It turns out that I will always have to live in a place that has a fireplace or at least a hearth. The reason isn't one you might expect. Yes, I do love a warm, crackling fire on a crisp autumn day, but for me a fireplace means a little bit more than that.
When I was a kid, the fireplace served four major functions:
1. It was a place for actual fire- an effort to create warmth and/or ambiance
2. It was a table for those lucky few occasions when a special seasonal show like "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" or when a Miss America Pageant was on television and Dutch and I got to eat dinner in the living room and watch. We still call the hearth "the fireplace table".
3. It was staging for dramatic performance: poetry recitation, play acting, and, I'm embarrassed to say, for serious concert reenactment, specifically attempts at singing stylized versions of songs originally sung by the likes of Amy Grant, Debbie Gibson or Tiffany while perhaps miming parts of the chorus to add further emotional implication that may have been missed by simply sharing the lyrics.
(I would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize for that, family. I'm so, so SO sorry!)
4. It was, most importantly, a focal point venue for hosting every celebration known to man; a.k.a. a party on the hearth. My mother must have spent tireless hours hanging bunting, balloons, signs (birthday, graduation, congratulations, Valentines Day, Fourth of July, Flag Day, Easter, Welcome Tooth Fairy!, etc.), crepe paper streamers and bows on the surround of our old brick fireplace. She would place whatever gift or basket or reward on the hearth so that on a noteworthy day, we would stumble into the living room, eyes still bleary from sleep, and find - "What!? Surprise! The whole room is celebrating this most special occasion! I feel so incredibly valued and/or important!" or "Look! the Easter bunny/Tooth Fairy/ Santa Claus came! I can't believe my good fortune!" Or something similar.
A decorated fireplace really was a special treat every time, even though we knew it was coming and, as snarky teenagers, felt an expectation about it. It was a thoughtful, concrete reminder of how loved we were. That's what we loved about it.
Because of this, I don't understand how families who don't have a fireplace cope. I mean, where do they leave gifts? How do they acknowledge their loved ones on days like today - Father's Day?
I suppose this post should be about Rich - and what an amazing Dad he is to Jack. There is no one in the world better at being Jack's Dad or my partner. No one! And because I want to fully acknowledge how important and valuable Rich is to our family, I'm in the process of hanging streamers on the fireplace surround and making a paper banner with poorly crafted bubble letters that read, "Happy Father's Day!"
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
An Introduction to Activism
I went to the meeting…with the sincere hope that I would see
a different side of activism – one that mirrors the super heroes of historical
myth, the men and women whom we laud as being brave enough to stand up to their
oppressors and fight for those in need, who resuscitate what injustice has injured.
… I’m glad I went to this meeting.
Last night I attended my first real activist meeting. When I
say attended, what I mean to say is I sat in the circle and absorbed. “My name
is Ginger and I am here to participate by listening.” That’s what I managed to squeak
out, feigning a smile, when I was put on the spot by the live stream camera
operator, microphone pointing towards me.
In a way I was really nervous to attend because I wasn’t
quite sure what to expect. My only other encounters with activists, other than
with Mark – crazy, confident, poetically eloquent intellect – were more like
psycho-sociological case studies that tended to support the very popular notion
that activists are hippy-dippy crazies whose agendas include taking away your
tax dollars while adamantly refusing to bathe.
One week, for example, I did mission work with a man in Chicago
who insisted on literally carrying a life-sized cross (on wheels) everywhere he
went. Then there was the time I skipped my way into Parliament Square on one of
my many pilgrimages to London and encountered the late Brian Haw whose infamous
“Stop the War” protest camp seemed a lovely and legitimate sacrifice. But in
the moment I actually attempted dialogue with him to learn more– another instance
that began, “Hi. My name is Ginger..” -
he began shouting insults and injuries at me in such a way that I retreated-
ran actually- along the River Thames all the way to Blackfriars.
When I finally made my appearance in the Occupy London Stock
Exchange Camp weeks after the vast majority of protestors went home, I found I
was just in time to have supper with folks who shared their notions of aliens
landing in the form of Egyptian slave masters, capitalist bankers as they are
more commonly known in modern society, who with their All-Seeing Sirius Eye
will soon blast the common folk into oblivion on the date prophesied: December
17, 2042.. or something like that. To be fair, they were generous enough to share
their meager meal from the mess tent with me. So that was nice.
