ~ but when we stopped moving, all I could hear was the cheering and clapping of our friends ~ standing tall at the top of the boulder above us.  And through the glossy glare of the sun and the water I could see also the satisfaction beaming brightly from the six of us who had climbed back into the raft.

And so I remember now ~ the trick is to hold on tightly and ride out the tumultuous tide.  With any luck, your friends will be on the other side cheering for you.

 

Social Capital ~ my only high yield investment

There’s more to wealth than just money. Social capital is as real as financial capital, and sometimes more valuable. ~ j.d. roth

Getting To Know My Money

Over the past few years I've learned the hard way about the need to bank my bliss ~ my attempts at sustaining a safe reserve in my emotional savings and loan association.  Unfortunately, deposits into my financial institutions have not been nearly as strong.  So, in recent months, for many reasons (not the least of which was Tax Day), I have been trying to master my money issues.  Let me tell you, with personal finances, ignorance is not bliss ~ and it's uncomfortable admitting it to anyone, anywhere ~ much less here.

The mountain of information was staggering and intimidating.  I had no idea where to begin (savings? stocks? mutual funds? IRA? what's the difference?).  Embarrassed by my financial illiteracy, and by the dismal return on my one request for help, I reached out to the anonymous, non-judgmental hero of information we all rely on ~ Google.  Thankfully, beyond all of the staid advice in the popular financial-self-help books, I found several very helpful, down-to-earth financial blogs, many of which serve as quasi-aggregators of the practical advice buried in the (expensive) get-rich books. ~ Thank you blogosphere!

I quickly became addicted to the Get Rich Slowly blog, although my goal is simply to pay down debt ~ no delusions of any sort of financial wealth.  I've taken the first few baby steps encouraged by the GRS blog; and I finally looked into the retirement fund that three+ years of government work has afforded me.  I was pleasantly surprised, relieved really, to discover how much of a nest egg I had built up without even trying (not from a high salary but from healthy contributions).  It's not a huge amount, but it's a safe start and much more than I would have ever saved had I tried on my own.  I've taken other steps, too; but I won't bore you with the details here ~ suffice to say it involves several side-jobs and eBay.  ;-)

All of this tortured explanation is to say that I have spent a lot of time recently (although late in life) learning the value of economic/financial capital.  Most of this anguished self-education has taken place alone ~ late at night, in libraries, or in my favorite tea houses.  Fortunately, Serendipity (in the form of a myriad of hyperlinks through a maze of money-management tips) led me to a December 2007 GRS article about the value of social capital.  To illustrate the concept of social capital, the article refers to one of my favorite movies of all-time, the very wonderful It's A Wonderful Life, and explains:

You generate social capital when you help your neighbor repair a fence, or have your Sunday School class over for barbeque, or join a bowling league. Any time you participate in the community, you are generating social capital, both for yourself, and for the other people involved. Individuals (and communities) with high levels of social capital are able to find help when they need it; those with low social capital can spend a lot of time frustrated and alone.

Getting To Know My Neighbors

Coming face to face with the cold, grim stare of my finances, however, nudged me quietly into the warm embrace of my social capital ~ that richness that revolves all around me in the many pockets of Oakland that claim me as an Oaklander. 

Saturday afternoon, after running a few too many errands on an empty stomach, I wanted to try out the super-cute new cafe (and their Blue Bottle Coffee!) at the bottom of my hill ~ Cafe 504.  I wasn't sure if they would be open, but when I drove up, there was a cute couple sitting outside in the sun, sipping coffee, smiling, chatting ~ so I walked in.  The owner  told me, though, that they had just closed ... because a water pipe under the street had burst and their kitchen was flooding.  Just then, "Chico," a sweet neighbor (and, apparently already a regular at the cafe) explained that two other businesses on that street were flooding, and that the pipe had burst several times over the years.  I told them I had the number to the Public Works Agency programmed in my cell phone...and added that I worked for the City so they wouldn't think I was a freak.  I called the PWA Call Center, but they were closed.  Luckily, I had the cell phone number to a Councilmember from another district, and she explained I should call the OPD non-emergency dispatch, who would transfer me to the Fire Department(!)  But when I finally reached the OFD, they explained that a fresh water pipe is controlled by EBMUD!  As I dialed yet another number, Chico said there was no way they would have known how to navigate through the morass of agencies to call.  In the midst of all this, the ladies from the old-school no-name hair salon next door and the laundromat on the corner wandered out onto the sidewalk and talked to Chico about the flooding.  Fortunately, EBMUD answered right away and the service vehicle was dispatched immediately ~ and Chico ran up to his house to get pictures of the other times the pipe had burst, to show the EBMUD tech. 

The point is, it took the teamwork of about six people to fix something in the neighborhood ~ and all the while that couple at the table outside quietly continued their caffeinated conversation.  Despite the mayhem and flooding, I felt an amazing sense of community ~ it was quite a memorable way to meet the owner, Jaime, and other neighbors; not to mention an elaborate way for the cafe to put together its 'emergency contact list'. 

I went inside to say goodbye to Jaime, since EBMUD was on its way.  Just then, Jaime's beautiful three little daughters came flying into the cafe, followed by their father.  It was so fun to see the whole family breathing life into the beautiful little oasis they had brought to our little street.  Then, for no reason at all, one of Jaime's daughters quietly walked over to me, and hugged me.  She only came up to my waist, so she wrapped her arms around my legs and pressed her head to my waist ~ I was overwhelmed.   She looked up at me with a smile.  Her blond hair literally glowed from the sunbeams streaming in through the windows, and the indigo color of her blouse was as profound as the deep blue oceans in her eyes ~ this little girl's smile felt like the sun washing over your face and the breeze cooling your toes as you lay in the grass. Overwhelming.  She silently hugged me again, and then ran off with her sisters. 

