Searching for the symbolism
I woke up from a dream a few moments ago. In it, I had arrived by bus at the Ballston Metro Station. The stop was across the street from the station and looked nothing like the real area, as this locale had a grassy, just off a two-lane highway feel. There was a group in the grassy area mulling. There was a sign that said the "Northup walk was closed." Still, these people seemed to be preparing for that walk. I have no idea what that walk might be. As I was looking across the street toward the station and my apparent destination, I dropped my keys in the grass. I couldn't immediately find them and so I was running my hands through the grass and next to this rock where I found keys. Keys that weren't mine. I started pulling out sets of keys. I must have pulled out three sets of keys before spotting mine in the grass a little ways away. I put the other keys back next to the rock thinking that might be the spot the people around me used for storage. I picked up my keys and woke up.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Thursday, April 03, 2008
"How do you say son of...?" Paris Journal Day 8
We're winding our trip to a close and it appears that we fear that American desserts are inferior. Therefore we spent today stocking up on French treats. We got rolling a bit before noon with Lauren and Allen on a few city walks. I'm not really sure what we saw other than Rue de Madeleine and Bois de Bologne. The latter was an expansive park and part of our walk of about 6 or 7 miles today. We started and ended with delicious sorbet from Berthillion. In the middle we stopped at Laduree, home of high priced and delectable 31 flavors of macaroons. They were heavenly. When we finished them in a park, we passed the box around, each of us considering it for something but coming up with nothing. So Megan stomped on it. "I didn't know what else to do with it," she explained. We laughed, but that made sense. It was a nice day, a bit cold, but it felt good to be on a fast-paced stroll in a crowd. I think we all got to talk a bit and enjoy the cold spring day. We had dinner at an Italian place quite near where I was staying actually, and joined the ranks of Allen and Lauren visitors officially. We ate tiramisu for dessert, our prize for an 88% success rate on the week-long scavenger hunt. We missed a few arrondisments, and never found the woman in a skirt riding a bicycle. After the tiramisu came the pana cotta and then later the already-mentioned sorbet. We slowly closed out watching Flight of the Conchords episodes and our somewhat painful video logs. Tomorrow is the trip back to the U.S. where I'll have 170 pictures to sort through and lots of good memories.
And now, we'll always have Paris.
We're winding our trip to a close and it appears that we fear that American desserts are inferior. Therefore we spent today stocking up on French treats. We got rolling a bit before noon with Lauren and Allen on a few city walks. I'm not really sure what we saw other than Rue de Madeleine and Bois de Bologne. The latter was an expansive park and part of our walk of about 6 or 7 miles today. We started and ended with delicious sorbet from Berthillion. In the middle we stopped at Laduree, home of high priced and delectable 31 flavors of macaroons. They were heavenly. When we finished them in a park, we passed the box around, each of us considering it for something but coming up with nothing. So Megan stomped on it. "I didn't know what else to do with it," she explained. We laughed, but that made sense. It was a nice day, a bit cold, but it felt good to be on a fast-paced stroll in a crowd. I think we all got to talk a bit and enjoy the cold spring day. We had dinner at an Italian place quite near where I was staying actually, and joined the ranks of Allen and Lauren visitors officially. We ate tiramisu for dessert, our prize for an 88% success rate on the week-long scavenger hunt. We missed a few arrondisments, and never found the woman in a skirt riding a bicycle. After the tiramisu came the pana cotta and then later the already-mentioned sorbet. We slowly closed out watching Flight of the Conchords episodes and our somewhat painful video logs. Tomorrow is the trip back to the U.S. where I'll have 170 pictures to sort through and lots of good memories.
And now, we'll always have Paris.
"You didn't eat a crepe the size of your head" Paris Journal Day 7
What a day. It's 2:45 and I'm tired, so the details will have to wait.
"Enough is enough" Paris Journal Day 7 continued
We started slowly. I was loitering in the park by the space age carousel, our meeting place for most of the days. Alan and Megan were running behind even their schedules and I was dodging pigeon droppings and the cold. They arrived and we had one of our indecisive moments. Before a plan revealed itself, a man in a blue v-neck sweater and matching blue hat joined our group and excitedly waved his newspaper. He was speaking French quickly and gesturing at the paper. We looked confused, but he must have mistaken that look for interest. After several minutes of blustery French and the single English phrase, "Enough is enough," he posed a question. Finally, Alan said "non Francias." Stunned that we'd let him go on for so long, he then laughed good-naturedly, wished us well and crossed the street to launch into his diatribe to more understanding ears.
We returned to Chez Schmanz for breakfast. I tried some of Alan's smoked salmon and cheure cheese- it wasn't bad. We then rolled on via Lauren's direction to get our shop on. We shopped in a manner that might be expected. It involved Megan and Lauren looking intently and sometimes buying while Alan and I zipped through the stores and then posted up outside to look for bicyclists in skirts. We didn't have any luck, but I did witness one truly graceful scooter parking job. Long hair bounced on shoulders as the helmet popped off, the sun shone a little brighter, while she stowed her gear, hallelalujah played softly in the background, as she expertly ran her lock through the rear wheel. Then she and a friend headed across the street and I stopped staring. We ate lunch near a bus stop, and buses seemed to just miss slicing the crust off our sandwiches. Ah Paris! Lauren had a crepe the size of her head which would later prove difficult to eat. Her attempts to finish it were comical as nutella and bananas were squeezing out in every direction threatening to cause a bigger mess. Alan and I found a shopping groove at Celio*; after a brief fitting room fashion show, only Alan emerged a new man.
