I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.

I call my nephew sir.

2010-03-10T10:11:00.001-08:00

I call my nephew sir. I think I picked the habit up from my sister. Wherever it comes from, it's very odd to hear an adult calling a very small boy sir. When playing video games together I will occasionally want to convince him to do something that moves the game forward in a particular way. "Please sir" I will say as my brothers laugh at me and my nephew says "no" from his perch on my lap.

The year of the dog is, if my nephew is anything to go by, the best year for boys. It involves a working knowledge of all types of swords: pirate, ninja and knight. It also involves a general sweetness of character and a tendency to sing "Yo Ho Yo Ho. A piwate's wife fow me!" This has lead to a tendency in his aunt to buy things. Lots of things. Things like small knights costumes complete with a cloak with a matching crest and a fairly impressive matching foam sword. The very nice toy store next to my very nice coffee shop knows it's mark well because while I walked out of there the first time with only the costume and a small toy dragon I returned in less than a week for the cloak and sword. It is possible that an eighth sword is not actually necessary for the well being of a small boy, but it seems to be a requirement for the aunt. The aunt may in fact go back and get another one. After all, I'll need something to use in sword fights. Using a ninja sword when fighting a medieval knight would just seem wrong.

The Bad Kind of Multitasking

2010-02-17T21:41:00.001-08:00

My first car, a horrible 1980 diesel VW rabbit, had a secret power that almost made it worth keeping as long as I did. It could emit a huge cloud of smoke from the exhaust pipe upon command. The command was hitting the gas pedal with anything approaching firmness. The cloud created when going up a steep hill was enough to clear traffic behind me for up to a half a mile. The true genius of this particular feature was that it is so very hard to honk at the idiot behind you to any real result and sometimes you really need to get their attention.

I first discovered this when stuck in traffic going around an accident and that moron in the hideously expensive vehicle riding up your tail pipe while looking out the side window and talking on his phone that we've all run into was inches from my bumper. In retrospect letting him hit my car would probably have saved me thousands in the never ending repair bills it took to keep that nightmare of a car running as it wouldn't have taken much to total it. At the time however that didn't occur to me. Instead, in panic as he came increasingly closer to my rear bumper while looking ninety degrees to the left out his open window, I depressed the clutch and hit the gas hard. Not only did he back off immediately, but he rolled his window up and started looking forward as he drove. I do not miss that car, but I occasionally wish I could have that feature installed on whatever car I'm currently driving.

We've all seen, and sometimes even been that idiot on the road who is texting while driving. We've also seen that moron in the hideously expensive vehicle riding up your tail pipe while looking out the side window and talking on his phone in stop and go traffic. But rarely do you see someone reading while driving. I had once heard of this phenomena. When I was a child my father and uncle worked with a woman who did just that. In the stop and go morning traffic through L.A. my uncle would see her driving eyes up, eyes down, eyes up, eyes down through the slow two hour commute. I always felt it probably explained the high number of accidents in that area, but as she was never in any of them I had no proof. I did however feel she was unique in this bizarre behavior. That is until yesterday morning.

Yesterday morning on my drive into the office I found myself once again wishing for that special feature to be added to my car as I looked at my rear view mirror and saw behind me, eyes up, eyes down, eyes up, eyes down while at a stop light. Reading while driving always seems like a bad idea, at least to those in the cars around you, but when audio books are so readily available it also seems so entirely unneeded. When the light turned I put as much distance between what could only be the offspring of my father's former coworker and myself. Still her car was right behind me all the way to work and even to my building. I ran up the stairs from the parking garage to the lobby elevator and just as the doors were closing my multitasking co-commuter slipped into the elevator. Slightly flustered she noticed that her top was inside out. Who could help but think, reading while dressing? It was all I could do not to ask what the book was. Clearly it was captivating.

Chinese New Year

2010-02-15T11:21:00.001-08:00

I spent the weekend and many of my free hours last week decorating and preparing for Chinese New Year. This is not a normal event for me but my niece was learning about Chinese New Year and was excited about the idea of actually observing it, at least in part. So after finding a place where we could watch the Lion Dance, I decorated. I hung lights and made red signs with gold embossed Chinese characters for luck and happiness and whatever else I could find in rubber stamp form. I even replaced the lamp shade with a red Chinese lantern and hung a paper dragon from the ceiling. There were dumplings to steam, unusual candies to eat, boxes to paint red and gold and a video game to play. The video game had nothing to do with Chinese new year, but video games are always good.

The reality is that what I was really doing, while putting hours into preparing one slightly educational experience for two small children, was not thinking about work. Actively and pointedly NOT thinking about work.

Not thinking about being unable to track down data points needed for a major speech by a major player. Not thinking that contracting leaves you as a target for those who wish to pass the blame or need to unload on someone where it wont come back at them. Not thinking about being shoved 4 in an office made for 1. Not thinking about the fragmented and fungible nature of contracting where you never get to see anything through to fruition or have time to fully understand and invest in project. But most of all not thinking about how I just cannot seem to do it anymore. My last functional neuron seems to have stood up and walked away in disgust. Clearly it feels that if I cannot learn enough not to get myself into these positions there is no point in trying.

Ooooooooooooh! So that's what that me...

2010-02-11T11:38:00.001-08:00

It is disturbing how much I can realize on my own but not actually process fully without external intervention. I'm sure it's a horrifying defect on my part. For years I was aware that having returned to the US as a child to a set of family that was not entirely impressed with my five year old self had an effect on me. As a child there are some things that are a given, one of them being that your family loves you completely. So if your grandmother, ever so subtly, finds you tedious and unattractive, clearly taking after the wrong side of the family and ascribing malice to accident, instead of dismissing it as one would as an adult you try harder. And when that doesn't work perhaps you wind up taking it on in a larger way than is entirely appropriate, because if your grandmother doesn't think you're pretty or smart and you get the sense that you're only there on sufferance well perhaps that's true. True enough so that when meeting relatives of the same generation on the other side of the family who tell you you're beautiful and delightful, you kind of wonder why they're lying to you. As an adult you can have the realization that, huh, yeah that did have an influence on my view of myself and the world and you might think that this would start shifting the view, but not so much.

Oddly I've often learned best from other people’s experiences. Watching something happen involves a level of perspective that actually experiencing things lacks. Experience personalizes things that often shouldn't be personalized. Which is why watching my lovely and precocious niece as she tried harder and harder to engage my grandmother and gain her approval (a situation she will never have to find herself in again) something started to come together that had never managed to surface before; something that required perspective rather than personalization. Gradually as the weeks passed I'd look in the mirror and not dislike what I saw. It began to have broader implications. Suddenly things that had previously been confusing started to make sense. More I began to recognize meaning in things that had previously been meaningless. Specifically interest that would previously have been dismissed without conscious recognition.

The problem with this kind of realization is that if you think about it too much it becomes retroactive and conversations past suddenly have an entirely new meaning. One that leaves you feeling shockingly naive. But really it's something best not thought of. Realizing just how differently you'd have spent your summer holiday when you were 24 had you but known isn't actually worth thinking about... no matter how much you wish you had figured it out then.

Crappy Friday

2009-03-27T12:46:00.001-07:00

Any week that begins with two Mondays is simply going to end with a crappy Friday. Friday, that day that can do no wrong, can do wrong on a week with two Mondays. The confusion over whether or not it is actually Thursday frustrates the day until the underlying identity crisis erupts taking out passersby like Vesuvius did the citizens of Pompeii.

It will start with a bang, when something large and expensive will break in some manner that will no doubt require replacement rather than simple repair. But it will not stop there. Oh no. You will discover that despite your best efforts to mitigate damage and the insane workout schedule that probably broke said large and expensive (though clearly badly made) exercise machine, the weeks family inspired eating compromises will set you back at least 2 weeks of dieting. You will then find 2 sliver hairs popping out of the top of your head as though they had every right to be there. Dealing with broken equipment also causes delays to the morning that will leave you running out the door 30 minutes late and without your coffee.

On such a day you will receive mandatory meeting invites for every day of the following week that start a full 30 minutes before the time you barely make it in by as it is. On such a Friday you will discover that the plans you made for Saturday night are actually for Friday as you got your dates confused. On a week with two Mondays, it seems, your ability to count escapes you.

The only hope for you is Friday night… Take control. Get a massage and meet up with friends for dinner and drinks afterwards. Though, on the Friday of a week with two Mondays you probably shouldn’t drink as much as you would want to, given the week behind you. Odds are that on such a Friday night you’d get ticketed for drunk driving.

Only forgivable on a Monday

2009-03-24T15:30:00.001-07:00

There is a time and place that is appropriate for all things. Even for really annoying things. Things that normally one just shouldn’t do as the inconvenience to others are too great. This time is that Bermuda Triangle of organization and function we fondly call Monday morning. This is a time when everyone’s day is functioning at a similar level of ‘not’ and being held up by ridiculous and infuriating things that other people do is part of the flow.

These are things that are not acceptable on say a Tuesday morning. And yet, with a casual disregard for the reality that it is not in fact Monday, people do them anyway. Things such as:

· Ordering a “triple half caf mocha… um, no make that a double full caf latte, no actually a single caramel macchiato… hmmm… WAIT!! Actually make that a…” in a busy coffee shop first thing in the morning is only forgivable on a Monday.

· Stopping in the middle of the road in busy traffic causing a line of cars to miss the green light at the intersection ahead for no conceivable reason – or even for a conceivable reason – is only forgivable on a Monday. (There is always, in this situation, a line of alternately confused and infuriated morning commuters trying to see through and around the cars ahead in order to determine if someone has in fact just stopped randomly or if there is some kind of obstruction. By the time this is determined, the opportunity to honk has probably passed, which is additionally infuriating. The desire to then get out of the car and slap the silly woman while stuck at the red light is, while understandable, also only forgivable on a Monday.)

· Running late for morning meetings because some silly woman pulled a Monday morning maneuver on the drive in, is only forgivable on a Monday.

· Laptop batteries dying in the middle of taking notes at the morning meeting (starting 10 minutes into the meeting) because the power chord is still in the car is only forgivable on a Monday.

The promise for a week that starts with two Monday mornings seems dire indeed.

Food Autism

2009-03-19T21:36:00.001-07:00

I have been accused of food autism. I’m not entirely sure what that would be if it were an actual condition. Perhaps I’m being accused of savant-ism to a certain degree. I would at least like to pretend however that cooking is not my only skill. There is no need to correct me on this matter if I’m wrong.

The ‘food autism’ emerges regularly in conversations lasting more than a few minutes. It also emerges when I have time to think about food or eat food or in any way interact with food. It was at its strongest in London where an hour underground on the way home thinking about what to make for dinner gave great scope for the process. Arriving home I would announce to whichever roommate was about “I had this idea for a dish on the way home” as though it had never happened before.

That said, I think that there is a basic approach to cooking that people miss and makes the whole experience entirely more successful. Begin by imagining flavors. Ginger, garlic, herbs… anything. How they might combine with each other, in what proportions and what was it that was missing? And keep imagining until the combination that tastes exactly right comes clear. Balance the textures and colors. It all has to work together. And more than texture and color and flavor it is also chemistry. Because the combination of what you put together works and binds together to make an end product that is more than the sum of it's parts. It is never more apparent than with baking, but even an omelet is chemistry. What you add to the egg changes it's consistency while cooking. So pay attention. When substituting one thing for another, make certain it fills all the needs of what is being replaced.

And because what it tastes like is the most important part, always taste it in the last minute of cooking to make sure that it has every bit of flavor that it needs. Because a recipe is fixed but ingredients aren't. Sometimes ingredients are stale, sometimes it's a batch that just has a little less flavor than you're used to.

Night of the Living Car

2008-11-13T17:40:00.000-08:00

There are points and times within life when we are not in control of the things we eventually take for granted. The apprehension we feel when learning to ride a bike or swim or drive a car disappears as though never having existed once that skill is learned. There is no real memory of the stress of the process except perhaps the occasional anecdote of a particularly ridiculous situation. There is only slightly greater appreciation for these processes than there is for having learned how to walk or to speak. Once learned it is absorbed into the consciousness as though it has always been.

It is a given that when behind the wheel the driver is in complete control of the car. As with their legs they control speed and direction and when it stops. This is perhaps why it is so disturbing when a car fails you. In an odd mental extension it is as though one has suddenly lost control of ones legs or arms; As though you were once again a teenager who was placed in control of a large metal weapon on wheels that is quite clearly working against you.

This is perhaps how one might feel should they be driving an ’86 Jag – essentially an esthetically pleasing tank – on a two lane highway in bumper to bumper stop and go traffic, no shoulder, hills and nowhere to turn off for miles when the carburetor decides to get stuck in ‘accelerate as fast as you can’ mode. The term for this horrifying situation is called ‘sailing’. Which is a ridiculously innocuous term for a condition that is essentially your car trying to kill you and as many others as possible.

One can imagine the smell that starts to immerge from the engine as the breaks, pushed as hard as is physically possible, fight against the engine which is determined to cycle as fast as mechanically possible. Both the smell and the tiny shuddering jerks forward as you inch closer to the car stopped in front of you indicate that it is not at all a certain thing that the human element and the breaks will actually win this battle.

Pulling over as soon as there is an opportunity one finds that stopping before running into the building whose parking lot you are now in is not a matter of hitting the breaks but turning off the ignition. As the car shakes and shudders and clearly threatens to blow your ass up, smoke starts to come up from the hood. No there is no fire, just the scent of burning rubber. The car is homicidal, not suicidal.

Hysterical phone calls may now begin.

Closing the hood of a Jag is absurdly difficult and occasionally hazardous to your fingers. Cracking your thumbnail down the middle and then ripping it sideways is almost to be expected in such a situation as the car, thwarted in actually killing you does what damage it can. One could probably be forgiven for then hanging up on your father for telling you that it’s not necessary to swear because, as the blood drips down your hand, swearing is clearly necessary. Crying may be as well.

This would be when the informed driver, having checked that nothing is causing the accelerator to stick, would call the auto club and go home. The uninformed driver, on her way to visit friends, would sit in the car until traffic cleared up and she stopped shaking enough to drive again and then start down the steep three mile incline between the current location and the desired location and deal with the car while comfortably surrounded by friends… and alcohol which is medicinally needed at this point. There would of course be fevered praying while ‘stopped’ at an intersection towards the bottom of the hill as the car slowly inches forward into the cross traffic. On the plus side there is no need to hit the accelerator when driving under such circumstances, so the right foot can rest except for breaking. And after the car once again shudders and jerks and sputters to a stop with the ignition off there are people with Band-Aids and wine and children in costumes and Halloween candy. And being alive, the car hadn’t won the battle.