The owner and the Barista thanked me, and insisted I take a cup of coffee to go ~ I told them I wanted to come back as soon as they were open again (because that coffee was delicious!).  It's nice to know that I have a cafe only a block away, where everyone will know my name ~ I look forward to making Cafe 504 my own Oakland version of Cheers.

Walking The Walk

The coffee/flooding incident made me late for my 2 pm appointment ~ I had volunteered to meet at my boss's campaign office to campaign for her re-election, at local businesses up and down 20 blocks of Telegraph Avenue.  I still hadn't eaten anything all day, so I wasn't really looking forward to a two-mile city walk to discuss politics with people.

My partner, Reza, and I set out from the Plaza to the first business at 17th and Telegraph Avenue: Wigs by Tiffany.  The store was amazing!  It was huge, and mannequin heads with wigs of all shapes, sizes, and colors were displayed on shelves reaching up to the ceiling; there were hundreds of white foam heads with mysterious eyes and pouty lips, neatly lined up like floating soldierettes, staring at us as we wandered into the store.  We stumbled through our campaign pitch to Tiffany herself and, thankfully, she took a sign to put in her window. 

Having quickly found success, Reza and I confidently set out on our journey ~ a mile up Telegraph to 34th Street and then back down the other side of Telegraph.   We had the most amazing three hours, finding little gems (even the ones that are rough around the edges) all along Telegraph Avenue.  I discovered that McB's Shoes at 17th Street really has a large selection of nice dress shoes, kickin' boots, and hip handbags.  Because their windows are partially tinted, it seems it would be hard for the store to get noticed by drivers zipping through the intersection; but the store was very busy when we walked in.  Within minutes I was really glad I was out walking in a tiny portion of our District, actually meeting the business owners I usually assist by telephone (my Boss and another staff member are usually the ones who meet constituents in person).  In fact, when I introduced myself to some of the merchants, they recognized my name or said they had spoken to me by phone ~ and then the conversation would lengthen, deepen, to specific concerns of each business.  At the end of the day, I had a long list of issues to research for several of the merchants ~ but I also had a wealth of unique information about each business.

At Lam-Toro, the wonderful West African restaurant near 25th, Mamadou asked us how he could get information about business micro-loans.  At the Rock Paper Scissors Art Collective, they accepted our sign but explained the Collective would have to vote on Monday to decide whether they can place it in the window.  At Mama Buzz Cafe, the hipsterette behind the counter with the buzzed haircut said yes to the sign and then ignored us as I held the chair on which Reza balanced precariously while he tried to tack the sign into the wall. 

When we walked into Bibliomania, at 18th Street, we were greeted by the comforting, dusty 'used bookstore smell'.  I love the smell of used bookstores ~ not only of the story itself, but the history of the book...where its been, whose read it, whose loved it, how many places its been through.  I sometimes buy used books which have been highlighted or otherwise marked up ~ personal notes in the margin, underlining in sections the past reader found important ~ and I love that about used books ~ the tiny glimpse I get into the thoughts of the person who read the book before me.  All of those thoughts whirled around me as we stepped inside and the gray-haired husband-wife owners greeted us.

Reza and I took turns making the pitch, and we received more Yeses than Noes.  As we walked along we also got to know each other.  Reza told me he was born in Canada, then moved to the States, then spent a year in Iran, and back to the States again.  When I asked him how his parents ended up in Albany, Ca, he explained: "My dad lived in the States, then he went to Iran to get a wife, and came back."  I laughed and said he made it sound so simple.  We both talked about speaking Farsi and Spanish at home, about our families, and a little politics.

When we reached the Marwa Halal Market at 30th Street, on 'Oakland's Butcher Block', Reza made the pitch completely in Farsi to the Afghan owner.  The owner didn't know very much about my Boss, so we showed him a picture.  A woman who was at the counter said, "Oh I know her.  She helped me with my literacy tutoring, at Second Start."  And that's how we turned the discussion to my boss's commitment to literacy ~ we couldn't have asked for a better real-life example. 

I began to notice that at nearly every business we went into, friends and neighbors were gathered around, talking and spending time together.  The exchange of social capital was taking place at least as much as, or in some cases, more than, the exchange of financial capital.

At the River Nile Market, next to Halal Meat and Produce, the beautiful young man behind the counter sat and talked with two of his friends ~ and let us place a campaign sign in his window.  He asked me, genuinely concerned but in a hip/tough kind of way:"Is it true Oakland is going to turn into the next Emeryville?"   At Prime Communications, the small wireless store next to Marwa Halal, three older African-American men sat in folding chairs and exchanged stories.  At the Korean beauty store near 27th Street, three older women sat around a tiny table having tea over animated discussion.  At nearly every one of the dozen or so nail shops we entered, families gathered around, waiting for the one getting her nails done.  The chatter mixed with the chemical fumes was dizzying.

On Telegraph Avenue, Ethiopian spices are being sold next door to Afghan breads next door to kosher meat and seafood next door to nag champa and shea butter next door to Cajun seafood (where super burritos also happen to be offered).  Sprinkled along the Avenue are also the cd's, videos, and body oils sold at House of Soul; the wildly busy market at Koreana Plaza; African art, clothing, and jewelery at Sami African Imports ~ all tucked in between the empty retail spaces we still need desperately to fill.

The day was topped off by a leisurely, amazing meal at Lam-Toro and two glasses of their delicious Bissap ~ where family members of the owner or employees gathered in the corner lounge by the window, and we all laughed as their toddler ran around, stumbling and giggling.  All of this was the Oakland I adore ~ I felt like my entire day was a huge investment in my portfolio of social capital ~ I hope you'll invest, too. ~ :)

The Poetry of Silence

Years ago, I somehow wrote a post about my version of The Function of Art.  Today, I learned a little about the function of poetry.

