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) (because they were so good to me), 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 known 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.  With snow shoes strapped to my backpack!  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 ~ . . . . . .

 

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.

 

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........

Weekend Soundtrack

I got in a car Saturday morning, having had 2.5 hours of sleep, facing a 4-hour drive to the mountains and a weekend of camping and hiking. Generally, I am not a morning person ~ I do not get up if I do not want to, I do not stay up until 4:30 am if I do not want to. This weekend, I did both. You know I mentioned in my last post that I was going to drive up to Lassen Volcanic National Park. Mostly, I needed to get away, needed to clear my head, was dying to sleep outdoors, and missed camping. This week had also been marked by events that caught my eye, or rather, my thoughts ~~ Wednesday marked the first day of Autumn, the end of a traumatic summer for me ~ Friday was Yom Kippur, day of atonement, which many of my friends commemorated ~ and the moon is on its way to being Full on Tuesday. So, I had a lot to think about on the drive, but most importantly, I needed to stare out over a forest and get lost in a moment of not seeing it, for all the trees ~~ trying to find the "big picture" you see? The first day of Spring this year was March 20, and June 21 was the first day of Summer ~~ for me, those dates are like bookends: marking a surprising, exciting, explosive Spring etched into my memory like fire, and a sad Summer I'd rather forget; I want to make my Autumn something in between ~ or, who knows, maybe I want to forget Spring and Summer, and wipe the slate clean..

And so I drove. As I absentmindedly directed the car in a straight path, my mind wandered, wrapping itself around some unwanted enlightenment ~~ the warm sun was streaming in through the windshield, warming my face, cooling my anxiety ~ and crooning out of the speakers was this new CD someone just recommended to me, Twentysomething by Jamie Cullum, this amazing, young, English singer-pianist ~~ his CD is full of modern jazz twists on classic standards like two of my favorites, "I Get A Kick Out of You" and "What A Difference a Day Made," mixed with some beautiful original pieces ~~ his voice is lovely and he can hit the jazz, swing, classic, and crooner vibe all at once. Anyway, somewhere along Highway 36, when the dreary scenery of Highway 5 gave way to an amazing volcanic landscape, Cullum's "Van Morrison-esque summer anthem" came on, his song entitled "These Are The Days":

These are the days that I’ve been missing
Give me the taste give me the joy of summer wine
These are the days that bring new meaning
I feel the stillness of the sun and I feel fine
Sometimes when the nights are closing early
I remember you and I start to smile
Even though now you don’t want to know me
I get on by, and I go the extra mile
These are the times of love and meaning
Ice of the heart has melted away and found the light
These are the days of endless dreaming
Troubles of life are floating away like a bird in flight
These are the days that I’ve been missing
Give me the taste give me the joy of summer wine
These are the days that bring new meaning
I feel the stillness of the sun and I feel fine

It was a perfect soundtrack to the end of the road, the beginning of the camping trip, and the middle of many thoughts ~ it was almost sensory overload......the sight of Lassen Peak off in the distance as I drove up Highway 36, surrounded by this amazing volcanic landscape ~~ rock fragments scattered everywhere, interspersed by dunes of ash, tinted yellow and red from minerals; trees seared by forest fires; and unique vegetation squinting and peeking out from underneath massive rock formations; driving through the tiny towns of Mineral and Chester, in the middle of California's Volcano Country ~ so, the way the music felt and sounded, the way Cullum's lyrics and voice wash over you slowly like maple syrup, the way the landscape filled my eyes and imagination, the sound of the air blowing through the open window, the way my crazy curls felt whipping around in the wind, the sight of Lassen Peak towering over it all. And, the lyrics resonate......

My friend Sara and I camped at the Juniper Lake campground, which is 6,792-feet above sea level, and beautiful. Juniper Lake is the largest and deepest of all the lakes in the Park, and we literally camped a few feet away from its tiny pebble "beach". After we pitched our tent, we boiled water and sipped hot cocoa as we watched the sun set over the Lake ~~ silence between us, no need to say a word about Mother Nature doin' her thing ~~ only the wind in the trees and Bluebirds had something to say about the scene. Every aspect of camping is amazing to me ~~ wandering the hillside gathering wood for the fire, the way food tastes so good out there, the smell of campfire smoke in your hair. watching the clouds move above you, listening to the critters around you talking to each other, stoking the fire and feeling its warmth on your face, remembering that you forgot the flask of whiskey at home, and not minding. When it was time to go to sleep, in the tent, Sara played with the flashlight while I made puppet shadows ~~ it was so cold, but I had forgotten my mittens, so I put socks on my hands, and then made their shadows dance and sing on the side of the tent ~~ Sara and I called it performance art: "Socks on Ecstasy at BurningMan." We left the skyflap open on the tent and watched the stars, and watched the moon rise, its rays lighting up the Lake; as I dozed off, I remember mentioning that I felt like Gumby, zipped up in my cocoon-like down sleeping bag. I fell asleep to the sound of waves lapping up at the edge of the Lake ...... and socks on my hands. Imagine the dreams I had.....

