Hands Digging up Roots

It's Almost the Same Thing

2009-10-28T22:12:00.001-08:00

But instead of rotting fish, the trail smells like rotting fruit.

Instead of mosquitos, there are fruit flies.

Instead of stopping to pick wild cranberries, I stop to shake a guava tree and catch the ripe ones that fall out.

And instead of finding snow and ice and Dall sheep at the top of the mountain, I find a view of this green green island and the blue blue ocean all around.

Welcome to Hawaii.

Not Scared. Not Scared At All.

2009-10-21T19:20:00.004-08:00

This is what my sister says. What she means is: "This situation is not at all to my liking and there is a heck of a lot that could go wrong, but I've assessed all the factors and feel I can keep rising panic at bay."

This pretty much sums up my night. (Except I picked the situation because it was very much to my liking. But still.) The wind was making my tent scratch in such a way that I was constantly assuring myself it was not animals. The cold was threatening me from every angle but I kept repeating to my limbs: you are warm; you are warm. Etc. etc.

The nice thing about being on edge all night is that when it's over, you feel very much like you've conquered something. Even if all you did was sleep through it.

Especially when you wake up to snow landing on your tent but the fire starts up anyway. And you sit there waiting for the water in your bottles to thaw (frozen solid, even though I kept them inside my tent all night) watching seven swans take off up the slushy river, land, float back down, and repeat. It was their honking that told you to get up in the first place, since it's always dark deep inside a mummy bag.

Alongside the Nenana River, for a night of reflection and fulfilling self-challenge. Brr, it was cold. Overnight low of 12, I'm told. I feel ready for winter. Haha! no winter for me! I needed to experience at least a taste of it before heading off to Hawaii.

And hiking Mt. Healy the next day (after it stopped snowing) was perfect. Up at the top it was sunny - above the clouds - and warm. Well, warm is a relative term. But I felt toasty, heated as I was from the hike. And no wind. And lots of sheep.

The drive back was harrowing at times - 4 inches of slush on the roads that were clear when I drove the other way. But I made it. And loved it.

I will be back.

You Eat Funny Stuff when...

2009-10-16T16:03:00.001-08:00

...you are leaving town and trying to finish the last odds and ends of food. Especially when you didn't buy much of that food yourself, but it was bequeathed to you when everyone else left.

For example:
black bean-butternut squash-chipotle wraps
beer-buttermilk-lemon crepes
lentil-squash curry

It's actually been surprisingly good. I made some regular crepes and was so disappointed in them that I went back to the beer-buttermilk recipe. And who knew that you could put butternut squash in everything?

Of course, there's also those splurge meals where although you've vowed not to buy any more food, you suddenly find yourself at the farmer's market in Homer with the best looking fresh vegetables in your hand and it suddenly turns itself into a gourmet, $80 a plate meal for 5.

Kachemak bay oysters on the half shell? Yes please. Especially ones bought that day from the grower's association on the Homer Spit.

Seared blackened tuna? Yes please. Especially when it's hand-delivered by the woman who caught it in Mexico and served up with bleu cheese.

A bed of organic greens? Oh, yes please. I also won't complain about caramelized carrots, delicious organic strawberries, or organic lemons.

Clos du Bois merlot? Ok, if you insist.

Cranberry Pear Crisp with Vermouth and sweetened milk? Oh, you want me to have indigestion, do you? Well, lucky for all of us, such fresh food doesn't weigh us down even when we do overeat.

And to top it all off, a night of wonderful company with three old Bohemians and one young one too. Hooray for me.

It looks like a cute fuzzy bunny.

2009-10-16T15:41:00.001-08:00

Well, it was a cute fuzzy bunny. Until it got eaten. Now it’s a pile of guts that have sprouted inch-long white tufts of fine, fibrous mold. And I get to walk by it every day on my way to work.

I love living here.

I Couldn't Let It Conquer Me

2009-10-13T11:09:00.003-08:00

So I went back.

Back to Skyline Trail, where I fell off a cliff and ruined my body forever.

Okay, melodrama aside, I fell off some rocks I was scampering on and sprained my ankle. But it was a really bad sprain - 3 torn ligaments. I was on crutches for 3 weeks and it hurts even now, 12 weeks later. It definitely put a damper on the second half of my summer. I refused to let it get me down mentally, but it was a bummer not to participate in all the hiking and backpacking I had planned.

Fortunately it didn't stop me from leading the fall fire field trips - a 2.5 mile hike - though it was a challenge at times. Now, even though my ankle aches and stiffens up at the slightest exercise, I feel confident that I can do anything on it. Gingerly, but anything.

So I knew I needed to conquer Skyline before the summer ended. Columbus Day, a day off that dawned a magnificent sunny blue sky and an unheard of 50 degrees: a day to hike! To put old adversaries to rest!

Rachel, Emily and I hiked to the tippity top of the trail. From there the view is spectacular. Could we see Denali? Maybe that huge white beast way past Anchorage is her, visible 700 miles away only because of refraction.

The recent wind storm knocked all the leaves off the trees, and even knocked a huge cottonwood across the trail. Despite the bizarre warmth and lack of snow at the upper altitudes, fall has indeed passed us by. Only the last vestiges cling, a few moldy spots of yellow in an umber landscape. It feels like resolution; it feels like time to leave.

Dried seed pods and crisp brown flower petals crinkle along the trail and invite thoughts about fertility, decay, cycles and seasons. It feels right to be a woman today. It feels right to be three strong women on a mountain top, bareing ourselves to the view and the wind and the turning tides.

From my ankle's point of veiw, the exercise was anticlimatic. The way up presented no challenge. On the way down, thanks to the tension and precision needed to keep myself from waah-tumbling down the mountain, both feet cramped up, but I kept moving, and soon we were eating yummy veggies, homemade hummus, and green hempseed butter. Our bodies felt good! fresh! alive!

It was a good day.

The Paths Are Paved With Gold

2009-10-08T16:05:00.003-08:00

The multi-hued yellows from aspen, birch, and cottonwood adorn the trails inches thick under every tree. When the leaves land this way, the winking yellow glitters; when they land that way, the pale underbelly gives depth to these alchemist's cobblestones. Gold!

The spruce trees - greedy bastards - not satisfied with keeping their green, also want to adorn themselves with yellow and gold. Jealously they cling to leaves spurned by their deciduous counterparts. Now evergreens boast, as well as needles, leaves plastered to their boughs.

It reminds me of hair, wet blond hair stuck to the ruddy faces of shivering fourth graders learning about pH and macroinvertebrates hiding in 41 degree water.

It's the kind of weather we love to hate: grey, drizzly, winter's coming sort of weather. Leaves shake off the trees as if a gale blows them down, but really it's just grey that whips their frenzy.

The leaves look like the gulls hovering in the air, catching the updraft, testing it for temperature and moisture content. Is California calling them yet? Is it time to wing it outta here? Are we blowing the wind or is the wind blowing us? Who knows.

A Tale About Smoking

2009-10-07T16:18:00.007-08:00

Smoking fish, that is.

My dad had a smoker that got used a handful of times during my childhood. I have vivid memories of seeing it chugging away in the back yard, covered by that old quilted blanket, but I don't remember ever liking anything produced from its smoky belly. Dried out hams and turkeys, I think. My poor father - generally an exceptional cook, but always the experimenter. One too many failed smoking projects and he lost all support from his family to attempt again. We wanted a dinner we could eat, after all.

Here in Alaska, smoking fish is a perfected science. It provides an easy way to preserve fish or use up those not-quite-grillable pieces. Last week a friend had some lingcod belly pieces left over from a deep sea fishing expedition. We smoked them up in some coconut rum-ginger-lime brine with hickory chips, which gave it a very smoky, vaguely sweet taste. This week it was some fish I found buried in the back of the Common's freezer. Now that everyone is gone except me, all property reverts to the last man standing.

With my not-so-grillable salmon rescued from the freezer coils, I made a brine of coriander, black pepper, dill, yellow mustard, celery (all in seed form), crushed bay leaf, and fresh garlic. These I heated in some water to release the aromas, then added to a salt, lemon, brown sugar and water marinade.

The salvaged fish went into the brine, and was forgotten for a while. In the meantime we ate a feast:
Lingcod steaks grilled with lemon peel
Home-grown oyster mushrooms sauteed with soybeans and garlic
Caramelized dill carrots
Brown rice with tomato and parmesan
Homemade wheat bread
Red wine (of course)
and for dessert, my absolute favorite, Flan

Ok, now that you're drooling, back to the fish. After brining for 3 hours, we laid the pieces out on the smoker rack (my pitiful salmon scraps only filling one shelf - compared to Rachel's lingcod which needed two batches to fit it all). Then the serious business starts: smoking.

I used alder chips for a more mild smoke flavor (and because the bag said it was the best for fish) and Dominic's hot smoker. The coil in the bottom of the smoker (a metal box about 3x2x1 ft) heats up a pan of wood chips sitting on top of it. The chips slowly smolder and fill the box with heat and smoke. Every 45 minutes to an hour, the blackened chips must be tossed over the deck railing and the pan refilled with fresh ones. We started smoking at 10:30. I was up all night.

Ok, that's a lie. The hot smoke works relatively quickly, and by 2:30 I was done resetting my alarm and snuggled down on Dominic's couch to sleep the rest of the night. The salmon sat outside on the deck in the unplugged smoker until morning, inviting all sorts of creatures to investigate and steal it. Fortunately it was still there in the morning.

And delicious! I'm so proud of my little fish babies. Now I just have to figure out what to do with it, since I can't take it with me...

Corporation vs. Love

2009-09-13T12:22:00.004-08:00

It took a while, but I finally tracked down one of those childhood movies my sister and I used to check out from the public library and watch over and over again. Among the ranks were those delightful BBC productions of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" and a number of other obscure 1980's productions.

The object of this hunt was none other than "Konrad, the Factory-Made Child". If you can get your hands on a copy (don't look on IMDB - it's not there), I highly suggest watching it. The anti-authoritarian plot is based on a book that comes out of 1970's Germany. An evil corporation is mass-producing perfect children in an institution and then hand-picking the perfect (wealthy, uptight) families that deserve to receive them. A misprint in the shipping department accidentally sends one of their prototypes (who arrives in a can, by the way) to the wrong, very wrong, person - a messy, artsy, failure of a woman who has lots of love and joie de vivre.

What happens to perfect little Konrad when he is exposed to the messy lifestyle of his new mom? What happens when the evil corporation inevitably discovers their mistake and wants to recover their "property"? Clearly you can see a Herbie-style debaucle will ensue as mustached men chase each other around town....

It captivated me at age 7; it will captivate you too!

How to Make the Best Raspberry Jam You've Ever Had

2009-09-10T12:24:00.002-08:00

1. Get to Homer, Alaska.

2. Find the "Seaside Farms" campground and pitch your tent in the horse field. Be sure not to step in the horse poo. And don't mind the horse; he won't bite.

3. The next morning, walk out of your tent and into the organic raspberry patch. Pick to your heart's delight. Be sure to get low and look under the leaves. It's rude picker's etiquette to only pick the easy-to-reach berries.

4. Eat lots of berries as you pick. But also pick a lot and put them into your bucket.

5. Be sure to observe the epic view across Katchemak Bay to the mountains and glaciers on the other side of the sea. The berries have spent their whole lives imbibing the view. This makes them taste extra spectacular.

6. Carry the berries with you the rest of the day to make sure they stay safe. Whatever you do, don't let them out of your site. Berries tend to disappear that way. They also tend to disappear into bellies, so keep an eye out for snitching fingers too.

7. Purchase Certo liquid pectin, sugar, and canning jars at Fred Meyer.

8. Back at your trailer, mash the berries carefully. Be sure to say, "Smash smash" every time you make the mashing motion.

9. Follow the recipe inside the Certo package for making raspberry jam.

10. Make a big sticky mess.

11. Clean up the big sticky mess.

12. Eat delicious jam!

Granola is Holy, Constipation a Sin

2009-09-08T15:34:00.003-08:00

This tidbit of history (read below) is just too ironic.

In case anyone was wondering if religious movements are influenced by time and place. Because everyone knows that today's good right-wing Christians wouldn't be caught dead eating granola. Obama probably eats granola.

And vegetarians are just straight up sinful. Didn't God create animals for us to eat? Except he apparently also created constipation to punish us for eating meat. I always knew he was a tricky bugger.

"During the early 19th century, most Americans subsisted on a diet of pork, whiskey, and coffee. It was hell on the bowels, and to many Christian fundamentalists, hell on the soul, too. They believed that constipation was God’s punishment for eating meat. The diet was also blamed for fueling lust and laziness. To rid America of these vices, religious zealots spearheaded the country’s first vegetarian movement. In 1863, one member of this group, Dr. James Jackson, invented Granula, America’s first ready-to-eat, grain-based breakfast product. Better known as cereal, Jackson’s rock-hard breakfast bricks offered consumers a sin-free meat alternative that aimed to clear both conscience and bowels." http://blogs.static.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/20822.html

Mushroom season

2009-09-07T11:00:00.003-08:00

Mushroom season is progressing very nicely. I would post photos if it weren't so darn difficult around here.

The warm summer and recent warm showers have created perfect conditions for a generous mushroom year. I am in heaven just walking the dog (yes, dogsitting again) and observing all the beautiful - and not so beautiful - varieties in abundance.

I've also been eating them. I've tried 5 varieties, a not-at-all shabby number for my first ever season of wild mushroom collecting. I'm impatient, but slowly I'm learning how much I can add to my cache of experiences and skills with time - and only with time. I can't expect to do everything at once.

So far, I've had: brown and orange birch boletes, honey mushrooms, gypsy mushrooms, and puffballs. My favorites is definitely the puffball - sliced thin and fried until crispy, like a mushroom potato chip. And conveniently, puffballs are among the most numerous and definitely easy to identify. The brown birch boletes are also numerous, but the flesh is often mushy, they are always infested with fly larvae (read: maggots), and honestly, they don't taste better than store-bought canned mushrooms.

Job Hazards

2009-08-27T10:13:00.000-08:00

Life is rough.

"Do you want a coloring project?"

2009-08-26T12:55:00.003-08:00

--my boss asks me today.

Oh yes. That is, if I can fit in in between sticking labels on notecards and moving photos around in Corel.

A nice day to welcome me back to work.

Last week, my mom and sister visited me while I took annual leave.

We went clamming in view of Redoubt and caught more clams than we know what to do with. They squirted us.

We went to Homer and picked raspberries and made jam. The best raspberry jam I've ever tasted, and I don't think it's just personal bias.

We stayed in the brand-new Kelly Lake Cabin (and managed to survive on only one match).

We altogether found much diversion and much conversation. Hooray.

Fungus are EXPLODING all over the Peninsula. I'm getting ready for Mushroomania Fair numero uno in a few weeks.

Ok, that's the life update.

And then there was one

2009-08-17T08:56:00.002-08:00

With the end of summer season, all the camp activity is over, and all the summer seasonals have gone back to the places where they came from, which means...

Betsi has time to post online again!

Here is a long and boring update of my summer, in a nutshell. I had to write it for work, but I figured I could post it here in case anyone wants to read it. It's very... plain. As in, not witty or insightful in any way. Because it was for work.

DO NOT READ! if you would like to maintain the false premise that I can only write wonderful, witty and intensly insightful things. You will be vastly disappointed.

Spring/Summer 2009 SCA Reflections

In April (so long ago now!) I worked on a variety of projects.
For the Bear Safety Program, Michelle and I took suggestions from the Kenai Brown Bear Committee and created a 15 minute presentation for 1st-6th grades about reducing bear attractants around homes. I went to a lot of the local schools to make bear-aware Jr. Rangers.

We spent a lot of time creating our Moose Discovery Room – a program for homeschoolers K-6, held at the EEC. The final result was excellent, with multiple tables covering themes related to moose and grade-appropriate worksheets that took about an hour for the students to complete. It was a fun challenge to create interesting, interactive displays that had information to offer participants at every age level. Amazing how much solid work goes into a one-day program, but hopefully the Refuge will be able to recycle this program every other year.

Between these two programs, I feel like I developed a stronger sense for each age level’s capabilities. For example, 3rd and 4th graders need a significant amount of guidance even for simple word problems. K to 2nd grade find writing even a few words laborious.

I attended a Project Learning Tree class with Matt Weaver, and I’m so glad! A few of the classmates banded together afterward to continue birch tapping and make birch syrup, though mine fermented before I got a chance to use much of it (oops). I learned a lot that weekend, not just from the material, but from closely watching the techniques of the instructor as well. Since I mostly work with and observe Michelle, it was great to also see another educator’s approach.

We did a few spring field trips after break-up, but mostly I will become more familiar with these trips when they are offered again in the Fall.

Outside, the month started covered in snow and ice and ended ready for spring – with even the first bits of green showing. We had a quick breakup, not the weeks and weeks of mud and slosh I was expecting. We basically went straight from winter weather to sunny, 60+ degree afternoons – though I don’t think every spring is so lucky!

It wasn’t until May that the trees started growing leaves, and boy was I happy when they finally did. Everything exploded within a week to become soft and fuzzy, covered in that light yellow-green color. Plus everything smelled like aromatic cottonwood sap.

Mid-May brought the arrival of summer crews. Training and Orientation was a strange time for me, because I was partly a participant and partly responsible as a leader. Also it was quite a transition to go from being mostly solo in the housing area, to the place being full of other seasonals! Parts of the training were a real treat, like our day-long sightseeing cruise in Kenai Fjords or the weekend canoe trip, while other parts were rather… tedious. As can be expected. Lots of paperwork and regulations.

I decided to do an interpretive campfire program, so I spent a lot of time preparing for that with my SCA partner. I loved doing this program every time we presented it! It was definitely a highlight of the summer, even though it made the rest of my schedule (juggling with summer camp scheduling) a bit awkward at times.

Summer Camp: the main project for the summer. We had four people working on it together. Another 3 month SCA took the new 2nd & 3rd grade camp (Critter Camp) under her wing, and we worked side-by-side brainstorming, finalizing a detailed schedule, writing curricula for every activity, and working out all the kinks. I got to draw a fun animal logo for Critter Camp tee-shirts. The others found it stressful at times, especially since we only had a couple of weeks to get the whole thing ready to go, including all our purchasing, but mostly I found it really fun.

Critter Camp was… amazing! The program was only 4 hours each day, but the days were jam-packed with activities and games, hands-on discoveries and trail time. Between prep time and cleanup time, the days flew by. In between we were also prepping for the two weeks of 4th & 5th grade camp (Get Out and Get Dirty) that were happening next. Busy busy busy. During June we did our best to get out of Soldotna on the weekends – camping and other excursions – but in July, by the weekends we were just ready to crash.

We made some changes to Get Out and Get Dirty, which piloted last year, to make it a more solid program ready for future summers. It was fun to transition from the younger kids to the older. Techniques for interacting with them, controlling them, and getting them interested are so different. At times it got complicated trying to communicate effectively between all four leaders so that we were all on the same page. Last minute changes and miscommunications required a lot of flexibility and positive attitude. The campers never know if the schedule’s been changed, so with a little bit of energy from the leaders, they are guaranteed to have fun. It’s good to have a few camp games ready to go in case time-fillers are needed.

The campers really liked both camps. Even the more academic activities (which were few and far between), like identifying fish organs in their journals, were enjoyed by all. I highly recommend having at least one active/running game per day, which we had in Critter Camp but could be added to Get Out and Get Dirty.

We spent a lot of time making detailed notes for future leaders of these camps to use, but the plethora of pictures we took may tell the story better. Lots of smiles, lots of fascinated little explorers, and lots of goofy candids of the counselors!

Before the last week of camp I got a really bad sprain (proof that you should stay on the trail and not try to rock climb on Skyline…). It did not diminish my love for camp, though it kept me off the trail, both with the kids and in my free time – trying not to let that get me too bummed. I don’t want to miss the beauty of late summer on the Peninsula, but 2.5 weeks later, I’m still bound by crutches.

That's my hand

2009-08-03T10:16:00.002-08:00

but not my handprint!

Summer Blazes Along

2009-06-24T16:28:00.002-08:00

Yes, I have been busy lately. No, I have not been so busy that I absolutely don't have time to update my blog.

It's more that I've found much better things to do with my time.

Not having internet in my room has slowly eaten away at my addiction to it. I rarely check Facebook these days; recently it's been about once a month. However, this week I started actually reading those Facebook emails you get whenever someone invites you to something... and it has made me homesick to hear about all the parties and concerts and miscellaneous events going on at home in Grand Rapids!

Furthermore, I rarely talk to people on the phone anymore. This is primarily because of time zone difference. By the time I think about calling people, it is already midnight or well later on the East Coast. The sad truth is that I am also losing touch with more and more people as time goes by and we are incomunicado. That was easier to live with when I was out of the country and there really was an excuse... By now my friends are scattered.

In positive and exiting news: I love my job!

Or perhaps that's not news, as I've been saying that for months now. It just keeps getting better.