From today's edition of The World:
        The Politics of Poetry

Another art form is under scrutiny from another group of arbiters of taste.  In Britain, the Queen's English Society says it's fed up with modern poetry.  These guardians of the English language say it's not a poem if it doesn't have rhyme or meter.  That's open to debate.  Which leads us to ask: what is a poem?  The World's Alex Gallafent has the answer, or rather, the answers:

Sometimes a poem is an ode to love by Pablo Neruda or some nonsense verse by Lewis Carroll.  It could be a sonnet from Shakespeare or a howl from Ginsburg.  It can be all these things and more.  So, sure we could talk about the rules of poetry, whatever they might be.  But instead let's consider the function of poetry.

Remember Terry Waite?  He was one of the hostages held in Beirut. Well after his release, Waite wrote a poem:

Yesterday is with you now
the same train
the same grandmother
the same forefathers
now you may cry the bitter tears of anguish
now you may howl with the primitive howl of a lost soul
now you may embrace
forever

Now, you may like Terry Waite's poetry; you may not.  But it's a good guess that writing it had value for Mr. Waite.

Poetry can also hold value for communities.  The British poet Simon Armitage wrote this poem three months after September 11th:

Here is an architecture of air.
Where dust is cleared,
nothing stands but free sky, unlimited and sheer

Smoke's dark bruise
has paled, soothed ...

[Mr. Armitage] "There seems to be an urge to communicate through poetry and poetry has always had some kind of responsibility right down the edges.  Every now and again, the moment seems right to put things down in words."

So, poetry can be some kind of record - a detailed snapshot in language.  And it doesn't have to come from full-time professional poets.  Take for example Malaysian lawyer Cecil Rajendra : when he's not practicing law, he's practicing his poetry and he enjoys it: "The language of law is very ossified and stilted language, whereas in poetry, the language is more creative - it's more dynamic."

Here's part of Rajendra's poem, Apologies to the Trees:

...if only politicians were trees
think how our budgets and diets would be balanced
their fruit, flower, roots, and leaves could give such rich sustenance
and what a bonus it would be
if we the constituents could hack them down each time they became a nuisance
if only
politicians were trees...

[Now, you may like Mr. Rajendra's poem; you may not ~ but if you have never heard of Cecil Rajendra, I urge you to read more about this fascinating social justice lawyer-slash-political poet.]

. . .[Finally], all poets ... should listen to this wisdom from the late Mexican poet Octavio Paz:

....al poeta lo conocemos tanto por sus palabras como por sus silencios. Desde el principio el poeta sabe, obscuramente, que el silencio es inseparable de la palabra....

...poets are known both for their words and their silences.  From the beginning the poet knows that silence is inseparable from the word....

Good advice for poets and politicians.

[Note: I didn't transcribe the entire report.  There are two more poems included, and you can listen to the entire 4+ minute report, here or other stories from The World, here.  The lovely image is by Edric Hsu.]

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In 2005, Waite gave a lecture in Maadi, Egypt about his experiences in solitary confinement for four years in Beirut.  The title of his lecture was 'Survival in Solitude'.  Waite described his survival technique, of having to learn to live from within:

As Waite saw his physical body disintegrate he knew he had to learn to live from within. In his mind he ‘wrote’ poetry and thought of books he knew well. He used the language of his mind to create harmony in his soul. Your whole life is in your head, really; you cannot see, hear, think, talk, etc., without your mind. Therefore, you must use creative imagination to keep your soul going, but you must also discipline the mind so that it doesn’t run away from you and think of the worst possible scenario. Also, he said it is important for everyone, at some point in life, to be self-centered; not to be selfish, but to know the self. When you do this, you realize the dark side of your self along with the light side, and you must face it. You cannot focus on obliterating the darkness, but rather embrace your humanness and heighten your lightness for the world.

And so, I remain primarily silent ~ nothing much here tonight is original thought; you can hear it and read it on the Internet (and I really hope you click on some or all of the links when you have time).  I want only to share with you a little of what I heard today ~ a little food for thought in case, like me, you didn't have dinner; a snippet of what ran through my thoughts today and continues to mill about my mind as the northern California wind boldly howls outside, rattling the window panes as forcefully as it thunders through my thoughts ~ and this moment seemed right to put into words ~ so that, without speaking, without meeting, without knowing ... we share something.

Give the Butterflies a Break

From today's edition of The World:

It's about 180 miles as the crow flies...the purple crow butterfly, that is.  One hundred and eighty miles is the length of the annual migration of purple crow butterflies through Taiwan.  The purple crow butterfly has a much shorter trip than its migrating North American relative, the monarch butterfly; still, it's not an easy journey.  The purple crow butterflies fly along busy roads where they can get sucked into traffic.  So, Taiwanese authorities have taken to closing parts of the highway to give the butterflies a break.

Caroline Gluck reports from National Freeway No. 3, "the front line in the battle to try to protect the butterflies."  This is the second year running that the National Freeway authorities have taken measures to try to protect the butterflies from  being crushed or killed by traffic as they make their annual migration from southern Taiwan to the north where they go to lay their eggs.  The measures are costing around 83,000 U.S. dollars, but the Director General of the Taiwan area National Freeway Bureau says it is money well spent, for this special creature.

When the number of purple crow butterflies reaches more than 500 per minute, authorities will close a section about one mile long along the outer lane of the freeway.  They will also set up 13-foot safety nets, fencing in part of the outer lane to encourage the butterflies to fly high above the traffic.  And, hundreds of new trees have been planted along the highway to serve as butterfly rest areas.

When Ms. Gluck traveled to a farm about 12 miles from the highway, thousands of the butterflies were taking nectar in the woods, gathering strength before they continue on their long journey.  The purple crow butterflies are highly sensitive to cloudy or cool temperatures; they won't move on until the weather conditions are just right.