You might possibly understand, now, my overwhelming
insecurity about attending an activist meeting.
In addition to feeling concerned about the other
participants, I was unsure about what it said about me – that I could
potentially alienate myself from what I consider normal. What would my friends
and family think? What would it mean to my colleagues? What was my
responsibility concerning my students and my authority in the classroom? Was I
willing to be labeled a “hippy-dippy activist”?
I went to the meeting last night partly out of curiosity and
partly with the sincere hope that I would see a different side of activism –
one that mirrors the super heroes of historical myth, the men and women whom we
laud as being brave enough to stand up to their oppressors and fight for those
in need, who resuscitate what injustice has injured. Plus, I’ve spent a lot of
time defending activists and their right to voice and give credence to a different
way of living, one that considers the possibility that life can be better than
the current structures that confine us. I’m glad I went to this meeting.
At least twenty people assembled last night at a little
bistro coffee shop in North London. In fact, so many showed up that twice the
meeting had to be moved so as not to be a fire hazard. I learned there is a
structure to these meetings and that agendas are decided by a wholly democratic
process. First, introduce yourselves and speak briefly about why you are in
attendance. When done, an appointed moderator who has taken good notes during
the introductions suggests an organized, bulleted agenda based on what the
majority of the folks hope for.
Last night the
majority hoped to learn more about and discuss the concept of Commoning, a term
that, best I can tell, is a political strategy revolving around sharing resources
(commodities and economy, yes, but also values) for the common good of a
community. This was suggested as the possible future step and offering of the
Occupy Movement to people as a solution to the perceived stagnation of the
cause.
After a lengthy discussion on Commoning, some sharing
definitive ideas of what it should look like and conversely, commentary on how
some of those ideas were perhaps too narrow, we moved to agenda item two –
organizing a general assembly for the 16th of June, an important day
as someone pointed out because it coincides with a day of pot banging –
literally when protestors hit their cooking pots with wooden spoons, effectively
making a loud sound in protest. The particular pot banging on the 16th is in
response to and in solidarity with those opposed to a Quebec law (Bill 78) that limits
protesting there[1]. This, I
learned last night, is something that activists like to do: piggy back on other
protests to both embolden and legitimize other activist movements while
promoting their own. Plus it’s good publicity.
So the ideas were laid out in the same democratic process
that began the meeting. Whoever wanted the floor simply raised his or her forefinger
and the moderator called on them, making certain everyone had a chance to
speak. The circle responded to the speaker, silently agreeing by waving their
hands in the air (the sign language gesture for applause) or disagreeing by
inverting the gesture. There were
several “temperature checks” which meant that the meeting paused in order to
give all of the participants a chance to wave their agreement that a plan was
solid or that they liked the direction the meeting was heading. In this way a
most civilized, salon type discussion unfolded.
Many folks came with notes to share, highly intellectual
rationales and reasoning. Clearly time and research had gone into the proposals.
One man even shared Venn diagram charts. Some shared poetry and sentiments of
the heart – the idea that communal trees stem from a soil of compassionate
sharing, for example. Some added anecdotes. Some offered strategy, while
others, like me, simply absorbed (though in a sense this was controversial
because these types of meetings encourage and rely upon every single person’s
opinion, a notion that was both lovely and intimidating to a newbie like me).
In the end, a call out[2]
for the general assembly was organized for the 16th. Guest speakers
will be invited; breakout sessions will be organized; a PA system will be
borrowed; and yes, there will probably be some pot banging. This is all in the works
now. Watch this space!
Overall this meeting, though probably still a little overwhelming
to anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of being a part of a movement like Occupy,
was such a gorgeous sharing. I am humbled by the idea that people want to come
together to help others come together.
Of course, there were eccentrics at the meeting and no
shortage of dreadlocks. But overall, intelligent conversation, compassion and
generosity won the day. I’m happy to have had the opportunity.
[1] Jeff Heinrich, The Gazettehttp://www.montrealgazette.com/business/banging+against+Bill+Quebec+limiting+protests+catching/6672798/story.html
[2] A
call out is a networking system that uses social media - Facebook, twitter,
internet lists- to share the general
goals of the assembly with an invitation to participate. This is done to help
create the itinerary for the day.
