Sensory Overload

now that's old school

I like old stuff. I fell in love with my apartment building because it was built in 1928, and it shows ~ it wears its age proudly. My mom freaked out when she saw the place (it needed a lot of work and I got upset and told her she had "no vision").  I put the TV in a cabinet in the nook where the Murphy Bed used to be. I didn't let my landlords "remodel" my kitchen to add Italian tile and glossy black counters; I prefer the old built-in cabinets with glass doors. My dining set and the furniture in my bedroom, I  found in old shoppes and antique/vintage stores in the Mission. I refuse to buy a new car or even a gently-used car, so I recently had my car ('93) painted (for a bargain), because I know it will last me another 5 years or so ~ my sister bought it in 1992. Those Nissan Maximas will not let you down.  It now looks like a brand new car.  I should get it all souped-up, like Rahul.

So, when I signed up to volunteer a weekend or two for the Obama campaign in Reno, Nevada, I decided to find an old hotel or motel ~ to avoid "Your All-New Atlantis Rediscovered Casino Resort and Spa" and the "Silver Legacy Resort and Casino, featuring Ted Nugent" and the (very nice looking) "Siena Hotel Spa Casino".

Somehow, through a series of random clicks on the internet, I stumbled upon a brief mention of the Hotel El Cortez. The one and only review I found noted, "The elevator alone is an adventure by itself".  I had to know more. But pages and pages of Google search results yielded nothing, except a brief description at the National Park Service, noting the hotel's historic status:

Built in 1931, El Cortez Hotel is one of only three remaining major Art Deco buildings in Reno, and is an excellent example of this style. The foliated motif found on the terra cotta design on the building's base and parapet are remarkable Art Deco details. At the time it was built, it was Reno's tallest building. The hotel experienced such extensive use early on that an addition was built just a few years after its construction. The hotel included the Orchid Room, a swanky bar and a popular restaurant called the Tracedero Room. These rooms were elegantly appointed with stylish Art Deco ornamentation. The El Cortez was a high-class hotel, garnering an astounding $6 per night, compared to the prevailing room rate of $2.50 per night. The El Cortez was built in anticipation of increased divorce traffic after Reno's divorce law was liberalized in 1931.

I had to stay there.  I have never been to Reno before, so my first encounter with the "Biggest Little City in the World" and the birthplace of the gaming corporation Harrah's Entertainment just has to feature some semi-vintagey-fun experience.  So, I immediately called the hotel to ask about their URL address, to reserve a room.  After about 15 rings (I'm persistent), "Ervin" answered the phone and schooled me on the ways of the Hotel El Cortez.

Me: [All eager and chirpy.]  Hi there ~ what's your web site address?
Ervin: [All cool and calm, but super-nice.]  Oh, we don't have a website.
Me: Oh.  OK, if I want to reserve a room, can I just do that now, with you?
Ervin: Oh, we don't take reservations.  It's first-come, first-serve.
Me: Ok.  So, what are your rates?
Ervin: Well, Sunday night through Thursday, it's $27 per night, plus tax, and a $5 key deposit.  But you get the key deposit back when you check out.
Me: What about a Friday night and Saturday night?
Ervin: Oh.  Those rates are different.  It'll be $31 a night, plus tax ~ so, about $35.
Me: Um, THAT IS GREAT! (Well, I tried not to sound too excited.)  OK.  Do you have rooms with two double beds?
Ervin: Oh.  We don't have rooms with two beds.  But the beds in the rooms are double-size.
Me:  Super.  OK, if I show up on a Friday night, what're the odds of my getting a room?
Ervin: Pretty good.
Me: OK, so maybe I should show up Friday afternoon instead, to play it safe, huh?
Ervin: What you can do, is call us about a week before you get here.
Me: To what?
Ervin: To see how things look.
Me: [Wondering, if they don't take reservations, how will they know what to expect?]  Super.  See you then!

Ervin sounded cool.  And old.  I can't wait to see him.

So, I will leave work around noon, get there around 4, get the room, and then "see the sights" before I go to the campaign training.

I can't wait.

This is the only really good photo I could find, on Flickr, thanks to the talented Patrick Boury:

 

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 Art of Tea ~

Over the past few years I've slowly discovered the quiet, calming delight of tea over coffee.  I still need my morning Americano to jump-start the day, but a few times per day and often at night, I also need to slow down and enjoy a moment of quiet, best done with a cup of tea ~ Jasmine tea is my favorite, but this has made me reconsider ~ ;-). 