Also, what keeps me busy around here mostly is PEOPLE. When I finally find time to myself after working with really cool people, cooking, eating, walking, talking, playing, and occasionally consoling or bitching to really cool people -- When I finally find some alone time apart from all of that, I am ready for some actual alone time, not catch-up-with-long-lost-friends time.

But I still love you all. And I still love my job (did I mention that?).

In other news, here is a picture of an alevin. An alevin is a (read the rest in a cutesy-wutesy baby voice) little baby salmon that has just hatched and has a huge eye.

It's still attached to the yolk sac, so it can barely swim and it hides under the gravel to eat and grow. (cue baby voice again) He's so cute!

Earthquake wooohooo

2009-06-22T11:41:00.002-08:00

2009-06-22 11:39:19
A regional tectonic earthquake occurred at 11:28 AKDT and was felt throughout South Central Alaska. This event is not related to Redoubt. The West Coast and Alaska Tsunami Warning Center has a preliminary magnitude of 5.3 and a location 30 miles southwest of Talkeetna.

I felt it shaking and rocking and heard the printer rattling on the shelves behind me. There are ten kids doing activites downstairs; none of them noticed it at all. My coworker was on the toilet, rocking her world in a completely different way.

Flagrant plagiarism creates species anomaly, but who can argue with God?

2009-06-10T14:04:00.005-08:00

I am researching certain birds for a project, and my partner left a scrawled note about spiricules on Bald Eagle talons. I wanted to find out more about them, so I did a quick web search. I found this sentence repeated in probably fifteen different websites: "Eagles have structures on their toes called spiricules that allow them to grasp fish" but nowhere did I find anything more specific, helpful, or informative than that.

Just what is a spiricule? Is it possible that they don't actually exist? I imagine one web writer put thos words down as complete bullshit and everyone else, not knowing any more on the topic but certainly loathe to leave anything out, has plagiarized that sentence and patted themselves on the back for being so inclusive in their reseach.

Afterall, if the internet says it, it must be true. Last time I checked, under the wiki for "world wide web" it said:
A term commonly used in the late nineties and rolling into the early 2000's, generally referring to the abstract being otherwise known as God.

In some circles, it's taboo to investigate any potential evolutionary reasons for why an animal is the way it is. To do so challenges the creative power of God. Thus we have Q&A like this one.

In other, more modern circles, it's the height of improporiety to investigate whether the online description of an animal matches what can be observed in nature. When in doubt, scrolling-and-skimming is believing.

So, the answer to my question "Why do Bald Eagles have spiricules?" is "Because the wiki made them that way." Amen.

Betsi does not like Twitter

2009-04-21T15:52:00.003-08:00

and decided not to join when she first heard of it two years ago.

and is annoyed that it keeps popping up all of a sudden everywhere she turns.

She can't even turn on the radio these days without hearing about it. Not even NPR is safe. Even when she is hiding in Alaska, where everything else is ten years behind schedule, Twitter is ubiquitous.

sigh.

Photo Essay

2009-04-17T22:21:00.004-08:00

This was my fun fun appetizer dinner. Why yes, that is avocado, artichoke heart, kalamata olive, green olive with garlic/habanero stuffing, hot peppers, vermont extra sharp cheddar, two kinds of bleu cheese, and gruyere, jalapeno jelly, raspberry preserves, and whole grain mustard. Oh, and triscuits. Heaven.

Killer weekend.

Thursday a.m.

Thursday p.m.

Got carried away with the grass and the mud.

Mt. Redoubt: view from the Kenai flats

Sunset: view from Cannery Road beach

me and anna

Mushroom Mushroom Mushroom

2009-04-16T09:41:00.004-08:00

Today I joined the Kenai Peninsula Mycology Society's Google Egroup. Maybe I will join the actual society --and maybe I will help out with their first ever Mushroomania Festival in September. I am as happy as a clam-stuffed mushroom cap.

Also, I got to read their April edition of The Spore Print, which is full of amazing and delicious information about How Mushrooms Can Save The World (if I could access Youtube from work, I'd post a link here to Paul Stamet's lecture with that title - you'll have to do the leg work yourself).

I would copy and paste it all here just because I'm so pumped to share it with everyone, but I don't know how kosher that is. Instead I'll just post the link and let you read it yourself. Trust me, it's Ahmazing.

Stupid Snowshoe Hare

2009-04-15T15:56:00.002-08:00

(ala fuckyoupenguin.blogspot.com - thanks IAmWrite for the link)

Who do you think you are, being all cute and cuddly and shit when I'm supposed to be at work? I mean, who asked you to bounce around in the snow, playing tag with each other on the other side of those trees right where I can see you as I'm walking by? Who asked you to wiggle your noses and lick your ears like something out of a sparkly-eyed anime fantasy?

Where do you get off having such big feet? Don't you realize how absolutely ridiculous it is to hop around on feet that are as big as your already ridiculous oversized ears? Come on, rabbit-thingy, no one actually believes that the size of your feet has anything to do with the size of your penis.

And your color. White? Really?? Not even cute Easterbunny white, like you just got washed with bluing and need to be wrapped up in a big pink bow, but dirty yellowish white that blends in with the dirty, yellowish snow. Guess what Snowshoe hare? I can see you anyway.

I can see you over there doing what bunnies do best. Flirting. And F***ing. And looking cute and cuddly, when I know that those big feet of yours would scratch the heck out of my eyeballs if I were to do what I wanted to and take you home to live with my teddy bear.

So, geesh, Snowshoe hare. Could you please be a little more considerate of those of us who have to work sometimes?

by Meiko

2009-04-10T14:02:00.000-08:00

One day we'll get outta this shitty apartmentOne day is all it takes for things to turn around nowAll I know is I got you and you got me, babeAnd when that morning comesI'll make coffee and you'll read the paperWe'll talk about our plans

And I'll keep saying how lucky we are

One day we'll get in the car and drive anywhere we wanna goAnd then we'll stay in a five star, mini-bar, luxury hotel roomCuz all I know is I got you and you got me, babeAnd when that morning comesI'll make coffee and you'll read the paperWe'll talk about our plans

And I'll keep saying how lucky we areHow lucky we are, oh oh ohHow lucky we are, oh oh ohHow lucky we are, oh oh ohHow lucky we are, are, are...

One day we'll turn on the tv and we won't see nothing 'bout warAnd when that morning comesI'll make coffee and you'll read the paperWe'll talk about our plans

And I'll keep saying how lucky we areHow lucky, how lucky we areOh how lucky, how lucky, how lucky we areOh how lucky, how lucky, how lucky we are

Oh how lucky, how lucky, how lucky we are

Wagon Wheel

2009-04-09T15:01:00.001-08:00

Headed down south to the land of the pines,
I'm thumbin' my way into North Caroline
Starin' up the road,
Pray to God I see headlights
Oh, I made it down the coast in seventeen hours
Pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers
And I'm a hopin' for Raleigh
I can see my baby tonight

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me

Runnin' from the cold up in New England
I was born to be a fiddler in an old-time string band
My baby plays the guitar
I pick a banjo now
Oh, the North country winters keep a gettin' me now
Lost my money playin' poker so I had to up and leave
But I ain't a turnin' back
To livin' that old life no more

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me

Walkin' to the south out of Roanoke
I caught a trucker out of Philly
Had a nice long toke
But he's a headed west from the Cumberland Gap
To Johnson City, Tennessee
And I gotta get a move on fit for the sun
I hear my baby callin' my name
And I know that she's the only one
And if I die in Raleigh
At least I will die free

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel
Rock me mama anyway you feel
Hey mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a south-bound train
Hey mama rock me

Mushroom of the Day

2009-04-07T21:51:00.002-08:00

or try, Mushroom CLOUD!

beat that, hoboman.

Proof that Friends are Awesome:

2009-04-07T14:53:00.005-08:00

1. This weekend.

2. This comic strip:

Scratch and Sniff

2009-04-03T16:33:00.005-08:00

My new favorite animal is the Zorilla.

Because how can there be an animal called a Zorilla and it not be my favorite?

Not to mention it's supposedly the stinkiest animal on earth. But, I mean, really, how can they know that?

Lucky for him, I guess, because with fur like that, he would end up at the top of everyone's fancy-dancy night-on-the-town coat. But no one wants to sniff skunkrotteneggpoopystinkbugdecomposingtrash when they're out for a fancy dancy night on the town.

If they did, why does everyone keep telling me to take showers all the time?

And Now

2009-04-01T13:55:00.000-08:00

"Mr. Obama appeared to be preparing the world for a reshaped global economy in which the United States no longer was the ultimate export market for the world’s established and emerging powers. It was that habit of overconsumption, he appeared to say, that led to the boom-and-bust cycles that he has said must end."

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/02/world/europe/02prexy.html?_r=1&hp

Hooray hooray hooray!

Too Lazy to Take Responsibility for My Own Creativity

2009-04-01T08:55:00.002-08:00

Well done, Google. You must check out this intriguing homepage.

And also Wikipedia. I must say I was less impressed with Wikipedia's news articles (I mean, come on, WAY over the top) until I realized that they all actually connect to a real story.

Of course, I should have the creativity to create my own hoax, but I find my energy for that sort of amusement strangely lacking today. I must by hyperstimulated by work.

In Confirmation of My Earlier Theory

2009-03-31T13:12:00.005-08:00

I was walking between the Enivronmental Ed Cabin (where I work) and the main office, paying special attention to the changing sounds. I heard a bird call that I'd not heard before. If there was a way to write bird calls so that you could hear them, I would do it. But I'm not going to try. All I can say is that it was different, probably belonging to a songbird that has recently migrated back into the area or else is trying out his mating vocals.

Then I heard another bird sound which is (but only recently) familiar to me: the Bald Eagle. The first time I heard it I was amazed that such a beautiful sound could come from such an ugly bird. No, I do not have any aesthetic loyalty towards our national bird (speaking of which, is there a national any other type of animal?).

The cry is exotic, expressive, untamable.

I heard it again today in close vicinity and looked for its source. On several occasions I had seen an eagle sitting in gnarled yet vertically-giften aspen(?) near the parking lot, so I was not surprised to glimpse, through the branches, the brown, white and yellow bird. But wait-- there were two birds. And they were-- oh ho! They were, um, shall we say, Celebrating Spring.

We all need to celebrate spring now and then. And what better place to do it than at the top of a tree?

In any case, it reinforces what I said before. Despite four inches of new snow last night, spring is upon us.

(ps- !!! I got to see Bald Eagles mating??? I even brought my camera to work today, but of course I wasn't carrying it back and forth between buildings, and I can't just leave work to sit in the parking lot and hope they do it again, can I? Can I??)

So Glad You All Saw That

2009-03-27T13:25:00.006-08:00

All of these photos are shamelessly stolen from http://www.avo.alaska.edu/activity/Redoubt.php where you can find other imformation about Redoubt, other Alaskan volcanos, photo credits and time stamp. All of these are from this week.

The eruption monday morning.

What they don't want us to breath in. Yesterday we got a teeny tiny bit of ash fall in Soldotna. I had to be told to look for it. Its color was light enough that you couldn't see it on the snow, and its content was so meager that you might think it was just dust or pollen.

Risk of flash floods and mud slids when volcanic heat melts the snow and ice on the mountain.

This one is actually from 3/15. Look at that steam wisp. Clearly a dragon lives in that volcano.
Yes, she is still erupting. At the website listed above you can track seismic activity levels and actual eruptions. Several occured overnight again last night. Seriously though, if I wasn't told there was a volcano erupting a few miles away, I would never know.

In other news, I got to go cross-country skiing for the first time today. It was much less scary/difficult than I'd imagined it would be. In fact, it was quite easy. I wish I'd figured that out six weeks ago.

It is spring in Alaska, which does not mean daffodils and crocuses.

Instead, spring means that the snow comes down in big fluffy chunks instead of tiny frozen crystals. Yesterday I left work, looked up, and said out loud: "It's raining snowballs." The snow looked like those tiny styrofoam balls you sometimes get instead of packaging peanuts.

Spring means that during the afternoon, the temperatures rise to the upper 30's (think 2-4 degrees C) and everything gets slushy and slooshy and yuck. Then the temperatures drop overnight and everything becomes a slick layer of ice. In some places the ice is black and smooth where there was actual standing water. In other places it makes frozen chunks where the slush resolidified. On my walk to work this morning I suddenly found myself sitting on the ground over a particularily deceiving patch of ice. I looked up to see three of the maintenance guys standing in their yard across the street watching me.

"So glad you all saw that!"

Spring means that we have to be on the lookout for bears. Any day now they will start emerging from their winter dens and eating people left and right. Soon I won't be able to go outside anymore because the grounds will be swarming with starving, snarling bears.

We'll see what gets me first: the volcano or the bears. Or the ice. Or the small town boys.

I lead life on the wild side.

Two Pieces of Good News

2009-03-25T16:11:00.002-08:00

1. Girdwood Forest Fair, which was cancelled last year thanks to too many rowdy partiers, is scheduled to be BACK ON this year. Nothing can keep me away. Not to mention it's on my birthday ^_^

2. FUNGUS FAIR. 'Nuff said, right? Check this out. Oh, I so can't wait till September.

Thar She Blows!

2009-03-24T10:10:00.003-08:00

Or rather, belches a few times unattractively.

Yes, ReDoubt has turned active.

Yesterday morning the power went out so I took myself down to maintenance to check the situation out.

"Any news on the power outage?"

"Nope, nope. Apparently it's out all over except Anchorage."

"Yeah, of course they keep Anchorage safe. Can't afford to let her go down."

"Last time it was out for three days. Good thing we installed that generator at the pump house last week."

"Yeah, just in time. This power stays out for long the thing will have paid for itself in no time."

"Well, I can't do any work without power. I might as well go home and put steaks on the grill."

"Heck, I'm coming to your place. Better call your wife and tell her to put on a steak for me. A big one."

...and so on. Maintenance guys shooting the shit.

After half an hour of this, Ryan came in. "So is this power outage because of the volcano eruption?"

"What!!?? The volcano erupted?" I couldn't believe that I'd stood there for half an hour and heard not a peep after so many weeks of edge-of-my-seat anticipation.

"Yup. Blew last night. Several belches of ash starting at ten-thirty until four this morning."

"I was sitting in my living room looking out the window at it and I didn't even see a thing. They say there was a big rumble and shaking and all that, but I don't even believe it."

"It's the piretic, bombastic-- what is that?"

"Pyroclastic."

"Yup, it's the pyroclastic blast you have to really look out for. 10,000 degree wind that comes at you. Burning gasses and all that. Melts everything in its path - trees, buildings, people. One minute you're standing there, the next you've been liquidated like an atom bomb hit."

I went back outside and looked around. There was nothing to see. It was overcast, but the forecast had called for that. No ash, no clouds. If I inhaled deeply, I could just make out a charred, ozone scent in the air.

Altogether anticlimactic.

I talked to Shane on the phone, who's up in Anchorage and has been on-call to zip down here in the event of a picturesque or adventure-worthy eruption. He says that all the ash is landing in Talkeetna, several hundred miles north. The wind changed at just the right moment - usually prevailing winds would have blown the ash fallout right onto the peninsula. Talkeetna must be pissed. They don't even get to see ReDoubt from up there, but they get the ash dump anyway. Neener neener.

Shane also says that we can expect continued activity over the next indeterminate period of time. He remains on call in case something happens that can be seen. My boss says that what really turned pretty during the last eruption in 1990 was after two big ash belches, there were steam clouds that hung out about the mountain and caught the morning alpenglow and ended up in everybody's photo albums.

If I get pictures, I'll post them, I promise. That's assuming the pyroclastic blast doesn't get me first. Stand by.

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/03/photogalleries/mount-redoubt-alaska-volcano-pictures-2/

The Alaska Meth Education Project is offering free drug

2009-03-21T17:24:00.002-08:00

no kidding. that's the headline at http://homeralaska.org/
it would be Homer. buncha' crazy hippies.

of course, if Paul Harvey weren't dead (*sniff), he would tell us The Rest of the Story:

The Alaska Meth Education Project is offering free drug
prevention and awareness presentations to businesses and organizations.

Just unfortunate titling, that's all. It's like those church bulletin bloopers:

"Weight Watchers meeting Tuesday night. Attendees please use the wide double doors at the side of the building."

Something's Changing

2009-03-20T12:11:00.004-08:00

A few days ago, vole tracks appeared.

Since arriving, I'd seen maximum two trails left by subnivean creatures. In the last few days, they are suddenly everywere: around the office, around my cabin, doodling around the commons in loopy trails from under one building to another or in fairly straight lines across the road.

Subnivean creatures, by the way, are the tiny rodents: mice, shrews, and voles. Subnivean (for those of you who weren't in any of my field trip classes this year) means "under snow." Under the deep snow is an insulated layer where these animals build tunnels through the dead grasses to stay warm, find food, and hide from predators.

Shrews have long pointy snouts and can be aggressive insectevores. I'm hoping to find evidence of the water shrew this summer in our wetlands and lakes. Water shrews are badass.

Mice and voles are basically indistinguishable. I've heard contradictory evidence as to whether mice are actually native to Alaska or have been introduced, but there are a vareity of vole species native to, and even unique to, different regions of the state. They look cute and cuddly and they can be serious pests to home owners.

Usually these animals stay in the subnivean all winter except maybe to reach grass heads above the surface or if they are forced out of their tunnels by packed trails. In our field trips we talk a lot about how trails negatively impact subnivean residents with an aim to promote lower impact recreation (for example, using established trails for snowmachining or using a frozen lake area).

Trails can also impact plant life, partly because packed snow takes longer to melt -a big concern in an area with such a short growing season- and also because packed snow reduces light cues that reach the soil.

Plants rely on light cues, rather than temperature, to initiate their growing cycles. Thus, even with a cold spring or warm fall, deciduous trees will still grow new leaves or display fall foliage and eventually go dormant. There are still temperature considerations, of course; nothing can happen while all the water in the ground is still frozen.

Trails aside, what has sparked the sudden infusion of tracks? What has happened to make all these voles suddenly appear out from their safe, warm, food-filled subnivean tunnels?

The temperature hasn't changed. The range has been the same since I arrived: nights down as low as -20, days up to 30 or 35. The snow hasn't gone away. There is no new food source that I can think of.

Today I actually saw some voles. I glanced out at the bird feeders we keep on our windows. The chickadees, red poles, and nut hatches use a few nearby spruce trees as their access point to come to the feeder, grab a sunflower seed, and return in order to eat it. Under the trees where not as much snow has built up there is a patch of dead grasses. The voles were darting in and out of view through the grasses, eating bits of dropped sunflower seeds, I suppose.

The presence of dropped sunflower seed hasn't increased. It's possible the voles have been doing it all winter, but I've spent a lot of time looking out that window and today was the first time I've seen it. That, combined with the sudden profusion of tracks, makes me thing something has happened to encourage these creatures to emerge from their subnivean world.

I look to the light. Today is the first day of spring. This week we had our twelve-hour day. Like the plants, I imagine these creatures take their cues more from light than temperature as they prepare for the growing season that will come.

Predators still abound, so whatever could encourage them to seek out food sources that expose them to eagle eyes (literally) must be pretty darn important. More important than keeping themselves alive, which they've already been doing just fine all winter long. My guess: babies.

Mating season is upon us, folks.

There's a reason Bambi's friend Owl talks about twitterpating. In other places it corresponds to the melting snow and emergence of new plant growth. In Alaska, waiting that long to get it on wouldn't leave enough time to adequately reproduce in number before temperatures dropped again. So the mice, shrews, and voles sense the stronger, longer rays of sun filtering through the snow to their tunnels and say to themselves, "hooray! spring is coming! time to make babies!"

At this point, I don't know if those babies already exist (if so, Round 1 of several for the year, I'm sure) or if the voley-poos are merely preparing themselves physically to be able to reproduce, but either, way, I like seeing their tracks everywhere. They're pretty cute.

Green Beer It Is

2009-03-18T11:12:00.003-08:00

Kind of a weerd picture, but hey. Green beer is green beer.
(By the way, I've decided to start spelling it weerd instead of weird. Easier to remember - wierd? or weird? what about i before e? - and uses the same delicious vowel combo as green. and beer. and other words that have ee.)

Dexter and I went for a long walk yesterday in the brilleeantly sunny afternoon. The snow was perfect, the trees were perfect, the mountains were probably perfect except I couldn't see them thanks to fog.

Oh ReDoubt: when are you planning to erupt? You crazy teese, you.

Dexter was thrilled to get some Exercise after spending all day sitting in the car waiting for me to finish work. If this sounds cruel, let it be understood that this dog has an anxiety disorder and can't be left home alone because he goes mental. (The door has the gouges to prove it.) On the other hand, he happilee (if somewhat bored-looking) sits in the car for hours on end because he does not feel abandoned inside a vehicle. So by far the less cruel method.

Down on the wetlands, the snow moves like sand into drifts and dunes. Even with the bright afternoon sun it never warms up enough to stick together. Each snowflake remains at the mercy of the wind to pile up in shelves and pyramids around the stubbee black spruce saplings.