Someone once told me, through a random thought, que la belleza aparece sin avisar.  Thank you Taiwan, for protecting your mari-posas.  San Francisco knows this is important too, especially in Yerba Buena Gardens:

If you know me, you'll understand this post.  But even if you don't, please remember to protect your personal butterflies~ that person who makes you feel butterflies in your soul ~ whomever and wherever they may be ~

And on that note, I give you these notes ~ an ode to maripositas everywhere ~ the sexy, the scandalous, and the sweet ~

Mariposa en Havana ~ Si*Sé

Mariposa Tracionera ~ Maná

Mariposita ~ Alberto Marino

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it's the little things

You work day in and day out with the same people; celebrating one, then two, birthdays within the same walls ~ they start to feel like family, especially during those 14+ hour days when you (have to) have dinner together in the office, preparing for the big meeting, sometimes bickering over your political positions as you pass the potatoes, often laughing together as you compare gossip, lightening the day's mood before it gets singed by the night's fiery rhetoric. 

It all starts to become a blur, it seems like everyone is wearing the same suit, or same colors, every week ~ or like nothing changes, despite the chaos around you.  So, it feels like they don't, or won't or can't, notice little things about you that seep in under your skin like shadows under a door ~ the shift in your shoulders as the days wear on, the dulling of the spark in your eyes as you wither under the weight of a silent avalanche of emotion.  You work quietly and think no one notices anything about you.  Just your work.

And then one day someone walks in and, from several feet away, exclaims, "You're wearing earrings!  You never wear earrings!"  And later, someone else notices, too.  And the tiny studs are a big deal because you never, ever wear any jewelry except a thin silver chain around your neck ~ and no one has ever asked why you just wear that chain and nothing else.  And the moment is momentous because you realize you have been noticed.  When all this time, you thought you were quietly hiding out in the open.

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Me, I never wear jewelry ~ save for that special chain.  I've never felt comfortable in earrings because I feel like they 'call too much attention'.  I wish I could wear them confidently like others (men and women), changing them to match my moods.   Apparently, my mother and grandmother thought I would be the type, because I hear they pierced my ears on the front porch when I was a toddler, with a sewing needle.  But years ago, as a teenager, I guess I decided I would like to walk past you and have you notice the sparkle in my smile, not the glint of metal dangling from my ear.  Maybe that's what happened ~ a strong rejection of style and peer pressure, to proclaim my individuality ~ of naked ears.

Oh, I've tried over the years ~ I've bought fancy, dangling, beautiful earrings ~ but when I look in the mirror, it is not me.  A little (or a lot of) lipgloss, yes ~ but a shiny shout of personality dancing around the nape of my neck?  No.  Years ago, a boyfriend was pleasantly surprised, even grateful, for my disinterest in jewelry ~ cheap date and easy to impress, it seems.  But I am interested; I secretly covet certain gems ~ I just don't want them, and wouldn't know how to wear them anyway.   Besides, the guilt over diamonds would take all the fun out of it. 

And so, much of the experimental jewelery I have bought for myself sits in little trays on an antique dresser in my bedroom ~ a collection of colorful little eyes that watch me walk by every morning without touching them.  Waiting every day to be noticed ~ I know that feeling.

But this morning, for no reason, I picked up a pair.  Sometimes I really do do things for no reason at all.  Ask around ~ it's true.  ~ As usual, I was late to work.  The unruly curls went unwashed so I scooped them up like a single-dip cone of Haagen Dazs dark chocolate ice cream ~ and stuck a pin in 'em.  Then, without explanation, and as if I had been doing it every morning for years, I grabbed two tiny blue pearl-like earrings and pinned them to my ears as I walked out the door.  I felt like such a girl ~ I didn't know how to feel about that.

So, I thought no one would notice the little studs ~ or that no one would notice that I never wear jewelry.  But a few people did.  And it was startling, but also a little comforting, to realize people do notice you ~ notice things about you, or habits you have ~ that you don't even realize seep into people's subconsciousness. 

And so of course, it made me wonder what other little things people notice ~ especially all of the little things I try to hide.  And it made me think about what I notice in other people ~ the quiet little things they do or don't do, that speak volumes about them. 

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I like to watch people in my favorite local tea shops ~ friends and couples and people sitting alone ~ the secret body language between lovers, the comforting slouching among friends, the way the loner dangles the pencil between his lips as he ponders over which profound statement to scribble in his journal that day.

What do you think?  What little things, or changes from the ordinary, do you notice in the people around you ~ the ones who have been around you for years ~ what new thing will you notice about them today?  Will you smile slyly, content in being a part of their secret?  Will you miss it because you are blinded by the banality of seeing them every day?  Will you notice if they notice a subtle change about you today?

I'm just asking ~ It's 3:00 in the morning ~ I just worked a 14-hour day ~ I was pulled over by a police officer on my way home from work, at 11 pm, and had to hope he would believe my explanation about the registration tags ~ really, tonight of all nights did that have to happen?  And I have to be back in the office in six hours ~ but maybe I'll wear earrings again, a different pair ~ just to see what happens ~ ~ ;-)

It's About Community and Vision ~ and some Luck

My motivation is, what I keep learning ~ from the people, from the cities, from the governments.  I don't keep doing this because I have so much to offer  ~ I keep doing it because I have so much to learn. ~ Mark Hildebrand, 2 April 2008.

I just returned from a compelling lecture by Mark Hildebrand at U.C Berkeley's Institute of Urban and Regional Development (IURD), in the Global Metro Studies department.  Before today, I'd never heard of Mark Hildebrand, but after today his words will ring in my mind every time I get discouraged with my work, which, lately, has been often.