Last year for Christmas, I received a beautiful green tea pot and tiny tea cups as a gift ~ there's nothing sweeter than sipping tea and nibbling ginger snaps late on a cool Oakland night.  I'm lucky enough to live in the Bay Area where tea and the culture of tea have seeped into a part of the daily ritual for many people ~ along the way I have found myself finding contentment musing over a pot of tea at various tea shops.

When I lived in San Francisco, I spent many rainy days studying for the LSAT at Samovar Tea Lounge in the Castro; in law school I spent countless study hours with Jee and Quyen at Téance in Albany (sadly, now closed) and at L'Aymx Tea Bar (the original location on Piedmont Avenue, and now the new location close to home, on Lakeshore Avenue) in Oakland.  ~ The few times I am able to get out of the Bay Area, I like to find the local tea shop and sit a while ~ in Chicago, it was the lovely Tianguis, run by the very lovely Irasema ~ even Fresno (Teazer World Tea Market) and Houston (Té House of Tea in the Montrose) have charming tea lounges ~ and you can't drive through Encinitas without stopping at Pannikin Coffee & Tea.  More recently, I am a big supporter of the new Numi Tea Garden in Oakland and the very cute Julie's Coffee & Tea Garden in Alameda. 

When I think of the different tea shops I've been to, I don't just remember the tea and the atmosphere and the service ~ but I remember who I was with, what we talked about, how I felt about them and the tea and the day. 

So, as my taste for different tea leaves has grown, it didn't really occur to me that the easy availability and (semi-) reasonable prices meant that the ancient craft of farming tea has been taken over by mass production, even in China.  This is the focus of the film All in this Tea, by Less Blank and David Lee Hoffman.  Apparently, the film goes beyond the beauty of the art of tea to show why the craft should be honored and preserved, and to discuss quality over quantity, fair trade and organics, and sustainable development.  SFGate gave the film a great review (which doesn't mean anything but I like that the little man is out of his chair). 

The film will be screened this Wednesday night, January 9, 2008, at Numi Tea Garden in Oakland (2230 Livingston Street).  A $5-$10 donation will be requested.  Go if you can! ~ Either way, please leave a comment telling me about your favorite local tea shop ~ if I can, I'd love to check it out!

Year of the Rooster ~ Next-Gen Upgrades

Today is the first day of the Year of the Rooster.  Gung hai fat choi everyone!  Some cool bloggers have come up with great titles celebrating the year of the Rooster, so I won't go down that path.  But you should check out a great article in today's SF Chronicle by Jeff Yang, author of Once Upon a Time in China: A Guide to Hong Kong, Taiwanese, & Mainland Chinese Cinema and Eastern Standard Time.  The article, entitled ASIAN POP: Lunar Year 2.0, offers a brief historical look at traditional Chinese New Year rituals, such as sweeping the house and cleaning everything on New Year's Eve because if you do any cleaning on New Year's Day, you'll wipe away a year's worth of good luck.  The article then launches into some great and funny ideas on how to update those traditional rituals "to embrace modern-world realities," including a fantastic side-note and link to The Geek Guide to Kosher Machines, to point out "Orthodox Judaism, which has managed to preserve its traditions and rituals for nearly 58 centuries while evolving them to address contemporary society and technology." I have to run so I leave you with a few highlights from today's article:

"Lucky Money": In an era of digital transactions, paper is unhygienic and obsolete. Have your overseas relatives PayPal you your li shi instead. (Remember to send them a nice "gong xi fa cai" e-greeting first.)

Cleaning the House: Sure, it's important to degrunge your apartment, but what about the tool you use more frequently than any other? I'm talking about your computer, silly! Hopefully, you performed the appropriate Lunar New Year Eve 2.0 rituals of defragmenting your hard drive, removing stray icons from your desktop and emptying your recycle bin. If not, don't touch that keyboard: deleting anything on New Year's Day could lead to 365 days of bad luck. And, for God's sake, if you want to avoid skid row, do not clear your cache!

Honoring Family and Visiting Friends: On Lunar New Year's Day, dedicate your blog entry to your late ancestors. IM or SMS any pals who are out of handy drop-in range; instead of bringing them oranges, e-mail them gift certificates to Apple's iTunes. Suggested artists: Johnny Cash, Eddie Money, 50 Cent, Jewel.