Friday, April 13, 2012
What Sand and Bare Feet Taught Me
I heard the vendor's voice on the warm breeze long before I opened my eyes and saw his bare feet in front of me.I was lounging in that daze-y space between nap and awake, that place of warm contentment, eyes closed but with the aura of orange-red suggested just beyond their lids.
I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.
"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.
My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.
The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:
1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.
2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.
3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.
4. I hadn't been swimming. Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.
5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.
The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.
As I allowed myself to repose in that easy environment, I began to realize how exactly opposite I am from that these days. In my realization, I acknowledged how tightly wound I am, how stone-faced behind my frenzied emotions. In fact, I can't remember the last time I let go. Certainly it was before I began my intense search three, almost four, years ago for a new international job. Somewhere along the way I forgot that every little thing isn't about writing the perfect resume or presenting myself in the most professionally appealing way possible. I have been making a first impression and worrying about miss-stepping in every avenue of my life, whether it be in getting a job, parenting, or deciding what to eat for dinner. My life has felt like one long agenda driven interview where I am hyper aware of everything I do and and say and the effect or appearance it might or might not portray. Some people call this anxiety. And as I am particularly prone to it, I long ago worked out how how to alleviate it without medication, but have forgotten to practice and practice and practice that remedy. The result is this tense, frigid, annoyed, static (non-creative) state.
My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.
I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.
Baby steps.
*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)
I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.
"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.
My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.
The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:
1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.
2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.
3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.
4. I hadn't been swimming. Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.
5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.
The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.
My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.
I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.
Baby steps.
*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Morocco
"Jack, baby, what do you remember about Morocco?"
"I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
"What else?"
"I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
"Because those things were for sale."
"Momma, what for sale mean?"
"It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
"Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
"I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."
I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.
To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.
He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."
He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."
All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.
As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.
"It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.
"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."
We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.
We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.
I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.
I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.
"I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
"What else?"
"I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
"Because those things were for sale."
"Momma, what for sale mean?"
"It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
"Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
"I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."
I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.
To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.
He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."
He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."
All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.
As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.
"It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.
"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."
We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.
We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.
I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.
I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.
Darius & the Clouds
'You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad. Here there is too much sadness and not enough sky. Butterflies are too few and so are flowers and most things that are beautiful. Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it.
Darius, who doesn't like school, who is sometimes stupid and mostly a fool, said something wise today, though most days he says nothing. Darius, who chases girls with firecrackers or a stick that touched a rat and thinks he's tough, today pointed up because the world was full of clouds, the kind like pillows.
You all see that cloud, that fat one there? Darius said, See that? Where? That one next to next to the one that look like popcorn. That one there. See that. That's God, Darius said. God? somebody little asked. God, he said, and made it simple.'
from The House on Mango Street
by Sandra Cisneros, 1984
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Introduction: Portugal, Morocco, and Spain
So, hey folks, I can now officially say that I've been to Morocco, Portugal, and Spain! My passport says so if you don't believe me. See? It's completely true... Sort of. Being on a cruise is like that. I would call it vaguely travelling- tip-toeing near places without waking them up; peeking through the blinds at a new place on your front lawn because you're curious, but snapping them shut for fear of being nosy; sampling the food aisle by aisle at the newest Costco location with no intention to buy . You get the idea. This is why, I suppose, cruises are so popular among the Q-tip crowd*. This is also why cruises are popular for parents of young children who need containment and entertainment. The vacation part isn't really about the travel.
The vacation part means that someone else makes most of your decisions for you or narrows down the options to a manageable quantity. Someone else tells you exactly when to get on the boat and when to get off; that you have a choice between these two excursions in this country, one with limited walking, the other a bus tour; you are told where to go for a prepared meal (with wine and music) and at what time,and where to drop off your kids for two hours so that you can sip a pint and whip your husband at Texas Hold'em and so on. That's the vacation part - the paring down of decision making.
The actual travel is sort of a pleasant side-effect.
Because cruising (or any canned tour, really) is what it is, one can only experience bits and pieces of what I consider the most lovely part of visiting a new country and or a new culture. One eye must be trained on what is authentic - genuinely meeting people and feeling that life is enriched as a result of a meaningful exchange with someone different from you, whether through discussion, sharing food together, creating understanding through a knowing nod, smile or gesture when language is a slight barrier, etc. The rest is simply the aesthetic - what we choose to believe according to our own consciences married to what we hope is real, the sterility of being somewhere new without having to actually be there, our expectations sadly (or maybe relievingly?) left unchallenged.