Mark helped establish the Cities Alliance at the World Bank in 1998, and built it into a global coalition of cities and development partners which, in short, works to create 'Cities Without Slums'. More specifically, Mark's mission through the Cities Alliance was to help cities in developing countries cultivate strategic decision-making in managing urban growth ("City Development Strategies"), to realize the positive impacts of urbanization, and to unleash the potential of cities in managing urban growth to reduce poverty ('slum upgrading') as well as prevent the creation of new slums.

Why was I at this lecture, entitled 'Policy Choices and Slums'?  How did I get to leave work early to attend this lecture on global issues, you ask?  Because the invitation to the lecture pointed out that "slums are not inevitable -- they are the result of failed policies, not poverty.  Policies which anticipate urban growth and promote city-wide inclusion strategies can pre-empt environmental degradation and health risks and help nations realize the positive impacts of urban growth."  And, while we do not have "slums" per se in Oakland, we do struggle with a serious level of poverty and blight, some of it exacerbated over the years by short-sighted land-use policy decisions (or non-decisions) from previous Administrations.  We must also address serious environmental issues, both because of the Port and the impending peak oil collapse.  To compound it all, we also face significant population growth: the projected population growth for Alameda County is 18.3% from 1997 to 2010, and 28.2% from 1997 to 2020.  Here in Oakland, there is intense debate over zoning, land development, and housing issues on how to best manage density and affordable housing, and how to attract business, and how to serve our current residents.  It is a Herculean task.

So, while my job focuses on a tiny corner of the world called Oakland, I often seek out lectures and seminars on global urban development because there is always a parallel in the issues that cities (and local governments) face, whether in California or Cameroon.   What I expected most out of this job is that we truly are directly accountable to everyone in Oakland, not just the voters ~ and in turn, I wanted that to mean that I could directly create change, however small, here within our city limits ~ even change inspired by people and programs on the other side of the world.  Often, too, I am desperate for innovation, for creative development solutions that seem to only occur in developing countries where red-tape doesn't act as a blindfold over vision nor suffocate community voice.  So, I set out to attend a lecture on global poverty, to regain my local focus and inspiration.

According to a 2006 UN-Habitat Report, globally, the slum population is set to grow at the rate of 27 million per year in the period 2000 to 2020.  Mark's lecture focused on Sub-Saharan Africa (where he lived for many years), where 72% of the urban population lives in slums; Latin America and Caribbean, with 134 million slum dwellers; and Asia where slum dwellers make up approximately 60% of the world's total slum population.

Mark discussed the lessons learned in implementing the Cities Without Slums goal in various countries, including innovative programs (and some success) in Brazil, Thailand, and Morocco, as well as shortcomings in several cities.  Ultimately, Mark wants to unleash the potential of cities, noting that the key challenges should serve as guiding goals:

• Cities need to be transformed into proactive developers of urban infrastructure, rather than passive service providers.
• Cities need to mobilize domestic capital.  In Oakland this means creating opportunities for local entrepreneurship, training our work force, and retaining and attracting business.
• We must nurture a well-managed City benefiting the environment.
• We must develop policies predicated on growth.
• We must create a conducive climate for the informal sector.

In other words, Mark said, instead of debating the contribution of cities to development, more energy needs to be spent on unblocking it.  (I wish he would come say this at Open Forum at one of our City Council meetings.)  Overall, Mark stressed the importance of capacity building and coherence at the local government level, and the need to create community building strategies, not just housing strategies.  Mark knows this ~ in addition to the countless cities he has assisted in developing countries, he also built 360 classrooms in rural Chad.  That fact is the one he said with the most pride.

After the lecture, I spoke briefly with Mark, about the parallels between the global issues he addresses in his work and the local issues we face here in Oakland.  I asked him, if he had one element of his model to impress upon our local leaders, what would it be?  He answered simply, "It's about the community, and vision ~ the community vision."

Somehow I overcame my awe of this man and continued speaking with him, eventually asking him how he started in this amazing line of work ~ of life.  He said he is actually an Architect and, decades ago, he tried for about two years to work on this type of urban development.  He said that through a friend he snagged an interview for a job in Tanzania.  It was clear the interviewer was not interested in hiring Mark and so he continued his job search.  A year or so later, a house Mark built was featured in a magazine.  The man who had interviewed him saw the article and called Mark ~ and hired him.  The rest, as they say, is history.  "It's about luck," he said.

After that, I introduced myself to the Professor, thanking him for allowing me to barge into his class.  It turns out the lecture I was invited to was actually the regular class of about 10 students ~ I felt like an interloper, bringing local concerns to a class about global issues.  But it turns out the class is conducting a study project on People's Grocery, which is in West Oakland.  The Professor said he'd like to invite me back to the class to discuss local issues ~ and maybe even to give a presentation.  After Mark's lecture, I was humbled and honored (amazed) the Professor even considered me.

And so I left, inspired, motivated, and hoping I can make my way into some kind of luck ~

Pensamientos Porteños ~

~ Well, not really the literal translation as in "Buenos Aires Thoughts," since I'm not from Bs.As., but more like a few personal thoughts or observations on the nine days I just spent visiting that great city.  Since Buenos Aires is a Port city, residents call themselves Porteños (not only to identify with the City-Port, but apparently to also mark their identity as unique from the rest of Argentina).  Now that I'm back in Oakland, which is also a Port city, I think Bs.As. has inspired me to shake up City Hall with a campaign to call ourselves something sexy like Porteños ~ but that is a post for another day.  If you have any suggestions, let me know.

So, my trip.  For better or worse, given my law school education and legal-eagle eye, my first impression of Buenos Aires screamed TORT(!) and TORT LIABILITY(!).  It became clear to me that, for better or worse, the look and feel of Buenos Aires is not dictated by liability issues, lawyers, and/or an overly-litigious society.  In fact, I became curious pretty quickly about how Porteños view attorneys.  That's why I laughed when I read that the Porteño slang for an attorney is/was "lavandero," which means laundryman in Spanish.  Very soon after this lawyerly intrusion into my enjoyment of Buenos Aires, I did notice other great aspects of the City ~ but let me start first with the tort-related sights.