Random Mid-Week Thoughts

By 12:30 this afternoon, I had hit my Sensory Overload ~ I read through difficult email messages, had a maddening personal exchange with a friend who lives around the corner, and a torturous telephone conversation with another ~~ on all levels, in all types of communication, I am pretty beat up today, most of it brought on by myself. I went to the coffee shop on Lakeshore Avenue to get away and sit in the sun and read my new book, the matter of desire, by the Bolivian-born, American-based novelist, Edmundo Paz Soldán. I was up all night a few weeks ago, and saw a TV interview with Soldán, so I was intrigued enough to go out and buy his book. Apparently, Soldán has become the latest spokesperson in the McOndo literary movement, which "stands in opposition to the more bucolic magical realism of such writers as Gabriel Garcia Márquez; the McOndo writers instead embrace an urban vision that incorporates the pervasive influence of American pop culture in today's Latin America." That this new literary movement is called McOndo is, obviously, a reference to an urban, Americanized setting ruled by McDonald's, iMacs, and MP3's ~ but the name is also a tongue-in-cheek homage to the fictional village of "Macondo," the setting for Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude. Those writers are witty, I tell ya.

The eerie thing is that when I finally had time to open the book, about a week after I bought it, I discovered that the quote on the page before the title page is the Ford Madox Ford quote from the novel, The Good Soldier, which you know I blogged about a few days ago. And, if you know me, you know I am always seeking out reasons for these serendipitous connections (coincidences, some would say). But Fate paraded more connections out in front of me as I began reading the novel this afternoon.

In the book, the narrator, Pedro, travels to Bolivia to learn more about his father and his father's death ~ but also to escape a love affair in New York ~ and, of course, these two missions to his trip are ultimately about a desperate search for answers to his own life. After landing in La Paz, Pedro looks for the family member who is supposed to meet him there, and he realizes: "This is my city, but I would still feel like a stranger if there were no familiar face to help me, a glance to save me from my frequent forays into the depths of solitude at the slightest blunder of reality." And so, by the fourth sentence, on page one, I felt this connection to Pedro ~~ some inexplicable intimacy or awareness, which made me uncomfortable in its familiarity. Later, Pedro struggles with the possible onset of a migraine, knowing he will have to rely on Imitrex to tame the ferocious pain ~~ and, again, if you know me, you know I carry one-dose Imitrex nasal-spray in every bag, in every backpack, two by the bed, and one in the car, in case one of those debilitating attacks hits at a time when I cannot lock myself in a dark room to fight off the pain. And so, by page four, I love and hate Pedro and Soldán because I wanted to escape today, to forget about the chaos around me, but instead I am thrust dead-center into a mirror.........

And Pedro thinks to himself:

"Some were born to leave hieroglyphics behind them; others, to decipher them, to clarify the world another strives to make opaque. I belong to the latter, and I'm convinced that our work is no less honorable, no less deserving of recognition, than that of the creators. Without us, without our answer to their threatening, secretive challenge, they could not exist."

Ai, and I ask myself which am I? The creator, or the writer of the personal Rosetta Stone which seeks to translate a language you yourself fails to comprehend? I remember a few years ago, when I was in the "creator" mode and a boyfriend, C., basked in the complex, convoluted, callous reality I had created for myself. And now? I tinker away, with a small, broken, dull carving tool, picking away at a huge slab of dark stone, trying to carve out the translation, the answer, to these challenges around me ~~ trying to open up a sphere of light in that huge, oppressive, mysterious, dark stone. And yet Fate continued to torture me in this damn scenario ~~ as all of these thoughts come pouring into my head, and heart, and soul, and I remembered all of the "treading water" I have done lately or the "swimming just beneath the surface," who would have guessed it, but that damn song, "The Tide Is High," by Blondie, came on...... ♪ ♪ "I'm not the kind of girl who gives up juuuust like thaaaaat ~ Oh, noooo, oh, oh" ♪ ♪ I know, I know ~ I'm on thinking overkill/overload; I feel like Pedro's uncle in the novel: "His mind never ceased working. His thoughts crowded in on one another, falling between the coordinates of space and time only to expand, ramify, and intertwine with everything in their path." A little later in the book, Soldán illustrates Pedro's relationship with his uncle, who collects all sorts of antique typewriters, radios, and telephones:

       "Whose is this?" I said, pointing to the light green Smith Corona that occupied center stage.
       "Your dad's. He wrote parts of Berkeley on it. A collector wanted to buy it from me for a lot of money. Did he think I was crazy?"
       I admired it in silence: a small machine, portable, more suited to a professional or a busy executive than a romanticized writer.
       I saw your iBook," he said. "I don't like the color, prefer something more subtle. I have a Mac too. Until just a while ago I had a Commodore 64 that I'd made some adjustments to, to make it faster and run current programs. I finally got tired. It was too much work."
       "You don't collect any other type of antique. They all have something in common."
       "Yes. They allow communication at a distance. because, you know, that's the best way to communicate. At a distance. The presence of people only blocks communication."
       "And what we're doing now?"
       "Sometimes it can't be helped." He finished his whiskey in one long swallow and put the glass down on top of the dictionary on the table.