If I had a vaguely malicious sense of satisfaction when my father, who kindly came to pick me up that evening, couldn’t fix the car which he clearly thought would be easily done by unsticking some imaginary problem with the accelerator, perhaps I can be forgiven for that.

A Matter of Perspective

2008-07-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

There is no such thing as perfect. There is no such thing as ideal. There is only what is in front of us and it is always mixed. What you take away from it is entirely up to you. So when I realized that there was no option available to me except to leave London my initial reaction was to regret what I was about to lose.

I am going to miss my friends. I'm going to miss my garden and shopping in Camden market with Anne, even though I wont get a tattoo in memory. There will never be another neighborhood with as many amazing bakeries as this one. The space needle will never ever be as amazing as Westminster Abbey and the museums aren't remotely comparable to the British Museum or even the boring ones. And I am really really going to miss my friends...

But as I pack two things occur to me. The first being that I have managed to accumulate a ridiculous amount of stuff that I wont be able to take with me. The second is that I'm going to be with all the people and things that I've been missing for the past 2 years. I'm going to get to read books to my niece and nephew and attempt to have conversations with my sister while they play. I'm going to see friends and family. I'm going to be able to go to the SPA whenever I wish and I will finally be able to get some good Mexican food. And to top it off, until I find a job I will be sitting by my parents pool in a hammock with a book enjoying the best part of the summer.

I don't know what happens next. I do know that I'm lucky. I'm incredibly lucky to have people and places and experiences that I can miss this much in not just one but two continents... and some islands as well.

Contemplation

2008-06-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

There is something about having too much time for thinking that is a particularly insidious kind of torture. Oddly the inability to hide from oneself is crueler a fate than any slings thrown from ill wishers and uncaring passers by. Because they don't really know. They can guess and insinuate and imagine but they will never know. They will never know the secret insecurities and thoughts that drive the stupid decisions and embarrassing moments. Those insecurities that resurrect every unaddressed feeling or moment that has occurred since birth and a few more beyond that. No external party can ever torture you as deeply and profoundly as your own mind.

This is the real reason that life is generally so busy. Physical survival was created to support emotional survival. Perhaps it merely exists as a distraction so that the force of all the baggage hits in bits and pieces rather than in an avalanche. This is why holidays are 2 weeks not 8, working for a living is a necessity rather than an option and those who have nothing but money and time are so remarkably self destructive. Without work to distract you, there remains chemicals. Well, chemicals or actually dealing with the problems, but that's far less entertaining than one would hope.

Still, every once in a while there is an unexpected external assist that comes along to help through the bits that somehow seemed like they are just always going to be there. And sometimes that external assist is someone who broadcasts their neurosis like a one person talk radio show. Someone who can be in a crowded room and still who's only company is their own neurosis. Because when someone who gives so much power to these no longer secret thought echoes a still secret thought of your own, somehow it gives new light on the decision of just how much power to give those nasty hidden thoughts.

And now we know what I shouldn't be when I grow up

2008-06-20T16:33:00.000-07:00

There is something about life while unemployed that is particularly revealing. Life, while working, is a constant and never ending 'to do' list. There is never enough time to get everything done and still enjoy yourself which is why the expectation is that having some time away from work is a good thing.

This is a horrible horrible lie.
Upon returning to the UK to find that my recruiter and the firm handling my visa transfer had between the two of them made things so remarkably complicated that my company-to-be had rescinded their offer, I was immediately relieved. I shouldn't have been. I should have been irate that the offer had been rescinded weeks before while I was still in the US and no one had bothered to tell me. I should have been furious (and briefly was) that no one had mentioned the initial problem to me which I could have resolved in seconds. In fact upon the afternoon of my return to London, mere hours before receiving final confirmation from the company that the offer was in fact rescinded and why, I took a jet-lagged nap and had what could only be described as a nightmare that the offer was still on the table and they were merely awaiting the finalization of the paperwork for me to begin.

At this point, having lost a great deal of time in the job search process I got to work. I redid my CV creating several versions for different types of positions. I searched relentlessly for recruiting firms that remotely claimed that they handled marketing and the IT industry contacting in total over 80 firms. I finally narrowed it down to the three or four that actually deal with what I do specifically. It was miserable draining work and it took ages. Once it was done I leapt at the chance to explore museums and investigate London and all it offers. Aside from the British museum, which due to an adolescent obsession with archeology I never fully recovered from was hugely enjoyable, I have discovered that I hate museums. I hate being a tourist and probably I also hate tourists.

I now alternate between brutal efficiency and semi catatonic stupor broken up by afternoon napping. The hight of the efficiency was last Tuesday when I woke and up bounded to the gym where I stayed for two hours deciding to add a swim to my normal work out, ran errands, did laundry, roasted a chicken, cleaned the kitchen, journaled and cleaned my room. At this point it was two in the afternoon and I was bored out of my mind and completely out of anything remotely productive to do. In desperation I went to the National Gallery where I discovered that 90% of their pictures are of a very blond Jesus and the rest of their paintings are disappointing. I say disappointing fully realizing that they have what on paper looks like an amazing collection. But their Michelangelo paintings are unfinished and religious. If he wasn't even interested enough to finish them, why should I care about them. Their Monet's are not the good ones. They're the ones where you go 'oh... that one... okay.' Even the water lily painting they have is the only one from the series that I don't like.

Oh well... perhaps I'm just not meant to be idle.

Quest for the Holy Pie Pan

2008-05-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

There are some things that are given. Things like sunny days in summer, flowers in spring and apple pies. These are fixtures. Realities. Things without which life will cease to exist and the universe will implode upon itself. As such, England is placing the universe in a precarious position. While there may be flowers it is extremely rainy far too close to June 1st and worse still... there is a disturbing dearth of pie pans.

There are items which one is told are pie pans by people who clearly have sustained a brain injury of some kind or have been placed under mind control by evil beings working towards the end of the universe. They are not pie plans. They aren't even tart pans. They are tiny little curved dishes made out of a non stick baking tray material. If one tried to make an apple pie in them there would not be adequate room for the apples thus totally missing the point of an apple pie. In a desperate attempt to save the universe from the utter destruction that will no doubt occur should the apples in the garden ripen without having a pie to go into, a scouring of the vicinity has occurred. Hours of walking from shop to shop in the irritatingly unseasonal rain looking for a proper pie pan have finally paid off. Summer apple pies will be here to hold off the end of the universe just a little longer.

Even more clear a sign of the impending end of the universe (and that it will clearly start in London) is being told by the grocery store clerk in the second to last week of November that there are no pumpkins because 'pumpkin day is over.' British grocery clerks insightful commentary on American holidays is no doubt the stuff that sociology dissertations are made but perhaps he should just shut up and get a damned pumpkin so I can make pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dinner. As nice as the sweet potato pie was that I had to make instead; this year there will be a pumpkin pie if I have to have the pumpkin shipped to me from America.

Unfashionate

2008-03-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

There are some truly elegant and well designed clothes to be found wandering the streets of London. Winter fashions that raise the bar for professional elegance and dress wear. Unfortunately there is a flip side to this well dressed metropolis... a brutal and ugly flip side.

London is a place where anything can be worn. But this doesn't mean it should be worn. Some of the items of clothing wandering around the streets of London worn by people who are neither blind nor preadolescent should be documented for posterity in warning for the generations to come:

Fishnet stockings and a business suit on middle aged women. On no one would it be acceptable but on someone who went to high school in the seventies it is unforgivable.
Red shoes, black tights and a blue wool suit skirt... No... just no.
In fact any combination of shoes, stockings and skirt all three with clashing patterns and colors can and will be worn at will. This mistake is so basic that the desire to ask when remedial fashion skills stopped being communicated to young women is overwhelming.
Striped tights... horizontally rainbow striped tights... no, not Dr. Who's scarf. Tights on full grown women in public, on purpose.
Wool pinstripe short shorts with fishnet tights and heels. While more professional than the denim variety of short shorts, they do still in fact make the wearer look like a hooker. On the plus side they can now charge more.
Full skirts with ruffles, embroidery and rosettes. No really! All three AT ONCE, in pink, on fully grown adult women, not 4 year-olds who have been allowed to dress themselves that day.

These aren't brave or daring fashion mistakes, they're merely painfully bad in an extremely juvenile and unsophisticated manner. While the explanation of such items usually involves the phrase 'I thought it was fun' or something equally banal, the reality is fun and attractive are not mutually exclusive. Even if they were there are worse things than boring clothing and they can all be found in the London tube during the morning commute.

High School Resolutions

2008-03-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

There is the unfortunate reality that occasionally a group of fully functional adults can behave like teenagers. When this happens the high school dynamic can revisit the workplace raising too many unresolved issues to deal with in a rational adult manner. The resulting atmosphere is rife with cliques and rumors as well as an oddly distorted sense of order and protocol.

When used to this environment it probably doesn't seem all that unusual. Particularly joined closely enough after school so that it simply seems a continuation of how life is. For the lucky few who were able to leave high school behind them as teenagers and went on to University and work experiences that were largely populated by adults behaving as adults, joining this environment is nothing short of surreal.

It is beyond bizarre to be accused of behavior better suited to an evening soap opera than a human being, particularly when it is so entirely opposite to the reality of the situation. It is more bizarre to find nasty little cliques and standards for inclusion into one group that require exclusion of others for no reason better than petty grievances and rumors that so completely skew the reality of what the actual situation is that the dawning awareness of the reality of what is happening is roughly the equivalent of waking up from a truly intense dream. It is unpleasant and ridiculously hard to be productive in such a situation.

Fortunately it also gives an unusual opportunity to come to terms with the high school student that was. The high school student that perhaps was remembered unfairly. The high school student that was inclusive instead of exclusive. That refused to allow others to be ostracized. The grade school student that was the only one who gave the unpopular kid in class a valentine.

It is a rare gift that helps you learn to like and come to terms with the person you were and in some ways still are. And like high school, no matter how much you learn from your time there you're still intensely grateful that it ends.

The ship has sailed...

2008-03-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

There are certain moments that are definitive endings; though not endings of actual situations but rather endings of possible situations. Possible futures. Possible choices. They are signature moments that are the emotional equivalent of watching a ship slipping over the horizon and knowing, finally, that it has sailed and will not be turning around. It is the moment in which there is no choice but to say goodbye to the future that might have been. Goodbye to the maybes and ifs and secret hopes that enter a mind uninvited though perhaps not unwelcome and fill idle moments with a giddy smile or a gleaming eye. There will be smiles to come but, at least for a while, they will be wistful and wondering. Smiles full of what might have been instead of what might yet be. The reality of what the situation would have been is irrelevant and now will always be far less true than what had been imagined.

Horrible overused clichés and truisms always come popping to mind in situations like this. Things about God, doors and windows as though God was a butler or housekeeper of some kind with nothing better to do than regulate air flow. Useless stinking clichés that do nothing to ease the moment. That stupid window might be in Bulgaria for all anyone knows and what good will it do there? The Bulgarians will surely appreciate it but it does nothing for anyone here.

And certainly that new opportunity will be simply amazing... unparalleled bliss from end to end. When it comes it will wipe all memory of that closed door completely from the mind. How could it be otherwise with such an all powerful air flow conductor. So all that can be done is to remember that the opened window is a lovely bay window with beveled glass and the kind of pillows that are just right for leaning against while reading some classic Bulgarian literature.

Adjectives

2007-12-18T13:45:00.000-08:00

Adjectives are dashing, clever and powerful. They give color and texture to otherwise two dimensional descriptions. Some experiences are so large, so extreme that the adjective that best suits them should be explosive and exciting; a word so huge and profound that it shakes your very foundations. When that situation arrives however, generally the word is simple short and somewhat anticlimactic.

The best example of this is the adjective that best describes moving to a new country on your own. Moving to a new country is hard. Not difficult. Difficult is a weak and passive word. Difficult fades and stumbles, passing away in ignominy without a second thought.

Leaving everything and everyone behind and starting over in a place where the language is the somewhat the same but everything else is different right down to the rules of social engagement, is hard. Hard in a way that is said from the diaphragm and felt through the shoulders. Hard in a way that leaves a catch in your throat that never quite goes away. Hard in a way that keeps going, untiringly, unceasingly through pleasure and pain alike. Through self discovery, occasional overwhelming loneliness, success, failure and triumph it is hard. Not always bad, not always good but always hard. Really really hard.

And when things are hard all the time it’s tiring, even defeating. But if you keep going and keep going right along with the hard at some point the realization occurs that while it isn’t any less hard maybe you have become just a little stronger.

Friday Night Out...

2007-07-28T09:54:00.000-07:00

7:00 p.m. Very nervous. Must remember not to let it show. Must remember to buy round

7:20 p.m. Chatting pleasantly and buying bottle to share

8:00 p.m. this isn’t bad actually and the wine is quite nice

10:15 p.m. Good God am I discussing politics… I hate politics

11:20 p.m. Am too inebriated to say inebriated upon first attempt

11:45 p.m. Am sober enough to cross street without walking in front of a car… HAH!

11:47 p.m. Which direction tube to get on… am I going eat or west… crap I don’t know… think dammit… which stations… and squint! Why can’t I read that from here?

11:48 p.m. Waterloo… yes that’s a station in the correct direction! Excellent.

11:50 p.m. Crap no where to sit on train! Hold on tight! Balance is not good.

11:52 p.m. Crap what station was that? Am I going in the right direction… waterloo… waterloo…? YES! Excellent right direction.

11:55 p.m. Seat empty… huh, balance still not good… sorry about that… will hold onto pole still then

12:05 a.m. Coming to the top of the escalator must remember which end destination of train that I need to get on… AMERSHAM!!! Yes that’s it!

12:06 a.m. Amersham amersham amersham… 1 minute platform 2… CRAP

12:07 a.m. Whew, not there yet… time for food and water… how truly brilliant was I to put 2 pound coin change into pocket! Now I don’t have to try to count money, must just spend less than 2 pounds

12:09 a.m. Water…. Fairly sure 90 p is less than 1.20… and now to keep it under two must keep next thing under 1… Sandwich selection is gross… cold lamb samosas!

12:10 a.m. Train is here (late) must get into car and find seat. Cannot stand and eat and balance at same time.