Black, green, brown and dusky blue lichen wrap around tree trunks and hang from branches. They call it witch's hair and old man's beerd. If you see it or feel it, you know why. It's alive, but its draping fibers crumble between rubbed fingers.

Yesterday was our 12-hour day: Sunrise at about 8:12 am, Sunset at 8:12 pm. With Civil Twilight, which extends the day an easy hour in eech direction, no one can think of me living my days in the dark. We gain five minutes every day - that makes over 2 hours a month - rushing towards summer when the sun never seems to set. So long as the sun is shining, I am just as happee with the cold.

Bacchanalia

2009-03-17T09:44:00.002-08:00

The wine festival in honor of Bacchus. It just so happens to be the same day as St. Patty's, on which we are supposed to drink a different alcoholic beverage.

What a challenge: green beer or wine? Which to drink, oh which to drink??

The temperatures dropped this week to about -30F overnight lows, +3F today's projected high. The interior, where the dog sleds are competing in the famed Iditorad, has windchills below -50F. Poor puppies. Poor mushers.

I am hanging out with Dexter while housesitting for a coworker. He is a dog fit for Alaska. His neck fur is so think I really have to dig in order to scratch his neck. His paws are so furry they remind me of ptarmigan feet:

He's a nervous dog, but I'm starting to win him over.

Moose Caboose

2009-03-01T14:00:00.002-09:00

I almost walked into the back of a moose yesterday. Ha! Ha!

I was walking home from work and I noticed moose tracks going this way and that way all around in the new snow. I hadn't seen moose tracks on that trail since my first walk to work. I thought to myself, I wonder if these are the same two moose that I saw down in town yesterday when I was walking to the library? They were in James' backyard hiding in the trees, standing very still and munching trees.

I looked here and there amongst the trees, wondering if perhaps they were still around and I could see them standing amongst the trunks. Moose are hard to see because they stand very still and they are the same color as everything else that is brown, but they are not shaped very much like tree trunks, so if you look for shape instead of color, you might just spot them.

Michelle drove me to a party out K-Beach on Wednesday and we passed moose grazing in the frozen wetlands. "I hate driving in winter at night," she said, "because of the moose. They come out of nowhere and you can't see them. Often people hit the babies because the mama crosses the road, and then just when you think nothing is following her, the baby runs across. And then after that, the twin will run across and the twin will get hit, because people really aren't expecting that.

"The way a car hits a moose, the bumper goes right into the legs, and it flips the moose over and onto the hood. It goes through the windshield and you basically get kicked to death. The moose doesn't usually die; it limps off with broken legs and then they have to go after it and shoot it.

"There's a list of people who get the meat. The next person on the list gets called when a moose is hit, and they have to come out, shoot it, clean it and everything, and they have to donate half the meat or something, but they get to keep the rest. There are rules about how far away from the road they can dispose of the remains and all that too. I just hope I never hit one."

At this time of year, the moose are pretty tame. They are morose and hungry. Once the mamas drop calves in spring, they get fierce, and a rutting bull in the fall is downright dangerous, but these days they just do a lot of munching and hunkering in the trees out of the wind. They walk into town where the roads are plowed - even with their long legs it gets pretty tiring to manage the deep snow. James says that in his childhood when they regularly got significantly more snow than we have this year, there were way more moose in town than there are now. Maybe they find a warm dryer vent to frequent, and certan moose get reputations as bothersome loiterers.

This morning at the Eagle Lodge where Tracy took me for breakfast, an old lady was tattling on a know-it-all neighbor who told them not to feed the moose.

"This nice lady moose wandered into our backyard and she was so sad, so we fed her and she started hanging around. But you know she had lots of relatives that she invited along and pretty soon I wondered if we were in the restaurant business or what. The neighbor came by and said not to feed the moose, and I said, 'I don't. I feed the birds.' Heh. But then we got neighbors next door. Kids, you know. We had to stop then."

Tracy asked, "How long did it take after you stopped feeding her before she stopped hanging around?"

"Well, she stayed around for a while, and then one year she didn't show up anymore. I don't know what happened to her."

"She probably ended up in someone's freezer."

"Eh, it's Alaska."

So, back to the story: I was peering into the trees on either side of the path and I thought I saw the bumpy silhouette of a moose sitting down in the snow about thirty feet off the trail. I wasn't sure, because I couldn't see her head, so I wanted to take a better look. I found a set of moose tracks pointed that direction diverging from the trail, so I decided to follow them. The snow was a lot deeper than it looked. I suddenly realized the severe advantage moose legs give them in the winter drifts. I tried to follow directly in the footprints left for me, but this required an awkward hop up and out of the snow and I missed a lot of them. After a few yards the footsteps turned in a different direction than where I'd seen the moose, but from there I could look and see the distinct shape of its head and my curiosity was satisfied. The trail I followed must take a sharp turn and lead to her, but who accuses of a moose of not walking in a direct line? Where's it going anyway but where it wants? Except for the fact that it is starving and must live in the cold, I kind of like the idea of aimless wandering. A moose would make a good minstrel. If it could sing.

I turned around and hop-shuffled back through the snow to the path and continued towards home. As I turned to take one last look at the moose in the trees (I was rather proud of myself for spotting it from so far away), I suddenly saw the bulk of another moose lying down in the snow much, much closer to me. The footsteps I'd found did not lead to that other moose at all; in fact, if I'd followed them about ten feet further, I would have found myself struck smack into the backside of a big ole' moose. And I had just finished congratulating myself on my powers of observation....

The moose moved not at all. Neither moose had twitched so much as an ear in all the time that I'd watched them. I guess they figured someone as bumbly and noisy as me couldn't possibly pose a threat to them. Lucky for them I'm not a hungry wolf pack. Lucky for me they aren't a hungry wolf pack.

Yup, I live in Alaska. Yup, there are lots of moose.

Mushroom of the Day

2009-03-01T12:51:00.002-09:00

Not a real mushroom, but it's my mardi gras mask and I think it turned out pretty cool ^_^

Some More About Alaska

2009-02-21T16:38:00.003-09:00

While I was in Michigan, I found out that people do actually read this blog from time to time and do expect to get some information about where I am and what I am up to. In light of that, here is a slightly more detailed update about me:

I have moved to Alaska. I am living at the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, where I have an internship in Environmental Education. This means I run (along with my supervisor) field trip and summer camp programs, as well as do a lot of other random stuff.

I will be here until late October.

When I arrived, it was a delicious -5degrees Farenheit (I loved it), but for most of the time since then it has been a balmy high of about 30 every day. Usually there is not a lick of wind, so it doesn't feel as cold as Grand Rapids at the same temperature, where the wind goes right through you. About half the time the sun shines - and then it is absolutely the most beautiful kind of winter you could ask for. Blue skies, white snow, crisp air, bright sun, dark spruce trees, white birch trees, and lots! of animal tracks to investigate. My first day at work I followed moose tracks to the office. I have also seen lots of red squirrel, snowshoe hare, ermine, spruce grouse, raven, and some other unidentifiable prints.

"Downtown" Soldotna is a mile-long strip that starts about a mile from my cabin. The furthest place I would go is Fred Meyer (the Alaskan version of Meijer or super-Walmart), which is just over a 2 mile walk. Fred Meyer has just about everything I could ever want or need food-wise, including organics, bulk foods, and vegetarian options. There are also about 5 coffee shops in town, not to mention several drive-through espresso shacks.

At this time, the sun is rising at about 830 and sets at about 630. It's hard to say exactly, because the sun rises and sets are sooo long. Because the sun doesn't move in a lateral line East-West, but rather scoots along the southern rim, the sun lingers around the horizon for a very long time. Needless to say, it's very beautiful. My window faces west; I love to watch the sunset on a clear night or wait for the first beams of morning glow hit the tree tops.

Mt. Redoubt can be seen from anywhere there is a clear view to the west. That is the volcano that might blow any day and cover us all with toxic volcanic ash - yummy yummy. I've had one chance to see it in the brilliant orange-pink alpenglow that hits it just before the sun slides over the eastern horizon.

I don't have internet from my new home. I have to hike myself and my computer into town to find a wifi point to get online.

To pass my time after work, I cook, crochet (I started my first afghan), play my ukulele, read, watch movies, write, and pretty soon I will start writing letters. So far I have not felt lonely, though I love talking to any and everyone on the phone.

I hope this satisifies your curiosity. If you want to know more, write or call me and I will gladly tell all.

Valentine's Day Dinner

2009-02-16T15:20:00.002-09:00

In case any of you were worried, I took good care of myself on V-Day.

Here is my lovely treat-for-myself dinner.

Why yes, that is Alaska King Crab (not vegan but local!)

with lemon butter (freegan; the butter was in the freezer when I moved in),

Baby Romaine-Watercress-Avocado salad,

and a Framboise Lambic.

And, there were vegan Rum Raisin Scones for dessert, made by moi.

I challenge any lover out there to beat that!

My thoughts upon arrival - A little backdated

2009-02-08T15:26:00.000-09:00

My first day in Alaska. Before even arriving I can feel the difference in vibe, the difference in people. At the gate in O’Hare, the other people waiting like me are eager to talk, happy to interact and make connections. They do not ignore each other with an adopted manner of distain like I am used to. Soon we are all joking and sharing our McDonalds back and forth.

The flight attendants on my Alaskan Air flight are more friendly and relational than any I have ever known – and I have done a fair bit of flying. I pass one attendant sitting on an arm rest chatting with other flyers as I head to the restrooms at the back of the plane.

The shuttle driver between the airport and hotel gives me tips about how to navigate my new life in Soldotna, AK. He tells me where to eat and where not to eat. “If you ever meet Hobo Jim,” he says to me, and I am waiting for his warning to run the other way or not to accept his offer to see his gangrenous war hero toes. “If you ever meet Hobo Jim, tell him Hi from George.”

I rehearse it: Hobo Jim, Hi from George.

What a world.

The next morning I awaken in the hotel, a distinct parallel to my first morning in a hotel – almost the very same one which is itself across the street – in Anchorage almost three years ago. This time darkness still blankets the streets, and I have no idea how long the dark will linger. We’ve marked Imbolc (I’m sad to say I marked it barely at all this year, although I had my own celebration of fertility) so the deepest of winter is over.

At eight o’clock the night has loosened its grip. At nine it is positively light out, and around nine thirty I become aware of a piercing brilliance when the sun clears the mountain top.

It doesn’t matter how bright and beautiful Anchorage greets me today, because Kenai is not ready for our plan to land. We wait in the Anchorage airport two extra hours before we can be cleared to board and take-off.

I arrived at the airport much earlier than I needed to since my plans with Shane fell through. It would have been the right amount of time early for a normal flight in a normal airport, but when I arrived at the gate a sign told me:

20 minute check-in strictly enforced to allow for on-time departure.

I was an hour and a half early. This was clearly not O’Hare. When I did check in, the gate agent sent me to the gate which I arrived at directly – without passing through a security point of any sort.

I texted Lisa: um… no security check for my flight. none. not even a metal detector. should i be worried? or just amused?

Lisa: Amused. And pleased! Anyway what terrorists are going to bother with a puddle jumper to kenai? :)

Me: im not wried abt terrorists so much as the Alaskan roughneck hunter who wants to shoot a moose out the window

Lisa: Lol. You have a point

When we finally got on our flight, I saw no evidence of rifles or any other suspicious contraband. The flight attendant barely spoke English and dropped all the articles, among other essential words, in her take-off speech (“Float cushion located beneath seat. Take arms put through straps”) and sometimes I swear she was speaking Russian. Of all the international flights I have taken recently, this lady has spoken the worst English of any of them.

Just as I suspected, we rose above the settled cloud cover and skimmed its upper surface on our journey south. The mountain tops gleamed yellow in the sunlight and baby blue in the shadows. As we approached Kenai, I assume we passed Mt. Redoubt – and I was seated on the correct side to see it – but I could not identify it from the many peaks and ranges. Soon enough Redoubt will blow and then this part of the world will be covered with black ash that will ground all flights and obscure the sun better than any condensed water vapor does on a daily basis.

I could see through the thin clouds to the ground below. The dark green and black trees gave way to shining rivers. No, that must be snow, because no rivers are running at this time of year. Even in the summer they barely flow above 32 degrees, so in the winter they freeze solid. I can see patterns in the trees, cut like crop circles: X’s and arrows and chains of arrows like so <-<-<-. As we get closer to Kenai the trees give way to more clearings of snow and I can trace snow machine tracks that cross and crisscross.

I meet Michelle and her beautiful daughter at the Kenai airport and I am arrived. The drive from Kenai to Soldotna is beautiful. When we get out at Fred Meyer, I absolutely love to weather. It is sunny, it is blue, and the air is crisp cold but there is no wind. It is my favorite weather for winter, perhaps of all time. With days like this, no one can convince me that Alaska is anything less than perfect.

Why a Philosopher can’t convince me of What I Already Know

2009-01-28T12:32:00.000-09:00

In response to Wake-Up Weekend in Grand Rapids last Friday and Saturday, I engaged a few smart friends in the topic of Veganism. By ‘smart friends’ I mean some vegan philosophy students that I know and like very much.

I was curious what their response to my question would be, but I was not looking for an answer perse. The result of the entire discussion was to persuade me – yet again – that philosophy is overrated. Over the past year I developed a tendency to expose myself to the pompous intellectual mind games that call themselves philosophy despite being a skeptic. I have learned a lot through this, and feel more strongly now than ever that philosophy has its merits but is not the substitute for God that it likes to claim.

My question builds on the following premise:

I see two basic differences in types of vegans – the Must-Not and the Should-Not. Both groups see animals as having more rights than generally afforded by human society, and therefore they do not eat or use animal products (meat, dairy, leather, fur, gelatin, or anything else that comes from an animal).

The Must-Nots believe that animals and humans have the same rights. That is, humans have no more right to eat animals than they do to kill and eat other humans – or use them for their products such as milk even without killing. Their moral structure, therefore, forbids them from eating anything animal as an abhorrence.

The Should-Nots believe that although animals have rights, human still, in some circumstances, have the right to eat them or their products. These people choose veganism primarily as a protest against the corruption in the production of animal products.

I fall into the Should-Not category, which, unfortunately, gives me freedom to eat animal products occasionally even though I feel that it’s better not too. I take advantage of this freedom all too often. I presented this question in part because I am trying to increase my private arsenal of conviction for maintaining a vegetarian/vegan lifestyle.

The question I presented is: “Given these two categories, what are the differences in practice? What potential fallout is there?” I could have given my own answer (I just did, in an abbreviated sense), but I wanted to hear what other people had to say. I wanted to be convinced.

The problem with philosophy is it is all built on common assumptions. First philosophers break down all common assumptions to the bare nothingness, then they build them back up again using reason to determine their validity. Any discussions I’ve had with philosophers end up pandering in a mire of declaring assumptions, having them challenged, backing them up, which reveals deeper assumptions which are then challenged, and so on. It’s very easy to digress and lose track of the point altogether. After the end of the convoluted conversation, I tried to piece together what was presented, and I came to this:

1. Sentient beings feel suffering.
2. Causing suffering is less preferable than not causing suffering.
3. Humans are moral beings.
4. A duty of being a moral being is to maximize what is more preferable and minimize what is less preferable.
5. Suffering among all sentient beings is equal (no differentiation human vs. nonhuman).

Therefore, humans must not cause suffering in any way shape or form upon any other sentient being.

The problem with an attempted logical argument is that it is required to be foolproof. It must go all the way. This argument in no way goes all the way. A vegan, however, could probably fill in the cracks. We got mired in a few details, such as, why are humans not allowed to eat animals when other omnivores are? I got two responses: other animals actually don’t have the right to be omni/carnivores (I don’t get that one); and because humans are moral, we have the duty not to cause suffering. We entered the inevitable extreme case model, for example when it is either eat or be eaten. In that case, self-preservation trumps. One validation for this what because a human death causes more suffering because other humans feel sorrow.

Trying to pin these considerations down just leads into increasingly complex byways. For example, does self-preservation extend to species-preservation? And only after that, sentience-preservation? And after that, preservation of things non-sentient? What if self-preservation comes only at the cost of causing massive suffering upon any one of those other categories?

We didn’t discuss the problem of flourishing. Do I have a right to flourish? Do I have a right to increase my flourishing? At what cost? Imagine we decide that to minimize suffering must come before increasing flourishing; it is not likely to flourish while there is suffering (roll with me here). Therefore a person should not eat animal products, even at the cost of her own flourishing, because it inflicts suffering on another. This model, when fleshed out logically like philosophers do, raises many questions. Is it allowable for any being to pursue their own flourishing at the risk of causing suffering to another? What about getting a promotion over a colleague? Is it allowable to pursue flourishing when another sentient being is suffering? Or must we all collectively progress together – all nations and individuals and cows and turkeys together?

Clearly that is impossible. Existence is an inherently selfish pursuit.

And what constitutes flourishing anyways? One idea is to maximize potential. But does human potential include the capability for pleasure? In which case, the human ability to take pleasure in consuming animals is acceptable, even encouraged.

If we allow for flourishing, what kind of rubric must we put into place where we can flourish at the extent of others?

And this doesn’t even touch on the assumptions made about morality. Is morality necessarily to pursue what is more “preferable”? Why does our morality put us above animals only in responsibility towards them but not rights over them? (That is, they, being not moral, can eat each other, but we, being moral, must not eat them.) Why doesn’t our morality put us above them so that we have the right to use them, so long as it is with care and responsibility?

In turn, the others disagreed with my differentiation between “should not” and “must not,” for how can there be shades of morality? There is only “allowable” and “not allowable.” I couldn’t disagree more heartily with that. Life is full of “should nots” and “must nots.”

At the end I realized that I can’t be convinced. The others’ beliefs were just that – beliefs. They could logically argue them in the same way that a Christian theologian can argue, but without a leap of faith to see morality the way they do, no attempt at reason could convince me.

The truth is, first we FEEL something is right and then we find the arguments to support it.

When it comes to veganism, I believe that I should not participate in the animal products industry as it exists today. Veganism is a better choice on many many levels. My point here is not to argue them, but they spread the gamut of animal rights, human rights, environmental, health, and a general concern with capitalist infrastructure. In the end, there are many pressing reasons to be vegan, even if dissecting them all to prove them logically is impossible.

There are no pressing arguments for the consumption of meat. The only real reasons for a person like me to use animal products are for pleasure and convenience. Even without a cohesive ethics structure, I cannot validate my own pleasure and convenience despite all the evils that they cause.

And so, I reach my own conclusion, which is the same as it was before the discussion. My belief in the effectiveness of reason and logic, however, take one more hit.

Mushroom Finally

2009-01-21T11:08:00.002-09:00

behind my parents house. i went snowshoeing back there the other day, but i couldn't find this one under two feet of snow...

Rome, as promised

2009-01-20T08:46:00.002-09:00

I never finished my story about Rome.

The second and third day of my trip were significantly better than the first. I left the hostel early Saturday morning to walk to meet Virginia. We spent the day touring the city Virginia style - perfect. Espresso and cornetto (croissant) as the first thing. An open air flea market in the rain. A walking tour of her favorite cathedrals. Across town to Vatican City, where I saw San Pedro and the Swiss Guard and everything else. I didn't go inside, which maybe I regret a little tiny bit. No Sistine Chapel. But I don't really regret it, because I had a wonderful day laughing and reminiscing with Virginia. We went to a restaurant owned by her friend for a fantastic lunch buffet. Exhausted, we hiked it to her beautiful apartment in a wealthy area built up in the 1920s.

At any point I expected to head back to the hostel for the night. I would meet up with the Australians, I hoped, and pretend that I enjoyed myself as I tagged along on their nightlife tour. At the last minute, however, plans changed and I followed the Dao where it led me. Virginia and her husband took me to a dinner party with their group of intimate friends - all rich Roman socialites. One family owns a chain of shoe stores, one runs the restaurant, one couple were both famous models, Virginia's husband himself is a city architect. Not the elite, but definitely wealthy and happy to be in Roma. They welcomed me with warm friendliness like I hadn't seen even in Milan. They teased me for living in Milano, saying "that's not Italy. you must come to the south" and promising to introduce me to their single sons, all doctors and lawyers or their counterpart. We were served by a Filippino girl. I wondered if it is weird for Virginia, a Filippino herself, to be on the other side of society from most of her countrymates. In Milan I saw a lot of Filippinos working as nannies for the youngest of children and the oldest of grandparents. Virginia is in her element, however, and perfectly poised as she relaxes with her eight best friends.

I loved it, but I was the one who fell asleep on the couch at the ungodly hour of midnight. Virginia says that if you are the first to leave one of their dinner parties, they all talk about you after you've gone, but there was no saving me after two nights without significant sleep.

They let me sleep in their daughter's bed - lofted a few feet from the ceiling and graffitied with all her friends' names and love notes.

There was a hail storm that night, but I slept right through it.