And today, in particular, I hate the truth of Pedro's uncle's declaration: the presence of people only blocks communication ~ and so we live in a digital age, where your closest connection, most intimate revelations, are sometimes online, to a faceless stranger ~~ as I often tell my friends, I was born in the wrong century. But here I am, and what can I do? Communicate with friendly strangers, at a distance ~ and you now know more about me probably than members of my own family. Pedro's uncle is surrounded by dictionaries and almanacs and encyclopedias ~ and he sets crosswords for a living, cloaking his clues with secret messages ~ he is surrounded by the medium of communication, and yet abhors actually speaking with other people. Oh, don't we each know someone like that? This morning, * I * got in the way of communication ~ I felt inundated by information and requests and advice ~ in person, on the phone, by email ~ and I don't know what to do about that right now; except to stop listening, maybe stop talking.

A little later in the book, Pedro questions whether he chose the right career by going to academia, where he has to assume the insignificance of his contribution. Pedro loves the world of books and research but he wants to be more relevant ~~ "not necessarily a politician like [his father] ([he] didn't think he had the heart for it), but maybe a strategist for some political party, or an influential analyst in newspaper opinion pages." And who among us has not questioned his/her relevance in this world, or questioned our choice of career? Except that Pedro seems to be thinking the things I am asking myself. He traveled in the direction of exploring the mysteries of his father's life, but in the direction away from his complicated love affair with an engaged woman. I (hope to) leave next week for Nevada ~ running towards something, to work on a campaign I feel so committed to, and yet running away from so many other things, so many other commitments. And my hope is that making a tiny difference in the campaign, will make a big difference in me.

Maybe I can only communicate with certain people right now ~~ say, strangers, or very young children. Last night I had dinner at my very good friends' house, S&M. They fed me and wrapped leftovers for me, and gave me a check to donate towards my fund to send me to Nevada. They often tell me that I do those things which they cannot attempt (because they have a mortgage to pay or a family or big jobs), and so they live by the "It Takes A Village" philosophy: send me out there instead, and they feed me, and donate when they can, and let me do laundry at their house, and I babysit their beautiful girls. Last night, little Jac, who is around 3-1/2, slipped and hit her chin, hard, on the edge of the dining room table. One minute she was laughing and excitedly telling us a story, the next instant she was sobbing. We calmed her down and distracted her with talk of dessert and she said, suddenly, "Look! I'm not crying anymore!" And it struck me as so honest and pure that she could point out when she had stopped hurting ~~ don't you wish we, as adults, had the courage to do this...and then laugh again, and shout and hug everyone and run around, eating cake, like she did? She is amazing, that little girl. Later, she wanted to join our adult conversation so she said, "John Kerry!" just to get our attention. I need to hang out with her more often, and listen to her, and let her listen to me, because she has a lot to teach me.

Discovering Roots

My friend Daniel and I counted stars tonight, up on the roof of my building, linking the wine and food and non-sequiturs from dinner to the mysterious light those tiny dots were speaking to us. I wondered what stars are made of, and how they exist ~~ but, speaking with Daniel, a creative genius and gifted wordsmith, I remembered that stars are what we make of them, what we imagine....and I vaguely remember someone once saying, "To know ourselves, we must know the stars." So, after Daniel left, I remembered this Walt Whitman poem that explores the tension between the scientific world-view, the one we are taught in classrooms, and the poet's view, that passion for knowledge that you can find only outside of the classroom:

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

That tension between intellect and emotion, the desperate search for the right combination of two such powerful forces, the disconcerting schism between active vs. passive learning, the discord between passionate exploration and sterile study, "connecting the prose and the passion" ~~ are all themes I think resonated through my weekend. Up on the roof, under the stars, Daniel said that the Latin root for passion is pati (and the Greek pathos): to suffer or endure. And I wondered how the modern definition of "passion" has come to mean "boundless enthusiasm" or "ardent love" ~~ how you define the word changes how you experience its essence ~~ the Buddha's Awakening describes this process. But mostly I thought about how passion sometimes feels like the difference between what "should be" and what "is" ~~ that's why people are passionate about justice or civil rights or love ~~ to suffer and desire and ache and want what "should be". And, you know, compassion then means "to suffer together" (com = together, pati = suffer). And often I feel compassion, but not in that suffering sense ~~ more in that "true, honest contact with another human being" sense. And so my weekend was a little bit about that.