We woke up around 6:30 am....to 33-degrees weather! It had been in the high-70's when we arrived Saturday, and now, we were frozen. For me, that's OK ~ you roll with the punches and laugh at your frozen fingers as you struggle to make a cup o'coffee on a propane stove, praying for the sun to hurry up and warm you up. It was too cold to eat outside, so we ate our freeze-dried eggs and bell peppers, wrapped in flour tortillas, in the car, with the heat and NPR on full-blast, listening to an interview with Jay Rayner, about his new book, The Apologist aka Eating Crow, and the "Apology Log" it spawned on the web. It was hilarious. And I loved it.

We then packed up and drove over to the Bumpass Hell Trail in the Park. At the entrance, I asked the cute ranger how to get to "Bump-ASS Trail," and he said, "Bumpus? (rhymes with "rumpus") Straight ahead." I smiled as he corrected me, knowing full well that the guy's name, the reason for the trail's name, was Bump-ASS. As we drove through the Park, on our way to the trail head, Cesaria Evora played on the CD-player ~~ her song "amor di mundo" from her Café Atlantico CD ~~ where Cullum's voice was smooth as silk, Cesaria's was luscious like licorice ~~ and the landscape around me took on that hue as I recognized what she was singing ~~~ Nh'amor é doce, Nh'amor é certo, Nh'amor tá longe, Nh'amor tá perto, El tá na mim, 'M ca ta sozim, Ness mundo.... (my love is sweet, my love is certain, my love is distant, my love is close, it is within me, I am not alone, in this world....). This CD's title, Café Atlantico, refers to the imaginary café at the world's end, perched on the edge of the ocean sheltered from storms ~ it's a sanctuary for wandering or troubled souls and symbolizes all the world's harbour bars, and the bars where Cesaria made her debut in Mindelo, Cape Verde. And well, Lassen feels like the edge of the world in places, and I touched boulders perched on the edge of cliffs, trying to unburden my troubled soul ~~ and so you can see why I had such a visceral reaction to this song, playing as it was, as I wound my way up the mountain. The same reaction I had to the Cullum lyrics ~ same themes, same reaction, such widely different language/artist/music.

On our hike along the Bumpass Hell Trail, we saw rocks marked by glacial striations, last year's snow still in patches all over the landscape, and whitebark pine ~ telling us how high up we were, at 8,200-feet above sea level. Once we reached the steaming, fuming hydrothermal area of Bumpass Hell, we saw boiling mud pots, smelly fumaroles emitting huge clouds of steam and gas, dacite lava walls, basalt lava that flowed from nearby Mt. Harkness, and andesite lava from ancient Mt. Tehama. It was incredible...and smelly!

I uploaded a few pictures from the trip, here ~~ the photos don't do justice to the awesome landscape!

Before this little camping trip, I saw Lila Downs in concert at the Palace of Fine Arts on Friday night. She is amazing ~ she wears her heart on her sleeve and her soul in her smile. Lila is a revolutionary, and a singing sensation, and she is sexy suffused with sweetness. She mesmerized the shouting, adoring crowd with her tragically beautiful song, La Llorona ~ My friend Nick said on Friday that before Lila, simply her voice existed, and that all the molecules in the universe came together to crystallize around her beautiful voice ~~ she seemed so tiny on stage, and her voice so huge ~ I wanted to pick her up, put in her my shirt-pocket, and walk around with her whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

And so this weekend's soundtrack was interesting indeed.......