The next morning I shared a coffee with Paul's mother who lives inside her room in the small apartment. The streets were full of inches of hail piled up like autumn leaves in the gutters and curbs. Virginia and I adventured to the Capitoline museum, where some of the most famous Roman, Etruscan, and Italian art is held. We saw the ruins buried forty feet under the current street level. We saw Nero, and Marcus Aurelius, and Romulus and Remus sucking the wolf's teat, and some of the best trompe l'oeil sculpture I've ever seen. I again, like in Florence, saw in person the works I've learned about.

Greek pottery - We learned the difference of black on red versus red on black, but it all looked the same in the textbook photographs until I could get my nose a few inches from the clay and see the scraped away bits and the painted on bits and truly relish their delicate beauty.

Humanist sculpture - I never fully understood what it meant for art to be humanist, how the Roman was revived in the Renaissance and the intervening Medieval art was truly different. In a hall of sculpture, however, where I could feel (even without touching) each muscle fiber and twitch of flesh carved into the marble, it all made sense. The importance of the human body - and the human mind attached to it - impressed itself upon me intensely. A slide in art class cannot convince the viewer of the time and effort it takes to wrestle a human form out of solid rock. In real life, however, you understand that what deserves this much time, attention, effort, expense - that reflects what is important to the ones creating, funding, and viewing the work.

Museums quickly overwhelm me. By the end I was ready to leave and find a bar for a cappuccino. Perfect.

A final tour of - oh shoot, i can't remember the name of the famous squares we visited - anyway, all the sites you are supposed to see in Rome. She took me to her favorite street, where all the artists live (the rich artists who've made it big). She used to tutor in English the modern aristocrat who owns most of the street. I loved seeing the pride she had in her own city. The day rendered me speechless, and I'm afraid Virginia misunderstood it as disinterest, but I tried to show her the rapture on my face.

Back again at Virginia's, we watched a football match on tv. It was Rome playing (I don't know against whom) and when they scored, we could open the windows and hear the cheers erupt from the stadium a mere kilometer away.

Paul gave me Grappa to try, which I am embarrassed to say I didn't like at all. I suppose my palette is not yet that refined.

Just as the night was turning dark, we went out in the car - Paul, Virginia, and Alison their daughter - for a driving tour of Rome. They wanted to hit the sights that weren't seen by most tourists because they could only be accessed by car. We went up to a mountain over the city and saw the view of the city. There was a peephole in the gate, through which St. Peters glowed like a golden diamond in a cerulean evening sky. The Garden of Oranges. Smaller, older cathedrals where I could see the simplicity that makes the famous ones ornate by comparison. They treated me so well.

Driving around the Coliseum in their car, I was happy.

Finally we went to a little (and expensive) Italian restaurant where they treated me to a final Roman meal before dropping me at the train station. I waited a few hours in the station before finally catching my 1130 train home.

Thanks for the Super Cool Link

2009-01-07T08:45:00.003-09:00

This is great. Lego Steampunk.
Also, have you noticed the new Steampunk Esurance ad featuring Cloud Cult? Makes me want a steampunk band SO BAD.

Grammar Games

2009-01-05T05:23:00.002-09:00

The title and byline for a New York Times article reads: "Who Owns Your Great Idea? That depends. Where did you have it and whom did you brainstorm with?"

"Whom did you brainstorm with" is an unusual use of half proper, half colloquial grammar that ends up sounding just plain odd.

In the author's sentence, the use of whom is correct. Whom is generally underused and misunderstood but actually not too difficult to master. Knowing when to employ it (and then actually using it effectively) takes you that last step into sounding like an intelligent, educated person. Which is what you want in a job interview, but not necessarily at the pub with your friends.

'Whom' is to object as 'who' is to subject. Whom stands as both direct object and indirect object: "Whom did you introduce to Evan?" and "To whom did you introduce Michaela?" The easy way to remember how to use it is to reword the sentence using 'him' or 'he.' He is a subject; its correct substitution is who. Him is the object; use whom. So, "Did you introduce him to Evan?" and "Did you introduce Michaela to him?" But "He introduced Micheala to Evan" becomes "Who introduced them?"

Please excuse the gender-biased use of 'he' and 'him' instead of 'she' and 'her.' I chose the male pronouns because the common use of m and the end of him and whom makes the pneuomonic that much simpler to remember.

My students in Upper Intermediate English told me that their textbooks taught them not to use 'whom' in any situation, calling it archaic and insisting that native English speakers never use it. I disagree. I was forced to learn who versus whom in high school English, and I have both used it and seen it used - usually correctly - ever since. Grammarians across the English speaking world take pride in the details of the language and how to employ them properly.

Referring back to the article's byline, we can dissect the positioning of 'with.' In proper, Strunk & White grammar, a sentence should never end with a preposition. In fact there should never be any lingering prepositions at all; a preposition is a linking word that must be followed by a noun or noun clause.

We ignore this rule all the time.

On one hand, all kinds of idioms and phrasal verbs have snuck into our language over time that throw wanton prepositions here, there, and every whichwhere. A phrasal verb is any verb + preposition that collectively takes on a new meaning. The components often don't clearly relate to the new meaning. Some common examples from my Business English course this fall include: hang up (the phone), put off (a meeting), call off (a meeting), put through (a connecting call), etc. For native speakers these are easy and intuitive because we've heard them since birth, but for someone learning English as a second language, these prove a big challenge. Some of these also become idiomatic expressions, like 'a hang up' which has nothing to to with the verb 'hang up.' Sometimes the phrasal verbs are followed by a noun to complete the prepositional phrase, although often we let the noun go unsaid, leaving the listener to fill in the difference. With idioms, however, the preposition lingers with no realistic partner at all. Look at the use of 'ends up' in my first sentence.

A British English teacher told me that phrasal verbs entered the language thanks to the Americans in World War II. Rising concern over lingering prepositions during this era would explain Winston Churchill's famous quote, "This is the sort of English up with which I will not put." Since hearing that bit of American defamation I noticed that both Alfred Lord Tennyson and even Shakespeare have examples of phrasal verbs in their writing. Clearly not all abuse of the English language is America's fault.

Another example of problematic prepositions occurs when we rearrange the order of a sentence. Variety is an important tool for any speaker or writer of English. The standard format, "We take pride in our school," needs some spice (or shall I say, spicing up) and might become, "It's something we take pride in," leaving 'in' lingering. The noun for that prepositional phrase came all the way at the front of the sentence ('it').

English always rearranges the order of questions, leaving interrogatives with prepositions a messy tangle. "I brainstormed with him" should translate into "With whom did you brainstorm?" but these days it's normal to say "Who did you brainstorm with?" even though there are two errors in the sentence.

Americans usually know these mistakes and choose to ignore them. We don't expect daily speech to be grammatically correct. Our most common errors then translate back into written language. High school teachers wade through these errors, trying to teach how to write proper English even if the pupils aren't going to speak it. Until ten or fifteen years ago most of what we read went through the filter of an editor who corrected those things, but with the internet, it usually rests solely on the author to consider whether her grammer is correct. Furthermore, language texts like New Headway are choosing to teach spoken, colloquial English rather than the proper language we learn in school. The text had my students practicing ending sentences with prepositions, which was even against what felt natural to them.

As casual language becomes more and more common, proper English sounds increasingly convoluted and eventually falls out of favor. It is still the standard for writing, but use it with your friends and they might throw something at you for being pretentious.

In the article's byline, the author has chosen a strange combination of what neither is correct nor feels natural. If she is going to use 'whom,' she should put 'with' also in the right place. Or she must embrace the casual nature of her online readership and stick with what she probably says in real life, "Who did you brainstorm with?"

Mushroom of the Day

2008-12-19T12:30:00.002-09:00

Did I ever share this one? This is the balcony of my apartment.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-12-15T02:12:00.000-09:00

La Fungheria: The Mushroom Store

Not Quite Gregory Peck

2008-12-10T13:54:00.000-09:00

I took the overnight train to Rome. It was the cheapest, and also afforded me the most time in the city. I left after my last class Thursday night and caught the 11:20 train.

The train originates from Milan, so it was sitting in the station well in advance of departure time. I bought my ticket, said goodbye to Valentina, and climbed aboard. This time I knew to look for my reserved seat. When I went to Bologna, I didn’t have a reserved (prenotato) spot, so I had settled in to an empty spot only to skitter out of it one stop later to let the person holding the correct ticket sit. I spent that ride on a jump seat in the corridor, which was acceptable for two hours, but not for eight to Rome!

Another woman boarded the same carriage as me, and we made our way in the dark to the same box. She said something to me that I didn’t catch, so I just smiled and settled into seat number 63. She pulled out a massive camera and started taking pictures of the platform out the window. I wanted to talk to her, ask her about photography, reveal that I was a kindred soul, but nervousness about speaking Italian kept me silent. I had that internal battle: Get over yourself! Who cares if you aren’t fluent; just speak! For all I knew, she spoke excellent English. That wasn’t uncommon, and her mannerism suggested education.

She put her camera away.

It was very cold on the train, and dark. I hoped that once the time for departure came, some heat would come on. I settled into my winter layers and watched the steam swirl out of my mouth into the box. The only light was from the platform outside.

Finally something fell into place and it was the right time to talk.

“Dove vai?” I asked. “A Roma?”

-Yes, to Rome.

-Me too.

-I usually don’t take this train. I usually take a faster one. I don’t like this one because it’s dodgy. The people are more “schifo.” There are “giapese.”

“Giapese?” I repeated, not understanding the word.

She looked at me differently then. “Non sei italiana?”

-No, American.

She attempted her English. “Bad person. Persons. Bad Persons.”

“Ho capito.” -I understand.

It hadn’t occurred to me before that moment to worry about taking the cheapest train, one that went overnight and took twice as long as the faster Eurostar trains. Of course anyone who had the money would avoid it. The difference to the faster train was only about 20, 25 euros. I looked out the box at watched the people passing. It was either indicative of the night gloom or the class of people, but everyone who passed had dark skin.

Italians are racist. Even my friends will explain very carefully the problems of people from Morocco, Egypt, Africa, Turkey, and so on. Some think the Africans are the worst. Others the Egyptians. There are a lot of legal and illegal immigrants here seeking profitable work or asylum from a hostile government. One coworker explained to me that since the numbers of immigrants have increased in the past years, safety has decreased. She has put iron bars over her windows for fear of robbery. Over and over I hear the words, “Be careful.” In the business English course I teach we discussed the merits versus problems of immigration. The more xenophobic of the group said that immigration was bad, caused problems, and should be more restricted. The middle road said that people should be able to come work for only a brief time before taking the ideas they’ve learned back to their own countries. The most liberal said that immigrants were acceptable because they filled the job gap, taking the jobs that educated Italians didn’t want. The opening topic had asked, “Does immigration help Italy learn new things that will help the country in a more global world?” Not one in the class caught the idea that immigrants might actually bring something of value, something unattainable in any other way, to the country. Immigrants are either to be tolerated or restricted, never embraced.

The scary thing is, I find myself adopting their attitude a little bit. Not much—I am not reverting to a more primitive mindset—but as I learned in Romania, sometimes these stereotypes are based in merit. (How sad I was to discover that the large majority of gypsies actually are thieves, beggars, and terrible trespassers of human rights.) And if the darker skinned people are generally of lower class and ostracized by broader society, are not those the very people who turn to less respectable behavior, either to get what they lack or as a self-fulfilling prophecy? It’s a sad fact of life that our natural instinct is to stereotype, a vestigial reflex from the days when the world was significantly more dangerous than it is today and such generalization saved lives. For example, when one lion has an appetite, it’s best to assume that all that race are voracious man-eaters. If one man of ------- nationality heckles me so much that I have to run away in fear, isn’t the safest thing to assume that anyone from the same culture may feel the same prerogative? Oh, this is a huge topic that I cannot enter into too deeply here… On the other hand, I love the chance to listen to all the African languages that one can hear on the metro, or Italian spoken with that chocolate-song African accent.

Back to the narrative. The hour grew closer to departure and people started to enter the train. The Italian girl and I talked about her photography; that is, she talked and I listened, with a few halting questions. She is trying to break into the Milanese art world, though I didn’t have the language to ask about her success so far or how she went about it. The conversation turned to art and the respective benefits of Renaissance versus Modern art. Soon our box was full, and it turned out that she didn’t have the prenotazione, so the ticket-holder booted her from the seat and she left to find a different location. She looked at me wistfully as she left.

“Ciao.” Her voice carried a tone in that one word that said: “Well, it was a nice idea while it lasted. Now we both have to brave the schifos on this train without the tiny safe friendship we have found in each other.”

“Ciao.” I wished it had occurred to me to say, “Mi dispiace,” which translates as “I’m sorry” but really means “It displeases me.” English speakers tend to overuse the phrase in cases where an Italian would say a form of “Excuse me” instead. Judging from the TV and movies I watch, “mi dispiace” is hardly used.

I intentionally did not look to determine the skin tone of my new cabinmates nor let their maleness bother me. There was one other woman, presumably Italian, asleep in the far corner, but without her I might have been tempted to change seats. I used to not be so nervous about these matters, but a few events of late have made me more cautious.

No matter. I arrived safely (and dry-mouthed) in Rome just as the sun was coming up the next morning. Sleeping on a train is a lot like sleeping on a plane: nearly impossible. A train is worse, however, for although the legroom is severely restricted in both cases, in a plane you face only the back of the next chair instead of the legs of the opposite person. I’m sure I kicked the man across the compartment from me. More than once, most likely.

I checked in at the Hostel, and could see immediately that it didn’t hold a candle to the one in Florence, but there was potential. No one was about at that hour in the morning, so I chose a bed and then planned my route for the day. Off I went on my adventure, alone.

It was raining.

Maybe I can blame my malcontent on the rain or the shoddy sleep from the night before, but in truth I think I must blame it on loneliness. The novelty of travel has worn off. I am always lonely. Being lonely during the week used to be okay because I had the weekends and travel! exploration! to fulfill me, but the fiasco of Modena and Bologna went a long way in exhausting that energy in me. Here I was in Rome, the city of cities, the one that is on everyone’s list, the epicenter of the world as it once stood, and I completely lacked interest. I wandered towards the first destination on my map and took a detour when the Coliseum rose up on my left. The Coliseum! The ancient Roman Forums! How sad it made my heart to see the ruins as just more ruins, a few stones left bound together by slowly disintegrating mortar. The stone carvings on the grand arches melted off in the rain, ever so slowly, as they have been melting off for the last two thousand years.

I pretended, hoping that I could fool myself into a spark of happiness. Usually it works this way. I wasn’t sad, nor depressed, nor UNhappy, particularly, just not… happy. Not as excited as I would like to be when in Rome. After a few pounding rain showers had drenched me, the waterproofing on my skicoat was starting to fail and the puddles crept up my pant legs, I went back to the hostel. It was only about three thirty, but I was done. Maybe after a nap, some dry clothes, and curling up in the hostel, I would meet some fellow travelers (please please please, I begged) and be refreshed to paint the town at night.

The hostel didn’t fail me. On the common shelf I found a Jasper Fforde, the author recently recommended to me by Stuart in Florence. It was tucked in right next to Rob Bell’s Purple Elvis. Small world, this. I tucked into the book and a margarine roll packed from home with equal appetite, curled up in a chair in the front hallway, there not being a common room.

A Swedish guy checked in during the afternoon, and I smiled with hope and friendliness, but he merely mumbled “Hi” and then locked himself into his room. As the afternoon progressed, however, people started to congregate. Eventually I entered into conversation with the deskie, his friend, and another guy who was a brand new deskie in the lodge. Two Aussies also checked in, but then they left just the two of them, so my optimism of also including them was dashed.

The new deskie was from Manchester, and I could barely understand him when he talked. At first I had difficulty placing his brogue because it sounded to my untuned ear sometimes Australian, sometimes Irish, Welsh, and so on. If he were one of my students, I would be correcting him every few words. He was a right lad at that, and the more his adventures unfolded, the less I thought of him. A wanderer, like me, whose travels have taken him to Spain and even the same city in Romania where I lived, Timisoara. I thought he was late twenties, but soon he revealed to be the same age as me, within a few months. He described life in Oldham, his home near Manchester. The second most violent city in Great Britain, after some backwater in Scotland, he thought. Impossible to go to a night in the pub without engaging in a brutal street fight at the end of it. Beer was only served in plastic because the glass kept getting smashed into people’s faces.

“I would never go whiv a girl from me’ome town,” he said. “Because every one of ‘em ‘as ‘ad ten a me friends’ cocks in ‘er mouff.”

“I would never go whiv a foreign girl,” he said. “Because it’s no’ right, you know? I mean, when you’re layin’ in bed af’er, wha’ ‘o you say?”

“I’m no’ racist,” he said. “But—”

—and for the next three hours I had to listen to his bigotry as he delineated which people have less value and why. My pleas to change the subject only diverted him for a few minutes at a time.

When he lived in Spain he made his money as a meathead. He went to apartments filled with squatters and threatened to bash their heads in if they didn’t vacate the premises. For this he collected fat commissions from the owners and real estate agents who could rerent the property with the deadbeats gone. When he lived in Romania he had all his drinks paid for him by his pickpocket friends who thought nothing of dropping stolen cash on a house round. His rich local girlfriend footed the rest of the bill, but he left her and the country because, as he said, “It never works ou’, you know?”

A lad, a cad, a chav.

He started talking about something (I hardly knew what; I was trying not to listen because I could feel that his words were poison). “It don’ bovver me none,” he says. “It don’ bovver me.”

Ha! Just like the chavs on YouTube. “I ain’t bovvered,” they say. So at the end of the day I was culturally enriched afterall. I hav’ met me a right well chav. (Don’t call him that to his face though, for heaven’s sake.)

“All me relatives ha’ been inside,” he said, and he drops enough hints about his past that I don’t care to ask or piece together the gaps. Clearly he is in trouble, and in debt, but not to the government, to friends. He’s running from ex-girlfriends smattered across the continent and creditors who prefer smashing his face in to charging higher interest rates.

Most recently he was vivisected by a meat cleaver.

“The bloke who di’ me in with the cleaver were black,” he said. “But I don’ hol’ it against all black people. I got me lotsa black friends a’home.”

He moved to Rome for no reason accept to escape whatever he wanted to escape in Manchester. After two days he’s decided he doesn’t like Rome and the next day he’s going back to Spain to see if he can start up his meathead job again.

“Goo’ money in it, ain’t there tho? An’ bloody fun.”

I think he’s so used to charming girls (he was built like Daniel Craig) that he had no idea the expanse of the grimace I was making inside. Only my starvation for people of any sort, especially native English speakers, even his sort of busted English, made me tolerate him at all. We went back to the hostel and found the Australians playing cards in the hall. We all shared a few beers. Italian beers are all 66cl (that is, a deuce) and Birra Moretti is not half bad. The Australians were young, part of a large party of classmates all spread out across the continent, weaving their ways back and forth where the wind blew them. They invited me to join them and several more friends coming into town the next day for a wild night on the town. It sounded great to me. Perfect. Anything to avoid spending a night alone and bored in the hostel.

When the cute Australian with the tongue piercing started discussing drug cocktails with the Manchester chav, which eventually turned to a debate on the best methods by which to sell cocaine, I knew I was out of my element. Fortunately no one actually had any chemicals in their possession, or I might have lost my party to the white lady instead of simply the fatigue of three in the morning after three, no four, pints of beer.

Thank goodness the chav didn’t come on any stronger. Not because I might have acquiesced, but because I didn’t want to make things complicated. When his conversation started drifting towards the merits of one-night stands in his home town, I saw my avenue.

“Funny,” I said. “My friends at home don’t do that. We don’t sleep with a person just for one time. It’s not how we roll, I guess.”

“Pi’y,” he said. “I miss it. Just ki’ing.” He used that one a lot: just kidding. As if that absolved him for the unsavory fact he’d just revealed about himself. As a preface, “I’m not racist, but…” and the siffix, “just kidding.” All his bases were covered (but none of mine, thank you very much. It’s not how I roll.)

Within a few seconds, “You must be tired.”

“Yup. Good night.” There was no question he was getting nothing and the night was over.