My friend M. and I drive to Fresno to visit our good friend, Alegría ~~ whose name means "Happiness." Ale and I survived law school together, helping each other untangle that noose of the sterile Socratic method from around our necks, and using the rope to lead each other into uncharted territory ~~ creating more passionate, more creative, more challenging ways to learn the law we wanted to practice, and to serve the communities we are so passionate about. Ale, who is a Staff Attorney for CRLA, has deep roots in a family devoted to the passionate fight for social justice; often, I learn a lot just by being around her, in or out of the classroom ~~ like this weekend, spending two days with Ale and her Grandmother enjoying the Labor Day Weekend, a holiday founded by, and in honor of, "The Worker".

Ale's grandmother is Jessie de la Cruz, who was born in 1919 and who was five years old when she began working in the fields in California. In 1935, Jessie met the boy, another teen field worker, who would become her husband, Arnulfo De La Cruz ~~ they eloped three years later, had five children, and continued migrating up and down the San Joaquin Valley, working on farms and living in the labor camps with other campesinos. In 1965, Cesar Chavez was holding a meeting in the De La Cruz home ~~ he had already held several meetings there ~~ and Cesar asked Arnulfo, "Where is Jessie?" When Arnulfo explained that Jessie was in the kitchen, Cesar said, "She belongs here." And that night, before many of us were even born, Jessie joined La Causa, helping organize the National Farm Workers Association. Jessie is known as the UFW's first female organizer ~~ and as the "Quiet Hero" in the San Joaquin Valley.

I know all this about Jessie because I read the book Gary Soto wrote about her, Jessie De La Cruz: A Profile of a United Farm Worker. What I didn't learn in the book, I discovered this weekend, sitting around a table listening to Jessie's soft voice recount powerful memories while Mexican music played in the background. She told us how she still misses her husband every day ~~ he died suddenly of a heart attack 13 years ago ~~ and about her children, and then the funny story of how she met Pedro Infante, the famous Mexican artist and actor.....Infante was giving a concert in town but Jessie and her sister couldn't go because they had to stay in the fields ~~ later, before they left town, Infante went to the field where they were ~~ the only thing they had for him to autograph was a prayer book ~~ so, Infante signed the prayer book: "Yo soy Cathólico también!" ~~ Sunday morning, when the three of us came under attack by a single Japanese Beatle, Jessie grabbed a broom and rushed out to the back patio to save us as we screamed and ran around, laughing at our hysteria over such a big bug. Jessie, who turns 85 on September 13, is clearly stronger and faster and more fearless than all of us put together. If you don't already know about Jessie, read about her, and discover the history behind this "Quiet Hero."

The weekend theme of Heroes and Passion and Causes and Strong Women also floated through the movie we saw Sunday night ~~ "Hero," directed by Zhang Yimou, which has finally been released, three years after it was made. The story explores the interplay and the conflict between the sword and the heart ~~ the passion of defending one's ideals, the idea of a land without borders, the concept of a soul without constraint. The cinematography alone will make you cry ~~ the different primary colors used to tell each version of the story, the colors and light becoming more "real" as you reach the truth of the tale. Tony Leung Chiu-Wai and Maggie Cheung, who were so amazing in "In The Mood for Love" are mesmerizing here as Broken Sword and Flying Snow ~~ I mean, you cannot take your eyes off of them. The distance between the sword and the heart is measured here in passion ~~ on the screen, in the color palette, in Chiu-Wai's eyes, in Cheung's crimson lips, and in the discussion you'll have after this movie.

"Passion is emotion that endures. It must survive all obstacles, not the least of which is the burden of its own intensity."

My Mom's Spanish Puns

Today was my Mom's birthday. My dad called me early this morning, just like he woke me up early on my own birthday, and left me a message reminding me it was Mom's birthday and to call her ~ but then he sneaked in, "and me, too." Which was sweet ~ my Dad calling me to sneak-in an "I want to hear your voice" request. I called my Mom and was glad to hear that she was carrying on the family tradition of celebrating her birthday for several days, if not a week. She had already been taken out to dinner over the past few nights by my father, my sister and her boyfriend, and one of my brothers and his fiancee. I wish I could have been there ~ or even that I had something to send my mother. I hate being the poor-nonprofit-baby-lawyer thousands of miles away; especially since I am the oldest. Ai, but for my mom, she said that my voice was enough to complete her birthday. And so, in her honor, I wanted to share two especially funny puns she inadvertently (but maybe purposely) made up, years ago.