I suppose any travel can end up that way if one forgets to be intentional about the authentic.
When I remember or write about this experience, I want to be sure and consider both the authentic and the aesthetic. Here are topics I hope to have time to mention in this space:
1. Considering the pluralities of the cruise
During the cruise bands reincarnations of "Achy Breaky Heart" followed by "Dancing Queen":
Ginger -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing that Dirty Dancing mocked."
Rich -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing Dirty Dancing celebrated."
2. Mint tea in Morocco- Agadir and the Souk in Taroudant
3. Kids Club Star - featuring Jack Haag!
4. Una mas cerveza, por favor, senorita - and other opportunities to dust off my espanol.
5. La Playa, volcanoes, and forest - The lost city of Atlantis found
* Q-Tip - definition - slang for person of a certain age who happen to now have white hair and who wear, inexplicably, white shoes that match their hair color; generally Q-tips don't mind meeting strangers who remind them of their grandchildren on cruises, but beware - approaching them could mean being assaulted by uncomfortable political or racial discussion, and or diatribe about nationality and/or child rearing. Also note - most are quite lovely. British ones don't mind being topless on cruise ships.
The vacation part means that someone else makes most of your decisions for you or narrows down the options to a manageable quantity. Someone else tells you exactly when to get on the boat and when to get off; that you have a choice between these two excursions in this country, one with limited walking, the other a bus tour; you are told where to go for a prepared meal (with wine and music) and at what time,and where to drop off your kids for two hours so that you can sip a pint and whip your husband at Texas Hold'em and so on. That's the vacation part - the paring down of decision making.
The actual travel is sort of a pleasant side-effect.
Because cruising (or any canned tour, really) is what it is, one can only experience bits and pieces of what I consider the most lovely part of visiting a new country and or a new culture. One eye must be trained on what is authentic - genuinely meeting people and feeling that life is enriched as a result of a meaningful exchange with someone different from you, whether through discussion, sharing food together, creating understanding through a knowing nod, smile or gesture when language is a slight barrier, etc. The rest is simply the aesthetic - what we choose to believe according to our own consciences married to what we hope is real, the sterility of being somewhere new without having to actually be there, our expectations sadly (or maybe relievingly?) left unchallenged.
I suppose any travel can end up that way if one forgets to be intentional about the authentic.
When I remember or write about this experience, I want to be sure and consider both the authentic and the aesthetic. Here are topics I hope to have time to mention in this space:
1. Considering the pluralities of the cruise
During the cruise bands reincarnations of "Achy Breaky Heart" followed by "Dancing Queen":
Ginger -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing that Dirty Dancing mocked."
Rich -"I'm pretty sure this is exactly the sort of thing Dirty Dancing celebrated."
2. Mint tea in Morocco- Agadir and the Souk in Taroudant
3. Kids Club Star - featuring Jack Haag!
4. Una mas cerveza, por favor, senorita - and other opportunities to dust off my espanol.
5. La Playa, volcanoes, and forest - The lost city of Atlantis found
* Q-Tip - definition - slang for person of a certain age who happen to now have white hair and who wear, inexplicably, white shoes that match their hair color; generally Q-tips don't mind meeting strangers who remind them of their grandchildren on cruises, but beware - approaching them could mean being assaulted by uncomfortable political or racial discussion, and or diatribe about nationality and/or child rearing. Also note - most are quite lovely. British ones don't mind being topless on cruise ships.
Disclaimer
Sleeping in your own bed is the major allure of being back home after having spent some time away. That's exactly what we got to do last night after a whirlwind vacation. Rich and I struggled with what to do on vacation. We needed something inexpensive and easy, something that would allow Jack to be entertained and contained but that also allowed for Rich and I to relax some, too. So we took a little cruise - a discounted one - that had a kids club for Jack to play in - and meals that I didn't have to cook or plan for - that took us to places we wanted to see (though kitch, I'll admit) - and that allowed for sunbathing and being still. Nice.
But we're home now. And safe. Tired. And happy.
More to follow..
But we're home now. And safe. Tired. And happy.
More to follow..