12:20 a.m. There is an inebriated woman who has undoubtedly slept past her stop… Inebriated… a word you cannot say if you are. Must remember that I am hilarious when drunk

redecorating

2007-07-05T10:52:00.001-07:00

It’s shocking how noticeable things are in their absence. It’s much like a table leg that is suddenly gone. Ones awareness of it may have previously been limited to a bruised knee or a stubbed toe and a mild sense of irritation but when it’s gone a whole new level of appreciation occurs. They are clearly structurally necessary. Brothers are like this.

Then there are the things more clearly appreciated on a day to day basis, even if only vaguely. Things like comfortable chairs or a favorite pillow. When they’re gone it seems impossible to quite get comfortable. These are the girlfriends that know. They know when what is needed is a five minute time out and a shoulder to lean on while you sniffle a little and get a grip on yourself. They know that the spa is the only answer for some types of stress and that coffee cures all and when it doesn’t sushi will. It is only when seeking that comfort and not finding it does it become clear what has been lost.

At first it may not be apparent what is missing. At first it may seem like everything is covered. That there are new tables and chairs to be found everywhere and that it’s not such a big deal as all that. However it doesn’t take long to realize that while there may be many comfortable chairs in this world finding a chair that supports your back just so and hits your neck in just the right place is a lot harder than it seems. And for a good solid oak table, you can’t just run to Ikea for a new leg. It’s just not structurally sound and it will invariably be the wrong length so the table will be wobbly.

Of course people aren’t furniture. They cannot be replaced, just missed. On the plus side though there is room enough in our lives for limitless numbers of people whereas there are only so many chairs that you can fit in an apartment before walking becomes very difficult.

The hunt is on...

2007-05-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

There is nothing entertaining about job hunting. Nothing! It is stressful and horrible and there’s no way around it. Nothing makes it less obnoxious, not being in a different country, not even the funny words that everyone else seems to understand. Words like ‘numpty’ which is similar to idiot and ‘rocket’ which is apparently arugula. Additionally there are things that I say that draw blank looks. Like my unending use of the word “dude” – which if done properly can be used for any purpose on earth. This fact was proven beyond all reasonable doubt in the movie Baseketball and I like to make sure that this is never forgotten.

There is however a great deal of amusement to be found in being surrounded by friends. Friends at barbeques and movies and simply hanging around. Weekends surrounded by people and things to do. When I hiked to the top of the Teix in Mallorca and looked at the world around me I was overwhelmed by this incredible gratitude. It was a transcendent moment. When I caught my breath I wanted to look over at someone and say ‘isn’t this amazing!’ and I couldn’t because there was no one there to share it with and in that moment I felt as lonely as I have ever felt. Here there have been no mountains or moments of blinding joy, but there has been punting with little boys who like rocking the boat, ice-cream and walks and Spiderman and parties and laughing and lots and lots of friends.

Adios a Deia

2007-04-14T07:35:00.001-07:00

There is something about how you leave a place when you’re truly ready to be done with it. When you’ve worked through all you can work through and while there are still nice things to do and nice things to see you’re quite ready to leave. It’s this feeling of escaping. As thought you can’t quite leave quickly enough and as though the things that have to be done before leaving must be done immediately. The urgency is overwhelming. It is also irritating. What is more irritating is the biblical rain that comes when you’ve mapped out all the beautiful Mediterranean places you’re going to see and hikes you are going to take before you leave. And when you take a chance that it won’t start raining before nightfall and try to hike home anyway, you will find yourself in the middle of a storm the likes of which you’ve rarely seen. Hiking in the rain can be fun. Hiking in a cold shower with better water pressure than your actual shower is less so. But hiking in a torrential downpour with hail the size of small marbles and thunder and lightning unsettlingly close? Surprisingly fun! The fun may be that hysterical laughter, if I get struck by lightning my father is going to stand on my grave and call me an idiot sort of fun, but fun none the less. Oh and ‘soaked to the skin’? Not just a colorful turn of phrase in such a situation.

Soller is a charming town. There are people around and activities and bars and grocery stores. It’s lovely and flat and alive. Deia is steep and beautiful and dying. It’s quickly becoming nothing but a tourist spot where no one lives and everyone visits. The market charges double because it can and barely carries anything. The people who live there year round are either artists or bitter or have young families and are happy to have a tiny community of young families within which to live. If you aren’t an artist or in possession of a small family or bitter, yet, and can’t hike because of the unending rain, well then Soller is infinitely preferable. Still rain or no rain it will soon be over. I leave for England on the 21^st and hear that the weather is quite nice there. I’m sure it will last for at least a week and will start raining copiously as soon as I arrive.

Things you learn when lost on a mountain (and after)

2007-03-31T16:25:00.000-07:00

Just because you’re going to Deia doesn’t mean the hikers you’re following are.
You do need a hat… no matter how bad you look in hats, you need one.
Proper hiking boots are not a gimmick created by shoe companies to take your money.
Those walking sticks that look like ski poles that you quietly laugh at on normal hiking trails, you will covet when walking up a mountain.
You will covet them far more when walking down the mountain.
On the way down the mountain you will wish you’d bought those hiking boots that were too expensive, and you will also realize that down is harder than up.
You should have brought food.
You REALLY should have eaten a proper breakfast.
A liter and a half of water is not enough.
Thank God for the cheap tourist chocolate with almonds in it you bought to shut the clerk up and as your emergency candy/snack.
Knees are not a forgiving joint.
Yes, it can go up much further
Yes, it can be much longer
Yes, you can keep going
Do not look at the map and wish that the hike to Deia took you past the amazing scenic lookouts at the top of the mountain the way that other trail does… you will find yourself at those scenic lookouts with no idea how to get to Deia.
There is nothing more amazing than being at the top of a mountain and having gotten there on your own steam. It is worth being lost on top of a mountain, just to be on top of the mountain.
I was IN a CLOUD.
Dude! Did you not hear me? I was IN A CLOUD!
If you follow the hiking trail and the hikers you will eventually wind up somewhere… just not Deia.
If you decide that you will be somewhere at 6 p.m. you will be. But not Deia.
Hiking for 6 hours on a mountain is tiring.
Valldemossa does not improve with repetition.
If you’re not hungry after six hours on a mountain it’s only because you’ve hit that point where your mind is no longer conveying messages like hunger, so you might as well order the cheapest thing on the menu because you won’t taste it anyway and what you need is the calories and the protein.
You cannot in fact get blisters on top of blisters no matter what it feels like.
You should be completely exhausted and fall into an unconscious sleep for at least ten hours
Insomnia has no respect for should.

Self Pity

2007-03-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

When you have a nasty head cold there is little that makes you feel better. Your head is congested and achy your nose finds eve the concept of allowing air through impossible and nothing is right with the world. You can be in the most beautiful place on earth and it doesn’t matter because nothing is going to make you feel better. Not the gallons of hot herbal tea, not the sleep, certainly not the dishes that keep piling up in the sink and staring at you as though guilt might make you care about them one way or the other. The only time that you can breathe and start to feel a little more human is in a nice hot steamy shower. It opens up the lungs and sinuses and it’s the only time you feel warm enough. It’s heaven. Unless of course there is a pluming leak and the water has been turned off to be fixed and when the water is turned back on again at your insistence (the leak is TINY and in a location the causes no damage, the plumber wasn’t coming for four days and I can’t live without water) some mysterious bubble in the pipes or just some perverse imp that has decided that now is the time to act preventing the newly turned on water to actually arrive. You call the plumber but he’s taking a siesta, or is sick or some other way of saying ‘mañana’ which is too much to think about when all you have the energy to do is lie in bed and listen to yourself wheeze. Cough and sneeze and yell though you might, no number of snotty tissues will ever be enough to make it start working again. The only thing that will make it start working is the dissipation of the cold. When the worst of the pain is past you will be able to step greasy and unwashed into the shower. You might pretend that you’re still sick enough to fully appreciate it, but nothing will bring back those nasty moments where you were lying in bed barely able to breathe wishing desperately that you could just take a shower to open up your lungs a bit so you could get some sleep.

At least the weather is equally drippy.

Portugal

2007-03-20T13:15:00.000-07:00

There are people in this world who were not meant to tan. Exposure to the sun causes redness and perhaps freckles and generally peeling skin. However in Portugal everyone tans. You have no choice. The sun is too hot and too present and while you may burn and freckle and peel you will also tan. Even if it is the first time since grade school that you have been tan. And you will do it within the course of a weekend without putting any effort into it whatsoever. Hee! I have a tan!

Portugal is lovely. Bucelas was rural and lovely and quite hot and a joy to be in while with a smallish group of friends old and new. Lisboa is a charming city with reasonably priced taxis and excellent hotels and restaurants and amazing wine. It is also the sort of city one can walk around in and get entirely lost in before finding a landmark that corresponds to a map. I recommend not wearing new sandals when getting lost and wandering around Lisboa for six hours. The blisters will be spectacular. It is a very good way to see a great deal of the city as well as discover tiny pastry shops in seedy neighborhoods that speak no English and serve truly amazing pastry. I also recommend getting lost with company. Having tried both I assure you that company makes the whole thing much more entertaining. It also makes things much less unnerving when accidentally wandering through a more than usually unfortunate neighborhood. The experience of walking down a street and having men start to make this ‘ssst ssst ssst’ noise, which seemed to draw more men out to the street from random alleys and doorways to make it as well, would have been more than a bit intimidating if alone. As it was we stepped up the pace and got out of there as quickly as possible.

Having had several unguided tours of Lisboa (such a better term than saying ‘repeatedly getting lost’) I feel as though I’ve seen rather more of it than any other major city in Europe at this point. Even the cities I’ve had guided tours of. Vienna for instance where I was promised the best tour of Vienna ever, I’m fairly sure that I’ve seen less of. It was however the most interesting interpretation of what ‘the best tour ever’ contains. While there must be many schools of thought on what comprises a really good tour, rarely have I seen it consist of pointing out a particularly disliked drug store (because it’s pink) at every possible point. Conversations like this occurred:

“Oh look another pink store.”
Me pointing across the street to a very old and interesting looking clock. “Yeah, what is that?”
“Oh that’s a really famous clock. People come from all around to see it. I think it does something at noon.”

Or this:
Pointing to an office building across St. Stephens square which had menorahs in the second floor windows “That’s the Jewish welcome center”
Me, pointing to the MASSIVE gothic cathedral looming above us no more than thirty feet to the left “Cool. What is that building?”
“Oh! Yeah, that’s St. Stephens Cathedral.”

The tour also included much exposure to turbo punch which is mulled wine with schnapps and tastes ridiculously good. There were a few monuments that were intentionally viewed and explained and some that weren’t viewed but still explained; such as the miniature bronze replica of the old part of Vienna. It was, at the time, covered in some kind of shelter to protect it from the elements I was told. As the explanation went on to tell about the time that a friend had gotten really drunk and tried to jump over it and instead landed face first on top of all the tiny spiky bronze roofs and towers and had to be taken to the hospital, I can only think that the structure it was locked behind was also to protect it from the drunk and the stupid.

I have never before had so much to drink, breathed so much second hand smoke or felt so unbelievably ill and off balance because of these things. I have also rarely had such a good time. So while it probably isn’t ever going win the title of ‘best tour of Vienna ever’ it is without question the best tour of Vienna I’ve ever had.

Here's lookin' at you kid!

2007-03-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

Today I had some of the most amazing Paella perhaps ever made. I have no idea what was in it beyond the saffron in terms of herbs, but other than herbs there was chicken and meat and muscles and these massive shrimp still in the shell with their heads still attached. When Tal placed the food on the table my five year old cousin picked up a shrimp and dropped in on her plate. “I don’t like the head” she announced and with a small five year old finger poked the shrimp in the eye and wrinkled her nose. As the little black eyeball sort of squished I firmly suppressed traumatized teenaged memories of dissecting a crayfish in high school biology. Once it was explained to her that no one was expected to eat the head she did eat a great deal of the Paella. I ate more Paella than I actually think is possible for a body to hold. But I found a way! Over dessert she serenaded us with a stunningly rude world war two song which she was only allowed to sing in Mallorquin referencing something about Hitler and Carnegie Hall. Her father was barely able to suppress amusement and her mother sat there in absolute pain hating every second of it. She did sing it once in English and I had to gently break it to my aunt as she sat there with her teeth gritted and her face set that her own mother, my grandmother, had in fact taught such songs to my mother when she was even younger than Cassie. Tal was simply delighted by this information.

I had a scare with my computer. I would be sitting there working on something, something like my resume, and if I stopped typing for a while suddenly letters would start to appear… then words… as though someone was typing. It was quite startling. After an initial what on earth is that feeling that didn’t, DIDN’T I tell you! Make me think of ghosts in the slightest. I started to think that I had a computer virus. I ran the virus scan repeatedly but it found nothing and the problem persisted. This was not good. Now a virus isn’t the end of the world. At home I would offload all my files onto my external hard drive and then I would reload the operating system and all the software and start fresh. It’s not a bad idea to do this every now and again anyway so it never seems as much of a pain as it might otherwise. Unfortunately I have none of my software disc with me here nor do I have an external hard drive. I was looking at the loss of all my data which includes resumes and letters and just too much to think about losing. After all this drama, imagine my chagrin to realize that I had caused this ‘virus’. I had caused it by accidentally clicking on the little microphone icon at the bottom of my screen and not realizing that this had turned on the speech recognition program on my computer. The mysterious typing was my computer trying to interpret the static coming in from the microphone jack. Problem solved… and fortunately embarrassment isn’t fatal…

It turns out I have an unfortunate habit. More unfortunate because I have been known to give people grief about having this very same trait. I am passive aggressive. The problem is that I’m not very good at the passive part which means the lack of subtlety that is inherent to my nature added to the not entirely passive aggressiveness winds up resulting in me being a joy to be around. It seems when I’m mad at someone and don’t really want to think about why I’m mad, I just get really unpleasant. Bitchy even. Randomly within the conversation I become uncooperative conversationally and kind of mean. I like to think I learned from a pro, but probably I’ve done it all along and cannot pass it off on a bad influence.

I now have a dilemma ahead of me. To bang or not to bang, that is the question. You see I need a haircut and as such the time has come to decide if I should keep the bangs or let them grow out. It is a question that has often plagued me and has once again reared its ugly head. As such I’m leaving it to you. I’m taking a vote on the bangs issue. As a perk, not only will this help me decide about the hair but it will let me see how many people actually read through to the end.