When I was 19, I worked at the Front Desk at a hotel in Union Square in San Francisco ~ I had only lived here a few months. My mom came to visit me, her first trip to San Francisco and indeed her first vacation trip even out of Texas (working as a strawberry-picker in California when she was pregnant with me does not count as "travel"). I was glad I could get her a discounted room so she would not have to sleep on my futon in that slum I called home in the Lower Haight. At work, I had learned how to say "the key" in Italian, and I tried to show off for my mom. I told her ~ "la chiave" (la kee-ah-veh). She laughed and told me, "Por supuesto, La Que Abre" ~ which means in Spanish, literally, "Of course, The One That Opens." And I was stunned by her humor, her quick wit, and the memorable pneumonic device which, to this day, helps me remember how to say "the key" in Italian. That was the first private moment we shared where I felt at ease with my mom ~ almost an adult, but with so much to learn ~ such as how I got to be such a smart-ass myself ~ where I got my own sarcasm, humor, and penchant for puns. This funny moment with my Mom made me realize I wasn't some tortured teen who had developed her personality despite my family's quirks, but because of them ~ I had spent so many of my angst-filled teen years trying to be so unlike my Mother, that I had failed to value the ways in which we were so alike ~ the verbal mirror-image. Later, my sister joined us ~ just the three girls; our first adult trip ~ and I showed them the City, took them to see the Nutcracker Ballet, and, before reaching the point where I would feel trapped by the touristy sightseeing, put them on a bus to go see Muir Woods. I will never, ever forget that image of my mom in the hotel, laughing, waving a key in front of me, and making me laugh ~ it felt like looking in a mirror, but not at a reflection of how I look ~ more like at how I am ~ it was touching, reassuring, enlightening.....and funny.

Months later, I went home to Houston to visit. And my mom joined my sister and me upstairs. My sister and I were sharing lotions and potions and all sorts of girlish retail therapy items, and my mother sat on the floor with us. It was accidental ~ we nearly resorted to our knee-jerk adolescent reaction of whining, "Mommm, get out of our room!" But we didn't. Three adult women ~ two generations ~ two languages ~ three shades of brown ~ having known each other for a child's lifetime, and now tentatively and humorously getting to know each other as adults. My sister and I used to like to tell my mom how "fancy" we were, with all our high-end beauty products (way before my current poor, nonprofit years). My Mom would feign admiration and say that she wished she was as lucky as we were ~~ deftly and subtly weaving in a storyteller's sleight-of-hand: forgiving our youth-induced, blissful ignorance of the fact that we wouldn't be so damn lucky if it weren't for her and my Dad ~ I mean, do you know how hard it is to work as a strawberry-picker, while you're pregnant? Sheesh, and now there we were, in a fancy house, wasting fancy strawberry-scented lotion. Then my sister rubbed some lotion on her shoulders ~ they shimmered and radiated softness ~ and of course they did; she was like 18 years old! My sister "struck a pose," glancing seductively back over her shoulder at us and said to my mom, "feel them ~ mis shoulders son tan supple" (yep, Spanglish for "my shoulders are so supple.") Supple. A word my mother would never know. Or so we thought. My mom's retort? "Por supuesto, como un sapo!" ~~ which means, "Of course, like a toad!" As you may have guessed, "sapo" rhymes perfectly with "supple" and both, well, sort-of, allude to a soft, shiny texture of the skin. Our howling laughter scared my Dad downstairs ~ maybe because he had rarely heard us have so much fun with our Mom like that. My sister displayed mock mortification at Mom's comment, but secretly we both must have marveled at how smart, and witty, she is ~ something we rarely admit to her.

So, Happy Birthday to my kick-ass Mom and mil gracias to her for her sense of humor, her unexpected puns, her radiant skin and good genes which will keep me glowing until I'm 90, and for putting up with two smart-ass, kick-ass, bratty daughters!

Butterfly Day

I have been working on a big translation project recently ~~ it can be slow, tedious work, but mostly I enjoy thinking and writing in Spanish ~ especially today when I did some of it on the roof of my building.  My neighbor loaned me her comfortable lawn chair in exchange for a huge slice of chocolate cake ~ which is the best way to barter things, don't you think?  So, I sat up there, watching the sail boats and kayaks and paddle boats on Lake Merritt, and the "Star Wars" cargo cranes at the Port of Oakland in the fuzzy distance ~~ I could even see all the way to San Francisco, to the Twin Peaks Tower.  I put on some sun block but still, in the couple of hours I was up there, I got about 2 shades darker ~ and it reminded me of being a little brown kid in Houston, wanting to run around outside in the searing heat, but being told to stay inside so I wouldn't get "so negra."  Oy, that is a whole other story for another blog posting for another day ~~ the not-so-subtle racism among lighter-skinned Latinos against darker-skinned or mixed-race Latinos.  For now, I think of all this because this amazing song, Arenita Azul, by Lila Downs is playing from her brilliant second CD, Tree of Life.  The words in the song allude to the prejudices that face the AfroMestizo community on the coast of Oaxaca, Mexico.  In the song, Lila is faced with questions that would reduce her to placing herself in one ethnic group ~~ so she answers that she would just rather be a butterfly.  The lyrics, in Spanish and English, are down below.