Mountains and Concerts and Bears, Oh My

No blogging for me for a few days ~~ going to see Lila Downs tonight at the Palace of Fine Arts Theater in San Francisco (there's a nice, brief history of the PFA, here), and then driving out tomorrow morning to Lassen Volcanic National Park, about 3-1/2 hours northeast of Oakland. Lots of Californians have never heard of Lassen, much less been there, because it plays second fiddle to Mount Shasta (which is the second highest (after Mount Rainier) peak in the Cascade Range volcanoes). Ahh, but back to Lassen ~~ the heart of the park is the 10,457-foot Lassen Peak, the largest plug-dome volcano in the world (its last fiery eruption was in 1915, when it shot debris 7 miles into the stratosphere); Lassen Peak also marks the southernmost end of the Cascade Range, which extends into Canada. The eastern part of the park is a vast lava plateau more than one mile above sea level, scattered with small cinder cones. The park is filled with steaming thermal vents, hot springs, boiling mud pots, smelly sulphur springs, and towering lava pinnacles -- constant reminders that Lassen is still active. So, even though Lassen is second-fiddle to Shasta, it sounds amazing ~~ and besides, I always like the underdog. Since Mount Shasta is nearby, and because it's a little late in the season, Lassen will be pretty empty ~~ the Lake I am going to is more remote than the other campgrounds, so it will be nice to GET AWAY before I head out to Nevada to work on the campaign I might do the Bumpass Hell hike on Saturday, just cuz I like the name and the trail sounds scenic and easy to hike, and then check out Lassen Peak on Sunday. The weather is supposed to be around 77 during the day and 47 or so at night; so, skinny dipping in the lake by day, and shivering in fleece and a down sleeping bag at night ~~ my favorite kind of camping! I bought some fancy, "gourmet camping food" (a jumble of freeze-dried stuff in bags) at REI, like "Cheese Enchilada Ranchero," "Santa Fe Black Beans and Rice," and "Three Berry Cobbler" for dessert! For the hikes, I have Drunken Goat cheese, some Manchego cheese, Genoa salame, and olives, from Whole Foods, along with Asian Pears! haha, even in the wilderness I like my tasty/fancy food. So, if the bears don't get me, or I don't fall off Lassen Peak, or otherwise cause disaster on the drive home, I'll be back on Monday for more blogging, and hopefully can post some pics. Until then, check out the hyperlinks I provided for Lassen and see if you can visit! ~~ :)

Only in Berkeley

The Transcendentist, the first eco-friendly dental office in the country ~ a "wellness spa" where you can receive a healing foot massage and listen to meditative music while your teeth are lovingly cleaned. I found this info on a great local blog, Beast Blog. Because East Bay is Pig Latin for Beast. Beast Blog "is a multi-author blog about the East Bay, covering Alameda to Albany, the bay to the hills." If you live in the East Bay, or plan to visit the Bay Area, YOU MUST CHECK OUT THIS BLOG! The postings are informative, detailed, funny, and apparently the best place to learn about the East Bay's wealth of quirky joints. Beast Blog is archived by category, including arts, neighborhoods, dining, history, housing, transportation, urban studies, free wi-fi, etc. I love the East Bay! :)

Naps Are Good

Damn, someone stole my idea!
MetroNaps is offering New Yorkers a serene spot for a siesta high atop the Empire State Building.  They have even trademarked their MetroNap Pod ~~ how Jetsons!

You can get your second wind, and have a much more productive afternoon, with a simple 20-minute nap.  My family is full of nappers, and we grew up eating about six little meals per day, making sure to fill our late afternoon with a nice siesta, followed by a merienda (a sweet or salty snack with coffee or tea, to wake you up from the nap).  No wonder we could all stay up until 1 am every night and then get back up at 6 am and do it all over again.   In my twenties, the naps became "disco naps," in preparation for dancing all night with my friends.  I know that the modern urban definition of "disco nap" involves Ecstasy rather than actual sleep, but believe me, I go for the real thing ~~ pure, unadulterated SLEEP BABY! 

In law school, we had a large, quiet room, The MoFo Lounge, dedicated to the nappers among us!  (We all know the lounge is named after the law firm which funded it, but the double entendre is funny because lay people think we legal people are all MoFo's anyway.  Ahh, but I digress.)  Sure MoFo was technically the quiet room for studying, but, come on, there were couches in there!  One (well, mainly me) could stretch out fully on the couch, and that gave you carte blanche to jolt up and give a dirty look to the freak who dared make noise by turning a page in a book.  It was heaven.  Well, it was law school and so I had to find joy where I could, ok? 

Now, out in the real world, my body still expects naps.  Around 3 pm every day, after lunch, when others are zoning-out on their post-lunch, biorhythm crash, I go out to my car, open the sun roof so the bay breeze can float in, I set my little alarm for 20 minutes, and I recline the seat allllll the way back.  I'm not talking about just reclining a little and dozing off ~ I'm talking taking off my shoes, grabbing my blanky, getting into full horizontal position, and enjoying a power nap for a full 20 minutes.  If I can't go outside, I turn off the lights in my office and literally just lie down on the floor.  Everyone in the office knows I will be much happier, and thus they will be much happier, if I can just get my nap.  At every job I have ever had, there has been nap time. 

What we learned in Kindergarten applies in the chaotic grown-up world, too: Naps are Gooooood.

Have Only 36 Hours to Spend in Washington, D.C.? ~ Spend 'em like this...

Chad and I were in Washington, D.C. for exactly 36 hours this past weekend. Technically, the purpose of the trip was to attend Ian and Amy's "Going Legal" Celebration (more about that in a minute), but since my brother Rudy and his family live in nearby Woodbridge, VA, and since my best friends from law school (Quyen and Jee) live in D.C., well, we had to balance the delicate task of juggling quality time with three completely different groups of people, all of whom we wanted to see. Are you in the same bind? Do this....