Rain Check

2007-03-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

Sometimes laziness is a good thing. For instance my delaying on going outside and hanging my laundry was a particularly good thing as it has now started raining with some considerable force. It has accompanying thunder and lightning and is quite impressive given that last Sunday was outright hot. It is however disappointing. I had wanted to take another long walk tomorrow and it looks like I’ll have to wait on that.

I wasn’t feeling all that lazy on Monday and managed to walk from Deia to Soller which involves going over something the locals refer to as a mountain. People from Seattle would probably argue, but it went up very high none the less and was incredibly beautiful.

I’m getting restless. Deia is peaceful and lovely and idyllic and all these words are increasingly sounding like synonyms for the word ‘boring’. This may be caused by the hours I’ve been spending on my computer trying to update my resume and find some kind of lead on a job… but actually I think it’s what is inspiring the effort rather than the other way around. I suppose when one has children and a life built in it’s rather nice, even great, but when you have none of these things and really aren’t party person even if the party season were here, well Deia offers little more than scenery.

I finally made it to Valldemossa today. In a fit of ‘oh dear god I must get out of here’ I ran and caught the bus just as it was about to leave Deia. In the process I forgot to hang my laundry and grab my camera. I had been told it was a beautiful town but what caught my attention was the endless tourist shops with their sestas (woven bags) that didn’t have shoulder straps (unheard of) and so many expensive but crappy nock offs of the things actually made and used here that it made my head hurt including racks and racks of pearls that were so cheap I had to believe that they were plastic. However I finally did find a ‘pearl’ necklace and bracelet set in pink. Exactly the color that I had been looking for in order to give a certain three year old who has been known to call me Au-tie Ros-a-lind. So after realizing that I had half an hour before the bus and didn’t want to wait the four hours for the one after that, I went to the cash machine only to discover that it wasn’t going to let me near my money… neither was the next place and so, panicking slightly, I counted my change and after putting together enough for the bus home headed straight to the bus stop. This was fortunate as the bus decided to be twenty minutes early. I got home and had enough time to again not hang up the laundry while going online to find out what on earth was going on with my bank account (easily solved) before the skies opened up and POURED water onto the ground. It was accompanied by much wind as well as thunder and lightning.

I closed up all the storm shutters except the ones in the living room. Instead of closing them I just turned up the heater and sat and watched the storm roll out.

To Shop, Perchance to Buy

2007-03-03T04:11:00.000-08:00

There’s something about how rain smells that always makes me tired. Not in a bad way. It’s a scent that I love but somehow the smell of oncoming rain makes me want to take a nap and then wake up, roll over and take another nap before propping up my pillows and reading a book while listening to the rain splash against my window. This could have been why I drank so much coffee in Washington.

Spring has arrived it seems. There is wild asparagus which I cannot identify on my own and a chard like green growing on the terraces and I have been relying on them rather than grocery greens. I now discover that you can turn dandelion leaves into a wild green salad and may try that though I still have hostile feelings towards dandelions for all the weeding they caused me to do as a child. The loquats continue to grow and I’ve taken to watering the ones on this terrace as I’m not convinced that they are getting enough just from rain. Loquats are a rose species just like plums and pears (and they taste rather like a cross between the two) and roses need to be deep watered regularly. I’ve also been told that the trees on this terrace – there are SEVEN – don’t produce good fruit, but rather barely get larger than the seed and are flavorless. The theory was that this was caused by some sort of tree disease but I’ve looked at the plants and only two of them seem to have any problems. However I have noticed that the citrus trees on this terrace have pale leaves. This is atypical for the area and makes me think that the soil needs to be fertilized. That I can do something about… at least for the loquats and a couple of the citrus trees if not for the whole terrace.

I have reached a point where the need to shop is becoming overwhelming. It has been somewhat abated by the desire to take long steep walks that one could call hiking if one didn’t know that I hate hiking. I think it’s vaguely like a disease. I think I caught it from the troupes of German tourists that come here specifically to hike in large groups. I don’t know that I’ll ever want to hike in large group, in fact I’m fairly sure that this prospect will always seem unpleasant. But the desire to take walks has hit the point that I’m actually planning them and doing things like buying trail mix and bottled water and looking at distance and bus schedules so that I can hike into Soller – a 2.5 hour hike, which will probably take me rather longer - and then take the bus back without getting dehydrated or stuck in Soller or anything silly like that. This will most likely be Monday as the weekend bus schedule would require that I stay in Soller far longer than I would actually want to after that long a walk.

I’m going to Lisbon on the 14th. I’ll be in Portugal for a week, three of those nights will be in Lisbon and I’m looking forward to being near at least a movie theater. I’ve heard Lisbon is lovely and I’m sure it is, but right now what I’m most looking forward to is a bathtub. I’ve booked a hotel and while it’s Europe so there is no guarantee of there being a tub I’m hopeful. I’m also looking forward to central heating and things that are open past seven. I might do things like find a salon and get a haircut or a spa and get any number of things done starting with and most particularly a pedicure. I know there has to be a spa here. I just have to find out where. Probably in Palma which is useless to me. I’m going to have to be careful. I have a feeling that when surrounded by real shopping I might just sprain something. Most likely something critical like my bank account.

The Renaissance of the Livingroom

2007-03-03T01:14:00.000-08:00

Today was the sun was hot. Actually physically hot. My laundry dried in a few hours when it normally takes a couple of days hot. And how did I spend this gloriously warm day? Dealing with networking issues. Trying desperately to fix things so that I don’t have to check e-mail in the bathroom anymore, so that I could have a conversation with a friend in a room that one should never have a conversation in. The great part, the glorious part, is that because of that effort I am now sitting on the couch online and writing e-mail comfortable and warm. After I got it sorted I went on a walk down to the beach and finally finished Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, the ending of which was funny and sweet and a bit too close to home for me to actually like. Then I came back and walked up into town. The thought was to sit in a café and read the next book and perhaps return the mandolin to it’s owners but I took too long getting out the door and wound up getting into town after they were closed so I picked up some fruit and some camembert instead. Tomorrow, if it’s as warm, I will wear flip flops down to the beach and see exactly how cold the water is.

It continually amazes me how different my work and home styles are. I am OCD organized at work down to lining up corners of paper on my desk and insanely disorganized at home. My room usually looks as though a bomb has gone off… a clothes bomb. I would feel bad but I ask you who can just put on clothes and leave for the day. One has to make sure they hang well together that colors and patterns work and this usually takes at least two shirts to get figured out. And then you’re running late for work and don’t have enough time to hang things back up again and after work I’m generally too tired to move… I mean really how can one expect anything else?

I am making progress on the whole next step thing. The thought of finding a job in the UK and moving things forward gets a little further in my mind now before everything completely shuts down and I go to that weird overwhelmed and distracted place where nothing makes sense and I can’t tie my own shoelace… or couldn’t if I had any that is. Fortunately zippers are easy to work even when brain dead. But now I have to buy tickets to Lisbon for a weekend and I’m finding it hard to do that. There’s planning and taxis and hotels to think of… and I hate those things.

At least I’m getting there though. Perhaps in a month or so I’ll be able to get things sorted out to the extent that I can find a job and move to London – I love London. I love the easy access to theater. I love the music and museums and all that stuff. I’m a good person to talk to and I am capable of being funny so I have a good set of friends but I’m not the type that men fall in love with and probably never will be and I’ve always known this. This means that I’ve never had the picket fence fantasy. And I could do really well living in a city on my own where I have access to every type of music and art that I could want and no one to not be in the mood to go to a play with me.

The Germans have landed

2007-02-16T05:46:00.000-08:00

The almond blossoms, the warm breezes, the sunny and lengthening days all herald the arrival of that mythical and fleeting creature… the German tourist. This spectacular creature has the amazing ability to know exactly when the weather will turn warm and arrives along with it. This is the only way I can explain that on the first day of actually warm weather I arrive at the bus stop to find the bus completely full with barely a seat left on it when in the weeks preceding it the bus has been nearly empty. And my previous joke about how I was coming to Mallorca to learn German may well pan out. Because that’s almost the only language I heard spoken today. A woman in a hiking crew asked me in broken Spanish if the bus I was getting on was the bus to Deia. Had I not recognized ‘a Deia’ I would have probably just told her to try it in German as we’d both have better luck with it.

I hurt. Everything hurts. I went into Soller and ran some errands while the stores were still open. I found a nice cheap hand mixer and a nice cheap toaster and then I met my aunt for a visit. We decided to take a walk, which sounded lovely, and I decided that the toaster was light enough to carry even though it didn’t fit in my backpack along with the mixer and my computer. We walked from Soller to Binarutx and back and then as it was after the 1:40 bus I proceeded to walk all over Soller trying to find the open stores so I could pick up a couple of kitchen tools at a cheap price and some ingredients to bake with now that I have a mixer. I then came home and after walking down to the clot I decided that it was time to reorganize the kitchen for the new kitchen implements. And now that I thought of it the floor was filthy and needed a good scrub, and look at all the dishes I didn’t do before I went out… etc. By the time I went out to take the trash to the nearest roadside bin, which is about a quarter mile up the road it was all I could do not to whimper. The stairs back up to the house seemed like a cruel joke and I think I’ve completely worn out my one set of comfortable walking shoes. I’ve certainly worn out my feet.

I seem also to have worn out my brain. I don’t think it was today that I wore it out. I think it’s been worn out for a while. It’s like I’ve had a separation of personality (Gemini jokes will be ignored) in which my ability to lead life and my ability to work are completely separate. When people ask me things about which I might have a professional opinion my opinion is entirely coherent and professional. (Despite a certain amount of disbelief I still harbor that I might be good enough at something to have a professional opinion about it.) My voice speeds up my tone gets authoritative and clear and people believe I know what I’m doing. More the fool they. When it comes to my personal life I’m completely lost. People ask me when I’m leaving or where I’m going next and I look at them as though that’s the hardest and most bizarre question ever, because that is essentially my feeling about it. I don’t know what I want to do nor do I have any idea what I may one day want to do. It all seems strange and ponderous and vague. Something to be dealt with when things make sense again, should that ever happen. A person getting irritated with me only perplexes me because I can’t quite put all the pieces together, and it’s too confusing to get upset about. There are too many moving parts and it makes me tired and oddly perplexed, though the tired part may be from all the walking.

I’m here and I should be going all the places I’ve always wanted to go… and other places that I’d never thought of but again, all those pieces; hotels and air fare and packing and taxies and languages and all those strange things. And there’s banana bread and cookies that could be baked, peppers to be stuffed and roasted, soup to be made. That makes much more sense.

I should have picked up muffin tins. Unfortunately I couldn’t find any.

Happy Valentines Day

2007-02-14T04:23:00.001-08:00

I need a less interesting book. I managed to read right past my bus stop in Soller and right into the Port du Soller. I decided to roll with it and found a seat in the sun at an open air café near the water and had lunch and continued to read my book. I then took the trolley back up Soller and tried to run all my errands. I succeeded in running a few, but Spain closes for the afternoon so there were some things I could not pick up. A hand mixer for instance so that I can perfect my banana bread. I also discovered that my policy of only using a basket to go grocery shopping should be maintained. I decided to get a cart this time and managed to get far too many groceries to comfortably carry home. My shopping took up it’s own double seat on the bus. I spent more money than usual as well.

Banana cake has been achieved. After borrowing an egg beater from my neighbor I tried once more to make banana bread. So I was short a banana and it turns out about half a cup of flour, but it all worked out. Particularly as I managed to pull it out of the oven at the right time. Now that I have managed to turn it into cake I will put it in a cake tin and frost it with Banana and White Chocolate butter cream frosting and then sprinkle it with shaved white chocolate. I will then have to find someone to give it to.

I hope everyone has a Happy Valentines Day.

National organization for the promotion of Terracing in Santa Barbara

2007-02-13T03:14:00.001-08:00

It is my opinion that not only is Santa Barbara very much like Deia, but I am now of the opinion that it should be terraced like Deia. So It’s not quite as steep as Deia and can be farmed perfectly easily as it is. This is not the point. There is an esthetic standard to be upheld. Also almonds should be planted so that terraces covered with almond blossoms will cover the Santa Barbara hillsides every spring. I assure you it will be to everyone’s benefit.

The water in this house is hot. Too hot. Unnaturally hot. And the side of the pipe that comes from the hot water heater is spectacularly hot. I know this because I keep bumping into it in the shower. It is at hip level and of course hits the exact same spot every single time. Due to the location of the ever increasing burn I was unable to see how bad it was getting and was therefore unaware that the irritating itching that was driving me nuts was not in fact a mosquito bite but rather a blister that was objecting to the silk thermal underwear that I was wearing… so I scratched it. It popped. I now have the pipe wrapped in cloth. It’s still hot but it’s a bit less of a branding iron.

My little project is over. Or that part of it is. I have been asked to help with the promotions aspect of it and have agreed. When discussing it with them it had been my intention to say that I wanted some time off first; perhaps just a few days. That I was here on vacation and I wasn’t ready to not be on vacation yet. Also I wanted to say that while I love what I do, I didn’t want to do it full time. Four, three quarter days seemed about right. Longer on days where I needed to deal with international phone calls. So I could enjoy my surroundings as well as my work. So that I could make sure that I kept feeling better and getting healthier and happier. This is what I was going to tell them. I was quite clear with myself. I would not allow myself to backslide into an unbalanced life in a new and beautiful place.

I failed to convince even myself that I would actually do so. I know me. I love working more than I hate it. The coffee, the vague manic edge, the complete and total avoidance of all things personal and emotional. Working rocks.

So I woke up this morning bright and shiny at seven in the morning. Okay bright and shiny is more the opposite of what I was but I did get up. Unfortunately the phone service was out this morning so my ride was in Soller before I received the message that he was heading out. As I was nearly done with the project I decided to take the next bus and headed back to the house to clean the kitchen. That was when I received a call telling me that they had finished up for me and that while they wanted my help with the promotions they didn’t want me to help right now but rather in a bit. It was a bit unsettling as my head was going in one direction but my life had suddenly gone in the direction that I had actually wanted it to in the first place. That never happens. It was as though the universe conspired to help me in spite of myself. I spent the day sleeping just as I had most wanted to do.