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Natural Spring Blooms Spark Urban Contemplations
Driving home from work the other day I noticed shiny new movie posters adorning the walls of the little bus stops that dot the winding, leafy Surrey roads. It wouldn't have been a big deal in the dead of winter, when the grass is contemplating brown and the gnarled tree limbs seem to cower from a foggy grey sky. In fact, apart from the car bumper in front of you and the suicidal bike riders darting around and in-between said bumpers, I would wager that the winter weather bus stop posters are a most effective form of advert, as they are a spot of color among the haze. Spring, however, is completely different.
Where Texas has it's gorgeous bluebonnets, Surrey has its daffodils, or 'Daffs!' as the flower traders declare on their signs, 'only £3.50 per bundle!' The daffs are incredible here and grow like the gorgeous wildflowers that blanket the Texas Hill Country do - everywhere and in the most unexpected places. In addition to the innumerable happy yellow flowers, the trees in Surrey are in full blossom.
Jack and I were walking home from the park last week end when he stopped, took hold of my hand, and shouted, "Momma! That tree looks like it has icing on it!!" It was a gorgeous cherry blossom tree, the pink blossoms so thick that I admitted there could be no other description for what it looked like - creamy pink icing. We immediately went home and made cupcakes.
Add to this the fact that the days have been summer-like and pleasant, and all anyone wants to do is be outside.
But I digress. My point here is to say that movie posters, no matter how new. or glossy they are, ought to pale in the midst of such natural beauty. I shouldn't have noticed them, but I did. Thus, this post.
Mirror Mirror. That's the name of the movie. The posters depict Julia Roberts, considering the shiny red apple in hand, and the promise of a re-created Snow White fairy tale that is supposed to revive all Snow White stories in the same way that Cinderella was given new life a few years ago in the forms of Ever After, Ella Enchanted, and The Princess Diaries. Roberts plays the evil witch, obsessed with being the fairest one of all who, in what can only be called the extremest form of envy, decides to murder the newest one to win the beauty competition ((ahem.) Scholarship program).
In the 19th century Brothers Grimm version, Snow White is the daughter of a beautiful queen who desires and creates a beautiful daughter, "that was as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony wood."* When the little girl is 7, "she surpassed even the queen herself" in beauty. "Her jealousy gave her no peace," and she therefore decides to order her daughter's slaughter, the little one's guts to be brought back as proof and to serve as the queen's supper. The rest follows, that the man ordered to kill the little girl couldn't follow through, she meets the dwarfs, the queen finds out, devises several other plots to murder Snow White by playing on her naivete and kindness shown to others, successfully puts Snow White into a coma with one bight of glossy red apple...you know this part.. sad dwarves, glass coffin, and a hot young prince who becomes obsessed with the beautiful dead woman and has to be in her presence 24/7 lest he becomes sad. One day, sans kiss, Snow White coughs up the apple stuck in her throat and happily marries the prince, much to every one's relief. The queen, in an odd turn of events, attends the wedding, is clamped into a pair of metal shoes at the after party which are ceremoniously held over a fire, charring her feet to the bone, and then is made to dance at the wedding until she dies. Anyway, upon seeing the movie poster, I started to wonder about why this type of story is so popular now. Is it too obvious to say that as a middle aged woman, I am afraid of aging and feel intense jealously with regard to youth and beauty? Does the story simply mirror the seasons: the gnarled tree limb's jealousy toward the icing blossoms and daffs? Is it to acknowledge the obsessive nature of humans, whether it be towards something we desire (beauty, wealth, something that someone else possesses) or this major need for things to stay exactly as they are? What is it? Does it matter? Should it?
In any case, the bus stop became a place of contemplation for me.
*Source: Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin: Realschulbuchhandlung, 1812), v. 1, no. 53, pp. 238-50. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. © 1998-2002.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Spring Moving
Spring is finally settling in England. Apparently it's been unseasonably warm here and the threat of drought is whispered occasionally on newscasters lips, though most people are reveling in the unusually sunny weather. It took a little warm front for us to realize how much we miss having green space - a place where we can garden, sip a glass of wine on a lovely evening, go outside in the morning without changing out of our pajamas, etc...
In fact, on Monday I climbed out of our kitchen window onto a rooftop landing where I had just enough space to plant flowers in a planter. We can't actually see the flowers from our window (we need to find something to put the planter on), but it felt good at the time to get soil under my fingernails. With the planting came a sweet promise of parks and barbecues, kites and picnics, all of which are much needed after a tough winter of feeling very isolated, lonely, and cold.