…to be continued…

Mushroom of the Day

2008-12-09T15:49:00.000-09:00

fungus in the foreground; roman ruins in the back

London vs. Betsi's Heart. Point: London

2008-12-06T05:52:00.000-09:00

ok, so i thought i'd like it. but i didn't know i'd like it this much.

except for the sun setting at about 330, and the conspicuous absences of mountains or snow, the city is pretty much perfect.

today we discovered camden market, where you can find any trendy aesthetic your little heart could desire. well, there was a conspicuous absence of steampunk, but in a few years, i'm sure that will have filtered in as well. black leather and silver studs, baby doll brit, hippie goddess, asian kawaii, you name it. i could have spent hundreds of pounds, but, as i have not chosen an aesthetic subculture to adopt as my all-around identity, i didn't know where to start. i left without spending anything (well, 80p for a coffee). i was hoping to find a new bag, as my current GR-tastic one is starting to lose zipper teeth, but to no avail. the crafting hipster movement was also rather under represented.

erik leiser's film last night, imagination, was a wonderful exploration into the psyche of twin, pre-adolescent girls who let their imaginative and spiritual exisitences control their physiological existence. though i am by no means an animation or puppetry buff, my stomach reacted with little thrills at the aesthetics of the film. furthermore, his exhibit of recent holographic work explored some of the same themes - linking infinity with deity, mystery, and exploration. his newest piece shows exciting promise as he moves toward a more organic sensibility and his holographic skill improves. both the screening and the exhibition were at Goldsmiths, University of London, which is apparently famous for birthing the ever-entertaining Damien Hirst.

i am lucky to count him as a friend. thanks, erik.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-12-02T06:34:00.000-09:00

This tiny speciman was in the paving stones at a monastery in Bergamo, Italy.

Happy Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T06:03:00.000-09:00

No Turkey for me; I'm off to Rome! I hope wonderful stories will ensue.

Photo Essay

2008-11-23T08:59:00.000-09:00

I finally uploaded from my camera today, and remembered that this was supposed to be a photo essay. I forgot after the first part, so you don't get to see photos of the final product, but Thanksgiving is coming soon and (if you are in America) you will get to see your own. I'm proud to say it looked (almost) the same.

Happy (Belated) Halloween!

Victorians, Post-modern architecture, Ikea, and Kung Fu. Not a bad night, if I do say so myself.

2008-11-21T16:29:00.000-09:00

Tonight we went to a bar in Corso Sempione, near the park in Milan. The bar was an Indian bar, and it was beautiful, with elaborately carved wooden doors and golden pictures of elephants on the walls. We sat in a red, turquoise and blue tent to take our drinks. I wanted to order something off the “Indian Drinks” menu, but they had run out of the Indian liquor, so I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea instead. I am constantly ordering mixed drinks even though I know I don’t like them. I much prefer beer. Anyway, it wasn’t bad.

The night was that perfect temperature where it’s cold but not too cold. It felt like the wind was blowing warmer air into the night, but Federico tells me it’s going to snow. Tomorrow night we are going to the Chinese restaurant and wouldn’t it be perfect if it were snowing. I chatter along in Italian, pausing now and then to let Valentina help me with vocabulary. I know my grammar is awful, and I use that to my advantage in telling bizarre jokes. The jokes don’t have to be funny, but because I am clearly poking fun at my own ineptitude, everyone enjoys the comedic relief.

The area around Corso Sempione was built during the same time as the park and the aquarium, during that wonderful late-Victoria era that I love so much. The houses drip with an art nouveau sensibility—square and tall and with tall, narrow windows. The period has been associated with a stiff collar and stiff upper lip, but in the details of these houses we can see the truth of the aesthetic. The ornate window irons are not so formal and symmetrical as the Elizabethan, or even early Victorian, periods. Today we insist that ornamentation like this is formal, stodgy even, but there was a time when oriental rugs harkened to lush opium dens and hedonistic harems rather than our grandmother’s parlor. The patterns are inspired by leaves and vines, wrought into man-made materials, as if the wild lustfulness of nature could be captured in the windows and ushered into the house.

The Victorians planted aspens throughout their cities, planted rolling parks in the midst of their new industrial centers and populated them with quaking trees. Aspens may be planted in rows, but they nevertheless grow in a twisted dance. Their leaves may look like plate gold, but they twist and spin and show all their colors, colors which are reflected in the speckled smooth bark of their trunks.

Last weekend I went to Bologna and in the park were fantastic ferocious statues from the same period. There were two of lions and their prey. One showed the lion, his phallic tail stretching straight up behind him, snarling over the great body of a bull beneath him. The other showed a lion (phallic tail long-since broken away) battling a serpent with evil teeth over the victory of a massive mountain goat. Half the snake’s head had crumbled, but a full set of iron teeth remained. The other two statues were of busty mermaids in sensual, homoerotic (can we use that word for women?) poses, looking like stone representations straight from a Mucha painting. Their hair swirled around their nipples and the fullness of their flesh. Everything was pockmarked and vaguely green with a pervasive fungal life form.

In Parco Sempione is the Aquarium, built in 1906, with the hippo’s head spouting water into a tiled pool with poi fish and lily pads. The decorative tile around the perimeter of the building echoes the sensibility of the posh neighborhood it was built for.

I eat up the ornamentation, I who usually snub my nose at formal decoration. But the details here reveal whimsy. The artistry and revelry, which we now assume the Victorians brutally repressed, is revealed at every corner. Here, for example, is a fence in which every rung ends at a different height in a fantastical curlicue. Here is a white box of a mansion with a fantastic balcony busting with great drooping plants like it’s a portal to a tropical world. Even the lower level sports marvelous germanium plants—that red blossom that I once associated with domesticity, thanks mostly to New England watercolors, but now I see as a wild red-headed vixen in the midst of a grey city.

If I were in Grand Rapids, I would host a party. Art Nouveau Party, I would call it.

“Come celebrate those twenty years (give or take a decade on either end) from 1890-1910. Come dressed as your favorite buxom Greek goddess (if Mucha is your preference) or as your friendly Victorian couple on holiday (if Talouse Latrec is more your style). Come as Sarah Bernhardt or Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Come as a Baudelaire adventurer, eagerly conquering in the name of England, God, or Science. Come as a Bohemian, emerging from the darker alleyways of Paris or Prague. Come celebrate that, for the first time in human history, we have money to spend. Come pour green into your drink, whatever it may be, and pretend it’s absinthe. Come commune with those people who pretend to be sober at work and keep their private lives hidden behind tall, thin, iron-barred windows. Come and make merry, for tonight the show must go on.”

That’s what I would say.

We drove away from the neighborhood of dreams and on through the city. The last beautiful thing I saw out my window was the porticoed Italian mansion with Michelangelo’s great horse rearing on copper legs in front.

Then we passed the stadium, which looks like a monument to communist-era architecture. An unwitting monument, the type that thinks it protests cement soviet blocs by using cement to make turrets instead. Great round, striped turrets that were either parking garages or nothing at all except a pitiful post-modern attempt at design.

“When was this built?” I asked.

“The early nineties, I think.”

Of course. I had guessed a few years earlier, before the fall of the wall, but the early nineties were the same. The cement of cities was upheld as gritty reality. That proletariat, industrial glorification is so communist in origin, yet there we were as “free western countries” promoting the exact same aesthetic. It makes me shudder as much as the green-tinted glass, brick and exposed metal beam omnipresent CAD-program aesthetic of today. In 2002, my high school was featured in an architectural magazine for it’s cutting-edge design. The library which faces the entrance drive is reminiscent of a lantern shape, green oxidized exposed metal making up the bone structure for the large glass windows and ligaments of brick. By the time I left college in 2008, every new bank, hospital and office park in Grand Rapids utilized the exact same idea. Puke.

Since arriving in Italy I have visited my first Ikea. This experience would be almost exactly the same anywhere in the world, but I had to come to Italy to finally discover the joy of mass-produced homeware fashion. At least here is something we can’t blame on the Americans. The Swedes are to blame, although we can always point to Ford or McDonalds as the originators of the cookie cutter model that has been applied so ubiquitously. Many thoughts (probably not original ones) ran through my head as I followed the school of shoppers through the store’s current. Is Ikea bad? Is it wrong to have our aesthetic handed to us on a plate? I found myself attracted to many things in that store. Was I attracted because Ikea has hit on the common current aesthetic and now offers it to us at affordable prices? Or has Ikea in fact /created/ this aesthetic, which has pilfered into my brain because it’s on tv and in my friends’ houses? If Ikea didn’t create it, then some other designer did. Is there a problem with that? Is a designer for Ikea no less an artist? Must everyone create their own living aesthetic instead of picking and choosing from those offered commercially? Is it even possible to live outside of a commercial identity?

As I said, these aren’t original questions, but there they were in my head. I have an itch when it comes to aesthetic tyranny. We can’t escape it. What the stores tell us to like, we like. At least those chains like Ikea, Pottery Barn or Anthropologie (oooh, I love their aesthetic) have an intentional aesthetic. At least there is recognition of the artistry of life. What’s worse is the tyranny of aesthetic that we experience every day without even being aware: the color and font choices in advertisements, for example, affect how we think and view the world. Advertisements, at their core, are intended to manipulate. Thus, for the last 100 years (since the period I have already exalted), our social aesthetic has been moved forward primarily by manipulation, sometimes really shitty manipulation at that.

I suppose that for this reason, someone has argued that the impressionists were truly the only artists unaffected by manipulation. Prior to that, it was religious purposes. Afterwards, it was the bas-cultural trends. I’m sure I don’t agree with this at all, but whatever. It’s something to think about.

After the bar in Milan we drove to Andrea’s house and watched Kung Fu Panda. I think there must have been a drug in my Long Island Iced Tea, because I felt sloshy-headed yet somehow hyper-attuned to everything. The daoist philosophy shining in the movie was reassuring, even if it was a cartoon.

As I’m applying for internships and jobs back in the States, I find a lot of solace in stoicism. By non-resistance, my path will take its natural course. By trusting in God, I know that He will bring me to the right place. By working hard to follow every opportunity that seems good, not getting too attached to any particular one, and leaving decision-making until the time when decisions must be made, I can balance fierce excitement about my potential futures with calm reassurance that what will be will be.

And all these thoughts thanks to an Iced Tea. I wonder what the Indian liquor would have done?

Some Top Choice Awards

2008-11-21T03:14:00.000-09:00

My current favorite breakfast: Gorgonzola dolce and honey on toast and a double espresso.

My current favorite appetizer: Artichoke tapenade and Monte Veronese cheese on bread accompanied by Green olives (hold the pimento) and Italian red wine.

My current favorite fruit: Artisan pear served with a butter syrup.

My current favorite city in Italy: Florence. Not very original, I know, but I simply had so much fun there. And it was beautiful. And I felt such a strong artistic spirit there, something that is just… missing… in Milan. Turin is in second place, by the way. The Slow Food movement has captured my attention – especially when enjoyed in the city that founded Martini, solid chocolate, the chocolate-hazelnut combo, and (drum roll please) TicTacs.

My current favorite pastime: trying to make other people jealous, apparently. My cousin called me out on this – but then consented me bragging rights since I am, afterall, living in Italy. I mean, why am I here if not to earn bragging rights, vero? Ok, so this would all be worth it even if Facebook and blogs didn’t exist, even if I could tell nobody about my experiences, ever; but spreading the joy of my current experience sure helps. ^_^

I think I want to go to a disco on Friday. I was going to go to Rome this weekend, but Valy and I rearranged my schedule so that I can go to the English Dinner on Saturday and Rome some other weekend. That’s the last major city to check off my list. There are still a lot of places I would like to see and explore, of course, but I simply /have/ to see Rome.

How to make Pumpkin Pie from Scatch. In Italy.

2008-11-18T13:30:00.000-09:00

1. Brag to all your friends about how yummy pumpkin pie is. Get roped into making some for the Halloween party.
2. Explain to everyone three times that pumpkin pie is indeed a sweet and cannot be served as a main course.
3. Buy zucca from the store. “Zucca” is the translation of “pumpkin,” so even though it’s a different shape (and green on the outside), assume it will come out just fine. Don’t expect to find it in a can.
4. Removed the seeds from the quartered zucca. Try not to fling them all over your apartment in the process.
5. Boil or bake the zucca until the flesh comes off the skin easily. Remove the skin when cool enough to handle.
6. Puree the cooked zucca with a fork until it is a uniform, smooth consistency. Set aside.
7. They don’t sell pie crust in Italy, so you must make it from flour and margarine. Find a recipe online and follow it as best as you can. It’s surprisingly easy, and fun to get your hands into.
8. Put the finished dough into the fridge. Spend an hour picking pie dough bits off the rug. Next time don’t let it be quite so much fun.
9. The next day, you are ready to make the pie. You will need: zucca puree, pie dough, pie pan, sugar, egg, evaporated milk, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and allspice.
10. Set the oven to 400 degrees F. This is probably 215 degrees Celsius.
11. Roll out the pie dough. If you don’t have a rolling pin, a wine bottle (preferably empty) works fine. Use plenty of flour to keep it from sticking. Sneak tastes of the dough.
12. There are no pie pans in Italy with angled sides. A torte or cake pan with 90 degree sides will suffice. Carefully transfer the crust to the pan and flatten it down. Using your thumb, flute the edges attractively.
13. Mix the filling.
14. There’s no evaporated milk in Italy. You can make it by preparing powdered milk using fresh milk instead of water. If you don’t know this, thicken some cream with flour and let it simmer a while until it gets to roughly the right consistency. Do this ahead of time so it is cool when you are ready to make the pie.
15. There’s no allspice or powdered ginger either. Substitute cloves. Don’t worry if you have to grind the cloves yourself; just pick out the largest pieces and use the finer ones in your mix.
16. Relish the chance to grate fresh nutmeg instead of using stale powder from a shaker.
17. Stir everything into the zucca and then pour it into the crust.
18. Bake 15 minutes, then reduce temperature to 350 degrees F (175C?) for another 45-60 minutes.
19. Serve chilled. Don’t worry if the crust flops; that’s because there wasn’t an angled pie pan. Don’t worry if it comes out a rather nuclear greenish-orangeish-yellowish color; it will still taste delicious.
20. Explain to everyone three times that no, this is not pumpkin cake. Because it has a crust, we call it pie.
21. Note that it does not pair well with Tiramisu.
22. Enjoy! Happy Halloween!

Mushroooom

2008-11-18T06:27:00.000-09:00

I love outdoor markets. They are so normal here. Nothing special. One on every corner. Love it!

Recently I have been up to everything.

2008-11-14T23:43:00.000-09:00

A brief overview:

Last weekend I went to Florence. It was a fantastic trip: excellent to get out of the rain into some sunshine, met some fun people, saw some of the most beautiful (and famous) art on earth. Did some sketching and thinking and overall it was very refreshing. Envigorating, even.

(Recently I’ve had several conversations about the merits of creating new words or spellings to better suit the meaning. Can you find the “error” in the last paragraph?)

Getting to and from Florence was a bit of an adventure, but that story will have to wait for another day.

The next day my sister arrived from London to visit me. Hooray! Of course, on that day there was a TRANSPORTATION STRIKE (sciopero) all over Italy. Karen arrived at the Central Train Station at 11, and I finally arrived three hours later (after walking, biking, bussing, and hitchhiking to get there!) at two, even though I left my house at 9:30. Then we had to walk halfway across the city to get to a working Metro station to take us home. So our first day was cut a little short.

Nevertheless! The next day the transportation was back on line, and we were off to Torino for a day of Food Tourism (thanks Mom and Dad!).

A Slow Food feast, a day of sightseeing, and an authentic apperativo later, we were back on the train to Rho.

The next day we saw Milan. I was excited about getting up to the top of Il Duomo, where we went together as girls, but it was raining too hard to make the 10 Euro investment worth it. Bummer. Instead we wandered past La Scala opera house and to Castello Sforzesco. A Florentine man gave us his museum tickets, so we checked out the gallery of antique instruments. And also we went to the Aquarium.

I assume there are pictures, but all on Karen’s camera, because the batteries I bought at the euro store (yes, just like a dollar store) didn’t work even for one minute.

Today I am off to Modena and then on to Bologna for some more food tourism.

Mushroom of the Finally Updated

2008-11-13T05:14:00.000-09:00

i don't think i've posted this one before.....

things have been flying by

2008-11-12T12:36:00.000-09:00

thus the lack of posting lately.
my sister is visiting me; after she leaves i will be catching back up with my life.
allora, va bene.

It's Raining

2008-11-04T00:25:00.000-09:00

Or rather, still raining.
Going on week number two....

A Story for Halloween

2008-10-29T06:07:00.000-08:00

Grey chill days made it significantly harder for Julianne to get out of bed. She woke up the same—promptly at eight o’clock. Regardless of what hour she settled in the night before, always at eight o’clock, and without an alarm clock, her eyes would pop wide awake. This morning the light from the bedroom window trickled in sluggishly, dribbling over the sill like fog and rolling onto her bed like she was a wintry seaport canal.

She groaned and turned over, snuggling under the covers for an extra twenty minutes snooze. It was no use. Her mind refused to sleep any longer even as her body refused to get out of bed. Her mind traveled out of the bedroom into the kitchen, where it mentally prepared the coffee pot and lit the stove. Her body wistfully longed for someone to bring her coffee in bed.

From now on I will prepare the coffee pot the night before, she said to herself. It will make it easier to get out of bed if all I have to do is light the stove.

She opened one eye and peered at the grey window. Yesterday had been lovely; all autumn sunshine and midday heat. She’d been startled—and immediately pleased—to notice some tiny red strawberries appear in the grass outside her building. The unusual October sunshine had stimulated a last ditch effort at bearing fruit.

Thinking of the strawberries finally gave her enough stimulus to throw back the covers and emerge from bed. It was such tiny pleasures that got her through every day, the constant intentional effort to notice small details and relish them. She relished her morning schedule. Clean out yesterday’s coffee grounds, fill the espresso pot and light the stove, go make the bed while the coffee percs, slice some cheese and spread some honey on toast to make breakfast. After breakfast, tidy the flat. She kept her small apartment very clean. There wasn’t much to clutter it, all her belongings having come with her in a suitcase. The last owner, who apparently had moved out in a hurry, had left behind a few items—two candles, a half-dead plant, and a ceramic cross. Julianne made use of these small things, enjoying their strangeness just as she enjoyed the familiarity of everything else she owned. She put the cross over the window in her bedroom and was working to nurse the little plant back to life.

She moved its pot to the balcony and cast a critical eye at the sky. Not much sunlight to be had today, she said to the herb, but soak up as much as you can. She talked to things a lot, and to herself. When she thought about it, she wasn’t sure if she said her thoughts out loud or only with the voice inside her head. There wasn’t much difference when she was by herself anyway. Either way, a steady one-sided conversation kept her company as she moved through her day.

A high-pitched, grating buzzer erupted into her silent monologue. Julianne’s heart almost burst with the startle. Every time, she thought. It gets me every time. I must ask her to knock.

It was the doorbell, and at the door stood her first pupil of the day, clutching her notebook nervously in the hall. The English lesson commenced.

After a rather torturous explanation of why there was only one way to say the year 1342, even though there were two ways to read the number 1,342, the pair of them paused to digest and breathe before continuing on. In the few weeks since Julianne had arrived and started teaching English lessons, she had learned how to speak very slowly and clearly, using simple words and scanning her pupils’ faces, constantly checking for comprehension. A single flicker of blank eyes was enough warning to make her redirect her words, slow down further, and often use simple gestures or diagrams to clarify her meaning. This pupil, however, was particularly frustrating in that she would sit through an entire explanation, repeating certain phrases as if to signify understanding, and then at the end, draw a puzzled face.

“Pleese, I have not understand.”

Dull students of a foreign language insist on consistency. They want all rules to apply all the time. They want every peculiar irregularity to have an explanation. When they have learned one way to express an idea, they have no flexibility in receiving another way. A student learns to answer the question, “How are you?” with, “Fine, thanks, and you?” and will answer thus promptly every time. Any divergence from this pattern causes consternation to the dull student and can inhibit him or her from absorbing anything else for the entire lesson. So Julianne quickly learned never to say nice things such as “How’s it going?” and “Oh, pretty good, for the most part,” or “And how are you doing today?”.

Finally she was able to convey that the year 1342 was simply thirteen-hundred-forty-two and never one-thousand-three-hundred-forty-two simply because it was that way and stop.

“And stop.” the pupil repeated. “It’s peculiar. Fear-teen-ferty-too.”

So they paused to breathe. Julianne cracked her neck by twisting it quickly to the left and the right, a simple pleasure that allowed a surreptitious glance at the clock across the room. Only fifteen more minutes.

“Are you superstitious?” the pupil asked. Julianne eyed her, wondering how the large word had slipped into her vocabulary.

“Superstitious?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded at a string of hot peppers drying in the kitchen.

“No,” she said with a forced chuckle in her voice. “Those are for cooking.” A hint of blankness. “Eating.” The fresh peppers were only sold in half-kilogram packages, which Julianne would take all winter to eat, so she had strung them up like she saw in the movies, hoping they would dry and also make her kitchen look authentic.

“Ah, okei.”

“Are you superstitious?”

“Ah, no. Just, sometimes, with the catt. The blacka catt. If I going, wiff car, and blacka catt goes like dis, I stop and a change my way.” She gestured to show a cat crossing the street in front of her. “I make a different way. It’s, ah, not, lookee.”

“Lucky,” the teacher gently corrected.

“Lahkee.”

The hour ended and Julianne prodded the pupil out the door.

“Have a nice weekend.”

The pupil paused a long time. Julianne could see her start and stop several times and wondered what she was trying to say. Her mouth gaped like a fish.

Finally, “The same also you.”

“The same to you.”