One of the nicknames that my loved ones call me is mari-posa ~ butterfly.  I think Drew started this several years ago when I went through that "dark phase," including law school with all the requisite existential angst and intense self-reflection, ~ and I emerged more of a kick-ass mujer ~ so Drew one day said it was like I had been in a cocoon all those years and had finally broken through as the mariposa I was meant to be ~ and since the short version of my name is "Mari," well, the nickname stuck ~ when people call me by that name, well, it means more than they know.  So this song by Lila, so brief but intense ~ not even three minutes long ~ just resonates very strongly tonight ~ it's quite different from the other songs on this CD because it has a very strong Afro-Cubano flavor, and that sexy piano that comes in at the final 45-seconds or so will make your cadera move, and your heart pound, like you didn't think it could:

Arenita Azul	Blue Sand
Arenita azul de 'onde salió? anoche cayó l'agua la destapó Ere cubana? no soy cubana ere jarocha? no soy jarocha qué quiere ser mi maí? soy mariposa Desde que te fuiste no he visto flores ni lo pajaro cantan ni l'agua corre	Blue sand where did you come from? last night the rain fell and it released you Are you a Cuban woman? no, I'm not a Cuban woman are you a Jarocha woman? no, I'm not a Jarocha woman What would you like to be? I'm a butterfly Since you left I haven't seen any flowers Nor do the birds sing Or the river flow

Lila Downs is on tour and will be in San Francisco on September 24 and San Luis Obispo on September 25 ~ then on to Tucson, San Antonio, Chicago, and several other U.S. cities before heading to Europe.  If you have the chance to see her, DO IT.

Latino Check ~ Yup, Still Latina...

Carajo, damn you Daily Texican! Because of you I am snooping around on the web for discussions on the word "gringo" and other Latino Bloggers ~ and came across Marcos' Blog, who had this handy Latino Check ~ por supuesto que soy super-Latina, especially according to numbers THREE and FIVE (and Mámi made sure I got number ONE)!

:)

Later, D.T. sent me some other Mexicano ones, which I also found all over the web with the disclaimer: don't get all doloridos and defensive ~~ Mexicans are good sports y se aguantan. Anyway, these highlights really take me back to my childhood in Houston, growing up pura Mexicana:

• If you have ever hurt yourself and your mamacita rubbed the area while chanting, "Sana, sana, colita de rana.....". Yes you're a Mexican.

• If you have your last name in old English lettering anywhere on your car, truck, or tattooed on your back. Yes, you ARE a Mexican, big-time. (And a proud one too). ~~ Hey, for me it was my name engraved on a cowboy belt and on a gold chain around my neck ~~ wow, Texas Mexican ~ Tejana!

• If you refer to your wife as your ruca, your hina, your wifa, your old lady, or your vieja, guess what? You're a Mexican.

• If you have ever been pinched in church and been told "pobrecito de ti si lloras" or "Vas a ver orita que sálgamos." Ouch, you were a scared Mexican.

• If you throw a "Grito" every time you hear Vicente Fernandez, then not only are you a Mexican, but you are a drunk Mexican. ~~ Don't even ask what happened at my Quinceñera!

THE Best New Restaurant in San Francisco ! ~ It's More Than The Food

Dios mio, I am in heaven.  What a meal.  Tonight my friend Drew took me to the opening night of Colibrí Mexican Bistro down in San Francisco's Theater District, near Union Square.  What food!  What a setting!  What amazing people own this restaurant!  Colibrí, which means hummingbird, has a beautiful interior, which is modeled on 19th century Mexican cantinas.  The owner, Sylvia Rallo, and her husband, Eduardo, who are both from Cuernavaca, sum it up quite nicely:

During the late 1800's and early 1900's, Mexico experienced major cultural and political changes.  At the time the country had  strong links to Europe, and particularly France.  French influence was reflected in the art and architecture of buildings, homes, and public facilities, and eventually made its way into restaurant menus.  Many cantinas (featuring a pub atmosphere of casual dining and spirits) opened during that period, and became important gathering places for leaders and the community as a whole.  The décor of the cantinas during this period included traditional  Mexican design elements, coupled with antique furniture common in France.  People would come together at the cantinas to socialize, hear the latest news, and to celebrate while enjoying their favorite home-style meals served on hors d'oeuvres plates (tapas) that varied in fare day to day.