I will miss the lovely organic cooking however. The cook, a charming combination of Heath Ledger and a puppy (this will serve him well in life I’m sure), seems to have access to the only decent organic food on the island. I’m going to have to ask him to take me shopping the next time he heads out on errands. He’s the only person I know who knows how to find finely ground brown sugar which is the one missing ingredient for chocolate chip cookies. It must be found.

The unfortunate development of carsickness

2007-02-07T12:40:00.000-08:00

Home at last! I am exhausted. I’m oddly relieved and comforted by the dishes that I need to wash and the mouse that thinks I didn’t see it, which seems to be able to fit through the crack under the front door making it impossible for me to keep it out or prevent other mice from getting in. Infuriating but replacing the front door on a rental seems excessive. This is the first evening I’ve spent at home in what seems like ages.

I have started helping out on a small project that needed someone who had solid computer skills to do a rather easy and repetitive task. After all that time spent examining my belly button lint I found myself more than willing to help out. It gets me out of the house and around people which is nice and they feed me amazingly prepared organic food, which makes me wish that I hadn’t just done a week’s worth of groceries when I got the call. They also have an extremely clever and friendly Lab who knows how to open the doors of the house to get in and out. He doesn’t close the doors behind him though so sometimes it gets kind of cold before people notice that all the doors are open. The only drawback is that they smoke pot. I don’t care from a work point of view. They’re good at what they do and very pleasant to work with and even if it did affect their ability to do their job, it’s not my project to care about. However I am increasingly aware of how very sick the smoke makes me feel. The slight headache and nausea I start with build until my heart is pounding, I’m dizzy, slightly disoriented and feeling quite ill and the twisting winding ride home afterwards is torturous.

Still I’m taking notes from this project. Should I ever run a project with this type of parameters I will do much the same. Lovely remote setting in an office converted from an old farm house and a chef/ masseuse/ gofer on staff. I will definitely repeat this if possible.

Now that the world has stopped spinning a bit I’m going to lie down and read. Captain Corelli’s mandolin is charming and the language, despite excessive use of the work ‘whilst’ is entirely engaging. I’m moving through it far more slowly than I normally do if I’m actually interested in a book. However it’s so dense with color and contrast that slipping through it all in one sitting as though it were a pulp fiction mystery novel seems wrong.

The rain in Spain stays almost invariably in the hills

2007-01-31T02:52:00.000-08:00

Tuesday morning I awoke to the familiar sound of rain. Not familiar for here but familiar to anyone who has ever lived in the Seattle area. I love the rain. I don't love the rain in March in Seattle when it's been raining for the last six months and shows no signs of stopping, but in general terms I love the rain. It's peaceful and soothing and washes away the buildup of orange peels and broken pottery that people throw into the creek. It rained on new years in Switzerland as well. There I was on an alp, in a ski area with hundreds of disappointed skiers and it rained. And I was happy. It seemed appropriate. A symbolic washing away of the old year to leave things clean for the new one. So as I heard the rain I was happy even though it meant I couldn't have my morning cup of tea on the patio overlooking the terraces. I promptly rolled over and went back to sleep. It was still raining when I woke up several hours later and I opened the shutters to my bedroom window so that I could lie in bed and watch the rain comfortable and warm while I read my borrowed book.

My book, borrowed from a very nice couple whom I have met and once babysat for, is Captain Corelli's Mandolin. This is not a book I would have thought to pick up on my own for any number of reasons, but that is my failing not the book's. The book is charming and funny and entirely engaging and as an added bonus, extremely well written. I enjoy the language of it just as much as I enjoy the characters and the humor. Rainy days are the perfect stay in bed and read days. I think it's why they were invented. God would have irrigated the planet rather than watering it had he intended otherwise. I even ate in bed running downstairs in my pajamas only long enough to reheat last nights pasta with seafood and green sauce and run back upstairs with the plate of food and a bottle of water.

A green sauce, for those not familiar with the dish I invented, is a white sauce into which one has dumped the remainder of a jar of pesto that didn't quite live up to expectations and a handful of freshly grated parmesan. It works well and I will be repeating that experiment often though perhaps with a better quality pesto. I then added fresh prawns sautéed with leeks and mushrooms and garlic. Also worth repeating. I'm enjoying cooking enough so the fact that I have to wash everything by hand is less tedious than it might otherwise be. Cooking for one however is a bit of a pain. I am simply not capable of it. Aside from the fact that you cannot buy things in small enough portions to cook for one meal by meal before everything goes off, it takes just as much time and effort to cook three portions of rice or pasta or chicken as one and doing so three times becomes wasteful of time, effort and butane when reheating leftovers is an option. The next problem is serving for one. I seem never to quite gage the amount properly. I always reheat just a bit too much or serve just a bit too much and then I'm left with that part to throw away or generally just eat as it sits there on the plate growing colder while I read or watch something on my computer not wanting to interrupt the flow long enough to take the dishes to the kitchen. And then of course I wind up cooking too much to eat in a reasonable period of time no mater what the portion size and I kind of wish someone would come over and demand that I feed them. I mean, I still have banana bread sitting in the freezer and I've been giving it away and eating it as fast as I can.

Comfort Jewelry

2007-01-28T13:14:00.000-08:00

I have realized that I have comfort jewelry. Items of jewelry that I wear not for their appearance but because doing so makes me feel better so if they don't quite suit what I'm wearing it doesn't matter as much as it might otherwise. They remind me of the friends who gave them to me. They help me to remember that there are people out there who wish me well and even if I get a bit lonely or overwhelmed from time to time there are still people out there to whom I matter. There is a silver and moonstone bracelet that I have been known to wear on the same wrist as a watch rather than take it off. I also have a silver cord that I very often wear and on it is a charm the congi character for my Chinese zodiac sign. Next to it I have added a disc that a friend gave me before leaving on this trip. It says Guardian Angel and was in lieu of a St. Christopher’s medal. Over the past several weeks I have found myself almost constantly wearing this necklace and holding onto the guardian angle disc and playing with it from time to time. I was wearing the cord on my wrist when I last went into town for groceries and internet access as it felt uncomfortable under my turtle neck. I ran into a guy who seems to be interested in me and has repeatedly asked to go to coffee with me and whom I seem to be unable to avoid. I was sitting at a desk with my computer and was thinking that I should just go to coffee and be done with it despite the fact that past the first sense of flattery I’m simply not interested. Suddenly I realized that my wrist had nothing on it. I looked around and the cord had popped off my wrist and both charms were strewn about the floor. I was relieved that they were still there, but upset. I found myself completely unable to go to coffee with him. Not that this was a sign. I hadn’t really wanted to go and I’m sure I just latched onto this as re-enforcement of that thought. I saw what I wanted to see. Still, it unnerved me a bit.

So far there has been no storm. However a cold front has moved in that is impressively brisk. I've taken to wearing so many layers of clothing that if I don't pay attention there are usually at least two other sleeves peeking out from under my sweater sleeve. In addition to the cold the sea is wild. Huge white caps in a bay that normally is as peaceful as any water I've seen outside of an unoccupied swimming pool. It was amazingly clear and blue and beautiful.

Time is odd here. It moves in seconds and years at the same time. In some ways life before this is so distant that it doesn't seem real, as though it is a memory so far removed that it might have happened to someone else. At the same time I feel as though I've barely arrived, that I'm green and new, with barely a sense of direction or the ability to find my way around the town. There's a sense of the surreal that I cannot seem to fully escape.

Church in the morning

2007-01-27T11:27:00.000-08:00

The church is the clearest view from the house so I've taken a lot of pictures of it. I probably would anyway as I love the way it seems to have grown from the mountain itself rather than having been built on top of it.

The storm that might

2007-01-26T13:08:00.001-08:00

People keep telling me about this big storm that is going to hit. 'When will it hit?' I keep asking. They look at the sky and then at me. Today. This has been said to me every day since Tuesday morning, four days ago, when upon hearing that there was a big storm coming in I hopped on the bus and dashed into Soller to the nearest supermarket to pick up 'emergency supplies' consisting of the necessary ingredients to make banana bread and chocolate chip cookies as well as a lamb and lentil stew. I figured that in lieu of television baking might be entertaining and warm if trapped inside for days on end because of intensive rain fall.

The next day 'in preparation for the storm' I went and got baking pans for the banana bread and grenadine so that I could have fizzy water with grenadine syrup in it. The storm still hasn't arrived and while I'm sure it will, it certainly keeps threatening to, the most that has happened is a few rain drops that caused me to dash back home and take my washing down off the clothes line. I wound up putting them back up an hour later when I got back from walking into town to pick up bread. It is however suddenly much colder than it has been, so perhaps if the storm hits there will be snow as people keep saying.

I'm having my first guests tomorrow and while I didn't get to bake for entertainment while I caught in a storm I did get to bake in preparation for the guests. I'm actually starting to figure out the oven. Mostly I'm figuring out that oven's should have temperature gauges, but after burning two dozen chocolate chip cookies I did learn which end of the dial I wanted to keep it when baking cookies.

I think I may yet survive this whole soul searching solitude in a rustic cabin thing.

the two wheeled lawnmower

2007-01-20T05:57:00.000-08:00

I spent Tuesday riding the mobilette (which I now think of as a two wheeled lawnmower with an attitude) around and around and around. Well as around as I could given my complete inability to TURN. I did however manage to make it home eventually. The fact that it took me twice as long as it should have as I wound my way up the mountain at somewhere around 20 kmph is beside the point. I’m sure I will get back on that thing again. I mean spending that kind of money on something; it at least deserves a second chance. And there is a chance that I could grow to like it. I mean just because it is tiny and exposed and I have to lean to turn corners and curves doesn’t mean it’s actually evil. Though I have been asked not to tell anyone my last name when seen on it so that I won’t ruin the family’s ‘street cred’ thus leaving me to wonder when we got street cred.

I figured out what it is about the little boy in town that I found so engaging. Not that he isn’t entirely adorable, but he’s particularly adorable in the way that my niece is adorable. The big blue eyes and the curly brown hair and the verbal precociousness… he’s like Rebecca in boy form. I really miss Rebecca. She doesn’t miss me though. She’s going to go play in the snow. She told me so. I think I’d believe that she has street cred.

It is a good thing that the bakery exists here in town, for not only have I discovered that the bakery is the secret source for many a British ex-pat - this means that they carry things like Branson’s pickles and PG tips – but I have discovered that I am not myself the worlds best baker. I tried to make cookies for the neighbor. They are either the worlds worst chocolate chip walnut cookies or really quite excellent chocolate chip walnut cupcake tops. They are cake. The only way they resemble cookies is in the size and shape. And the thing is that not only was it a new recipe that I was trying, but I have no non metric measuring cups here so I was completely guessing on all the proportions for the ingredients. I’m hoping he’ll like the cakies. He’s been entirely kind and helpful and deserves something less pathetic, but less pathetic will have to wait for another day.

Blessing of the Animals

2007-01-19T04:32:00.000-08:00

Wednesday was the day for the blessing of the animals. It was interesting, but not as interesting as this cat.

un mobilette

2007-01-15T23:52:00.001-08:00

So, I seem to have purchased a Mobilette… or a scooter for those of you not versed in whatever language that is. I say seem because I’m still not sure it was a good idea though I can in fact sell the silly thing before I leave. And really probably should actually. Also, those of you not familiar with the roads in Mallorca will not realize how incredibly winding they are. They are so S shaped they are practically squiggles across the mountainside. I have never ridden one of these things so it seems even more daunting than you can possibly imagine. None the less I have dropped an insane amount of money to have extended mobility while I am here. And it is so cute! It is a black Yamaha and I really like it. I know that this is no guarantee of skill or safety, but if it likes me as much as I like it all will be well. Other than that, my plan regarding how to deal with accidents is to be so careful that I simply don’t have one. That pathetically slow scooter crawling along on the shoulder behind the elderly pedestrians will be me. You see the emergency service is on the other side of the island and it takes them far longer than the twenty minutes it should to actually get over here. The son of one of the families in Deia recently died in a boating accident because of this. They were heading out from Soller in their boat and the ‘boy’ who was 21 was driving. They didn’t have the radar on yet as they were still in the port and an incoming boat came around a blind corner. The boy who was driving a bit too fast swerved out of the way and hit a rock and was thrown against the steering wheel and into the wind shield (or whatever it’s called on a boat). It was an hour and a half before the medics arrived and when they did arrive they treated the head wound and the internal bleeding from the steering wheel wasn’t noticed until they were at the hospital in Palma at which point it was too late. If they had arrived in the twenty minutes it would have taken them had they left immediately there is a chance the boy would still be alive. There is such an outcry that the local government may wind up putting a couple of ambulances in Soller. To explain how close this community is, the entire town was in mourning. New Years Eve – bonfire, fireworks everything, was cancelled.

I have met the most darling little boy in Europe. He can’t be more than two. His name is Luka (any references made to the song will be ignored – he is charming and is not to be tainted by the depressing) he has big blue eyes, tons of eyelashes, medium brown curly hair, chubby baby cheeks and olive skin. I want him for Christmas. I was walking past the bakery – because I needed water and some things you have to accept being over charged for on a Sunday - and he walked out and looked me dead in the eye from somewhere around my knee and said ‘Who are YOU!?’ I told him my name and he said ‘I’m LUKA! Why are you here!?’ He speaks in exclamation points. I love it. It was probably the conversation I’ve enjoyed most since I got here. I said I was visiting family and having some time to rest. He said ‘Me too!’ at which point his babysitter, Dora (one of the nicest people I’ve met so far) said ‘you live here silly’. ‘I don’t live HERE!’ said Luka. ‘Well no not in this very spot but in Deia.’ ‘I live up THERE!’ said Luka pointing up to Sa Fonda which is the café/bar his parents frequent. I still think that’s hysterical. He’s actually a neighbor of mine apparently but I still haven’t figured out where exactly they live except somewhere in the clot. And no I have no idea why it’s called that, and frankly I prefer not to.

I think I’m having mild dizzy spells. I haven’t noticed being dizzy much but I have at several points over this trip had people telling me suddenly that I look really pale, and at those moments it’s like their voice is very distant. The most recent happened last Saturday while I was in Soller with my aunt investigating the Saturday market. Suddenly she looked at me and said, standing about two feet away from me, something about how my skin was so pale it looked as though I was dying and that I needed to get some sun on my face, but it sounded like it was coming from miles away and I could barely comprehend what she was saying. And before you mention that probably buying a motor scooter when I’m getting dizzy spells is a bad idea, be aware that this was just after I stood up quickly and was probably tied to that. Also, this is something that has happened before and it was far more dramatic then. In the past doctors after running a panel of blood tests, have said things like ‘oh some people are like that’ or ‘it’s because you drink too much coffee.’ I haven’t actually been drinking much coffee recently so perhaps it’s that I haven’t been drinking enough this time. If something is really wrong though, I hope I don’t collapse until I’m in a country with a decent medical system and an ambulance that arrives within a reasonable period of time. And just in case I’ll stop by the health food store in town tomorrow and see if they have any iron supplements that aren’t completely useless. The place is really tiny and has things more along the lines of organic honey than mineral supplements.