We've started seriously looking for a new place in Surrey, one with some green space and lots of light. Now we have to decide when we can move - before we head home for a hot summer in Texas or after we come back. I cringe at the thought of packing up and relocating, especially since our little shoe-shop flat is now so cozy and organized. (I can finally reach for an item and it be where I thought it was!) But even Jack says he's ready to move. I asked him where he would like to live and he answered "Cornwall". Sorry, little man. Surrey is our home for the moment. :)
In fact, on Monday I climbed out of our kitchen window onto a rooftop landing where I had just enough space to plant flowers in a planter. We can't actually see the flowers from our window (we need to find something to put the planter on), but it felt good at the time to get soil under my fingernails. With the planting came a sweet promise of parks and barbecues, kites and picnics, all of which are much needed after a tough winter of feeling very isolated, lonely, and cold.
We've started seriously looking for a new place in Surrey, one with some green space and lots of light. Now we have to decide when we can move - before we head home for a hot summer in Texas or after we come back. I cringe at the thought of packing up and relocating, especially since our little shoe-shop flat is now so cozy and organized. (I can finally reach for an item and it be where I thought it was!) But even Jack says he's ready to move. I asked him where he would like to live and he answered "Cornwall". Sorry, little man. Surrey is our home for the moment. :)
Monday, February 13, 2012
It's All Rubbish
I told Rich he would eventually be one of those crotchety old men who wander the streets mumbling some nonsense that others won't understand, his fist shaking in the air, and me (his loving wife) would walk ten steps ahead and occasionally turn around to yell, "No one cares, you old codger! Shut up and move on!"
This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.
It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.
One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right, he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.
And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.
Still, it disappears.
If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.
Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.
And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."
This made Rich smirk, as if he hoped to be that man someday. This is the exact opposite reaction than what I hoped he would have. In fact, without knowing it, he's been gladly practicing for this kind of future since we moved to England, as if he subconsciously understood that doing so would someday create a marital picayune for me.
It would be one thing if what Rich mumbled about was something hugely significant - like how the UN could possibly vote to ignore the heinous atrocities in Syria or maybe something to do with the Greek austerity and bailout crisis. If it were about people or injustice or something radical, I would help him shake that fist. However, Rich's irritation is personal. It's something that, I'll admit, it fairly irritating. The difference is my reaction is far more sensible and measured compared to Rich's - which is to roam the dark alleys of Weybridge and mumble personal vendettas with regards to the offender.
One of the perks to moving to England is that this country is far more efficient with their recycling. In front of each house is a trash bin, a recycling bin, and a compost pail. Every Monday (for us) the Elmbridge Borough Council makes sure that those of us who are tax payers have our bins dumped - one week for trash, the next for recycling. The composting is genius. We have a small covered pail with decomposable liners that sits on our kitchen counter. We empty the liners full of spoiled food into the small bin on our front porch to be picked up and composted by the county. It's brilliant! A perfect system! And if one plays his cards right, he can use the bins so efficiently and effectively that none of the bins are ever overfull, aka unsightly to the rest of the street.
And here's the rub:
Our recycle bin keeps disappearing. Like clockwork. Twice Rich has circled the block and found the bin in a back alley. Rich has been on the phone daily with Elmbridge council, asking if/when the bin should be left. He's involved the shoe shop underneath our flat, the wine merchants next door and the property manager a few doors down. Of course they haven't seen anything. "No, Rich. No shady characters have been spotted that we know of. Nothing unusual to speak of.." He bought permanent markers to clearly mark our bin as belonging to us.
Still, it disappears.
If I didn't know better, I'd say that someone was playing a joke on the poor guy. In fact, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of it.
Nothing gets Rich out of the bed in the morning. NOTHING. Until now. At the first sign of a truck on our street, Rich leaps out of bed and runs outside into the freezing cold. He is constantly thinking up schemes to catch the offender. He has constructed hundreds of theories as to why.. and who.. And I never get the impression that he is fully participating in anything anymore - eating, sleeping, breathing, sex.
And now he mumbles. I catch him as we walk home from the car park most days. I'll unlock the door to our flat and he'll say, "You go on in, Ginger. I just want to check the alley one more time."
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