“Ah, si, the same to you.” They practiced this phrase every week, but for some reason it refused to stick in the dull student’s mind.

Julianne shut the door and released her breath all in one go. She went back to the balcony for no particular reason other than to see if the grey showed any signs of letting up. It did not, although now it shone with an allover brightness that suggested there was a sun behind its curtain. She leaned over the balcony railing and looked into the yard.

The yard was just a patch of scrub that had grown up where it was untended by the gardener. Julianne looked into it intently, hoping to catch sight of the black cat that frequented there. She liked to watch the cat. She felt a distinct fraternity with him, like they both viewed the world in the same way. Of course the cat knew, as she did, that the yard was only weeds, but nevertheless he explored it with an air of mystery and self-importance as if it were truly a territory to be conquered. She imagined that he, like herself, built up a meaningful existence by giving simple details utmost attention. A cat, after all, could certainly appreciate simple pleasures, like an afternoon sunbath or a romp in the deepest jungle of the apartment yard.

The cat wasn’t there.

It was about twenty minutes until her next lesson. Julianne went back inside her apartment and tidied some invisible dust. The flat was noisy; it was always noisy with the sounds of a thin-walled building. Bumps and thuds and screeches made the background to her daily chores. Sometimes it sounded like someone was knocking on her wall or even her door. When she first moved there she had looked out into the empty hallway a few times, just to make sure there really wasn’t anyone there. Occasionally the sounds grew so loud as to drown out the music she played to keep herself company or the sound of the television at night. This latter occurrence frustrated her to no end. She hated not being able to hear the dialogue on the TV, even when she couldn’t understand the language.

She rarely heard her neighbors, however. Now that she stopped to think about it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard voices from another apartment. Occasionally the sound of a TV turned up too loudly—only for a minute until the volume was adjusted—or a key in a neighboring door at night, or footsteps ahead of her on the stairwell. She never heard their actual voices. Or saw them, for that matter. Only by these almost inhuman sounds did she know they were there, and by other things like the elevator changing floor or mail in the box having been removed. It was a solitary existence, but she didn’t mind. Her students kept her company, plus a few friends to see on the weekends.

Her next student arrived, one who (thankfully) spoke English rather well, and only wanted an hour of conversation to keep up his fluency rather than a perfunctory lesson. The first few weeks of their acquaintance having passed, the easiest hours were finished. They had covered all the introductory topics, like where he was from, where he worked, what he liked to do in his free time, about his family, and so on. Julianne didn’t want the discussions to go stagnant, both because she herself didn’t want to be bored, and also because she was afraid she might lose a customer if he felt the practice irrelevant. Last week she had asked him to explain the political system of his country. He managed to learn some new vocabulary and she had learned some political small talk, but in the end he decided politics were too unpleasant a subject. This week she wanted something lively but nevertheless practical.

It occurred to her that it was the day before Halloween. This was a perfect conversation starter, as she could share stories about her home country’s culture and then use it as a springboard to talk about something dear to his countrymen—superstitions.

She was pleased that their discussion flowed easily and naturally. She interrupted every few minutes to help him express a sentiment he found challenging, reshuffle complicated auxiliary verbs, or correct pronunciation, but for the most part they just talked.

“No, we don’t celebrate the Halloween here. Ah, sometimes in the discos. It’s becoming more common, but as a business, not because the tradition.”

“I see. It’s an excuse to have a party, to make more money.”

“Yes, the money. The business. I went in one last year, but it was mostly for younger. The Halloween is for younger, like twenty.”

“Halloween is a big time for superstitions. Are you superstitious?”

“Me, no, for me it is a not so big a problem. Not compared to, say, my parents or grandparents. There are a few things I don’t like. Salt like this on the table—no no.” He mimed a salt shaker tipping over and then waggled his finger.

“And, for me, the blacka cat. Many people know this. If we see a blacka cat cross our way, we take a different way.” His gestures strangely mimicked Julianne’s other pupil. His accent was not so strong, but he had the familiar difficulty with words ending in consonants and tended to add an open-mouthed vowel to his words. “To crossa the path is notta lucky.”

“Unlucky,” Julianne offered.

“Yes, unlucky. Do you find the blacka cat unlucky?”

“I had a black cat when I was a child, and I loved it very much, so how could I find a black cat unlucky? For me it is not a problem.” She silently reprimanded herself for falling into the linguistic traps of the non-native speakers. No one she knew back in the states would say, “For me it is not a problem.”

“Tell me, youra cat, was it all black? Or did it have some white somewhere?”

“Yes, it had a little tiny patch of white here, under its chin.”

“Ah, you see. Not all black. Not so unlucky.”

“Well, but, it was a very tiny patch, only a few hairs, really. From a distance you couldn’t tell at all. We always had to lock her up on Halloween.”

He put his hands up and shrugged in a movement that said, it’s not my fault, it’s the way things are, and also, it is just as I have said.

After her last pupil left Julianne turned the key to lock the door. She always remembered Mr. Grossi’s face when she did so, because every time he came to check on her he would sing in his lilting English, “Lock the door, it’s safer.” He was a cautious man and had insisted that she acquire the proper documentation to enter the country. She had been perfectly happy to work illegally for a few months since everyone—everyone except Mr. Grossi—told her that the authorities wouldn’t say boo to a nice American girl teaching a few English lessons to pay for her groceries. Nevertheless he had procured the paperwork for her despite the additional bureaucratic hoops to jump through, not to mention expense. His weekly visits were always punctuated by practical gifts for the apartment (the coffee percolator, for example) and questions about her health and how she was enjoying her stay. He looked at her with long, slow stares that struck Julianne as worried and somehow sad.

He must have a daughter somewhere, she decided. Probably estranged.

She didn’t mind his concern, because after all, no one else was looking after her. She took his advice and always locked the door.

She turned back to tidy the apartment yet again. She looked carefully at her peppers and clicked her tongue with disappointment to see that they had gone moldy. She would have to find a different way to dry them. She took the chain down and threw it away.

The afternoon hint at brightness dissolved into an even more permanent-looking grey. Julianne brought her plant inside. There was still no sign of the cat in the yard.

She decided it was late enough to justify cooking some dinner, so she busied herself with the solitary preparations. As her pasta boiled, she thought about the party her friend was hosting the next day. Her friend had visited California that summer and was eager to share her newfound cultural wisdom by initiating all her friends into Halloween. Of course she had invited Julianne, her one authentic foreign friend. Julianne was more than happy to accept the invitation, even though she was sure the night would be rather awkward. She even determined to fashion some kind of costume for the event. A new space film had premiered that month and the girl thought that an astronaut costume would be just right. She could fasten a cardboard control panel to her front and cover a backpack with tinfoil for her space pack.

After dinner and cleaning up from dinner she went to retrieve her backpack from storage. The storage unit was in the basement of the building. She had to go outside to access the basement door. She slipped on a sweater since the air looked so dreadfully cold (it was just starting to get really dark) and made sure she had the right keys. The door to the basement had a different key from the building’s main door. The storage unit opened with the same key, which meant she could access any of the units belonging to any of the other residents once inside. Julianne was the kind of person who believed that all storage spaces were like the attics of children’s stories—full of treasures waiting to be discovered. It thrilled her to think she could enter someone else’s bin if she wanted.

She brought the trash with her to the collection area outside. The rotten peppers would quickly smell up her kitchen. When she walked outside she looked for the strawberries that had brightened her previous day. She wondered if any of the other residents had noticed them. She hoped so, because otherwise she wanted to pick them and bring them upstairs to look at inside her apartment. The strawberries were gone, which disappointed Julianne very much. Her whole heart dropped a little when she saw that in fact the entire yard had been mowed down to colorless stubble.

Ridiculous gardener, she thought. Probably on a schedule. Twice a season he mows, regardless of whether there are little red berries trying to eke out an existence in the failing autumn light.

Then, with a characteristically feline flash of movement, the cat Julianne liked to watch from her balcony leapt out from behind the corner of the building.

“There you are!” she said. She had never seen the cat up close. She saw that he was completely, utterly black without a single white or silver or brown hair. He didn’t look at all like her childhood pet. He had a more pointed face and was much, much bigger, an unusually large cat. He stared at her with large yellow eyes that were almost unnerving. Julianne didn’t like to be unnerved by cats, since in general she liked them so much.

“What do you think of the mowing? Are you disappointed to lose your romping ground?”

The cat yawned, revealing the ridged roof of its mouth, the long pink tongue, and two exquisitely yellow eye teeth. Julianne had never seen such yellow teeth. She began to feel rather unpleasant about this cat. As if to challenge her fears, at that moment the cat marched directly across the path in front of her and sat on the other side in the grass clippings left behind by the gardener. Julianne felt a chill run down both arms, but almost immediately she shrugged it aside. It most certainly came from the grey evening settling in around her.

“Well aren’t you a big pain? Trying to scare me. Can’t be done.” She crossed right over the path made by the cat and continued on her way to the basement door. The big cat didn’t move, not even turning its head to watch her pass.

The apartment building was not especially old but the construction lacked something in quality. It had been built during a time of rapid development when the city was racing to catch up with its neighbors and government inspectors could easily be persuaded to overlook certain rough edges. The electricity in the basement happened to be one such edge. The stairwell light flickered.

When her things had gone into the bin, Mr. Grossi had carried them down for her and she had stood watch at the top of the stairs to flip the light switch if it happened to go off completely. Therefore she did not know exactly which was her bin. She switched the light on and off a few times until the connection seemed solid and the light didn’t flicker. Then she descended the stairs into the bowels of the building.

The ceiling was very low. Julianne had to duck her head to avoid cross beams, exposed pipes, and an overwhelming veil of spiderwebs. She had to step around various boxes that had been stacked haphazardly on the floor. A quick glance inside one showed that the boxes were full of glass jars, the kind used for canning or preserving animal specimen. The air had a stagnant and unusual smell. It reminded her of, well, she couldn’t quite place it. If it wasn’t so cold, the aroma might have been oppressive enough to trigger an acute claustrophobia.

Most of the doors lining the central space had padlocks, which thwarted her idea of exploring everybody else’s things. She wondered if she herself should install a padlock, but her space only held her empty suitcases, so it seemed silly. She tried to remember which box was hers. Mr. Grossi had explained to her the direction, but she had only half paid attention.

There were two doors without padlocks. One on the left and one on the right.

Before Julianne chose a door, the flickering light went off completely, leaving her in total darkness, that kind of darkness that can only be found underground on a grey day in the fall when one is by herself in a strange new place. She had the strange sense of being inside a refrigerator.

Julianne knew that within each box was another light. If she could reach a door, open it, and find the switch, she would be able to see again. The left door was closest, she remembered. She took a tentative step towards it, then another, feeling with her feet for any boxes in her way. She tried not to imagine the spiders that were hiding in the ceiling beams coming out more boldly in the darkness. She tried not to sense movement in the blackness, tried not to think of the absence of light moving like ink. She took a step and fell into a stack of boxes, sending a shower of dust into her eyes.

At that moment the light flooded back on with a pinging sound. Julianne was looking straight into the face of a horrifying cat. She screamed. The cat was not alive. It was dead and dried out and grotesque, a mummy. The skin had shriveled into the bones. The black fur had fallen away in chunks, exposing the shape of ribs and spine underneath. The skin around the face had tightened and pulled back from the mouth, showing off the pointed yellow teeth underneath in a terrible grimace.

Julianne pulled away so quickly she smacked her head on a beam behind her. As soon as the initial surge of adrenaline calmed, however, she took stock. She wasn’t sure, on reflection, if she had screamed aloud or only in her head. Either way—and she looked again just to make sure—it was only a cat, poor thing, that had somehow gotten trapped down there and died. Something in the refrigerator-like air quality had created just the condition for it to desiccate instead of rot. Disgusting, but nothing to fear.

With some effort her breathing returned to normal, slow breaths. She hoped her heart would follow suit. It occurred to her, briefly, that maybe this was her bad luck. She had never asked just why it was unlucky to cross the path of a black cat. Now she wished she had.

She fixed her attention on the door. Open it, get the backpack, and get out of there. Next time she needed to come down she would wait for Mr. Grossi. The key inserted easily into the lock, though it turned with some difficulty. The overhead light pinged off again, but now it didn’t matter. She opened the door, and a wave of smell poured out at her. It was the same smell as the rest of the basement, and very difficult to describe. Dusty, and somewhat animal, but not as pungent or alive as most animal smells. Musky. There was a faint hint of something sickeningly sweet.

In the fraction of a moment before she flipped the light switch, she hoped her suitcases had not absorbed the foul odor. Then the box filled with yellow light.

There was no question that Julianne’s scream was very much out loud.

She had made a mistake, a terrible, horrible, fatal mistake. The box on the left had presented itself as more convenient in that moment, but the box on the right held her suitcases, and she should have made the extra steps, even in the dark, even at the cost of a spider bite or a whack on the head. How desperately she wished she had chosen differently. The box on the left was dreadfully wrong.

A human face stared out at her. A human face with sunken, evaporated eyes, skin stretched and cracked, teeth bared in a carnivorous grin, hairs like so much wiry string still clinging to the skull. The mummified woman sat on a chair, and on the floor next to it sat her partner, slumped slightly to lean against it. His face was brown where the elasticity had recoiled his skin into ridges. His head tipped back but the jaw hung down, making a gaping black hole. Spiderwebs draped across the clothes which swallowed their shrunken forms. Bony hands protruded from the sleeves. The fingers were long, too long, like there was no hand but only fingers attached to an arm which disappeared into the clothes.

All this burned itself into Julianne’s mind in the fraction of an instant it took her eyes to snap to focus in the sudden light.

She abandoned her suitcases and fled. Like a nightmare, her progress through the basement felt hopelessly slow because of the boxes and beams and pipes and webs. She almost put her hand on the cat that had frightened her first, and her whole body recoiled as if she had actually touched it, actually felt the clumps of fur still clinging to the hardened flesh.

She didn’t bother to hit the stairwell switch. The light continued to flicker on and off at will. Her hands shook at the outer building door as she tried to turn the key in the lock. She fell up the stairs two at a time, for the first time not worried that loud footsteps would disturb someone else in the building. There was no one to disturb. Her heart pumped blood to her legs and to her lungs but seemed to bypass her brain, which had fixed on the sight of the couple in the storage bin. Like a record player, the needle was stuck, and she kept skipping back to the same freeze-frame moment where their hollow eyes and hollow mouths stared at her, grinned at her, invited her to join them with their long fingers.

She flew into her flat. The air was oppressive. The smell had followed her. She needed air, fresh air, even the grey foggy air from the October evening would do. She threw open her bedroom window, and in that quick, rash action, the ceramic cross left by the previous resident toppled from its perch on the window sill, fell tumbling out the window, and shattered on the cement walkway four stories below.

As Julianne looked at it, head hanging out the window over the ground below, it occurred to her sinking heart that the cross was the last good luck charm she had in her apartment, the last thing keeping anything out there at bay. Now she was alone.

She turned to face the empty room. The old sounds had started up again. The shriek of water pipes in the wall sounded human, almost but not quite, like something that once was, loud enough to drown out her pounding heart. And at the door was the persistent sound of knocking.

copyright 2008 EOliver.

Edible one of the Day

2008-10-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

Too bad they're so expensive - 25 Euro per kilogram

In other news, last night I had Polenta with a red wine a mushroom sauce - mushrooms hand collected by Valentina's uncle. As Valy's mother said, "Tonight, you die."

HOW TO COOK ON A BUDGET. IN ITALY.

2008-10-28T05:07:00.000-08:00

Ingredients: What you already have in your flat. Broccoli.

1. Mince the onions. To mince is to chop as small as possible. As you ball your eyes out, regret the conspicuous absence of a food processor.

2. Put the minced onion in a pot over low heat with a small amount of olive oil. If you happen to add vinegar by mistake because your cute containers for oil and vinegar look exactly the same, nevermind because the vinegar taste will evaporate.

3. Meanwhile, mince the garlic and add it to the onion. Every kitchen on a budget must stock onions and garlic, as these provide a base of flavor for everything.

4. Cut the stalk (ie stem) off the broccoli and mince it as well. Add it to the pot. If you have a second stalk of broccoli, you must also mince and add it, no matter that your hand is getting sore from all the mincing. You are on a budget, so you must not let anything go to waste. You need those vitamins!

5. Once everything is in the pot, add a generous dose of salt, some pepper, and enough water to cover the vegetables. Let simmer until everything gets nice and mushy.

6. This will take a while, so now is the perfect time of open your delicious bottle of wine. Wine? you say, But I thought I was on a budget? Well, yes, but while in Italy there is a rule that you must drink Italian wine as often as possible. And we MUST follow the rules. Besides, at only two or three euros a bottle, even a girl on a budget can afford to treat herself now and then.

7. Stir the pot frequently. Add more water is necessary. Marvel a the delightful chartreuse color it’s turning. DON’T think about that reminds you of a drink you once had with a boy you once knew.

8. When the vegetables are sufficiently mushy, chop the crown (dark green tasty part) of the broccoli and add. You can try to mash the veggies first to get a smoother consistency, but this doesn’t work very well, gets rather messy, and as such, isn’t recommended.

9. Add half a box or less of “panne per cucinare” (cream for cooking) which is, as far as you can tell, milkfat in a 200mL tetrapack. You just added about 26grams of fat, but you don’t care, because when you’re on a diet, you need all the calories you can get. If you happen to have an open container of milk you are trying to use up, add some to the pot. Otherwise, water is sufficient.

10. If the soup is too think for your taste, add 1tablespoon of flour to some cold water or milk, whisk till dissolved, and pour into the soup.

11. Bring the soup to a boil and it’s finished. Top with parmesan cheese (no cheddar in Italy, cowboy). Pour yourself another glass of wine (Hey, they’re small). And… Buon Appetito!

Mushroom(s) of the Day

2008-10-24T15:02:00.000-08:00

A fungus (mushroom) colonized by another fungus (yellow mold). Slimy.

This one graced my desktop for a while, but was recently trumped by a picture of my mom and sister.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-10-23T09:02:00.000-08:00

This one is from Calvin's campus.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-10-21T01:22:00.000-08:00

I've been delinquant at posting my mushrooms. In return, here is a really cute mushroom candle. Good thing the store was closed, or I might have parted with more euros than I needed to that day ^.^

2008-10-16T06:17:00.000-08:00

posting photos on facebook as we speak. more to come.
it's official; autumn is my favorite time of year.

and Wow.

2008-10-13T13:09:00.000-08:00

So I'm a little behind the times, but I just noticed that Kathy Hodge actually commented on the post I made about her blog.

In celebration, here is a random mushroom link. These guys know their stuff. I'd never heard of Reishi mushrooms before. Their site not only offers links to their store but also growing techniques (including starter kits) and a wealth of articles about medicinal uses of fungi.

On the mushroom note, the other day I was in a mall and there was a big stand advertising "E Tiempo di Funghi!" Time for mushrooms, indeed, and there were flats of the most beautiful chanterelles I'd ever seen, as well as button mushrooms that looked as white as the moon. How I wished I had my camera so I could share the lovely image! I hope to find more mushrooms at the market downtown soon enough...

Pow.

2008-10-13T12:56:00.000-08:00

**disclaimer: Usually I write about my own life in a bizarre twist of the present tense, because that's how it makes sense to me. In the following text I tried to stick to the more conventional method of story-telling -- fixing it squarely in the past tense.**

I felt a little bit of a headache spreading slowly across my shoulders, a persistent strain that was becoming common to my afternoons. It didn’t have all the tense pressure of a caffeine headache, but I thought a cup of tea might help. Give the caffeine time to settle into my deepest muscle fibers before going to the afternoon preschool class.

Caffeine is a fierce lover. Starting the morning with a cup of coffee is, as I often explained to my non-addict friends, the simplest way to ensure a good day. With caffeine I was alert, pleasant-tempered, ready to face any challenge. All coffee-drinkers know the other side of that coin, however, and collectively we shudder with fear at a day without the drug.

It was during my last year of college that I started drinking daily coffee. Initially I could overcome morning grogginess without it, especially since I usually didn’t have my first cup till almost noon. That meant I could be distracted from procuring coffee. At that time I was still a novice. I didn’t yet think of myself as a coffee-drinker, had not yet accepted the title for myself, and as yet did not always act as a responsible coffee-drinker will act: eyes on the goal.

Within a few hours of the coffee deadline, however, my body would remind me of its need. At first I could ignore a mild headache scratching at my cranium. I could push through to focus on my work. Soon enough though it would be full-on tenseness gripping my neck and shoulders, a foul temperament, and a pounding jackhammer on both temples at once. It was like a bald eagle was attached to my trapezoidals, talons dug into my nerves, screeching inside of me and out to whomever stood in my way. I had a coffee pot in my office, which was a blessing because by the time the caffeine withdrawal symptoms hit that badly, I didn’t have the gumption to drag myself to the café in the next building.