Deadly Intersections

At many street corners, there is no Stop sign, no stop light, and no painted cross walk for pedestrians.  Nothing.  The controlled chaos was mesmerizing.  One night, I saw two buses careening down two perpendicular cobblestone streets, heading for the same intersection ~ they came within inches of each other, and both screeched to a halt.  Then, while taxis and pedestrians streamed around the two buses, like a river forking into two streams around two boulders, one bus driver calmly gave the signal (like a symphony conductor's swoop of the hand) for the other bus driver to go on through the intersection.  One bus ambled on, its air brakes sighing and moaning loudly about the near-miss. 

At other intersections, most pedestrians, even moms toting young children, often tested the odds, choosing to outrun the car heading towards them ~ believe me, the cars do not slow down when they see you cross the street.  Often, even in a close call between pedestrian and car, everyone seems to treat it as an ordinary event ~ the pedestrian might hang back a little while the car literally brushes past him ~ or the car might weave around the pedestrian at the last minute.  But there did not seem to be a set policy on who has the right of way, or when, or on speed limits.  As any Porteño will tell you: las calles son un quilombo por el transito. 

I began romanticizing the notion of this dance everyone does at the intersections, even the ones with a stop light and/or a cross-walk ~ how you must just "get used to it" and not blink an eye as you face down a taxi barreling towards you ~ until someone told me two buses did collide last week and until I read (when I got home) several articles explaining how traffic accidents and fatalities are a serious problem all over Argentina.

So, while I tested my street bravado a few times, often I would wait until there was absolutely no car or moped within a mile radius before trying to cross a street.  It will be interesting to see how community groups, non-profits, and the government address this serious traffic safety issue.

Sidewalks

Almost every sidewalk I walked down had tiles or bricks missing -- I stumbled more than once, but it seems as if the locals just know how to navigate the fractured sidewalks as well as they know how to careen around the cobblestone streets.  You do not know, or maybe you do, how many Personal Injury lawyers in the U.S. get rich filing "slip and fall" and even "trip and fall" claims against municipalities and private entities for a plaintiff who has injured himself on a "faulty" sidewalk.  In Buenos Aires, and I suspect in almost every place except the United States, the motto seems to be, "Watch Your Damn Step," and "Be Careful," and finally, "If You Trip, It's Your Own Damn Fault."  I liked that.  What a refreshing way to walk down an imperfect sidewalk.

Our walks were incredibly enjoyable and trip-free, and the occasional crack in the sidewalk just made it all more of a Wabi-Sabi Walk.

Children and Families

Like countless other cities, scenes of families enjoying the parks, or working together, or sitting together on the stoop, dominated the urban landscape around me as we enjoyed miles of walking around different Barrios.  Kids ran free, sometimes unattended, in parks, along dusty streets, in plazas ~ I never saw a child on one of those awful parent-child leashes which I see in so many malls here at home.  Even better, there was no yelling of "get back here" or "it's your turn to watch him" ~ adults could carry on their own conversation, with that secret parent's third eye keeping watch.

We talked about how overly protected some kids are, some of the ones we've seen here at home ~ Moms and Dads debating whose turn it is to watch the kids, worrying over child kidnapping stories, wanting to sanitize everything the kids touch, worrying their child will suffer a bump or a bruise while playing, etc. 

I told the story of how, before I started law school, I lived for several months with friends, a new Mom and Dad, and how different they each approached child rearing.  Even when it was the Dad's turn to watch the toddler, the Mom would worry over what her baby girl might be getting into ~ Dad usually left his power tools around, or looked away just at the moment that the toddler placed a glob of dirt in her mouth.  The Dad would usually shrug it off saying, "Aw, she'll just build a stronger immune system ~ a little dirt never hurt anyone," or "Well, she'll learn the hammer hurts if she drops it."  I agreed ~ but I couldn't say so because I don't have kids.

But Gever Tully doesn't have kids either, and he gave a fun TED Talk entitled, 'Five Dangerous Things You Should Let Your Kids Do'.  He describes how allowing kids a certain freedom will nurture them to be creative, confident, and in control of the environment around them.  In Buenos Aires, I saw just that, and parents who were watching but not worried ~ it was nice.

Fortunately, my "Tort Blinders" soon came off and I enjoyed so many other elements of Buenos Aires:

Desayuno

Apparently, croissants are fat-free, low in calories, and good for your skin in Bs.As. because everyone has at least one, often two, for breakfast EVERY DAY ~ yet they are slender and beautiful.  How do they do that?

Most mornings (or afternoons as it were, when I took sleeping-in to new levels), we each had, simply, un café y dos media lunas for breakfast.  After day one, I started adding butter or jam to the croissants.  At a few places, they brought us a basket of croissants and small rolls, so that I may have, ahem, lost count of how many I had on any given morning, (justifying the carb-binge with the long walk we would take afterwards, on the way to lunch, see below).  After a few days I started ordering a fried egg, just to add some protein to the buttery sweetness that jolted me awake each morning.  By day 6 or 7, I just wanted some granola and yogurt ~ but it does not exist, at least not where we were, in San Telmo.  Then, on the flight home from Bs.As., they served medialunas for breakfast!  Ay, if I eat one more carb I think I will explode.  All in all, though, each desayuno was lovely.