After shopping we vaguely intended to eat dinner before the Moulin Rouge, but instead watched YouTube videos until we had to run out the door in the pouring rain and race to the bus that would be our ride to the big red windmill. Megan moved quickly in her heels and we managed to make our cold wet way onto the bus. Sensible people would have stayed off the top of the open double-decker bus, but we are not those people. In the covered front of the open top of the bus we got to re-see many of the sites we'd toured during the week. Our feet slowly froze, but we finally arrived at the Moulin Rouge. The square was filled with people. A giant line poured out of the Vegas-like Moulin Rouge entrance. This was big business, and not quite what I had expected. We waited in line, still cold and wondering if we would have been better off in the nearby bar listening to a cover band. Finally we made it inside. The place was larger than I expected and teeming with people. Due to some confusion, we ended up weaving our way through the seated crowd; I was following the usher in the red coat, everyone else was chasing my royal blue raincoat. It stood out all week. We ended up at the first table on the left side of the stage. What we lost in sight lines to the scenery, we gained in the arm's length reach to the edge of the stage. We could see the hairs and the make-up covered imperfections of the dancers who were in front of us. The show was a delightful mixture of circus, camp, pageantry, and nudity. It felt a lot like a long drawn-out amusement park revue, with boobs and champagne. It was an expensive ordeal, but worth it.
Je sais Paris.
What a day. It's 2:45 and I'm tired, so the details will have to wait.
"Enough is enough" Paris Journal Day 7 continued
We started slowly. I was loitering in the park by the space age carousel, our meeting place for most of the days. Alan and Megan were running behind even their schedules and I was dodging pigeon droppings and the cold. They arrived and we had one of our indecisive moments. Before a plan revealed itself, a man in a blue v-neck sweater and matching blue hat joined our group and excitedly waved his newspaper. He was speaking French quickly and gesturing at the paper. We looked confused, but he must have mistaken that look for interest. After several minutes of blustery French and the single English phrase, "Enough is enough," he posed a question. Finally, Alan said "non Francias." Stunned that we'd let him go on for so long, he then laughed good-naturedly, wished us well and crossed the street to launch into his diatribe to more understanding ears.
We returned to Chez Schmanz for breakfast. I tried some of Alan's smoked salmon and cheure cheese- it wasn't bad. We then rolled on via Lauren's direction to get our shop on. We shopped in a manner that might be expected. It involved Megan and Lauren looking intently and sometimes buying while Alan and I zipped through the stores and then posted up outside to look for bicyclists in skirts. We didn't have any luck, but I did witness one truly graceful scooter parking job. Long hair bounced on shoulders as the helmet popped off, the sun shone a little brighter, while she stowed her gear, hallelalujah played softly in the background, as she expertly ran her lock through the rear wheel. Then she and a friend headed across the street and I stopped staring. We ate lunch near a bus stop, and buses seemed to just miss slicing the crust off our sandwiches. Ah Paris! Lauren had a crepe the size of her head which would later prove difficult to eat. Her attempts to finish it were comical as nutella and bananas were squeezing out in every direction threatening to cause a bigger mess. Alan and I found a shopping groove at Celio*; after a brief fitting room fashion show, only Alan emerged a new man.
After shopping we vaguely intended to eat dinner before the Moulin Rouge, but instead watched YouTube videos until we had to run out the door in the pouring rain and race to the bus that would be our ride to the big red windmill. Megan moved quickly in her heels and we managed to make our cold wet way onto the bus. Sensible people would have stayed off the top of the open double-decker bus, but we are not those people. In the covered front of the open top of the bus we got to re-see many of the sites we'd toured during the week. Our feet slowly froze, but we finally arrived at the Moulin Rouge. The square was filled with people. A giant line poured out of the Vegas-like Moulin Rouge entrance. This was big business, and not quite what I had expected. We waited in line, still cold and wondering if we would have been better off in the nearby bar listening to a cover band. Finally we made it inside. The place was larger than I expected and teeming with people. Due to some confusion, we ended up weaving our way through the seated crowd; I was following the usher in the red coat, everyone else was chasing my royal blue raincoat. It stood out all week. We ended up at the first table on the left side of the stage. What we lost in sight lines to the scenery, we gained in the arm's length reach to the edge of the stage. We could see the hairs and the make-up covered imperfections of the dancers who were in front of us. The show was a delightful mixture of circus, camp, pageantry, and nudity. It felt a lot like a long drawn-out amusement park revue, with boobs and champagne. It was an expensive ordeal, but worth it.
Je sais Paris.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Paris journal Day 6
It's much tougher out there on my own. I hadn't realized how much I'd enjoyed the vacation from the ongoing dialouge in my head until today. I started in Montmarte, an area that looked a little more rundown than some of the others we've been to. I wandered past the "birthplace of cubism" and a caricature/art market before arriving at Sacre Couer. We've been seeing Sacre Coeur up on the hill in the distance from everywhere and it was good to get up close. Inside, nuns were singing and it was moving. I think God must approve. The building was awe-inspiring inside and out, but I was a bit surprised to learn that it was built in the 1870s. That's fairly recent. They had modern sewers by then.
From Sacre Couer I took the Metro to Montparnasse. On the way, I accidentally exited the Metro when I meant to transfer and that cost me. It was my first realization that three heads can be better than one. Montparnasse was tricky because I couldn't decide exactly what I wanted to see. I eventually landed near Sartre's grave. Immediately after getting my picture taken at Sartre's grave, a strange tourist-y thing to do, it proceeded to rain while the sun was shining. As I searched for the rainbow, the clouds surrounded me and it began to hail, pretty hard for a moment, before raining again. I could only laugh and assume that this was the weather having an existential crisis. From the graveyard, I headed to the catacombs, but they were closed. So I backtracked to the Montparnasse tower and took the ride up. I spent an hour or so 200 meters above the city. It was an amazing view, although everything was pretty far away down below. The neatest thing to watch was the weather. About three-fourths of the city was in a foggy/rainy mess while the other fourth enjoyed bright sunshine.
I came down from high and headed where the sun had been- Le Jardin du Luxembourg where I saw some old men playing Bocce. Then I went to Saint Sulpice (made famous by the Da Vinci Code, but not nearly as impressive as Sacre Couer in my mind. Maybe it was the lack of nuns, or the presence of an ominous sounding sermon.) I cruised by the Sorbonne thinking that once again left to my own devices I eventually stumble on college. In case there was any question, even the sophisticated French university girls looked young to me. I then headed to the Pantheon- burial site for the likes of Voltaire, Dumas, Hugo, and others. Also home of Foucault's pendulum. And for this day a place to support the fight against cancer. I was accosted by a man on stilts in a flower costume and a woman in a bee costume. I played mute...