The interior was indeed warm and welcoming and incredibly beautiful ~~ in three months, Sylvia and Eduardo somehow transformed an old California Pizza Kitchen into a sublime dining and socializing environment.  All of the art (including three huge original paintings) and fixtures are from Guadalajara.  The bar is stocked sky-high with a selection of 100 tequilas, and a flat-screen TV nestled into the wall above the bar plays old Mexican movies.  My favorite Lila Downs CD was playing in the background. The open kitchen, creating an air of casual familiarity, and the reasonable prices belie the upscale quality of the food.  Wow, do I sound like a foodie or what?  Sorry, but it was really great.

As soon as we sat down, the waiter brought out a trio of salsas ~ mild green, medium pineapple, and spicy red (all of which were amazing).  Ai, then instead of standard Mexican restaurant chips (which aren't traditional anyway), he brought us a pile of handmade, warm, "mini-size" corn tortillas to dip into each sauce.  Oh Lord, how delicious.  Eduardo sat with us for a while, telling us the story of how he met Sylvia and how they ended up in San Francisco with two restaurants, one more on the way, and three beautiful toddlers.  We shared funny stories about how we forget our English and "think in Spanish," especially about intense visceral reactions like enjoying amazing food and conversation.  I told Eduardo that my good dreams are in Spanish, and my anxiety-ridden nightmares are in English.  And we laughed at how Latinos sometimes mix up English colloquialism ~~ like my friend who says, "C'mon, go out on a branch for me!" instead of "Go out on a limb for me" ~ or how, because in Spanish you do not "blow out candles" but rather say "apaga la vela," I always tell people, "Turn off the candle," to which they usually reply, "Um, is there a switch?"  Oy, we laughed and laughed and Eduardo and Sylvia, whom I just met tonight, were as warm and inviting as their restaurant.

And then we ordered the guacamole, which was made-to-order at our table ~ the waiter brought out a some beautiful avocados with five small dishes containing the traditional ingredients (cilantro, onion, etc), and then asked us how spicy we wanted it.  Que rico.  We shared móle and pozóle and way too many margaritas, and were so excited to see that nearly every table was full on this, their first official night open to the public.  We capped off the evening with the Mexican Chocolate Cake and vanilla ice cream.  The warm cake gently melts in your mouth and after a few seconds you realize, they really use authentic Mexican chocolate ~ you can taste the distinct flavor on the "finish" ~ and so Drew and I had to have a spoon-duel to attack the rest of the cake.

Even better, the restaurant is directly across the street from the A.C.T. Theater and the Curran Theater, so the theater crowds will (finally) have an upscale and nice, but reasonably-priced, place for an authentic Mexican dinner ~ and Colibrí will stay open until 1:00 a.m. during theater season.  The other restaurants in the area are either way too pricey (like Asia de Cuba) or just kinda cheesy (like Maxx's ~ sorry).  You could have a fancy dinner/theater date night at Colibrí (ask for that romantic table in the corner at the window), or just enjoy a few casual drinks with friends at the bar, or even eat solo at the bar.  Tourists and locals and couples and large groups, all ages and races, blended together tonight with the art and music and food and the warm smiles on Eduardo and Sylvia's faces ~ what a fantastic evening!

In May 2003, Eduardo and Sylvia opened Consuelo Mexican Bistro on San Jose's Santana Row, and later this year they also plan to open a Mediterranean restaurant there on the Row.  As I spoke with Eduardo tonight, I was fascinated, impressed, and inspired by the fact that he is clearly a socially-responsible investor.  He told us that, in addition to the restaurants, he is a partner in a pharmacy in Oakland's predominantly Latino Fruitvale District that seeks to address specific Latino health issues.   The pharmacy has been open for about seven weeks, in the new Fruitvale Transit Village near BART, and it's called Farmácia Remédios.  Eduardo wants to address issues such as the high rate of Diabetes in the Latino community, as well as offer wellness, preventative, and educational resources to our community.  When I got home, I googled him to read more about his projects (in a non-stalker kinda-way, of course), and learned that he and a group of friends were the founders of World Wrapps, which "began as a community-based, small business with a mission to be active in the communities where it operates by giving back to local non-profit organizations, schools, and neighborhood organizations, especially those that promote health and wellness and support our children."  Eduardo is also the CEO of Pacific Community Ventures, which "develops and invests in businesses providing economic gains to low-income communities throughout California with a focus on the Bay Area," and he is one of the founders of BrainStorm Ventures, which funds emerging technology companies.  AND they have three kids under 4!  WOW.  They are amazing people and Colibrí is a wonderful restaurant ~ get yourself to San Francisco and check it out ~ and tell them Marisa sent you.  ~ :)