Parillas Perfectas

Quite simply, the steak is an art form in Buenos Aires, and there is a parilla on every street.  Everyone will tell you the steaks are cooked perfectly, not really needing much seasoning, and the choice of cuts is impressive.  But what I liked best is that often when you order a steak, that's what you get, a huge slab of perfect steak ~ no need for side dishes, except perhaps a small ensalda mixta ~ and a cup of wine. It is heaven.  I was raised in Houston, where not only are the steaks huge, but they usually came with a side of lobster, a baked potato dripping in butter and sour cream, and even prawns wrapped in bacon. Seriously.  I have seen that platter.  In Buenos Aires, your plate might look like what we had on my last afternoon, at La Raya in San Telmo.  Morfamos como chanchos (pero cute chanchos)!

The Cheek Kiss Greeting

My first day in Buenos Aires, we went to Paula's house for lunch.  When Paula opened the door, I instinctively held out my right hand to shake her hand, but then in that nanosecond I noticed she had leaned in towards me, and reached her right hand up to place on my left shoulder, and had clearly intended to give me a cheek kiss hello ~ which I quickly learned is the greeting all Porteños use ~ for men and women.  I felt so rude!  I meekly walked into the next room, where four strangers were introduced to me ~ and each one warmly grabbed my shoulder as they kissed me hello.  It was lovely.  Later we all shared beer and lunch, and then mate ~ a gringo, una Mexicana, tres Porteños, a Brazilian, and a Norwegian; it was perfect.

The next night, at Paula's going-away party, I was ready for some cheek-to-cheek kissing!  We walked into the party room to about nine smiling faces sitting around a large table filled with food and drinks ~ it took forever to kiss everyone hello, which made it that much sweeter.  Then, every time someone new arrived, we watched as that person ran around the table kissing every person hello (and later, kissing each one goodbye).  I say we all adopt this wonderful custom and kiss each other on the cheek the next time we see each other.  If you're a macho man worried about kissing other men hello, take a moment to read this hilarious post with step-by-step instructions on "how to kiss other men as smoothly and casually as a native Porteño." ~ :)

Pocho Spanish vs. Porteño Spanish

Apparently, Spanish, which was my first language, is "quite good" according to some Porteños.  My first night out with them, though, a few couldn't understand a word I said, although that night, there was Tequila and beer and wine involved, so that might have added to the language barrier.  At that party, someone had to literally translate my clipped pocha Spanish/accent into the fluid Rioplatense Spanish they speak in Buenos Aires.  Believe me, this caused me great grief.  To top it off, when one of them asked me, "que eres?" I automatically answered, as I always do, "soy Mexicana."  Then he asked where I was born and when I said, "los Estados Unidos," he corrected me and said, "Bueno, entonces no eres Mexicana."  Oh the existential angst that crept up for me had to be washed down with a swig of cool Heineken.

And that is another blog post for another day........

musing

It comes in threes for me, it seems ~ inspiration ~ often three seemingly disconnected events dance around me in synchronicity, until I notice how the elements attract each other, how they fit together, and how their combined force amplifies the electricity of the epiphany that shocks, then soothes, me.

Last Saturday night, after about four hours of a grueling hike against the wind to a snow hut that dangles precipitously on the edge of a ridge in the Sierras, I sat at a wooden table with three strangers and two friends.  The low, flickering light from the lone candle cast long shadows on the white-washed walls.  As we sipped wine and Manhattans and Maker's Mark (in my hot cocoa), and as the dense cloud of a marshmallow bobbed up and down in my cocoa, I soaked in the warmth of the night, despite the freezing, frantic winds howling outside.  Later I will write about the actual weekend and the snow trekking that I never thought my body could withstand, but for now I want to think only about the bright smile of the person who recommended I read the book Three Cups of Tea, by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin.

I bought the book a few days ago and put it at the top of my pile of "books to read" ~ the books near the bottom of the pile sighed sadly, resigned to the fate of waiting even longer to seduce me.  But Three Cups of Tea seemed confused when I walked away, leaving it naked and unopened at the top of the pile, wondering what it could have done to entice me right away.  But I was thinking about it ~ and that counts.

Then a couple of days ago, a lovely twitter friend posted a stream of tweets chronicling a conversation with someone she adores, who wanted to tell her about the death and birth of stars ~ she didn't want to forget what he was telling her about the infinite mass (and thereby possibility) of space and time ~ so she flung his words (and her fascination with him) into cyberspace, to seep in under the skin of someone like me.

So I remembered ~ and I checked ~ yes, new stars are born out of the atoms and molecules of stars that have exploded, and gravity is the driving force behind the birth of a new star.  And, although gravity is a weak force, it has an infinite range, so that slowly but surely it pulls the particles together, and they then accelerate inwards.  The process is very slow, but there is all the time in the universe for it to happen.

And I liked that. 

Then it reminded me of the massive midnight-blue sky above me that night at the snow hut ~ I went out after dark to walk around and was mesmerized by the infinite salty sky above me ~ that's what it looked like to me ~ salt everywhere, the seemingly random granules forming protective walls around the beautiful constellations.

So today I took the book with me to the tea shop, and over two pots of tea, as the steam floated up and made the still-present salt in my eyes burn, I read this in the first chapter, aptly titled, 'Failure':

The wind picked up and the night became bitterly crystalline.  He tried to discern the peaks he felt hovering malevolently around him, but he couldn't make them out among the general blackness. ... Sleep, in this cold, seemed out of the question.  So Mortenson lay beneath the stars salting the sky and decided to examine the nature of his failure.

And so I did that a little ~ really sitting at the counter with my Failure and asking it how I did it all so wrong.  It sipped tea with me a while ~ and the tango music on the speakers taunted me ~ we both sighed.  As I finished off my food and sipped the last of the tea, Failure put its heavy arm around me and walked with me outside.  And then it let me cross the street alone, on to the place where I needed to be next.

in a moment ~

~ a perfect moment can seem like the sweetest lifetime ~

On Thursday nights I gather with a small and sweet group of friends to work on a semi-writing volunteer project; it's very private, it's very intense ~  and every Thursday night, the starry sky on my drive home is infused with the pale yellow tint of the laughter they evoke from me, and the brooding midnight-blue of B's smoky voice, the fire-engine red of the sparks that bounce off of Y's curls when she talks, or the copper-coated words of comfort R throws into the pot of proclamations we all take turns stirring up.