I had a twelve-thirty Spanish class during my last semester, and if I didn’t get my coffee before that class, I had an hour-long introduction to the perils of hell instead of merely a language lesson. Walking back to my office after that class felt like walking inside a snare drum, my vision skewed and even the ground underneath me warped. I only hoped that I wouldn’t pass anyone I knew who wanted to talk. Even smiling at a friend as we hurried our different directions could cause new waves of pain to crash along the sandy grit of my face.

Within minutes of finally getting the bitter brown elixir into my system, I could feel the pain evaporate, my mood lighten, and the good ole’ gung-ho return. The fierce eagle shrank away to nothing, the snare drum went off to bother someone else. I was happy! I was a new woman! I could conquer the world!

Sometimes I think I subconsciously ignored the oncoming symptoms just so I could experience their alleviation. It worked like magic.

At some point along the way things shifted to be a little scary. I don’t know when it happened, but I slowly came to realize it after several dangerous encounters.

It came to be that without coffee, even before warning bells of pain dancing across the back of my eyes told me that caffeine levels were dropping, I would lose my ability to focus. At first it was laughable, like finding myself staring at a book title trying to figure out what it said. It became quite annoying, a bruise to my pride, when it affected my ability to hold intelligent conversation. I could sit there, hanging on every word, struggling to piece the sounds together into intelligible sentence structures. Complex topics, like religion or anything academic, were lost on me without coffee as stimulus. I became to question, was my intellect dependent on a drink? Surely there was a time when I didn’t need to be caffeinated to have an opinion. But there I would stand, mouth agape, struggling to form coherent phrases about topics I knew, knew, I had opinions on.

It became a problem when it affected my driving. I nearly killed myself, and worse, several friends, because the absence of a certain chemical prevented my brain from making proper decisions and snap judgments. In my caffeine-free fog, I didn’t even realize that I wasn’t concentrating on the road.

Of course, this all happened at the same time that I was suffering from Mono, and I could also feel the effects of the disease on making my thinking processes sluggish, so maybe that can be the scapegoat and the name of coffee can be cleared. Nevertheless, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision while driving a car full of friends encouraged me to finally take the last step and insist, come high tide or scurvy, on my first cup of the morning. Every morning.

So of course I’d already had my cup— espresso, to be precise, as there in my Italian flat I only had an espresso pot—but that was in the morning. It had become afternoon, the day sucked away in an English lesson and housework avoided by reading Yann Martel. There were three more English lessons to come later in the day, so a caffeine jumpstart seemed like a good idea.

Trying to stay on the conservative side, I chose to make myself a cup of tea. The last thing I needed was to need (understand me, need) a second cup every day. I liked being able to rely on a second, afternoon cup as a boost when necessary and had no desire to up the ante on my addiction. Tea could substitute as a small recharge: a burst of sugar to get me over the hump and an injection of caffeine (only half as much as a cup of coffee, I righteously reminded myself) to get me through the lessons for the rest of the day.

I put some water in my frying pan and put it over the largest burner. I had no kettle, and found that the frying pan heated water quicker than a conventional pot. It felt a little funny, though, to cook water in a frying pan for a cup of tea. The electric fuse never worked, so I lit the stove by match and left the water on high heat. Meanwhile I guiltily stole back to Life of Pi that had already replaced the mopping and scrubbing I’d promised myself I would do. One short chapter later the water was forming tiny bubbles and was ready for my tea. I poured it carefully from the wide, flat pan into my mug and let the tea bag steep. I sliced up an apple that showed signs of getting too old (I never ate enough fruit), throwing the suspicious parts into the trash under the sink. While down there I turned off the gas nozzle, since it leaked a little bit. Once, before I knew better because I’d just moved to the apartment, I left the nozzle open all day while out and returned to the place smelling quite evil. I opened all the doors and windows and spent a good hour sitting on the couch in fear of explosion.

I heard a funny click from the stove. It clicked again. It sounded like the automatic fuse, or whatever you call that thing that clicks and lights the gas on the stove. I held down the button for the fuse (that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t) and, sure enough, it clicked again. When I released it, it kept clicking at roughly three-second intervals. Just long enough that every time I thought maybe it had stopped. I turned on the gauge for the burner, but the gas was off, so nothing happened when it clicked again. I turned off the burner.

I tried to ignore the sound. Problems tend to dissipate on their own, I told myself. I put milk and sugar in my tea, not my usual practice, but this was a midafternoon snack, so why not? I spilled a little of the beige drink, being too greedy about filling the mug up to the very top. Then, as I stirred it, I spilled a little bit more.

I kept being distracted by the clicking. I tried pushing the black fuse button repeatedly, forcefully, thinking maybe it was stuck. I banged on the element and used a knife to pull the top pieces off, but the clicking continued. I thought wistfully of my book and how this horrible disruption would never let me read it and drink my tea in peace. Confounded noise! I pulled up on the black button in a last-ditch attempt to do something. To my surprise it pulled up about three inches with my momentum, exposing the mechanics underneath and—wait three seconds, just to be sure—yes! interrupted the mechanism and stopped the fuse.

I finished slicing up my apple and prepared to take my snack to the couch where Pi and his tiger awaited me. On second thought, I decided to wipe up the spilt tea before it solidified into a sugary mess. The kitchen was, afterall, the only part of the flat I had managed to actually clean that day. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the area around the stove where the tea had spilled. POW!

A sharp intake of breath, a snap. Did that?—yes, it just happened. A black spray of electrical char marred the white stove top. I heard the whirr of the refrigerator settling behind me. Did I blow a fuse? A real one? The light was still on, so no, everything was still working. There was no fire. I was not hurt, it seemed. I took mental stock. Was I shocked? Electrocuted? I felt the coil of my muscles fully engaged, but their tenseness could be from internal electricity rather than external. My spinal cord was apparently in working order. I looked at the paper towel in my hand and marveled how much of it was burnt in that tiniest fraction of an instant when water met current and things went Pow. I forced my elbows and shoulders to unwind, realized that only my eyes had been moving to take in the situation, and moved my head from side to side.

Can’t clean up now, I thought, leaving the remaining water to evaporate the old-fashioned way. I chuckled internally (or maybe aloud, who can tell when you live by yourself?). And I thought I needed caffeine to jumpstart my afternoon.

Shroomy-shroom

2008-10-11T04:36:00.000-08:00

Politcal Blasphemy

2008-10-11T03:20:00.000-08:00

Reported in The NYTimes about a happening at a McCain rally:
'Later, a woman stood up at the meeting… and told Mr. McCain that she could not trust Mr. Obama because he was an “Arab.”
'Mr. McCain replied: “No, ma’am, he’s a decent family man, a citizen, who I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues. And that’s what this campaign is all about.” At that, the crowd applauded.'

Hello! Big red flags!!

“Oh no, ma’am! Obama’s not an Arab. We would never let anything that horrible happen.”

Essentially, McCain was saying to the woman: “Why, you horrible racist! Thinking that because of his name or his skin color that he’s an Arab! We can look at his character and see that he is by no means an Arab. No Arab could be ‘a decent family man’ or ‘a citizen’ like Obama. No, my opponent is clearly not an Arab.” That’s right, McCain, you tell her. She shouldn’t assume by his appearance that he belongs to a disgusting, inferior race.

Come on!

An Arab is not a “decent family man”? Worse, being an Arab is antithetical to being a “citizen”????? What will McCain do if he becomes president, ban all people who identify with Arabic culture from being US citizens? Blast Iraq to smithereens, because those A-rabs obviously don’t have any family values or patriotism like good ole’ white people?

After this week’s report we all know that Palin has no qualms about pushing her weight around to punish those whom she doesn’t like. Last week it was her ex-brother-in-law and his boss. Next week, will it be Arabs instead? Or vegetarians?

She has certainly lost her innocent glow. “Oh, look at me, I’m an outsider. I don’t have a history of bullying people into giving me what I want. I’m moral, unlike all you atheistic democrats.” Now we see that her slate is relatively blank merely because she has not had enough time to smear it with quid pro quo.

As for racism, it is disturbing the number of racists who support McCain. Of course, a white supremacist really has no choice but to support the only white candidate. Sucks for those people who are also misogynists…

McCain’s response to them furthers reveals his deep-seated, albeit subtle, racism. Instead of telling them off for using racial slurs or not focusing on politics, he reassures his supporters “you do not have to be scared” of a potential Obama presidency.

That’s as good as saying, “Black people are people too you know! You don’t have to be scared of all of them. Like Mr. Obama, for example. He’s one of the okay ones. He would even be able to do a comparable job as president, even though his view on the fundamental issues lacks, um, whiteness.”

All this amidst the candidate’s “abundance of caution” over not addressing Obama’s links to Reverend Jeremiah Wright. McCain wouldn’t want to say anything that might make him look racist, heaven forbid. Instead McCain says about Obama, “I will respect him.”

Gee thanks.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-10-08T02:56:00.000-08:00

These guys were popping right out of the bottom of a fallen tree suspended at eye level.

Good Articles

2008-10-08T02:37:00.000-08:00

The Real Great Depression - The panic of 1873 bears more significance to today than that of 1929, and preceded the economic shift from Europe to America. Within America it bolstered popularity for fundamentalist religion. The author writes in such a way as to make history interesting and clear to an outsider like me - and also reveals how a financial market crash affects more than just those people who want to buy stuff on credit.

Sha Na Na and the Invention of the Fifties - 'The Fifties' as we know them today are an invention of 1969, when social unrest necesitated finding a common link in nostalgia. The decade of Cold War panic and Beatniks became the Sock Hop era of family values and economic optimism. The Juvenile Delinquants of the time became Greasers - glorified white working class teens.

The End of Art - A meaty read, full of great quotes and revealing thoughts on a topic that artists love to explore. Or at least, should love to explore. Bringing religion into any discussion is a dangerous step these days, but this author masters the complex task and opens door for further exploration. His mention of religion will raise fewer red flags than his insistence that "The subjugation of art... to political ends has been one of the great spiritual tragedies of our age" (I happen to agree). But neither does he delicately poke at religion with postmodernist fear of stepping on somebody's toes.

Mushroom Yellow

2008-10-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

Lago di Como

2008-10-06T14:01:00.001-08:00

Valy picked us up at half past ten, us being myself and Javier, a friend from Spain whom I met in California. She drives us to the train station in Rho. We check the bus schedule for busses returning to Mazzo (my neighborhood) that evening, and there are several, even on a Sunday. So far so good.

Javier lives in Varese. Well, so far he stays in Varese in a Bed and Breakfast while looking for an apartment for himself and fellow students from Spain. But assuming he can find a suitable apartment, he will be living in Varese for the next ten months. Thus he needs the train for that city.

Valentina misunderstands and thinks that I too want to go to Varese, so she asks the ticket vendor, who sells me a ticket and a return (E7,20). The train is pulling into the station at that moment, so we run to meet it and there is no time to ask questions about how to actually get to my intended destination, Como.

No matter. I can visit with Javier longer while we ride to Varese. I look out the window at the Italian scenery, but I can’t say much about it; I won’t fault the country for not being picturesque along the train line. Javier is worried about missing the stop. It doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t care about going to Varese anyway. If we miss the stop, we can wait for a return train. If we make it to Varese, I will try to transfer to Como. If there is no route to Como, I will visit Varese with Javier and be satisfied.

At the end of the day I don’t care where I go so long as I go somewhere. It’s all new to me. It’s all Italy. If I insist on being happy, then I will be happy. I refuse to be anxious. Especially when I am with a friend. So maybe neither of us speaks Italian, but with his few words and my few words, and of course our English, we can make ourselves understood and, more importantly, understand what we need to understand. I hope.

Eventually we are in Varese. Javier is proud to tell me about his little city. I know the feeling. I want visitors to Rho very badly, not because I am lonely, but because I want to show off my little town. “My” little town that I have inhabited all of one week.

The ticket vendor gets the point across to us that we must go to the other train station in order to go to Como. Javier knows where it is, so he walks me there. The ticket vendor there says to take the bus instead of the train; it’s cheaper and is already at the station.

Ok, one bus ticket to Como (E2,80). Javier and I part ways outside the bus. We make plans to travel together. I will visit him in Varese once he has an apartment. We will go skiing with Concetta and Federica once it snows. We will go to Como together another time when he is not on the apartment hunt. Etc etc. He says that if I take this bus back to Varese that day to call him, but my plan is to go from Cono directly to Rho. Or at least, more directly.

I guess the bus will take an hour. It would be easy to be nervous on a bus through tiny Italian villas getting further and further away from the one landmark I know (the station), but along the way are frequent signs pointing to Como (30 km, 23 km, etc) and the bus always turns to follow the signs. Along the way are also perfect little Italian towns. I am happy to see them, and happy to watch the change in landscape and flora as we move North. Finally, the mountains! I can glimpse their snowy caps in the distance. I can feel my heart beating with their rhythm, even from this distance and through the cloudy bus window.

I count four or more languages, plus Italian, on the bus. This also puts my mind at ease. It sure is convenient to speak English, the language of common currency.

Eventually we arrive in Como, the last stop. It took and hour and twenty minutes. My first order of business is to secure the way home. Especially since it is a Sunday, and the schedules are limited, I want to make sure I don’t miss my only chance to get home. But I’m not worried, because if there isn’t a way this afternoon, I have the address of the Hostel for E14,50 a night and I can return to Milan tomorrow. Or maybe there is another bus today back to Varese and I can stay with Javier. Or catch a train from Varese to Rho.

The bus stop is at the train station. I try to decipher the posted schedule, but it’s quite complicated with strange codes and whatnot I don’t understand.

I want to ask the ticket vendor for the best route. I piece together the question in my mind. “Per andare a Rho?” I can only imagine that the grammar is atrocious, but it gets my point across. Although I can see the vendor through the curtain over the window, he does not come to help me. Obviously they want me to use the automatic ticket selling machine, but this requires that I already know where I am going. I don’t. That is, I know the “a Rho” (‘to Rho’) part, but I have no clue as to the “Per andare” (‘for going’) part. How do I get there???

An African woman starts speaking to me but soon enough it becomes evident that I have no idea what she’s saying and that I need help.

“Di dove sei?” she asks me. ‘Where are you from?’

“A Rho,” (‘To Rho’) I say, misunderstanding at first. Ah, no, I have made this mistake before. “Sono di America.”

She pauses. “You are American?” There is her beautiful African accent, like sweetened condensed milk.

“Yes,” I say, relieved. I don’t feel guilty speaking English, because Italian is also a second language for her.

“Where are you going?”

“To Rho.”

“Ah to Rho. I think that there is not a line from here to Rho. You must go to the other train station.”

That is what I suspected. “Thank you so much,” I say, using the Italian hand gestures for gratitude.

“It is nothing.”

Ok, across town to the other train station, which is the main station (or so my guidebook tells me). I tore out the three pages about Como and folded them into my purse. Now I retrieve them and use the tiny map to direct my feet to the other station.

On the way I breathe in the warm autumn sunshine. The town seems targeted for tourists, which is fine by me, because the lake is just as beautiful, the trees just as yellow, the buildings just as old, no matter how many other pairs of eyes have seem them. I’m dressed for the cooler part of the day, so in the afternoon sunshine a gelato seems like a perfect idea.

One small cone, please, half green apple and half strawberry. Oh, how perfect. There are real strawberry seeds and real bits of apple skin and real Italian flavor bursting into my mouth. Yummmmm.

Follow the map and the signs to the station. Ask again: “Per andare a Rho?” Try to make sense of the answer. I must go first to Milano Garibaldi and then change. Ok, fine. There are numbers, repeated slowly: “due, zero.”

Repeat them, just to make sure. “Due, zero?”

“Si, due, zero, otto.”

“Ah, okei – due, zero, otto. Dove sono l’orari?” ‘Ok, 2-0-8. Where are the hours (Where is the timetable)?”

For the life of me I cannot find a line “208” listed. I go back to the window.

“Non trovo la linea due-zero-otto. Per andare a Rho??”

Yes, I must go to Milano Garibaldi. But when are the hours of the train? Ahhhh, at 14:08 (Two-oh-eight). And after? 15:08. And then 16:08 and so on? Yes, yes, of course. Now I understand. And will this ticket work? Ok, thank you.

Some mental math and I think that if I take the five-oh-eight train, I will arrive in Milan with plenty of time to make the connection to Rho and arrive in time for the bus from the station to Mazzo.

Now! To exploring Como!

The city is beautiful in true Italian fashion. Meandering narrow streets, cobblestoned and lined with antique buildings. Piazzas filled with café tables and diners. Expensive shops with intriguing window displays, mostly closed (for Sunday, I assume). An impressive cathedral with only a tiny piazza before its façade, unlike the massive Piazza del Duomo in Milano. The old stone city gates and walls, outside of which stand tables with trinkets – glass jewelry, wooden cups, leather satchels, and so on. And finally, the Lake.

Everyone in the world is walking along the lake’s promenade. The Americans pretend to be European (I heard one boy comment in an absurdly Midwestern accent: “I love how the Europeans all have, like, a fashion. Americans always wear the same thing – jeans and a tee shirt.” Ugh). The Chinese teens speak Italian (As Valy tells me, all the pizzerias in Italy are now run by Chinese people). Italian children feed the ducks and swans.

My stomach is starting to twist, so out comes the crackers and jam and nutella I packed into my bag. A bench, a snack, some sunshine. I am all smiles. I feel warm and stylish (enough) in my San Fransisco jeans, my pink Benetton sweater, my dusky blue scarf.

What time is it? Four o’clock. Maybe I should have taken the four-oh-eight train instead. Oh well, too late now. Maybe I should go back the way I cam afterall, since I know that route works, at least. But no, there must be a more efficient route, even if it is via Milan. And if there is no train, I can call Federica when I arrive in Milan and stay there until the next day.

Back in the city, the evening strollers are out. It seems even on Sundays the shops open in the evening, and the streets are filling with people. The Italian sport of choice (for those who prefer crocodile to kangaroo leather, at least): window shopping. Como is a famous center of Italian silk manufacturing, but the historic silk store I want to visit is closed despite the shopping multitude.

A parade winds through town. A procession, with a section ‘Africa’ and ‘Latin America’ and I don’t know what else. Banners and robes and singing, each group in their own language. They made their way directly into the duomo. Evening mass, I suppose. The tourists took pictures. The Italians processed in a different way – only a street away, but the sound of the holy singing was drowned – to their religious house of choice. Today in Italy, the center of the Catholic world, worship is left to the foreigners and the locals shop.

As the hour comes to an end, my feet feel like I have worn holes right through them. I’ll head to the station for the train.

The train to Milano lulls me right to sleep (0 Euros; I can use the return ticket I bought that morning). If I caught it going the other way, it would take me right to Zurich. Maybe next time!

Awaken at Milano Garibaldi. Exit. Here is the train schedule. Rho, rho, rho – here it is. Ha, it’s the same train that continues to Varese. The one in the six o’clock hour doesn’t say it stops in Rho, though. What do I do now? Plus, it came on the hour, so I’ve already missed it. Is there one next hour? 17.25. No, that’s five o’clock. 19.25, here it is. Arrives Rho at 19.44. I can just make the last bus to Mazzo. No, wait, the last bus is at 18.55. Darn this twenty-four hour clock! I’m always messing it up.

I can wait over an hour for a train that goes to Rho, but then I would have to walk, unless by some stroke of bizarre fortune there is a later bus afterall. I don’t know the way, and I don’t have a map, and I don’t even know how to ask that in Italian. Following verbal directions? I would be totally lost. Maybe I should call Federica and stay in Milan. Here is a store, maybe it will sell a map.

Do you have maps? On this stand? I don’t see them. On the other side, okay. Maps maps maps. Milan, Rho. But it’s too small! I could never use this map to find my way, even if I did pay, what, 14,90 Euro! No way.

I decide to take the Metro (1 Euro). There is a bus from the stop I used before, but I will have already missed the last run, if it’s the same on Sundays as weekdays. I could risk it. I could walk from there, but I certainly don’t know the way, and I think it’s far.

Finally, here is a useable map – the map for the metro. I can actually see the roads in Rho on this one. Here is Via Amendola. If I take the Metro to the very last stop, that’s a much closer walk back to Rho. I draw the map into my little notebook, and then take a picture of it (my big brilliant idea). I can make it! I can walk.

Of course when I arrive at the stop, it’s a complete construction zone and it’s impossible to orient myself. But there was a bus stop and – thank goodness, a stroke of luck! – there is a bus coming in fifteen minutes that will take me right to my neighborhood.

When the bus comes I board it right away. The driver wants to know why I’m waiting inside the bus for the ten minutes before it departs.

I’m tired, I say. He starts talking to me more, and I must tell him I’m not Italian.

“Oh! No speak-a English,” he says to me. He shows me how to punch the ticket (0 Euro; I already had the ticket from another day when I bought one for the wrong bus). He wants to make conversation, however broken. Another passenger boards who speaks English, so we start a strange three-way conversation. The bus departs, and the English speaker wants to know more about my stay in Italy. He is a photographer, lives in Rho but has a vacation house on Lake Como. He gives me his telephone number because he wants to take me touring. (Suspicious?)