Tonight is yet to be determined, although I'll probably need dinner. I nearly forgot the chocolat chaud, that turned out to be more like chocolate soup than a chocolate drink. It was thick enough to drown in, but I wasn't impressed.
Later: Success comes in funny ways. I had a leisurely three-course French meal. I spoke no English during the meal. From there I wandered the Latin Quarter. I was considering a jazz club where a U.S.A man was playing swing, but I wasn't that excited about it. Instead, I found some street dancers to watch for a while. One managed an impressive one handed hand stand. Then for good measure he took to switching hands to the beat. Then I got rained on for good measure.
I've established a nightly ritual here in Paris. It seems to involve walking over a bridge, which sets me insides going. As I near my temporary home, my mind focuses intensely on two thoughts- 1. possibly returning to the streets for another Pelforth and 2. the toilet. I climb the winding five flights of stairs, auto-lights always flick on a few seconds too late. Desperately now, I try to open my door. I fail and try again. The lights have now brightened the hallway as I fumble with the lock. Success arrives and I fling open the door and rush in to the toilet. After I finish my business, I shut the front door and call it a night. Tomorrow I again express appreciation to and for my fellow travelers.
It's much tougher out there on my own. I hadn't realized how much I'd enjoyed the vacation from the ongoing dialouge in my head until today. I started in Montmarte, an area that looked a little more rundown than some of the others we've been to. I wandered past the "birthplace of cubism" and a caricature/art market before arriving at Sacre Couer. We've been seeing Sacre Coeur up on the hill in the distance from everywhere and it was good to get up close. Inside, nuns were singing and it was moving. I think God must approve. The building was awe-inspiring inside and out, but I was a bit surprised to learn that it was built in the 1870s. That's fairly recent. They had modern sewers by then.
From Sacre Couer I took the Metro to Montparnasse. On the way, I accidentally exited the Metro when I meant to transfer and that cost me. It was my first realization that three heads can be better than one. Montparnasse was tricky because I couldn't decide exactly what I wanted to see. I eventually landed near Sartre's grave. Immediately after getting my picture taken at Sartre's grave, a strange tourist-y thing to do, it proceeded to rain while the sun was shining. As I searched for the rainbow, the clouds surrounded me and it began to hail, pretty hard for a moment, before raining again. I could only laugh and assume that this was the weather having an existential crisis. From the graveyard, I headed to the catacombs, but they were closed. So I backtracked to the Montparnasse tower and took the ride up. I spent an hour or so 200 meters above the city. It was an amazing view, although everything was pretty far away down below. The neatest thing to watch was the weather. About three-fourths of the city was in a foggy/rainy mess while the other fourth enjoyed bright sunshine.
I came down from high and headed where the sun had been- Le Jardin du Luxembourg where I saw some old men playing Bocce. Then I went to Saint Sulpice (made famous by the Da Vinci Code, but not nearly as impressive as Sacre Couer in my mind. Maybe it was the lack of nuns, or the presence of an ominous sounding sermon.) I cruised by the Sorbonne thinking that once again left to my own devices I eventually stumble on college. In case there was any question, even the sophisticated French university girls looked young to me. I then headed to the Pantheon- burial site for the likes of Voltaire, Dumas, Hugo, and others. Also home of Foucault's pendulum. And for this day a place to support the fight against cancer. I was accosted by a man on stilts in a flower costume and a woman in a bee costume. I played mute...
Tonight is yet to be determined, although I'll probably need dinner. I nearly forgot the chocolat chaud, that turned out to be more like chocolate soup than a chocolate drink. It was thick enough to drown in, but I wasn't impressed.
Later: Success comes in funny ways. I had a leisurely three-course French meal. I spoke no English during the meal. From there I wandered the Latin Quarter. I was considering a jazz club where a U.S.A man was playing swing, but I wasn't that excited about it. Instead, I found some street dancers to watch for a while. One managed an impressive one handed hand stand. Then for good measure he took to switching hands to the beat. Then I got rained on for good measure.
I've established a nightly ritual here in Paris. It seems to involve walking over a bridge, which sets me insides going. As I near my temporary home, my mind focuses intensely on two thoughts- 1. possibly returning to the streets for another Pelforth and 2. the toilet. I climb the winding five flights of stairs, auto-lights always flick on a few seconds too late. Desperately now, I try to open my door. I fail and try again. The lights have now brightened the hallway as I fumble with the lock. Success arrives and I fling open the door and rush in to the toilet. After I finish my business, I shut the front door and call it a night. Tomorrow I again express appreciation to and for my fellow travelers.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
"You're our translator," said Alan to Megan. "I couldn't even order a drink that I didn't know what it was," she replied. Paris Journal Day 5
We were going to be a well-oiled Paris-touring machine today. I didn't run into any problems until breakfast. I had my order picked out based on the large "value-menu" like words on the wall. My problem: the words referred not to a hot chocolate and a specific pastry, but rather to a very general hot drink and a general pastry. After hearing some machine gun French, I chose the first hot drink I'd heard- caffe (coffee) and managed to point to a pastry (after being denied the extra large chocolate pastry). No english was spoken, so I suppose it was a very general success. After breakfast we headed to Saint-Chapelle for stained glass glory, but instead found ourselves in line to a closed church- worker's strike, upcoming Easter- I'm not clear, but we were re-released to the streets. We wandered to a bakery for Megan and Alan breakfast and then all waited in line at Notre Dame. Lauren graciously braved the cold to stand in line with us before departing when we entered. Every day seems to get just a little bit colder. I wonder how many more layers I can add without stretching out my clothes.
We climbed Notre Dame for more nice Paris views, gargoyles, and a really big bell. Then we headed to the crypt for Roman and original Hotel Dieu ruins. It was no sewer museum, as undergrounds go.