Mol Dines!

2007-01-15T02:52:00.000-08:00

Mol Dines! (That is Mallorcian for ‘many years’ and is what is said as a happy New Year sort of greeting)

I have landed safely on the island of Mallorca, paid an insane sum of money to get a cab to and from the respective airports (I had a ride down the mountain in Switzerland you see… a ride who was apparently terrified of driving in the snow and then dropped me at the wrong train station far too late to catch any connecting train to the correct station) and when I finally arrived at the house I have rented in Mallorca I was much poorer and so relieved to finally be someplace where I could unpack I could have squealed. I of course didn’t. Having appeased whatever element of torture was in the wind for me by having spent so much on cab fare I was lucky enough to be met at the gate by two guys headed up the hill into town, one of whom found out where I was going heard my accent and looked at his friend and said ‘I have to stay here. I need to translate.’ You see the person who has the keys to this house is in the US until the fifteenth and his caretaker doesn’t speak English. I soon found my bags being taken from me by the two and being led to the caretaker’s house and back to mine with the keys. “See you at the bar” said the British one and they headed off. It took me days to figure out which bar – even though I suspect there is only one that is actually open this time of year. I shouldn’t have had trouble as I’ve run into them almost every day since I arrived and they’re extremely nice, though I keep running into them around three when I’m heading back from hiking around town in my always impractical shoes (and if you’d seen the hills you’d know it’s hiking not walking) with groceries or water or something and they’re clearly just starting their day.

Helping me get settled was last Thursday’s trip to Soller to see the internet café and my Aunt Merie. (How odd to have to travel to the next town to get internet access – for instance I’m writing this mail days before I’ll be able to send it.) After wandering around with her and being shown the grocery store (also the nearest grocery store – there is a local shop but it’s extortionately expensive) and the charms of Soller, which are innumerable, we went back to her house and they fed me lunch. Tal, her husband, was cooking and it was of course excellent. They want me to move to Soller, and truly, after seeing it I would go but price difference aside (and it’s not aside in the least, I have a tremendous deal here) I do kind of like the isolation that I have in Deia. It’s beautiful and mostly empty as it’s winter and, simply put, I don’t want to fall into someone else’s life again. I have too much of my own stuff to figure out right now and I have a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to do it as well there. We discussed transportation and Tal will help me find a Scooter which they will put in their name and I will leave with them when I’m done. It’s less expensive than renting and I feel like Merie needs it as she has no transportation as the car is used for Tal’s tools and it’s making her stir crazy. See… I can’t help myself. I really do need to stay in Deia. If I were in Soller I’d be helping her with her garden and playing with her daughter and would wind up able to completely avoid dealing with my own garbage which is why I’m here in the first place. I avoid dealing with my own stuff and I seem fine right up until the point I implode leaving those around me staring in open mouthed horror at the show.

Then Tal took me to Palma to the Carrefour where I got a nice cheap phone [(34) 629 93 54 70] with coverage that will work on this side of the mountain as well as a space heater – important as I’m out of wood and this place is in need of heat in the evenings – and wait for it… STAPLES!!! You have no idea how happy I was to be able to stock up on rice and beans and onions and garlic and cleaning supplies and pepper and and and… ah to be able to properly cook again! Bread and cheese is lovely but vegetables are lovelier still. In celebration of all the lovely groceries I made up a rice dish. I sautéed onions, garlic, mushrooms, eggplant (auberjene) and tomato, sprinkled salt and cayenne and parsley (yeah I didn’t fully stock up on spices) then added a cup of rice and water and when the rice was fully cooked and the water cooked off I added a beaten egg (it had broken and I had to use it) as well as some frozen shrimp. It was lovely and vegitabley and I’m still pleased with myself though next time would add some ginger and possibly some cumin… either that or basil. Speaking of which if anyone knows the Spanish word for Basil I’d appreciate knowing it.

On the ride to and from the Carrefour Tal gave me some history about Mallorca. It seems that the Moors invaded in 700 and occupied until 1400. They are responsible for the terracing that can be found from one end of the island to the other and is what makes it farmable. You see, most of the island goes up and down at such a steep rate that you cannot plant anything. However the Moors came in and ‘oversaw’ the Mallorcans in the process of terracing so that olives and dates and carob and citrus and almonds could all be planted. Now the place has trees from end to end. While the Moors were overseeing things they of course smoked a lot of hash. Tal said that he found seven hash pipes, five clay and two stone, while rebuilding his two terraces. That is a remarkable amount of hash pipes per square footage in my mind. He also told me about Valldemosa which is the home of the oldest civilization in Europe and is also where Chopin went to recover when he was sick. Unfortunately he went to the coldest dampest part of the entire island, so that while he probably would have done quite well in any other part, he managed to get much sicker before he got better. Also there you can go and see ‘his’ piano. It is not his piano. He was unable to do much composing while in Mallorca because his piano was kept in customs and not allowed to enter in the Palma port. It was not allowed onto the island in fact, until after he’d left himself at which point it went into some private household where it remains to this day. Perhaps the piano on display is the one he used while he was there. Also, I was told the local story on why the Moors left. There had been much fighting over Mallorca and the Moors who had been there for 700 years weren’t planning on going anywhere any time soon and all that was happening was that people kept dying. So someone, whose name I have completely forgotten, went and got some flotilla of ships, loaded them up with pigs and released THOUSANDS of pigs onto the island. The moors couldn’t take it and left. It is why there is wild boar on the island to this day and, I’m sure, why every stinking piece of meat you can find is pork.

I have discovered Mallorcan Rum. It is pronounced Amathones and it is unequivocally excellent.

As I walked home from the bar on Friday – ‘the bar’ is Sa Funda – there was a near full moon so low and huge over the church it made me wish that I were a good enough photographer to truly capture the shot. I tried, but I just don’t have the equipment or the skill to capture what I saw. Friday was a nice day. It was the day I was going to finally make it all the way down to the beach. It was the day I was finally going to ask which bar and do my best to be friendly despite my general wish to stay in bed for a year and speak to no one. I did neither. I woke up and realized that I had bleach and cleaning supplies and I could finally wash the layer of grime that just will accumulate over an unoccupied house completely off. So I cleaned and I cleaned and eventually I thought to call my aunt with my new phone number while I was walking up to buy gloves to clean with because all the bleach was becoming a bit much. That is when I learned that Three Kings was being celebrated Friday rather than Saturday the 6th which is the actual day of. So after coming back with my cleaning supplies and cleaning a bit more, as well as starting a chicken to roast because I really wanted to make chicken soup … while I cleaned… I got ready to go out and went to celebrate the evening with my cousin – who is the only one who gets a present out of this sort of thing. Fortunately Tal is friends with the owners of ‘the bar’ and so we spent much of the evening there where I found out about Mallorcan Rum… I will make it a point to find out even more in the future. It sounds like the Mallorcans have an equivalent to Absinthe as well, the home brewed version being a bit of an opiate. That one I might not try.

I did finally make it down to the beach on Monday. It isn’t a beach in the sense I would think of one, but rather a cove. It is lovely and made me wish very strongly that there were someplace to rent a boat nearby. The water is a bit too cold to swim in, though I’ve probably swum in worse, but it is the perfect weather for going out in a boat. Instead I found an outreach over some water and sat and watched the fish.

All Hail July 2007

2006-12-08T15:15:00.000-08:00

Wednesday has almost completely disappeared from my mind. I know it occurred. I remember the beginning and the ending and I have lost my voice because of it but I cannot recall what happened between getting into Odette’s car in Heathrow and going out into Windsor that evening. I do know that none of what happened involved sleep. Exhausted past the point of knowing I was tired we all went out that night to an open mike pub night. While I have to say that it was no where near as smoky as it might have been it was still smoky enough and combined with whatever I was exposed to on the airplane as well as whatever it was that I kept getting coughed on with at the pub, Thursday morning I woke up sounding far more like Marge Simpson than I had ever wished to. Still, the pub was nice as was the music and with the exception of the projectile soup, was quite clean. And it was definitely soup. If it hadn’t been soup the smell would have given it away.

Thursday morning Odette and I got straight to work. And by straight to work, I mean I wandered out of bed around 11 had tea and bread and cheese and eventually we fell into discussing the steps necessary to get her into a position where she can support herself with her music. Then we got moving. We’ve accomplished a surprising amount and will be going from pub to pub tomorrow to speak to the bar managers and hand out the demo packets. Chances are we might have managed that today but this morning I did a toboggan impersonation from the top of the stairs straight to the bottom and seem to have bruised things that would otherwise preferred to have remained unbruised and as a result I have been moving rather slowly all day. And I still sound like Marge Simpson.

Rumor has it that in July 2007 there will be an indoor smoking ban in the UK for all public places. This means no smoking in bars, restaurants or pubs… It also means I might be able to spend the summer not sounding like Marge Simpson. Woohoo!

UK - The arrival

2006-12-06T06:22:00.000-08:00

I am wondering what the diagnostic criteria are for a mental breakdown. Do they include selling your car breaking open your savings and leaving your entire life behind in order to travel the world, or at least Europe, for an indefinite period of time? And if not, does doing so in winter make it so? I mean England is not at its best in December, and who goes to a beach in upper half of the northern hemisphere in January?

I have always wanted to do this. The odd thing is that when I made these plans I had forgotten that I had. It was a move of desperation; an attempt to break out of a holding pattern and move forward. However when I announced that I was going friend after friend said things along the lines of “well it’s about time, you’ve wanted to do this for as long as I’ve known you.” So I did it. I sold my car and saved my money and did lots of packing and got on an airplane headed to the UK and from there? Well I have some ideas.

As my 70lb suitcase landed face first on the conveyor belt I gave a vague thought trying to remember what exactly I had put into the outer pouches and as the scent of my Ferregamo perfume hit the air, I remembered. The most upsetting part wasn’t that I’d lost my only bottle of my new perfume, it was that none of the duty free shops carried it. However, the Vancouver Airport did have spectacular salmon sushi. I may try to route flights through YVC in the future just so that I can have it again. With extreme chemical help I have managed to get a few hours of sleep on my flight.

With all my luggage and most of my sanity I arrived in Heathrow to find Odette and offload all my stuff in Windsor. The adventure begins.

Cigarettes and Coffee

2005-09-22T23:33:00.000-07:00

I’m thinking of taking up smoking. I think I’d be good at it. Truly dedicated. I often think of taking up smoking when I’m under stress. It’s an idle thought as I’m horribly allergic to smoke so inhaling it seems more than averagely stupid, but still I think about it. For a few years I even dreamt about it. I would either dream that I was smoking or that I had quit smoking and desperately wanted a cigarette. I can’t imagine that this is normal but while I hate even the smell of tobacco I find that the concept of smoking is completely seductive. Particularly when I’m panicking about something. When I’m really upset I find that it helps me breath to imagine taking a long drag on a cigarette holding it for a second while my shoulders relax and everything seems a little better and then exhaling slowly. As I said, I’m thinking of taking up smoking. Besides it would go so well with coffee.

2005-09-14T01:25:00.000-07:00

Javanese dancing

Jakarta 2001

2005-09-13T23:52:00.000-07:00

Date: Fri, 1 Jun 2001 23:35:25 -0700

Well, I arrived safely and am feeling well after sleeping most of yesterday afternoon so that I couldn't get back to sleep when I woke at 2 a.m. It wasn't too bad considering that I would have been woken any way at 4:30 by the morning prayers, which seem quite close to my window.

My first impression when getting off the plane was that there was something familiar about the feeling of the place. More recently familiar than one might think. Then it hit me. It felt exactly like going into a sauna. My second impression. The one I had while I was waiting in line, at the end of the line I might add, to go through immigration was that it was very much like what it would feel like if God had poured the entire contents of the Pacific Ocean into all seven pits of hell.

When I did arrive I was shocked. Things have changed so very much that I actually asked the driver if he was sure he'd taken me to Wisma Subud. As though there is another compound like this on Jalan Fatmawati. He was a bit irritated. I am now recovering from the shock and a bit from the jet lag and am starting to recognize landmarks again. It's helped that many people have recognized me and welcomed me so nicely. I think I may get the hang of things yet.

I don't remember if this was the case before, but the compound is absolutely swimming with cats. It reminds me somewhat of that "Cats in Greece" calendar that was out for a few years. I still have yet to eat Indonesian food. It was too hot to eat lunch and breakfast was "Kopi Susu" and toast. Well, I'm off. I have to stock up on water and the like. I don't know that I'll keep much in my kitchen, but I'll definitely keep a bunch of bottled water.

Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2001 21:23:22 -0700

I have now been here for 5 days and I think I'm finally becoming used to being entirely sweaty all the time. Once you resign yourself to it, it's not all that bad. I have however given up any hope of wearing makeup. Really what is the point? It just slides off your face within an hour (as to my absolute horror does mosquito repellant). I seem to have caught the tail end of the rainy season. Walking in the rain is much like walking fully dressed in a warm shower with good water pressure. As I have yet to figure out how to turn my hot water on, it's warmer than any shower I've had since I arrived. Rather pleasant really.

I'm proud to say that I've stared death in the face and laughed in a very haughty and above it all sort of a way. The other night we drove from Cilandak to Pamalang and even after seeing how badly Darmawan (who is a lovely lovely person but hasn't been sleeping - which I only found out after) drove us there I got into the car and rode back. I must say that traffic in Indonesia is a force to be reckoned with. It's rather like playing chicken all the time. Frankly, on the taxi ride from the airport I was quite impressed that there were no accidents as people tend to run out in front of traffic at random intervals and actually stopping for them doesn't seem to be a readily employed option. I do love the swarms of motorbikes though. They move through traffic like bee's darting around eucalyptus trees on their way to an orange grove. Between the motorbikes and the chickens roaming the sides of the streets I manage to distract myself from the near death experiences at hand.