I don’t know if I should be suspect of such friendliness. If I were Kerouac, such a meeting would be the start to a complex adventure. But the bane of female existence is the necessary suspicion of all other people, especially of all males.

“Via Amendola!” the bus driver announces, stopping at the crossroads nearest my street even though there is not a bus stand there.

“Qui?” ‘Here?’

“Si!”

I descend, shouting Grazie! to both the driver and the friendly photographer, and walk the last little way back to my apartment. My feet are especially grateful for the bus. By the time I arrive home, I am ready to drop. Leftovers and a night in front of the TV. What a day!

Mushroom of the Day

2008-10-03T04:50:00.000-08:00

more longwinded proof that i am, indeed, in italy

2008-10-03T04:49:00.000-08:00

I now have a working BBC decoder, so I have been eagerly soaking up news of the VP debate and continuing financial saga. And last night I found CSI in Italian – hooray for CSI. The episodes were from season one, so since I’d already seen them, I could follow along fine. I’ve noticed that all the dubbed Italian voices sound the same. I don’t know if they only have ten people who do all the voice-over or what, but I can tell that’s going to get pretty darn annoying.

The other day I went into the city of Milan – how absolutely drop dead gorgeous. I had to ask the nice men at the bus stop where to go, but soon enough I made it to Il Duomo via autobus and metro. I didn’t linger too long in the Piazza del Duomo. They were filming some screaming teen girls for MTV Italia (I didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but later I actually saw the footage on that channel).

I made my way through the city, soaking in the architecture and discovering gorgeous cathedrals and chapels quite unlike the famous gothic Duomo, but more to my taste. I felt so embraced by the city somehow, like I was welcome there, especially as I got away from the more touristy piazza. Tourists make me nervous, even when I am one. Actually, it’s the industry marketed at tourists that makes me nervous. I would rather be in a store where I know they only speak Italian than in one catering to foreigners where they might try to use English with me.

Later, I got thoroughly lost and had to forcibly remind myself how much I love walking through the city as my stomach grumbled and feet ached. I sat on a bench in one piazza (that is, a square – it can be anything from the grand courtyard before il duomo or the area in the middle of a traffic circle where there is a news stand and some benches). People in Milan apparently love to sit on benches. The baby and his grandmother on the other end of the bench waved and said “Ciao Signorina” to me. Lots of the requisite old Italian men sitting around and enjoying each others’ company. Lots of people reading newspapers. Lots of teenagers being, well, teenagers. And lots of dogs too (but not strays).

I should have bought a coffee or a pizza, as much for the experience as the nourishment, but I stubbornly set my mind to spend no money.

As I made my way back to the metro, beautiful business people were leaving work, and the many cafes and bars were setting up apperitivi, the Italian version of happy hour. I can’t wait to partake in that ritual.

I didn’t take any pictures while in Milan this time. I was stubbornly trying not to stick out too much. Next time I will have to just get over myself….

ITALIAN PEOPLE ARE SO NICE!

2008-10-02T11:25:00.001-08:00

First, of course, is Valentina and her family and how nice they’ve been to me.

Next, is the simple fact that everyone seems to greet each other on the street. Not all the time, but certainly if I pass someone inside the gates of my apartment complex, we greet each other.

On the Metro, when a seat opens up, people offer it to the others around them before sitting, or insist that their friend sits. Walking around the city, I felt welcomed even though nobody said a word to me.

And another example: today I had to ask two men on the side of the street to help me find the correct bus stop to reach the Metro stop. These men were so nice that even though I could barely express myself in their language, they stopped whatever they were doing to help me figure out the correct place. One eventually called another friend to ask for the information. Then they walked me down the road to the proper place and looked at the time table with me, pointing out the next expected bus.

I don’t think that would happen in America. Not that people are unfriendly, but the person would either point out the correct place or else say something like, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” I am really intrigued by this drop-everything-and-help-a-fellow-human attitude. I wonder if it will persist, or if I have so far gotten lucky.

Edible Mushroom of the Day

2008-10-01T01:44:00.001-08:00

I found these gorgeous mushrooms in the supermarket that is close to my flat. You can only imagine how excited I was.

There they were, just chillin with several different varieties that we would never see in an American grocery store - maybe in a specialty shop at $15 dollars a pound. I got 500g (about a pound) for the sum total of 2 Euro!

I didn't know if there is a special way to prepare them or what, so I just cooked them with plenty of garlic and olive oil (I didn't have any butter) and some coarse salt. They were delicious, with a more mushrom flavor than the normal white button variety but not as overpowering as shitaake can be. I cooked the whole cluster, but the bottom part of the "stem" was too tough to eat, so next time I will leave it out. I still have two-thirds of the package left!

Here you can see (part of) my dinner. Delicious red wine, delicious mysterious mushrooms, and I also had some pasta and several other yummy things. I am taking good care of myself. ^_^

benvenuti a milano

2008-10-01T01:43:00.000-08:00

It’s the end of my first full day in Milan. My apartment is beautiful, and seems very big for one person. I have two balconies, all for me. My second suitcase (my beloved backpack) arrived today, so everything is here.

After cooking dinner tonight and sipping my second glass of wine, I lit the candles I found in the flat and a stick of incense I imported from California. It already feels like home.

I taught my first English lesson today and sat in on a class with the kids I will be teaching next week. I loved both – not hard at all!

Valentina has been very helpful in getting me set up with a telephone (still not programmed), internet (haven’t received the adapter yet), directions (I got lost walking to the school), tv (BBC decoder should work by tomorrow), and groceries (the supermarket is a two minute walk). Really she, and her family, have been wonderful and I am so thankful for their help.

I already understand so much Italian, but I really need to speak it for goodness sakes! I think I have not said a single sentence in Italian yet. It runs through my mind constantly though. It’s so easy and fluid. I tried to take a nap (jetlag fighting with two or three espressos) and realized after twenty minutes that I was processing Italian grammar the whole time. I love this part of the process. I can see, too, that I have matured since (and largely because of) my experience five years ago in Romania. I am not afraid to step out of my apartment, not afraid that someone will say something to me I don’t understand, not afraid of making a huge grievous error and receiving angry foreign reprimands. (Remember the ice cream, Sarah?)

Tomorrow I will go into the city of Milan. Where I live is actually a suburb called Rho. Actually, I live in a sort of suburb of the suburb, called Mazzo di Rho. As far as I can tell, Mazzo di Rho is a small shopping center (supermarket, café, flower shop, beautician, tabaccheria, etc) and public school surrounded by apartment buildings and some houses extending out from the shopping center in rings (that’s where I live, and where the English school is). The outermost ring has a lot of industry and connects to the highway. (The lesson I taught today was in one of those companies – they sell ball bearings.) It really is a beautiful model for a tiny suburb. A nice change from my suburb of Boston, where the closest industry is the pizza shop a mile away – and another mile to anything of substance or usefulness.

The supermarket, though tiny, carries pretty much everything I could want or need. I succumbed to its temptation today and bought, aside from the essentials, several luxury items: a bottle of wine (3,49 euros, delicious), a block of cheese (called Nostrano val Lesina, 1,92 euro), and the most amazing mushrooms I have ever laid eyes on (1,99 euro, the same price as their boring old white button mushrooms). So none of those things were bank breakers, and they make me very happy, but I must remember that I am on a budget, at least until I start making money.

One more observation: supposedly all Italian people do is smoke! but I have yet to see a single Italian person smoking. Maybe that will change tomorrow when I go to the city. I’m holding my breath! (haha, pun. ok, i’m sad.)

Now I must try to sleep, even though my body and mind think it’s only seven in the evening. Hoping the two glasses of wine will help…

Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-26T11:59:00.000-08:00

a little baby one.

raining today.

an answer to my question

2008-09-26T11:54:00.001-08:00

so, as i listened to all the babble about the financial crisis today, i realized the answer to my question about the importance of credit. quite apart from the individual/family, it is small business that relies on credit. so, if i like small business, then i should like credit. nostalgia may pretend that there exists a simple answer to society, but that is of course just not true.

this is the reason why i titled my last post "the dangers of having a blog": because i start spewing about things i think about, regardless of whether i actually know anything about them. then i sound either a)pompous or b)idiotic [or c)all of the above]. this is one reason why i didn't have a blog for a long time. i don't like sharing things that are too personal (my mother and who knows who else reads this) but if i share things too impersonal, i run the risk of being (bumbumbum!) WRONG.

i am a person who thinks a lot and talks a lot. sometimes i sound like i know a lot. but at the end of the day, i am aware that i know pretty much squat.

actually, it's debilitating to have so little confidence in my knowledge, because it makes me afraid to have confidence or make decisions. how can a person have an opinion when there are very smart people out there who have opposite opinions? or when you don't have all the facts?

so, faithful readers of the blog (of which there are none, so i guess my rear is covered), bear with me in my times of error (pomp and idiocracy). and feel free (i beg you) to correct me or add to a discussion. this would pretty much make my week.

---

in other, more exciting news, i sold my car today! that's a weight off my mind. the longer i can wait before buying another one, the better. the high school girl who bought it seemed quite happy about the investment. and she had cool glasses.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-25T19:15:00.000-08:00

oops, camera strap

closing remarks - the danger of having a blog

2008-09-24T18:15:00.000-08:00

"Recently, we've seen how one company can grow so large that its failure jeopardizes the entire financial system." -Bush in today's speech about the proposed $700 Billion financial bailout.

Personally, this is how I feel about megastores like Walmart. I know it's a completely different thing from Fannie Mae, Freddy Mac, and (reaching further back) Enron etc. Nevertheless the principles can be applied: too much of our money goes into one company and its failures affect us all. In financial institutions these failures are such as we've seen in the news recently. In the retail sector, these failures include product quality, job outsourcing, poor employee treatment, and (an underappreciated problem) aesthetic tyranny.

Ok, so I have nostalgic preference for buying local and locally-owned small business. That is how I would like my life to function -- small circles. Knowing where my purchasing dollars go, even if I'm spending more of them for fewer (but essential) things.

Anyway, after that tangent...

I did not see Bush's speech, but read it, and actually thought it was pretty good (considering, I mean, it IS Bush). It provided a synopsis of the mortgage deflation and ensuing financial crisis that a civilian like myself could understand. It made his plan look pretty good. He even says it will partially (mostly? maybe completely?) pay itself back. Even I know enough to see that as optimistic.

The speech revealed to what extent our economy depends on credit. Buying houses, cars, and college education -- all need credit purchasing power. Watch out, Americans! Bush says. The way things are going, someday, in the very near future, you might not be able to buy things you can't afford!!

Now, I understand that mortgages are necessary for buying houses, and I am the current holder of certain college loans that I think are worthwhile, but all in all, Americans buy way too much on credit. Everyone has credit debt. No one saves money. Financial consultants are always warning us about this problem. Everyone knows debt is a big mistake, but most of us do it anyway.

We can feel patriotic about going into debt. Spending makes the world go round. At least, it keeps our markets moving in the direction we like them to move. If we didn't spend, there wouldn't be Christmas.

How did you spend your Economic Stimulus tax rebate? Remember that? Well, now that you've spent that money on a Wii, be prepared to give it all back, with mucho interest, over the next umpteen years to pay for this big governmental buy out. (Also, be prepared to pay for surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome.)

What would our world look like without as many ways to go into debt? Would everything collapse, allowing China to stage its big takeover? Bush certainly thinks so. You haven't bought a new car since 2006! You might as well be a Communist!

Money. The big world. It all makes me want to crawl off the grid.

Maybe I will someday. As soon as I've paid off my debt...

and.... Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-24T07:40:00.001-08:00

A guest post today! These awesome pictures were sent to me by a friend who found them in Chicago area. They might be Amanita type - related to the Death Cap and a whole slew of psychotropic shrooms - but even the experts say not to identify fungi from a photograph, so there's no way that someone like me could say for sure.

Either way, the obvious choice is not to eat them. But we all learned that lesson when we were small, right? Thanks wings.

Science Friday

2008-09-24T07:21:00.000-08:00

NPR's Science Friday (hooray) recently did an episode on fungi.

There is this great film clip that i really enjoyed.

The episode featured guest Kathy Hodge, editor of this super cool blog. I would love to study mycology and/or ecology at Cornell, but of all my options, that would be really stretching. I need to find a program in an area (ecosystem) that intrigues me - most likely deciduous forest - and that will allow me to sneak into a Biology Masters program without having studied Biology in undergrad. Cornell is one of the, arguably THE best place to study agricultural and natural sciences. Their focus lies more on pathogenic mycology - trying to track down the fungal causes of plant (and human) diseases - which is much less of my interest than the role mushrooms play in the nutrient cycles of a forest.

Countdown...

2008-09-24T07:19:00.001-08:00

Today is Wednesday.
I leave Sunday.

Oh, and I may be staying until May afterall.

Blast off.

Fungus of the Day

2008-09-23T11:05:00.000-08:00

by Dr. William Dillon Weston (1899-1953), a mycologist at the University of Cambridge. He made this collection of fungus (mostly mold) to demonstrate the disease-causing agents. Glass provided a perfect material becasue hydrae fibers are generally transparent. One major drawback - their fragility.

Blaschka's Glass

2008-09-23T10:22:00.000-08:00

went to Harvard's Museum of Natural History last week to see Blaschka's glass flowers. these works appeal to me on so many levels - the fusion of science and art for one, and also that they come from the very fascinating period in history when the entire natural world was catalogued in a massive effort by scientists, adventurers, and amateurs worldwide.

also saw the temporary exhibit of invertebrate sea creatures - comissioned before the flowers in response to the problem that these ephemeral creatures (jellyfish, octupi, squid, anemone, sea slugs, etc) were not easily preservable for study in the classroom. have you ever seen a pickled sea creature? not so pretty - a slump of whitish material on the bottom of a glass jar.

After the flowers, Rudolfo Balschka (the son, in his seventies by this point), finished his career making models of rotting and blighted fruits as well as fungi, ferns and mosses. right up my alley - yum. unfortunately, i am having difficulty tracking down this collection - where is it housed now?

apparently, only one other glass collection of fungi exists. (see above)

the whole experience was deliciously inspiring - i especially loved the close ups of the flower organs, for example cross sections of the ovaries. i did not take my camera, because in my mind taking pictures in a museum is highly taboo, so i have no photo evidence.

therefore i bought this book: ---------------->>

i'm taking it to italy and have decided to take my oil paints that i was initially planning to leave home. i've been sitting on this project since spring; i can't put it off any longer. it's itching to get out of me.

Steampunk Dinner Party, anyone?

2008-09-20T15:20:00.000-08:00

New York Times has recently had two food articles with Steampunk references. We need to celebrate with a Victorian evening of frankenfoods and apotheke. Who's in?

Illustration by Thomas Herpich

strange twists

2008-09-20T12:27:00.000-08:00

I am trying to follow the unexpected (the spontaneous) and allow the Dao to carry me along.

A problem arises when other people are involved. This tends to make things difficult in a variety of ways.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-17T06:51:00.000-08:00

notice the centipede

1431 Colorado

2008-09-17T06:18:00.000-08:00

Sunday I come home to an empty house. Couches - gone. Tables - gone. Bags of trash and miscellany occupy the living room floor where furniture used to hide the dust bunnies. A bag of food hangs from my hand until I hoist it onto the kitchen counter. I start to heat some water to make food, but then I open cupboards and find them emptied of plates, glasses, silverware... Even the can opener is gone. I bang on my can uselessly.

I wander up to my room, which still comfortably explodes with possessions. Even though all the interesting papers have come off the wall and the exposed holes boast fresh spackle - despite the giant bag of trash and giant bag of donations and giant suitcases - even so, my room still welcomes me - home.

When I finally punch holes in the can top to make a sauce for my last box of pasta, I sit on my bed and eat with an abandoned pair of chopsticks. After another hour or so of stirring stuff around in my room (ineffectual packing), I leave to find solace at another person's place.

The next time I return to the little house, my housemates (whoever remains of them) and a few kindred souls have created a campout in the front steps. The last remains of our candles - wax nubs of various shapes, colors, smells - slowly melt into the cement and grass where they burn. They illuminate furtive faces. A bottle of wine - then another - gets passed around. We lounge outside on couch cushions reclaimed from our landlord's junk pile. Music drips from the living room out onto our candlelit ears. We lay on the grass, long skirts hiked up to our knees, looking up at Michigan's nightly cloud cover, feeling the green blades and puppy ears between our fingers.

The need for yet another bottle sends me inside for a minute to the bare house. One bulb burns in the yellow kitchen, casting shadows into the purple dining room and a warm glow to the red-walled living room. My footsteps, which swish my skirt around my ankles, echo in the empty rooms. It is a shell. A physical shell, one that only has meaning when full of things and furniture and the people to claim them. Room delineations are useless when there is no table to make the dining room a dining room, no couch to make the living room anything but four red walls. A virtual shell, one that has held many people and many memories - lives that intertwined there, encounters of all kinds but mostly for good.

Sometimes over the two years I lived there I would hear voices. A laugh, two girls laughing, and I would think my housemates were home, but a search never turned up a person. Others in the house also heard them, and we affectionately called the laughing our ghost. On our ghost we could explain the frequent peculiar appearance of unclaimed items, perhaps left by prior tenants or forgotten by guests, but chalked up to our friendly poltergeist.

Now I can hear laughing. The sounds come from the front door, where the bohemian merrymaking of my friends calls me.

I feel like a squatter, claiming a house of illicit pleasures where minds go wandering on lacy green smoke clouds. We embrace each other without touching. We are a handful of free spirits, forgetting for an evening trouble with our landlord and tensions between girls and the imminent departure date screaming at us from calendar pages. Calendar pages mean nothing to us now. We are floating on stolen time, buoyed up by the humid, thunder-laden breeze. Warm water drops and distant flashes are the only things that root us in a time, in the first storm of summer.

Our fingertips find each other when the rain comes to smatter our upturned faces. Like that - hands clasped, a wet boy on one side of me and a wet puppy on the other - we laugh. The house behind us sucks in the laugh, chew on it, adds our spirit and our memories to the collective ghost of its presence. This laugh will echo with the others, flitting about the ceiling and the secret nooks. It will reach down and caress the new tenants, another group of girls who will fill the house again with the material things and the daily activity that makes life. It will beckon them into the mysteries of female friendship and whisper the freedom of a night in the rain. It will invite them to look past possessions and interpersonal frustrations and pressing obligations into the furtive faces of a few kindred souls.

The house is now just a shell, emptied, but of all the nights spent here I know I will forever remember it just like this - empty of stuff, but full of us.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-15T20:05:00.000-08:00

After I took this current batch of pictures I showed my parents and they were amazed at how much variety and color and, frankly, beauty there is the fungal life of their backyard. Guess they don't spend as much time with their noses an inch away from the grass as I do.

Today I read The Tao of Pooh and washed my car. Ooh does she ever look pretty.

I love sending mail. Often I don't do it for long periods at a time, but right now I am on a mail-making spree. So if you (even if I don't know you) want something via post, get me your address.

Mushroom of the Day

2008-09-13T07:54:00.001-08:00

copyright EOliver 2008

Someday I will start identifying mushrooms. I don't have a guide yet, and it's not easy to do via looks alone (that is, comparing to other photos online). Anyone want to buy me a present? David Arora's Mushrooms Demystified will be my first acquisition. Eventually.

hello moto

2008-09-11T07:30:00.000-08:00

welcome to my blog.

in a few weeks i'm headed off to milan for three months. this has finally inspired me to start a blog, but it will hold a lot more than just travel updates. i hope you will enjoy.

In anticipation of moving to MILAN, I am watching the fashion collection for Spring 2009. This week is Fashion Week in New York City. I am enjoying the coverage smattered all over the internet.

For example, I love the steampunk flair in this couple's outfit:

and it amuses me that I have these jeans:
at least i'll have something cool.

I will miss Milan's fashion week by just two days - the last event being the 27th. Not that I would be attending any of the events anyway.

I am eager to experience the fashion culture of Milan. From what I understand, the attitude is much less lenient than NYC or London, where there is a wide variety of styles to be found roaming the streets. In Milan the expectation is to be well-heeled, period. And well-heeled means the most recent collection from the top brands, complete with matching shoes and handbag. Not exactly my cup of tea.

This summer I met a lot of Italian teens at my job in California. For the most part teenagers dress like teenagers and I'm not going to take my fashion advice from them. But when, for a night on the town, all the boys show up in dress khakis, button down shirts, sweaters around their shoulders and pennyloafers, it suggests something about the style standard in their city. The prevalence of LaCoste reinforces that this is the epitome of PREPPY. Not to mention how excited they all were to buy Tiffany jewelry in San Francisco.

I'm sure I'll find my niche.

For the most part I really enjoy this year's fashion, at least as it hits the street.

Here's a fun website of streetside photos from NYC this week: http://www.style.com/fashionshows/sartorialist/

and of course the best place to find photos and reporting on the runway shows is the New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/pages/fashion/shows/