After a Metro ride to Les Invalides we toured the Charles De Gaulle museum. They had this amazing technology that would translate the exhibits into your pre-determined language when you walked near the exhibit. Amazing technology can be fickle and after a general success with an inspiring CDG biography propaganda movie, every exhibit was translated into French. Unfortunately, as Alan pointed out, we hadn't learned French during the biography movie and were therefore left somewhat un-amazed. Next up was the army museum, which turned out to be a bit of a slog through World War I and World War II. It suddenly felt like no joking matter when we passed by some touring soldiers. Finally, we arrived at Napoleon's tomb, which is only surpassed in size by the size of Napoleon's ego. From Invalides we went to Rue de Cler and did some window shopping and late-lunch, early-dinner non-decision making. We finally picked a cafe. While culinary highlights were achieved for Megan and Alan, I only managed to order an acceptable lasagna and another round of my new favorite beer, Pelforth Brun.
From Rue de Cler, we walked the Seine and then had need for an emergency bathroom stop. We couldn't find any of the free street toilets, those that look like phone booths and smell like bus stations, so we decided that a great place to stop would be by using our museum pass one last time at the evening hours of the Musee D'Orsay. The pass had us in the door in minutes while a large crowded waited outside. After the sprint to the bathroom, we did some Art nouveau (I think), but I'm not sure our hearts were in it. The crowd skewed much younger in the evening hours and it seemed like a great Paris-evening thing to do. It's too bad, but I'm not sure our timelines quite match much of the world's. It's tricky business this traveling stuff.
From there we took to the streets until we could find a suitable drinking establishment. Finding a tavern, we were greeted by a bartender who allegedly spoke English, French, and German. At first we took her up on English, me with a 12-year old Strathisla which was enjoyable but not amazing and no, not French. Then Megan tested her French and tried to order a special French mixed drink. Her order started in what sounded like solid French, but she eventually had to devolve into English as the concept of a special French drink may have been more confusing than even the words to order it. She ended up with a Pina Colada with some Italian liquor unavailable in the United States. She seemed pleased. The tavern remained pretty quiet. We enjoyed it, overtipped dramatically, and headed back for a midnight snack at 10:30 (22:30). Nutella abounds and I've had chocolate for breakfast every morning so far, but late night snacks are good. Tomorrow, I'm on my own.
We were going to be a well-oiled Paris-touring machine today. I didn't run into any problems until breakfast. I had my order picked out based on the large "value-menu" like words on the wall. My problem: the words referred not to a hot chocolate and a specific pastry, but rather to a very general hot drink and a general pastry. After hearing some machine gun French, I chose the first hot drink I'd heard- caffe (coffee) and managed to point to a pastry (after being denied the extra large chocolate pastry). No english was spoken, so I suppose it was a very general success. After breakfast we headed to Saint-Chapelle for stained glass glory, but instead found ourselves in line to a closed church- worker's strike, upcoming Easter- I'm not clear, but we were re-released to the streets. We wandered to a bakery for Megan and Alan breakfast and then all waited in line at Notre Dame. Lauren graciously braved the cold to stand in line with us before departing when we entered. Every day seems to get just a little bit colder. I wonder how many more layers I can add without stretching out my clothes.
We climbed Notre Dame for more nice Paris views, gargoyles, and a really big bell. Then we headed to the crypt for Roman and original Hotel Dieu ruins. It was no sewer museum, as undergrounds go.
After a Metro ride to Les Invalides we toured the Charles De Gaulle museum. They had this amazing technology that would translate the exhibits into your pre-determined language when you walked near the exhibit. Amazing technology can be fickle and after a general success with an inspiring CDG biography propaganda movie, every exhibit was translated into French. Unfortunately, as Alan pointed out, we hadn't learned French during the biography movie and were therefore left somewhat un-amazed. Next up was the army museum, which turned out to be a bit of a slog through World War I and World War II. It suddenly felt like no joking matter when we passed by some touring soldiers. Finally, we arrived at Napoleon's tomb, which is only surpassed in size by the size of Napoleon's ego. From Invalides we went to Rue de Cler and did some window shopping and late-lunch, early-dinner non-decision making. We finally picked a cafe. While culinary highlights were achieved for Megan and Alan, I only managed to order an acceptable lasagna and another round of my new favorite beer, Pelforth Brun.
From Rue de Cler, we walked the Seine and then had need for an emergency bathroom stop. We couldn't find any of the free street toilets, those that look like phone booths and smell like bus stations, so we decided that a great place to stop would be by using our museum pass one last time at the evening hours of the Musee D'Orsay. The pass had us in the door in minutes while a large crowded waited outside. After the sprint to the bathroom, we did some Art nouveau (I think), but I'm not sure our hearts were in it. The crowd skewed much younger in the evening hours and it seemed like a great Paris-evening thing to do. It's too bad, but I'm not sure our timelines quite match much of the world's. It's tricky business this traveling stuff.
From there we took to the streets until we could find a suitable drinking establishment. Finding a tavern, we were greeted by a bartender who allegedly spoke English, French, and German. At first we took her up on English, me with a 12-year old Strathisla which was enjoyable but not amazing and no, not French. Then Megan tested her French and tried to order a special French mixed drink. Her order started in what sounded like solid French, but she eventually had to devolve into English as the concept of a special French drink may have been more confusing than even the words to order it. She ended up with a Pina Colada with some Italian liquor unavailable in the United States. She seemed pleased. The tavern remained pretty quiet. We enjoyed it, overtipped dramatically, and headed back for a midnight snack at 10:30 (22:30). Nutella abounds and I've had chocolate for breakfast every morning so far, but late night snacks are good. Tomorrow, I'm on my own.
"It tastes like cold meat and grass," me regarding dinner, or Paris journal Day 4
We took a little much needed slow(er) start today and headed to Versailles. I found myself quite frustrated with my lack of French-speaking ability. Today it made getting stamps, counting, and dinner all an adventure. I guess the longer we stay the less I can hide. Versailles was about a 30-minute train ride away. Our museum pass again took us to shorter lines. The front of Versailles was similar to my memory of it, although it was crowded with bus traffic and reconstruction/restoration work. The inside of Versailles was similar to my overall memory of Europe from my childhood excursions. The sights and paintings and royalty all start to run together in this mess of history and gold-plated niceties. As a 29-year old I am better able to focus my energy on appreciating something I'm seeing, but I'm still prone to mental slippage. The audio tour was interesting, but more striking was the comfort I felt from the solitary nature and English speaking voice in the headphones in my ears. The challenges of traveling were weighing more heavily upon me than I had realized.