On those Thursdays, there is usually a moment, sometimes two or three or six, where my heart lights up as I watch someone's eyes glimmer with Understanding or Passion or, even, Need.  Although we have a certain task to work on, often personal stories come out, and so I have learned bits and pieces of each person's history or home life ~ some of it intensely private so that I could never share it here; but I can share what the experience is like for me, learning about people in this way.  There are some groups where the work is the focus, and personal issues don't seep in as any sort of distraction ~ those groups feel close, without really being intimate.  But intimacy in some groups, for some work, is so vital ~ and I'm so glad to have stumbled upon a group of hard-working people who are so open to being so raw sometimes; and with whom I fall in love all over again every week.  This doesn't mean we see each other during the rest of the week, or that we hold hands and sing Kumbaya on Thursdays.  Instead, I get to experience  jewel-like moments with them that I then get to slip into my pocket so that I turn that moment over with my fingertips, touching every smooth corner of the thought or the sentiment, for the rest of the week ~ it means that I get to spend the rest of the week thinking about these people, and appreciating them, and really taking to heart the things they say.

Last Thursday, someone made a strong statement, and another person asked, "Why would you do that?"  Without pausing, the first person responded ~ "Because I have your heart in my hand."

It shook me up, it rattled my cage of thoughts ~ we haven't known each other very long and I was taken aback that someone would say something that intimate and mean it, and be so protective.  It made me think of the people who say and do things knowing they have my heart in their hands, and so are very careful with it; and it reminded me of the people who don't do that; and it showed me the complete strangers who do that were looking right at me.

The moment hung in the air for a nanosecond, and the conversation continued ~ on to something else ~ but now the conversation, and these relationships I am forming, are cradled in these protective hands ~ so I think I will swing in that cradle for a bit, to see what it feels like when people are careful with your heart.

I wasn't going to write about this but then I heard a show and an album about those moments ~ that flash of a moment where you fall in love, or your world changes ~ and so I felt like the Universe was telling me to just spit it out ~ to tell this little story.

First, I listened to the Valentine's Day episode of This American Life.  Sometimes I like the Prologue much better than the actual acts, and that was the case with this episode.  In the Prologue, Ira Glass speaks with Richard Klein of Cornell University, who explains that the way we view love really began with love poems in the 13th century — an illusion.  Ira Glass asked "what do we talk about when we talk about love?"  His answer ~ "this very moment" ~ the moment you feel it.  Richard Klein said it is that "coup de foudre," that bolt of lightning, of seeing someone and instantly falling in love.  The Prologue wasn't about the aftermath, or the reality of it all, or how love changes ~ it was about simply the moment that your life changes, when you fall in love.  For me, it seems to be every Thursday night.

For Richard Klein, it is Petrarch and Il Canzoniere, which Petrarch wrote for Laura, the woman into whose eyes he looked and fell instantly in love, but with whom he had little or no personal contact, ever.  There is a wonderful collection on-line of Petrarch's work, with the simple caption: For a woman he would never know, For a woman he could never have, He should change the world forever.  The passion that Laura deNoves stirred in Francesco Petrarch led him to compose the first lyric love poems ever written ~ 366 of them to be exact, all an ode to Laura.  I envy the impression she made.  Even near the end of the obsession, in poem 352, Petrarch writes vividly about the profound impact of that first glance:

Spirto felice che sí dolcemente
volgei quelli occhi, piú chiari che 'l sole,
et formavi i sospiri et le parole,
vive ch'anchor mi sonan ne la mente:

Happy spirit that glanced so sweetly
from those eyes, brighter than the sun,
and formed the sighs and speech,
so alive they still echo in my mind:

From an Italian, 13th century Renaissance humanist to a 21st century SoCal self-described pocha blogger, matters of the heart are still what drives us to write with passion, to write about the impact on our being of that first moment we look into that other person's eyes ~ and we are changed forever.  Petrarch wrote that before that moment one lives in a life of distraction, and when we encounter the eye of the other, it turns you into something else ~ all you want to do is to return over and over to that ~~ to that feeling, that impact, that moment.   

In the podcast, Richard Klein also  explained that the ancient Greeks had (at least?) two verbs for "seeing" or "to see."  The first verb means "caring observation" ~ the second refers to "the look the eyes can flash, like lightening, like dragon breath, that not only illuminates the eyes, but sends out the kind of fire that penetrates the eye of the other ~ a separate word for that moment when the eyes flash and imply a fateful encounter."

We all know that feeling ~ that moment of initial rapture ~ we all also know quite well that it doesn't last; it's just a dream.  But it seems to me that the most profound people are the ones who love finding it all over again with the person who elicited the feeling in the first place.

And so Thursday I look forward to falling in love again with the colorful batch of spirits who help me write ~

On that note, I leave you with this song, Tiny Heart and Clever Hand [mp4], by Tender Forever, off their Wider album.  (It's sweet and funny and fun ~ stick around past the howling wolves in the Intro.)  I think Tender Forever's biography fits the theme, and Me, perfectly today:

Melanie Valera is the throbbing heart and head philosopher of the solo band, Tender Forever. She cut her performance teeth on the street of her hometown of Bordeaux, France, covering sixties girl bands standards for money for a whole year as part of the Bonnies. Along with this enriching, character-building experience, this hyperactive lady started a long-distance electro-pop project with an American friend she had met on the very last day of her trip to S