I broke down and went out to buy some things for my flat. I will only be here for a few months, but I can't see eating out that entire time, if for no other reason that when the guesthouse restaurant is closed there's really nothing but the street side warungs that I've been so warned against within walking distance. Really, none of the warnings would have set me off the warungs, not even Amalia Lerrigo's one based on the rules she'd been given by her parents while growing up (they both worked for the health department here), what did it was the description of how they washed the dishes. They rinse them off in a bucket of dirty water. This is just to get rid of the old food. The concept of clean really never penetrates. I can't stand sharing a fork with my mother; sharing an entire serving set with countless strangers makes my skin crawl. Nonetheless I did eat at one yesterday. I had been fasting all day and everything except the warungs were closed because it was a religious holiday and if I didn't eat something I was going to pass out. I had soup based on the fact that this was the only thing that I could get that was boiling. I figured this increased my chances for surviving the experience. I just kept reminding myself that I'd been inoculated for Typhoid.

I will be going to a gallery opening tonight hosted by the Canadian Ambassador. I also hope to go and spend some time at the JakArt festival this week. Vivianna Hugo Von Beulo (or something like that) has a display of the jewelry she's designed through the years. There will be a great deal of local art as well. I'm quite looking forward to getting a chance to buy some batik's and things to decorate my flat. I'm trying to keep the decorations to things that I will be able to bring back with me. Though I probably will pick up a bunch of big pillows to make my bed into a couch during the day. That way, when I finally get a kettle and some matches so I can light my stove, I can invite people over for tea in the afternoon. As I have air-conditioning and most others don't, I want to encourage this practice.

Date: Sun, 10 Jun 2001 08:27:31 -0700

I am soon to announce my new title - The Incredible Polka-dotted Woman. I will be taking that title away from Odette who, heretofore, has been the clear winner in the contest of who has the most little red bites covering their legs, but I really do feel that in a very short time I will be far ahead. After all she's been here weeks and I've only been here days. At this rate I'm sure to win. I think I'm getting bitten while I sleep even with the AC on - meaning the windows are shut. I may decide to do the gracious thing and pick up a mosquito net for my bed and allow Odette to keep her well-cherished title. We've decided that while, clearly, at least some of the bites are of the mosquito variety a great deal of them are from these charming flying red ants that have quite a set of pinchers on them who seem to feel it important to visit our rooms regularly. Perhaps the "mozzie" nets (so British here you wouldn't believe - they're spotting the landscape) will make it a bit more of a challenge and keep me from being a nocturnal bug buffet.

We've been going to as many gallery openings as possible with the JakArt festival. Not only is it a wonderful to see the art and meet the artists, but it gives us the opportunity to dress up as much as is humanly possible or rather, as much as is possible given the restrictions of our currant wardrobes. It also gives us a break from sitting on the guest house patio talking and singing, which I love but seems to be getting old for a few of the people who've been here a while.

Yesterday I had this lovely thing called a Crème Bath. I've never seen them offered in any of the salon's I've been into in America and all I can say is they really should be. They wash your hair and put this conditioning gunk into it and then they massage your scalp, neck and shoulders. Then rinse the stuff out and style your hair for you. I seriously hope they start to offer them in America soon as I could see doing that fairly regularly with out much argument.

My Indonesian is starting to come back to me rather well really. I've rather impressed a couple of locals with how well I can communicate. I've decided to start taking lessons though. Mutiari (the nicest person I've really ever met in my life) gives lessons and I've asked if she'll teach me. Mostly people take one or two lessons a week with her, but I think I'll try for every day. I'll only be here three more weeks before going to Bali and I feel quite compelled to be able to be as fluent as possible before I head into a more English speaking area. Just aside from feeling that I want to be able to catch them when they're talking about me which may be a bit paranoid, but I do know enough to have a good idea when the conversation might be a bit more interesting to me than their letting on.

I received quite the applause today at a Salamatan for Mutiari (who's about to have a baby). Tika has taught me a song in Indonesian. It is apparently a love song about somebody who's been separated by some great distance from the person who their in love with and though not in any way suggestive (I really did check on this) was a bit frowned upon by some of the older members who thought I should have been taught some more traditional song. However the younger people there were quite impressed when Tika made me sing it while she played it on the guitar. I wound up feeling rather good about it even though I blew several lines of melody beyond recognition.

Date: Sun, 17 Jun 2001 20:41:30 -0700

I've just been given delightful news. There is Dengue (spelling?) Fever in Jakarta. So now I'm wondering just what those symptoms are as, while I'm feeling fine, I certainly have more than my fair share of mosquito bites. Well, heck, now I'm wishing I'd picked up that travelers insurance. While I didn't pick that up I certainly did go to an Apotic (apothecary) and get a local spray to wear - it's scented and is very nice. I've added my super strong DEET stuff to it, increasing the concentration to an acceptable level, and now smell all-floral with an undertone of DEET rather than just like oily DEET. I also picked up a local bug cream. I have absolutely no idea what is in it and don't particularly want to know as it works about 100 times better than the cortisone I brought with me and if the ingredients are too disgusting I might stop using it. My legs are looking less and less polka dotted as the days go on.

Thursday night we went to a Jazz performance sponsored by the American Ambassador to Indonesia. It was part of the JakArt@2001 celebration. It was a Caribbean jazz blend. I don't remember all the names of the artists except Ira Coleman who was the main name and Indri Musti (?) who is the most famous Jazz musician in Indonesia who sat in on the Piano for a couple of sets. They were all artist who are relatively well known worldwide and came together just for last night. It was so remarkably fabulous I really have no words to describe how much fun and how good the music was. I hope like anything that there will be another performance. I think I'd skip my own wedding to go see them again.

Sunday's performance was Ballet with Maxamilliano Guerra "and friends" and while the Jazz was still my favorite this came in a close second. It's been so long since I've been to the ballet that I might be too easily pleased (others thought it was "heavy" - I thought they were just in pissy moods, but didn't actually say so). Maxamilliano is fabulous. The last selection was a remarkably good pas de deux with a prima that was almost as good as he was. It was a fabulous selection with which to end the show.

I've done far too much shopping. I only console myself with the fact that the exchange rate is really good and while I've spent ages shopping I haven't actually purchased that much. Yesterday I found some really lovely scarves. One batik, one died in different colors and one embroidered, that will go far in terms of finishing touches for my current wardrobe for things like the ballet.

I have discovered a new form of transportation that has replaced the "betchak" of old. It's called a Badjai. Some fool got the idea that if you build a metal casing around a motorbike with three wheels and put a bench in the back this will provide adequate alternate transportation. You have to bargain with the driver before you get in as to how much it will cost to go where you need to go. So far I haven't discovered them ever being cheaper than a taxi, even when an Indonesian was negotiating, but as some distances are so close that a taxi wont take you I still find myself taking them. Riding in them is a new exercise in faith. I'm not only never sure I'll survive as they seem to be daredevils who love zipping in front of moving traffic without the ability to go terribly quickly themselves but I know that the "open air feel" is shortening my life significantly. It's one thing when the open air is a lovely costal town with no pollution, but the amount of exhaust fumes floating down Jalan Fatmawati at any given time is only surpassed by the amount of smoke given off during the launching of a space shuttle.

All in all thing are going well. Or if not well, at least becoming rather interesting. My Indonesian is much better but I’m still very frustrated with it as I’m still not good enough to really participate in the more interesting and in-depth conversations and really that’s the whole point of speaking to begin with. I could just point and grunt for pretty much everything else. I’m afraid that I’ll wind up having to leave before I really become comfortable with the language. And that would really be too bad as there are many lovely people here who I’d love to get to know better than our current language restrictions will allow.

Date: Sun, 24 Jun 2001 08:50:20 -0700

My camera has broken. I now have to find the cannon service center in Jakarta. The dial selecting the mode has broken and as it was turned off when it broke I now have an unusable camera until I get it fixed. I'm rather disappointed as I've only taken one complete roll and have most of a second roll stuck in the camera. I didn't drop it or any thing; it just broke as I was trying to turn it on. The whole thing was rather vexing.

I am also the lucky recipient of a head cold. Here I've come thousands of miles to a tropical location. Been bitten by hundreds of mosquitoes in an area where Dengue Fever is running about and I've managed to contract nothing more exotic than a head cold. I think I'm disappointed in myself. The least I could have done was get Typhoid or something remotely interesting.

I made my first trip to Suka Mulia a few days ago. It's up in the mountains very peaceful and quite beautiful. I also made my first trip to a "real" Indonesian market area. I do understand that this is where you find the best prices and some really neat stuff, but I think I'll stick to the mall in the future. It's closed in, dirty and rather like a maze. I might feel comfortable going there with a limited amount of money and a better grasp of the language but at that time I had a fair amount of cash and my bank/Master Card on me as well as my pocket PC and both keys to my room. All in all it was much like a bajai. I might try it again, but only if I don't have much of an option.

The past few days have been full but rather boring. An unfortunate combination. Today I just gave in to disease and the whole concept of self-care and slept. I locked myself in and didn't answer when people knocked. I do feel better, but I think I could use another day of that. Unfortunately I won’t be able to handle the boredom for much longer and will have to go out and find something to do. I must say it is rather humiliating to get a cold in the tropics.

Date: Wed, 27 Jun 2001 09:34:13 -0700

I made my first unsuccessful attempt at fixing my camera yesterday. We were driven all over town (after we got there I realized he'd started by going in the wrong direction) and found out that the reason I'd been sent there was because a friend of the friend who recommended it to me was going to fix it himself - the cannon shop didn't actually do it - and he wasn't there. I was more than a bit irritated. I'm going to find another shop that will actually fix it tomorrow.

Katherine and I then went to the National Museum to see Viviana's exhibit. It was quite beautiful, but there were also other exhibits in the museum, which were even more wonderful and interesting, particularly an exhibit of silk batiks done in a collaborative effort between Australian Aboriginals and Indonesians. We ran into a friend who invited us to lunch with a group that he'd also bumped into there at the museum and we accepted. I think the three of us were thinking that we'd jump in a cab and go someplace nice. Instead we wound up walking a remarkably long distance in what was possibly the hottest day since I've been here along a downtown Jakarta road thick in exhaust fumes and other pollutants to MCDONALDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! McDonalds in Jakarta has some really strange things, like really loud music, spaghetti, white rice in hamburger wrappers and fried chicken, but nothing particularly worth going out of one's way to see. I have to say that no matter where you are or what they have, McDonalds just isn't worth a long walk on a really hot and humid day. The rest of the party (minus the friend who invited us along) only spoke Spanish, which meant that the friend was the only one of us who could converse with them. Katherine and I grabbed a taxi back as soon as we could while still being reasonably polite. He is on my 10 most irritated with list and will remain there until the 4 zits that popped onto my face during that walk go away, my skin stops feeling icky and my hair regains some of it’s previous shine. (Zits here are particularly unpleasant to deal with because everything takes 15 times longer to heal and, adding insult to injury, my face was totally clear despite the air here before this ill-fated walk.)

This evening I decided that the traditional orchestra, which I'm sure was very nice, was really not what I was in the mood for. I've been out of sorts for a while and when a friend of mine told me she hadn't been to a remarkably huge and obnoxious department store/shopping center (which just happens to have a cafe on the 3rd floor with rather good Pizza and soursap juice) I said we could go and get dinner. I'm sure that this was a culturally lacking thing to do. I’m sure that I would have been culturally broadened and expanded beyond measure by the traditional music and I am surely a cultural illiterate for tossing it over, but I really can’t think that it could possibly have been any better than the fried calamari appetizer we had. It is perhaps a sad statement to my generation, but there is something quite grounding and comforting about serious retail shopping.

So you wont think that I’ve been completely goofing off I should add that I’ve been to see traditional Balinese and Javanese dancing recently. I have to say that Balinese dancing is kind of freaky. Aside from all the quick movements they do this thing with their eyes – opening them really wide and twitching them back and forth as part of the dance. An English friend recently made the comment that Americans don’t have a very developed vocabulary but the words they do use are used quite expressively. I’ve been making a point of using my full vocabulary since then and because of this I find the word freaky a bit too much like she described in terms of lazy American vocabulary, but freaky describes it so perfectly that I can’t bring my self to use another word.

We also heard some relatively decent classical music last night. I have to say though that as much as I think one should be encouraged to expand oneself and do things like this, I’m not entirely convinced I should have to listen to them. I want to hear Ira Coleman play Jazz and watch Maxamilliano Guerra dance. I don’t want to hear a perfectly nice piano player hit all the notes correctly while completely lacking any brilliance of sound or intonation. The fact that I cannot do it myself is not an adequate reason for me to be impressed. There were other performers who were better, but mostly what the evening did was make me want to find a record store and pick up a couple of tapes (can you believe you can still buy them here!!!) with some really fabulous musicians playing much the same music.

Date: Fri, 29 Jun 2001 01:21:30 -0700

I do have the oddest experiences here. I was walking along the road towards the guesthouse and a western man wearing batik shorts and a batik shirt in different patterns passed me and said, "you have your fathers chin". Nothing more, just that. I said that I'd tell him and he said "yes, tell him Farlan (Fahlan? something like that) says that you have his chin" and he kept on walking. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt by assuming that he actually had a clue who I was and who my father is. Really, for all I know he could just be some strange man who wanders around and tells everyone he meets that they have their father's chin. With that particular choice in clothing it could really go either way.

I have recovered from the idea that all things in Indonesia are less expensive. While I was at the mall the other day I saw a GNC and having run out of vitamin C thought I could pick up a bottle or two to kick the last of this cold. Well, imagine my surprise when the bottle of 1000mg pills was 330,000.00 rupiah's. That's $30 US. I think the phrase 'dear god' is what actually came out of my mouth, but I think that I did manage to convey the sense that I would rather die of scurvy than pay that much for a three-dollar bottle of vitamin C.

I have run into a new and extremely hideous form of torture. Indonesian Art Films. The JakArt schedule was misprinted and a couple of friends and I went to see a performance by an artist we know. Unfortunately what was actually showing was a series of short films. We sat through one rather painful one before asking when Miranda was going to be performing. Not since I was 10 and a certain aunt of mine dragged me to see RAN - the Japanese version of King Lear - have I had to sit through such angst and death, and this time it didn't even have the benefit of subtitles or excellent cinematography (which may not be that big of a deal, as if I recall correctly, this only increased the sense of depression and impending doom in RAN). Matthew, of the long and smoggy walk, wanted to stay and watch some more but when the next one opened with a dead body covered with flies the rest of us went outside to wait for him to get over the idea.