We had a potentially illegal lunch in the gardens where Megan and I resolved to have chateaus and gardens of our own. We're willing to share if that becomes necessary. I was quite taken with the grounds of Versailles. They must be even more amazing when the flowers are in bloom. We rented bikes and tooled past the farm on Marie Antoinette's estate and then made our way around the outskirts of the grounds. It rained and got cold, but it was still a great way to appreciate the grounds. After the ride, we found ourselves throwing a disc in what appeared to be an abandoned garden. The sun shone brightly on us during this time, but later as we walked to a fountain celebrating Neptune it hailed. (This would become a familiar weather pattern during our stay.)
We wrangled with trains and some Prince biscuits before making it to Centre Pompidou. The museum pass scored again as we got to ride the escalators and look at some modern art. Our artistic souls fought on for a while, but by 8:30 (20:30) dinner called. We ended up in a diner-esque cafe, where our French bumbling was saved by a polite waiter, pointing with fingers, and the words that Megan could help with. Dinner was a curious mix of flavors. I ended up with a dish of cold meat, a delicious chocolate mousse, and a stellar bottle of Pelforth beer; it was French, brun, and quite tasty.
It's the last day of our museum pass tomorrow and we're looking for one more big push. A bientot.
We took a little much needed slow(er) start today and headed to Versailles. I found myself quite frustrated with my lack of French-speaking ability. Today it made getting stamps, counting, and dinner all an adventure. I guess the longer we stay the less I can hide. Versailles was about a 30-minute train ride away. Our museum pass again took us to shorter lines. The front of Versailles was similar to my memory of it, although it was crowded with bus traffic and reconstruction/restoration work. The inside of Versailles was similar to my overall memory of Europe from my childhood excursions. The sights and paintings and royalty all start to run together in this mess of history and gold-plated niceties. As a 29-year old I am better able to focus my energy on appreciating something I'm seeing, but I'm still prone to mental slippage. The audio tour was interesting, but more striking was the comfort I felt from the solitary nature and English speaking voice in the headphones in my ears. The challenges of traveling were weighing more heavily upon me than I had realized.
We had a potentially illegal lunch in the gardens where Megan and I resolved to have chateaus and gardens of our own. We're willing to share if that becomes necessary. I was quite taken with the grounds of Versailles. They must be even more amazing when the flowers are in bloom. We rented bikes and tooled past the farm on Marie Antoinette's estate and then made our way around the outskirts of the grounds. It rained and got cold, but it was still a great way to appreciate the grounds. After the ride, we found ourselves throwing a disc in what appeared to be an abandoned garden. The sun shone brightly on us during this time, but later as we walked to a fountain celebrating Neptune it hailed. (This would become a familiar weather pattern during our stay.)
We wrangled with trains and some Prince biscuits before making it to Centre Pompidou. The museum pass scored again as we got to ride the escalators and look at some modern art. Our artistic souls fought on for a while, but by 8:30 (20:30) dinner called. We ended up in a diner-esque cafe, where our French bumbling was saved by a polite waiter, pointing with fingers, and the words that Megan could help with. Dinner was a curious mix of flavors. I ended up with a dish of cold meat, a delicious chocolate mousse, and a stellar bottle of Pelforth beer; it was French, brun, and quite tasty.
It's the last day of our museum pass tomorrow and we're looking for one more big push. A bientot.
Overheard near the Gates of Hell, "They don't swing open." or Paris Day 3
We managed to both find our way and stumble today. We made an early stop at the nearby grocery store, the Franprix ( or granny racecar drivers, as Alan put it) and grabbed breakfast and lunch for just 5 euros. We ate on a park bench nearby and then began to stumble. The RER train had us confused and we spent a good deal of time sorting out which train to take. Had we not tried to be so clever or walked all or part of the route as Alan suggested, we may have avoided even more of the crowd at Musee D'Orsay. Our museum pass did allow a nice reduction in line size, but that brought us face to face with art that we seemed unprepared for. I don't know if the crowds had grown, our enthusiasm had waned, the museum was laid out poorly, or some combination of those things contributed to our struggles in D'Orsay. We fought through it and this train station turned museum was a nice setting in which to admire art. Or it could have been. The crowds engulfed Monet, Van Gogh, and Degas. I caught a few somewhat satisfying glimpses, but never had time to stop and really enjoy the paintings before me. I was bumped and jostled far too often for that.
From D'Orsay we went to the underground and toured the sewers. It smelled a bit and the jokes were ripe, but it was a great history of Paris on the sewage timeline. The tools used to clean the pipes, like a rolling ball just smaller than the pipe were fairly fascinating too. This one is a diamond in the rough. From there we hit up Rodin. The gardens were pleasant, Hell's Gate and The Thinker were visually interesting, but I again got lost in the crowds, the time, and the layout as we viewed Rodin's gardens and mansion. I find my attention for sculpture doesn't last long. Steam was lost. I wasn't displeased with Rodin, just not particularly inspired.
Dinner brought more group challenges. We found that consensus was not necessarily so. I think we got it worked out. Even fairly laid back travelers can find ways to step on one another's toes. It may not be the last misstep, but I think we learned from it. We eventually settled on a home cooked meal- it was a little like the old days of "Chicken Voila" only more French and more breakfast-like.
We capped off the night with delicious gelatto and a brief walk in the Latin Quarter. It's supposed to get colder all week. I'm not prepared. Also, it appears that the stale "what have I accomplished" feeling isn't limited to U.S. nights.
We managed to both find our way and stumble today. We made an early stop at the nearby grocery store, the Franprix ( or granny racecar drivers, as Alan put it) and grabbed breakfast and lunch for just 5 euros. We ate on a park bench nearby and then began to stumble. The RER train had us confused and we spent a good deal of time sorting out which train to take. Had we not tried to be so clever or walked all or part of the route as Alan suggested, we may have avoided even more of the crowd at Musee D'Orsay. Our museum pass did allow a nice reduction in line size, but that brought us face to face with art that we seemed unprepared for. I don't know if the crowds had grown, our enthusiasm had waned, the museum was laid out poorly, or some combination of those things contributed to our struggles in D'Orsay. We fought through it and this train station turned museum was a nice setting in which to admire art. Or it could have been. The crowds engulfed Monet, Van Gogh, and Degas. I caught a few somewhat satisfying glimpses, but never had time to stop and really enjoy the paintings before me. I was bumped and jostled far too often for that.
From D'Orsay we went to the underground and toured the sewers. It smelled a bit and the jokes were ripe, but it was a great history of Paris on the sewage timeline. The tools used to clean the pipes, like a rolling ball just smaller than the pipe were fairly fascinating too. This one is a diamond in the rough. From there we hit up Rodin. The gardens were pleasant, Hell's Gate and The Thinker were visually interesting, but I again got lost in the crowds, the time, and the layout as we viewed Rodin's gardens and mansion. I find my attention for sculpture doesn't last long. Steam was lost. I wasn't displeased with Rodin, just not particularly inspired.
Dinner brought more group challenges. We found that consensus was not necessarily so. I think we got it worked out. Even fairly laid back travelers can find ways to step on one another's toes. It may not be the last misstep, but I think we learned from it. We eventually settled on a home cooked meal- it was a little like the old days of "Chicken Voila" only more French and more breakfast-like.
We capped off the night with delicious gelatto and a brief walk in the Latin Quarter. It's supposed to get colder all week. I'm not prepared. Also, it appears that the stale "what have I accomplished" feeling isn't limited to U.S. nights.
Monday, March 31, 2008
"You won't find nightlife in a book, Dave" or Paris Journal Day 2
Today we began to walk Paris. After breakfast at a bakery called Paul, which turned out to be a chain, we bought dix billets pour la Metro and traveled to the Louvre. We invested lots of euros in a 4-day museum pass. Lacking much direction in the Louvre, we opted to follow the "Top 10" from one of our guidebooks. We got 9 out of 10- Venus de Milo, Mona Lisa, the glass pyramid, the horses of Marley, Winged Victory of Samonthrace, Michelangelo's Slaves, the Medieval moats, The Lacemaker, Cupid and Psyche, and added a few along the way including Napoleon's apartments and the Dutch painters including Rembrandt. The cour de Marley was light and we spent quite a bit of time there soaking it in. The Louvre may be huge, but our abbreviated tour powered us through in about 2 hours. We ate lunch at a food court- I opted for jambon et fromage; tomorrow we're going to try to go to the supermarche.
After lunch, we walked through the gardens and strolled the Champs-Elysees. Lauren had us on a scavenger hunt, so we filled a lot of time searching for items- some easy like a beret or bridges and some much more difficult or specific like a well-dressed French child or the cast of the Statue of Liberty. We have all week to complete 75%, but the days will go fast. We climbed the Arc de Triomphe stairs and gawked at the wonderful unending views of Paris. The traffic in the circle was as captivating as the sights. Next we headed to the Eiffel Tower with a few stops along the way, like for our first crepes- delicious. The tower lit up and sparkled as we stood beneath it and snapped picture after picture. We walked more and finally found a place for dinner. It was just ok, we may have received what we paid for... We walked past Les Invalides and then to the Metro home. In bed by 10:30 and off to do it again tomorrow.
Oh yes, today I used more of my French, however little it may be and felt the awkwardness of my attempts. Never much of a speaker, I'm truly out of it now, but picking up a few words here and there.
Today we began to walk Paris. After breakfast at a bakery called Paul, which turned out to be a chain, we bought dix billets pour la Metro and traveled to the Louvre. We invested lots of euros in a 4-day museum pass. Lacking much direction in the Louvre, we opted to follow the "Top 10" from one of our guidebooks. We got 9 out of 10- Venus de Milo, Mona Lisa, the glass pyramid, the horses of Marley, Winged Victory of Samonthrace, Michelangelo's Slaves, the Medieval moats, The Lacemaker, Cupid and Psyche, and added a few along the way including Napoleon's apartments and the Dutch painters including Rembrandt. The cour de Marley was light and we spent quite a bit of time there soaking it in. The Louvre may be huge, but our abbreviated tour powered us through in about 2 hours. We ate lunch at a food court- I opted for jambon et fromage; tomorrow we're going to try to go to the supermarche.
After lunch, we walked through the gardens and strolled the Champs-Elysees. Lauren had us on a scavenger hunt, so we filled a lot of time searching for items- some easy like a beret or bridges and some much more difficult or specific like a well-dressed French child or the cast of the Statue of Liberty. We have all week to complete 75%, but the days will go fast. We climbed the Arc de Triomphe stairs and gawked at the wonderful unending views of Paris. The traffic in the circle was as captivating as the sights. Next we headed to the Eiffel Tower with a few stops along the way, like for our first crepes- delicious. The tower lit up and sparkled as we stood beneath it and snapped picture after picture. We walked more and finally found a place for dinner. It was just ok, we may have received what we paid for... We walked past Les Invalides and then to the Metro home. In bed by 10:30 and off to do it again tomorrow.
Oh yes, today I used more of my French, however little it may be and felt the awkwardness of my attempts. Never much of a speaker, I'm truly out of it now, but picking up a few words here and there.
"Do I have to remind you the meaning of forgot?"
I went to Paris a few weeks ago. I tried to write a little about my day every night. I'm planning to share that here. Before I start I should probably introduce the major players in this drama. We have Alan: his camera was almost always on, his French grew by leaps and bounds and molded nicely with English, Spanish, and gibberish into some sort of Franglaisish, and his eyes were always peeled for scavenger hunt items. He was one half of the super cool couple that helped make this all possible. The other half was Megan: she was our French expert, always ready for a meal or some shuteye, and snapping a high number of photos clandestinely. I was the mild-mannered third wheel, knowing just enough French to be annoying, but pushing the pace just enough to be charming. Or so I like to believe. Jean-Claudius, the Connecticut college camel made many guest appearances, particularly in pictures, while Allen and Lauren proved wonderful when we lacked direction or nutella. Also look for appearances from the French activist in blue and the Franprix.