The evening was saved however. After stumbling across a rather amateur and extremely light hearted and enthusiastic performance put on by some of my friends who were attending the Varindra Tarzie Vitatchie Educators Conference conveniently located in the same hotel as the club Miranda was supposed to be playing at, Andarini Jackson (who's mother was kind enough to let us use the family car and driver - the first car I've been in here that still had seatbelts one was expected to use) and I, Matthew having fled sometime during the VTV performance, went to this really strange and rather good club called Salsa, which only serves Italian food. We listened to an excellent Salsa band and ate the strangest Nachos ever - odd, tough chips, Indonesian seasoned meat and Mozzarella, which they put together just because we really wanted nachos - one of the best Pizza's I've ever had anywhere and a salty Latte. All in all, worth the wait.

I am currently contemplating the idea of traveling to Bali in a rented bus along with a large group of friends. It would be a fabulous way to see Java but aside from the occasional image of us all getting held up by some military checkpoint for ages on end in a less than comforting manner I'm a bit worried about brain damage from the actual ride. The roads in Indonesia are - well interesting. A two hour ride leaves you feeling rather jostled. A three day ride . . . well, I'm not entirely convinced I'm joking about the brain damage. The other option is going by airplane. A perfectly reasonable option, but just doesn't have the same story telling potential. A tough decision.

Date: Wed, 4 Jul 2001 00:45:25 -0700

I must ask why it is that in America, where we have so many things, we have neither Milka nor Jeruk Panas. Milka being a German (or perhaps Dutch?) chocolate and Jeruk Panas being some strange variety of what is basically hot tangerine juice. It is a surprisingly good thing. I mean I understand why we can't get iced sirsak in the US; we can't grow sirsak in the US. But we definitely have citrus fruit of all varieties and there is no reason we shouldn't be able to get Jeruk Panas and there is just no excuse for importing Cadbury when we don't import Milka.

I have recently come to the realization that I am very lucky that my family left Indonesia. I like Indonesia and am very happy being here right now, but I can certainly see that had I grown up here I would have found myself having a very difficult life. I am no longer surprised that so many of my childhood friends developed eating disorders. I am now surprised that so few of them did. I had a tendency towards them anyway as a girl and I know without a doubt that there is no way I could have avoided it should we have stayed here. Unfortunately I don't do things half way and I have a feeling that it would have been extremely difficult for me to recover if I actually would have been able to.

The Indonesians comment constantly on size, and it is pointed, though done in a teasing manner. However when you go to visit someone or to a party it is rude to eat nothing or even only a small amount. In fact when I skip a meal people try to convince me to eat something even if we're just sitting around on the porch talking. With such twisted and constant messages I'm really quite impressed that more of my friends didn't become bulimic and now completely understand why and how so many of them did. Frankly I'm finding myself struggling with eating issues a bit all over again.

I also think I'm a kinder person than I would have been had we not left. I know we have this view of the ugly American, and maybe it's true, but in some ways I find westerners to be kinder than the people here in Jakarta. It is true that the people here are much harder than the people in the rest of the country so that may not be the best basis of comparison, and I have certainly met a huge number of people here who are really great, but there is an element of unkindness that is a bit unsettling.

I will be traveling to Bali by plane with a friend. It will be nice to have someone to go to the airport with. When I found out that the bus my friends were taking probably wouldn't even stop for the night, but would go strait through to Bali I decided that it didn't sound like much fun after all, and when I discovered that a friend of mine was going home on the sixth and wouldn't actually be going to Bali I decided I'd rather spend that time with her and the few others who would be here.

All the same. Now that everyone has left I am finding myself tremendously bored. Before I could always find someone to do something with. Now the chances of my finding someone who wants to go shopping with me are rather remote as almost everyone left is male. I could therefore go and hang out in pool halls all night and sleep all day but really that's lacks a certain appeal somehow. (This may be because my ability to play pool is remarkably poor.) Though it might be worth it just to see a pool hall with 120 tables, really bad lighting and inadequate ventilation, which is absolutely full of smokers. If my camera weren’t broken I could take a picture.

Date: Mon, 23 Jul 2001 08:06:14 -0700

Bali was a bit surreal. Now I know why my Indonesian friends all say that Bali is not Indonesia. It’s not. It’s Hawaii with a language barrier and a bunch of people who want you to give them money. I got really tired of being viewed as a walking wallet. By the time I left Bali I was in the foulest mood. I was sick of the ridiculously slow service in restaurants. I was sick of the constant smell of incense, which gave me quite a headache. I was sick of not being able to walk down a street or even the beach without people shouting out “you want a (massage, sarong, whatever) I give you good price.” I was so sick of people calling out “what’s you’re name? Where are you from? I love you. Transport, transport!. Hi Honey” or any one of the other things they call out. It was dehumanizing. You really are just a walking dollar sign in Bali. Frankly I think I may go to Hawaii just to understand what it’s like when you have the time to enjoy the beach without people accosting you for your money the entire time.

The music in Bali was constant and quite captivating in it's own way - though my hotel had a Mexican trio that played every night just to make things confusing. I also had an odd moment when I walked into a large room almost entirely full of Westerners. All the men were taller than me. It quite threw me off. I felt like I’d shrunk somehow. I hadn’t realized just how used to being tall I’d become.

I’m quite relieved to be back in dirty stinky foul Jakarta. The only thing people call out is “Hello Mrs.” and it’s done in a far lighter and friendlier way. They aren’t after my money. I’m just an oddity with my pale skin and unusual height. I love hearing the call to prayer several times a day. It’s a vast improvement on the Balinese music, which never stopped long enough for me to appreciate it when it started again. I do wish I had managed to make it to Ubud though. A friend of mine picked up a bracelet that I may have to have copied if I can’t find one like it here in Jakarta.

I had been planning to leave Jakarta before things started heating up here. Specifically before the impeachment hearings for Wahid. Well that didn’t work out quite as well as I had planned as they moved the hearings up by a week and a half. There was a bombing in downtown Jakarta over the weekend and Wahid had been saying that he would only step down if Megawati (his VP) did as well. Had he decided to fight the process the powers that be were expecting a great deal of difficulty from the protestors. Well I may be wrong but my understanding from the women in the salon where I was getting my hair done while he was making his abdication (?) speech was that Wahid did step down and Megawati was sworn in as the next president of Indonesia. I haven’t heard any reports of violence etc since then, but I don’t really have access to much news so who knows what has been going on. Now I think that waiting until next Monday to leave will be a good idea, just incase there are any residual protests in the works.

I still think that heading home is a good idea though it’s supposed to remain quite safe in the part of Jakarta I’m in. I think that things will be more stable here in a few months and can wait to return until then.

On a lighter note, I had a surprisingly good haircut during the abdication. Even better when you factor in the price, which was for both the cut the style and the crèmebath, was 39 thousand rupiah. I love being able to do these things regularly and not feel as though I’m being wasteful and not terribly careful with money. Always a good thing.

Date: Wed, 25 Jul 2001 07:53:35 -0700

The contradictions in this country are so extreme that it’s hard to find a sense of balance sometimes. The butterflies in this country are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen and they are everywhere. They fly about everywhere alone and in pairs, all sorts of different sizes and colors. They’re really lovely. Oddly they’re even more so when what they’re flying around is garbage piles and open sewers. The contradictions are extreme, but they’re both true and very representative of what the country is. It’s a very complicated place.

I’ve started to do the most insane amounts of shopping. It suddenly occurred to me that I could get much of the years Christmas and even some Birthday shopping done and not have to think about it when I got home. After I returned to my room it suddenly occurred to me that I might have to rethink this strategy as I now have to worry about running out of suitcase space. While my suitcase is HUGE (thank you Livingston) and can certainly fit the things I’ve purchased so far and my clothes as well, for some reason known only to the insane being that took over my head as I was shopping, I purchased some ceramics and I think I need to buy a blanket or something like that to keep them from getting damaged during the flight which will probably set me over the amount of space I have.

My downfall in this country is Pasaraya. It is the hugest department store I’ve ever seen and they keep making it bigger. It has two full floors (each about the size of a city block) of traditional Indonesian items. It has one floor devoted to textiles and another floor devoted to wood sculpture, jewelry etc. This second floor is where I spent most of my money over the last two days. It’s also the only place here that I’ve managed to find a good latte and a fabulous piece of apple pie.

I just went to eat steak at a local steak house. It was excellent steak and we had a great time. When we arrived there was simply no room to fit us in the main part of the restaurant so they took us to the overflow seating in the Mosque across the street. I've never eaten in a Mosque before, but it was far prettier than the actual restaurant and the whole experience was hugely fun. I'm starting to love being in Jakarta again. Bali really took it out of me. I'm pretending I'm even regaining some of the feeling in my big toe.

I had the unfortunate experience in Bali of being bitten by something while walking on the beach with some friends one night. We had just done a big bit of entertainment for Bapak's night. I somehow got roped into stage managing - something I've never done before - and due to some unforeseen miracle the whole thing went fantastically well, eventually at least. At first it was a disaster. Everyone wanted to perform and when they were told that not everyone would perform and on top of that only one piece was allowed to those who did perform there was practically a mutiny. However there was only a certain amount of time allotted so there we were. Odette had the unfortunate task of having to make these decisions and then put them in the order they would perform in. I just had to get them on stage at the right time – no problem right?

First comes the announcement at the end of dinner – a full hour before we had been told that we had to start “as dinner is over you can begin to make your way to the amphitheater for the evenings entertainment. I had just run to the buffet to eat some food before running back to the amphitheater to finish getting things in order. I was, when I heard this, shoving food down my throat standing outside the entrance to the theater as they wouldn’t let me take any of the food inside. I nearly choked. I know I did that comic shocked pause of disbelief for nearly a full minute as my brain frantically tried to process this and figure out what to do. We decided to expand the preprogram while we gathered all the performers back. "Guess what – play until we tell you to stop" is what we told them.

When we FINALLY located our opening act – not an easy task – and I explained to her that we were bloody not going to find portable mikes for a bunch of children just because they had practiced the song walking in a circle holding hands (I mean really how the heck did she think we were going to mike them while they were moving that way anyway) and we’d set the mikes up pointing at them and they would just have to project, I looked out on stage and saw some strange man jump up on stage and start to read some poem or another. “Who the hell is that?” my MC is fuming at me. How the hell should I know I say back, why didn’t you send him back to his seat anyway. When our impromptu Indonesian poet sat down John Ponopolous stood up and walked towards the stage. Our MC ran out to the stage ready to send him back to his seat on no uncertain terms. John is holding a purse. He hangs it on the mike and then goes to sit down again without saying a word. Very anticlimactic. I was in a daze at this point.

I run out front to tell my stage hands/runners how we need to set things up for the first act. My tech guys – who set up the mikes etc – have been taught how to set up a mike stand only two hours previous to this performance and have been bullied into doing this by one of their older brothers to begin with. They go up on stage and start to move the mikes. The lights start to come back up a bit early – they’d been promised darkness – and they freeze staring at the back wall in identical poses. The older brother is dying laughing at this point. And yet we somehow not only survived, but while I ran around like a crazy person behind stage along with everyone else working on it, we managed to bring it off without any hitches visible to the audience. Thank God!

In celebration a few of us went to a club by the beach – we decided to take a walk along the beach under the stars to wind down. I then stepped on something. It felt like a piece of glass, but there was no blood and no glass to be seen, though it really hurt. The next morning I woke up and half of my toe was numb. It still is to a certain extent. I'm guessing I stepped on a sand spider or scorpion of some kind.

Oh well. Perhaps the feeling in my toe really is coming back.

Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2001 04:11:35 -0700

The mystery of the Cat Oven has been solved. For nearly two months I've been wandering around this country seeing signs in city streets saying "Cat Oven". This has left me very confused. While there are a huge number of feral cats wandering around the Indonesian word for a cat is not "cat". At first I suspected that they might have used the English word for some reason, though that didn't seem likely. Cat - pronounced chat - means paint in Indonesian; however the word oven was confusing me greatly. While I still don't know what the word oven means in Indonesian, however I now know that a "cat oven" is a place to get you're car painted. Not that anyone needed to know this, but just incase you do come to Indonesia and buy a car whose color is a bit drab . . .

I found myself at the botanical gardens in Bogor the other day. It is, quite simply, huge. We found ourselves with a tour guide. He was probably quite knowledgeable but I don't want to know what the plants are named I much prefer walking through the beautiful plants, who's names I won't ever remember anyway, at a much brisker pace so as to at least create the semblance of a breeze and in such a way as to avoid the massive numbers of mosquitoes who immediately swarmed around us when we left the main path. My view of large gardens is that they are wonderful places to have good conversations and a bit of a walk at the same time. Unfortunately my view of these things is not shared by the rest of the world and while I tried to keep moving but stay within reach of the group, I am, once again, covered in mosquito bites. Aside from the personal irritation I feel at this, I'm anticipating an interesting flight home. Scratch scratch scratch - "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you with my elbow. I'm just trying to rip the skin off of my knee and I got a bit enthusiastic."

I've heard reports of the travel hotel in the Taipei airport, which I'm supposed to stay at. Apparently it can be quite, I believe "interesting" was the word used to describe it. From what I heard one person had a nice room with no water - perhaps it was just "hot" water they didn't have, which I don't care about, as I've not had that for two months here. (I still haven't figured out how to turn on the hot water and have decided that I don’t care at this point.) Water however is necessary. The other room was not so nice (I really wish people would be a bit more descriptive) but did have water. As it is in the airport I expect all food to be expensive and bad and that there will be little or no entertainment available. I think I'll make it a point to get to a bookstore this weekend and pick up pretty much anything I can get my hands on. I'll also get a bunch of nonperishable items to take with me so that I don't find myself stuck should the options available to me be awful. Apparently it costs you $100 to leave the airport on this transfer, so finding a nice local restaurant might not be much of an option.

I still have two days left to fill before my flight out on Monday. Most of my “bulay” (western) friends are gone and my local friends are back at work and involved in their lives so I have two days to kill mostly by myself. Shopping alone is only fun when you’re meeting up with someone to have a cup of coffee with and then head home together, but I think I can manage it anyway.

2005-09-13T01:27:00.000-07:00

Darmawan

2005-09-13T01:26:00.002-07:00

Tika

2005-09-13T01:26:00.001-07:00

Odette

2005-09-13T01:26:00.000-07:00

Mutiari