Paris journal Day one
I should be exhausted right now and I probably am, but I can't quite tell. The day has been eventful. We arrived 5:30 AM Paris time on very little sleep, despite my best hopes or intentions. We found Alan's sister's place with relative ease, the rolling suitcases clacking on cobblestones and threatening to wake up the whole of the Ile St. Louis. In the morning spit of Paris clouds, we then made our way to meet the landlord of the apartment I was renting for the week. By 9:30 AM, we realized he probably wasn't coming, so I called him (who knows how much that cost) and sorted out the difference between 9 AM and 9 PM. Ah, I hate to be a foolish American. We wandered around the area for an hour, finding some interesting sites, but mainly we all craved sleep. Finally, we got into the well-lit home of mine for the week and crashed. We could only sleep until 12:30 because we had plans to run at hash at 2 PM (1400). As we struggled from bed, the wisdom of this decision was called heavily into question, but months of planning would not be undone by our lack of sleep. After some wrestling with Metro farecards, we made our way to the hash meeting place to find no one. Worried and disappointed, we searched for possible hashers. Just as we were about to give up, we found them. They spoke English and were quite friendly.
We hashed with the oddities that come from a hash and the added oddities that come from an unfamiliar hash. Alan pointed out my exhaustion later noting that I took every possible opportunity to walk and rest. I survived the circle, consuming a touch over my usual two drinks, and pouring another drink or so onto my exposed noggin. This was all well and good, but the real story turned out to be the post hash festivities. They were truly grand. We were fed quite well, including warm chicken and rice. We had ample opportunity to mingle, including my chance to converse with a sweet French woman with a disarming smile. I conversed (in English) as long as my tired mind would allow. I was proud of my efforts on that front; after all my dad told me to talk to the French girls. The amazing part of the whole experience was how warm and real it made Paris seem. After the hash, we labored to stay awake for a few more hours to hopefully reduce the effects of jet-lag. It was a great first day of activity.
I went to Paris a few weeks ago. I tried to write a little about my day every night. I'm planning to share that here. Before I start I should probably introduce the major players in this drama. We have Alan: his camera was almost always on, his French grew by leaps and bounds and molded nicely with English, Spanish, and gibberish into some sort of Franglaisish, and his eyes were always peeled for scavenger hunt items. He was one half of the super cool couple that helped make this all possible. The other half was Megan: she was our French expert, always ready for a meal or some shuteye, and snapping a high number of photos clandestinely. I was the mild-mannered third wheel, knowing just enough French to be annoying, but pushing the pace just enough to be charming. Or so I like to believe. Jean-Claudius, the Connecticut college camel made many guest appearances, particularly in pictures, while Allen and Lauren proved wonderful when we lacked direction or nutella. Also look for appearances from the French activist in blue and the Franprix.
Paris journal Day one
I should be exhausted right now and I probably am, but I can't quite tell. The day has been eventful. We arrived 5:30 AM Paris time on very little sleep, despite my best hopes or intentions. We found Alan's sister's place with relative ease, the rolling suitcases clacking on cobblestones and threatening to wake up the whole of the Ile St. Louis. In the morning spit of Paris clouds, we then made our way to meet the landlord of the apartment I was renting for the week. By 9:30 AM, we realized he probably wasn't coming, so I called him (who knows how much that cost) and sorted out the difference between 9 AM and 9 PM. Ah, I hate to be a foolish American. We wandered around the area for an hour, finding some interesting sites, but mainly we all craved sleep. Finally, we got into the well-lit home of mine for the week and crashed. We could only sleep until 12:30 because we had plans to run at hash at 2 PM (1400). As we struggled from bed, the wisdom of this decision was called heavily into question, but months of planning would not be undone by our lack of sleep. After some wrestling with Metro farecards, we made our way to the hash meeting place to find no one. Worried and disappointed, we searched for possible hashers. Just as we were about to give up, we found them. They spoke English and were quite friendly.
We hashed with the oddities that come from a hash and the added oddities that come from an unfamiliar hash. Alan pointed out my exhaustion later noting that I took every possible opportunity to walk and rest. I survived the circle, consuming a touch over my usual two drinks, and pouring another drink or so onto my exposed noggin. This was all well and good, but the real story turned out to be the post hash festivities. They were truly grand. We were fed quite well, including warm chicken and rice. We had ample opportunity to mingle, including my chance to converse with a sweet French woman with a disarming smile. I conversed (in English) as long as my tired mind would allow. I was proud of my efforts on that front; after all my dad told me to talk to the French girls. The amazing part of the whole experience was how warm and real it made Paris seem. After the hash, we labored to stay awake for a few more hours to hopefully reduce the effects of jet-lag. It was a great first day of activity.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Pie: The great motivator
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.
When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.
The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.
The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.
When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.
The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.
The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Hello competition, my old friend.
I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.
Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.
"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.
"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."
"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."
The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.
I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.
Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.
"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.
"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."
"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."
The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A lackluster race is still a good way to start the day
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.
Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.
Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.
After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.
He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.
Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.
Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.
After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.
He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Rellena long day
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.
It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.
Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.
It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.
Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
J-J-Jaded
I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...
Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?
Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.
Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.
I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...
Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?
Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.
Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Any other year and it'd be March
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."
I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.
"It rang four times and stopped," she said.
I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.
It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?
The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.
I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."
I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.
"It rang four times and stopped," she said.
I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.
It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?
The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.
I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Oh! Take me to the movies
I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.
I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)
I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.
I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)
Friday, February 15, 2008
Cleaning my toilet, cleaning my soul
I'm not quite sure what it says about me that I've taken my break-up mix and made it into my bathroom cleaning mix. Only good scrub-free things, I have to believe. With a nod to John's recent movie post, I'd like to write briefly about the mix I called, "Ouch".
1. Hello, Goodbye by Sean Watkins- I love that the entire relationship takes place in a brief conversation; it's a great way to capture that possibility of new beginnings and that reality of missed opportunities.
2. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat- I heard this one was tearing a hole in the myspace-time continuum. My favorite part, other than the lolling tune, is the ripple effect that the song's subject has on the singer's body. A good nose crinkle can be a real kick.
3. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls- I just like the fairy tale meets New Year's Eve effect going on here. The music makes me want to grab Cinderella and rush home so we don't turn into gourds. Before the clock strikes twelve, we'll need to share one of those kisses that are more full of potential than anything else.
4. Mad World by Alex Parks- This is a sadder eerier version of Mad World than I've heard. There's an emptiness and a vastness that made it seem appropriate for this mix.
5. I Ain't Been Myself in Years by Yonder Mountain Boys- This to me is really the weak link on the CD. The title seemed right, but the song doesn't ache or bounce or feel the way I thought it did when I first added it.
6. All the Way Down by Glen Hansard- This song is heartbreak, but with the tiniest drop of optimism. The Once album is a better break-up mix than this one can even aspire to be.
7. Everything is All Right by Motion City Soundtrack- This song is just a little bit of a rockin' check-in to...um...make sure that, basically, everything is ok, or, at least all right. It's fun. It's airy. It's helping us all recover from being all the way down a moment ago.
8. Brick by Ben Fold's Five- We didn't last long being all right, so this one is pretty crushing. It's beautiful and it hurts.
9. Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's- This song is so full of optimism. I just don't see how this couple is going to make it. I love that. I'm not sure what kind of cynic that makes me, but there's got to be a place to be overflowing with hope and to be able to keep the mop of cynicism nearby. There's room in one man for both of these feelings and this song brings all of that out in me as I wail, "OOOOOh, it's what you do to me." It's cleansing.
10. Come Around by Rhett Miller- Sadness, nostalgia, begging, and the well-sung question, "Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?" Bathroom cleaners everywhere know what I'm talking about.
11. Why does it always rain on me? by Travis- We've reached the feeling sorry for ourselves portion of the mix. Travis does it wonderfully in this song.
12. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional- Dude, it's emo. Emo belongs on a mix like this. Also, it's pretty awesome the way he uses "making out" in two totally different contexts.
13. Hotel Fire by Hem- This song is beautiful. I think I remember hearing that it was about divorce and even if it isn't, it's just filled with the sort of sad destruction and still-burning flames of a break-up. This is my favorite band for a reason.
14. It Just Is by Rilo Kiley- Even acceptance doesn't feel good. Rilo knows it. She's not afraid to remind anybody.
15. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Wilco- This is a standard for me on this type of mix. It's sort of a childish taking of responsibility put together in a vacant lonely tone. It gets stuck in my head for days.
16. Just Like Heaven by Goldfinger- Nothing says get back on the horse like a punk cover. Also, air guitar has healing powers.
I'm not quite sure what it says about me that I've taken my break-up mix and made it into my bathroom cleaning mix. Only good scrub-free things, I have to believe. With a nod to John's recent movie post, I'd like to write briefly about the mix I called, "Ouch".
1. Hello, Goodbye by Sean Watkins- I love that the entire relationship takes place in a brief conversation; it's a great way to capture that possibility of new beginnings and that reality of missed opportunities.
2. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat- I heard this one was tearing a hole in the myspace-time continuum. My favorite part, other than the lolling tune, is the ripple effect that the song's subject has on the singer's body. A good nose crinkle can be a real kick.
3. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls- I just like the fairy tale meets New Year's Eve effect going on here. The music makes me want to grab Cinderella and rush home so we don't turn into gourds. Before the clock strikes twelve, we'll need to share one of those kisses that are more full of potential than anything else.
4. Mad World by Alex Parks- This is a sadder eerier version of Mad World than I've heard. There's an emptiness and a vastness that made it seem appropriate for this mix.
5. I Ain't Been Myself in Years by Yonder Mountain Boys- This to me is really the weak link on the CD. The title seemed right, but the song doesn't ache or bounce or feel the way I thought it did when I first added it.
6. All the Way Down by Glen Hansard- This song is heartbreak, but with the tiniest drop of optimism. The Once album is a better break-up mix than this one can even aspire to be.
7. Everything is All Right by Motion City Soundtrack- This song is just a little bit of a rockin' check-in to...um...make sure that, basically, everything is ok, or, at least all right. It's fun. It's airy. It's helping us all recover from being all the way down a moment ago.
8. Brick by Ben Fold's Five- We didn't last long being all right, so this one is pretty crushing. It's beautiful and it hurts.
9. Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's- This song is so full of optimism. I just don't see how this couple is going to make it. I love that. I'm not sure what kind of cynic that makes me, but there's got to be a place to be overflowing with hope and to be able to keep the mop of cynicism nearby. There's room in one man for both of these feelings and this song brings all of that out in me as I wail, "OOOOOh, it's what you do to me." It's cleansing.
10. Come Around by Rhett Miller- Sadness, nostalgia, begging, and the well-sung question, "Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?" Bathroom cleaners everywhere know what I'm talking about.
11. Why does it always rain on me? by Travis- We've reached the feeling sorry for ourselves portion of the mix. Travis does it wonderfully in this song.
12. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional- Dude, it's emo. Emo belongs on a mix like this. Also, it's pretty awesome the way he uses "making out" in two totally different contexts.
13. Hotel Fire by Hem- This song is beautiful. I think I remember hearing that it was about divorce and even if it isn't, it's just filled with the sort of sad destruction and still-burning flames of a break-up. This is my favorite band for a reason.
14. It Just Is by Rilo Kiley- Even acceptance doesn't feel good. Rilo knows it. She's not afraid to remind anybody.
15. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Wilco- This is a standard for me on this type of mix. It's sort of a childish taking of responsibility put together in a vacant lonely tone. It gets stuck in my head for days.
16. Just Like Heaven by Goldfinger- Nothing says get back on the horse like a punk cover. Also, air guitar has healing powers.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
My mom is my Valentine
A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.
I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.
Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.
Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.
A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.
I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.
Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.
Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
2008 pieces of mail
It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?
With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.
It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?
With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.
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