vacation pt. 2

For our anniversary my mom bought Jake and I a night at the Ashland Mountain House B&B (to use during our trip). It was a perfect break from sleeping on the ground and showering in public facilities. Ashland Mountain House is a beautiful, historic place in the rolling hills of southern Oregon, surrounded by farmland while also just minutes away from downtown Ashland. We ate dinner at a wine bar and went to see a show at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (The Very Merry Wives of Windsor). All, again, a welcome break to our rustic vaca. The next day we shot down inland CA, taking in views of Mt. Shasta for hours (and hours and hours) and making it to a small town in time to go to some wineries before setting up camp. The next day we drove through Napa and hit another winery before making our way to In-N-Out (our first time!) and then to camp in Big Sur.

Big Sur was, well, big. So big. The views are difficult to even take in because the cliffs are so steep and the roads so windy. We drove the length of it down to Hearst Castle (which was VERY cool- we recommend going there if you're in Central CA), and then drove the length back to our campsite, stopping to see elephant seals. That alone was a full day. Taking in all the views can take it out of you.

The next day we made our way back up the coast to San Francisco, stopping in Monterey for a great breakfast and visiting two breweries in Santa Cruz. Like the rest of the trip, we made the journey the vacation more than each destination we hit (now there's a life lesson wrapped up in a vacation). We stayed again with a friend (and went to another brewery), and then went to Alcatraz on our last day (and yet another brewery, of course). 

We were excited to come home to our house and our pets, excited to bring back all the photos and share the stories. We were sad to leave our meandering, wandering vacation lifestyle too though. We realized this is how we love to vacation- more than arriving at an alternative to home and settling into a new space for a reprieve, we love the chance to wander and see. And to do it together is the best gift of all. I can't believe that as of tomorrow we'll have been married for an entire year.

Look up, would 'ya?

We spent the weekend in northern Vermont- easily on our list of top five favorite places in the world. It's where we spent our first weekend away together, where Jake told his family he wanted to marry me, where he eventually proposed and I said yes. It has a lot of quiet coziness to it, rife with memories.

It was a lovely, necessary, rejuvenating escape. Saturday included breakfast at our favorite place, a stop at a yard sale (wherein we found a still-sealed puzzle for Grammy), work on said puzzle with Grammy, a long walk in the woods (veering far from trails and crossing footbridges strung between fallen trees), and even a night at the movies. There was lots of hand holding. I was full of all sorts of love for my husband and our little life.

Not that I'm not always full of all sorts of love for that handsome fella. Life is just busy, you know? Too busy. And sometimes I forget to take my eyes off myself and my to-do list, and notice what's right in front of me. Then, when I notice it, it just makes me so happy I could cry.

through-lines

Two good friends- who happen to be my co-workers- resigned in the last week. During the second "I'm-resigning" conversation, my friend expressed regret. She was apologetic and obviously struggling more with the guilt of leaving me, than the actual decision of staying or going. Suddenly I heard myself saying what I needed to hear myself: "Since I started this job I've wondered when it would be time to leave. That time hasn't come for me yet. I still feel called to this work and called to be present here. But if you don't, you need to move on, and I'm okay with staying until I feel called to do otherwise." It wasn't until I heard myself saying these words that I remembered them myself. As soon as they slipped out of my mouth I let go some of the resentment I had allowed to creep in over the past week. I stomped down on the pity party that was huddling behind my eyes and found the truth underneath my superficial pride. And I remembered something I wrote over 4 years ago:

"...how long I will stay or go? Will I do good or just be present? I stay right now because is the truest form of faithfulness available. If staying in six months is still the only blatant way to live what seems ought to come next, I hope I have the courage to do so. If flying off somewhere, whether it be Chicago or the Lybian Desert or Phnom Penh, I hope the same. I don't know if I believe in moments of epiphany or promise for changing the world any more. I do believe in following opportunities to give of myself- here and far, and wherever I end up. I desire to give of myself. Faithfully."

I want to have the courage to stay, if that is what I'm called to. I want to be sensitive to where and how I can give of myself, and I just want to keep giving. It seems like so much has changed in the last 4ish years (and it has!). Still, its encouraging to have a peak at certain through-lines.

Happy Friday, friends. May we have confidence in our through-lines- those things that are deeply rooted and guiding us, even when we forget them. 

a thinking, contributing member of society

I had a hilarious experience last weekend. I had just performed Mzungu Memoirs, my one-woman show about how a cross-cultural experience can affect one's perspective on one's own culture and worldview. It's a memoir about my semester abroad in Uganda and Rwanda and in it I ask questions of injustice and discuss the realities of genocide, while also laughing through the inevitably ridiculous details of cross-cultural misunderstandings. Needless to say, it is a rather reflective piece. It's a memoir for goodness sake.

So, I was stunned when an audience member raised her hand during the Q&A and said something to the extent of "was is weird to be in East Africa, as a theatre person, and have to, like, think about things? To have to, like, think seriously?"

Huh?

I immediately realized that it didn't matter what I performed to this audience member. It didn't matter if it was about Descartes or if I tap-danced to 1950s musical numbers. She heard "theatre" and assumed I was a non-thinking fluff.

Of course I didn't miss the chance to unleash a mini-lecture of how theatre is used- every day, all over the world- as a tool to fight human rights abuses. She got an overly smiley response about the role of theatre in Rwanda post-genocide and Uganda post-colonization. She heard about how theatre fought apartheid in South Africa and dictatorships in South America. The sad thing is, I don't know if she believed me. She still had the same tilt-of-her-head confusion at the concept of me as simultaneously a "theatre person" and a thinking, contributing member of society.

We're not all tap-dancing, jazz hands waving, lunatics! I swear! I may have pajama pants that say DRAMA QUEEN on them, but they are mostly facetious.

PS: Speaking of human rights- a professor showed this in class on Wednesday night and I loved it:

hankerings

I was eating dinner last night. On the train. At 10:40pm. By myself. And I laughed, thinking "it's darn good I know I'm called to this."

No matter what I do, whether I perform in my dream show in a dream location with dream audiences or I become a waitress instead, there will be train-dinner-lonely moments. Ultimately, its about what you're "meant" to do. I always think of my favorite book, Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger:
"Somewhere along the line — in one damn incarnation or another, if you like — you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to — be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to — there's nothing wrong in trying." There was a slight pause. "You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around. I know what I'm talking about. You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world."

I can't just walk out on the results of my own hankerings. So, dinner on the train it is. And I'm glad to eat it, thankful for all that lays before me.

book worm / Wide-Eyed Wanderers

Jake gave me this book for my birthday a few months ago and I've been reading a few pages every night. Ever more increasingly I say "I love this book" as I set it down on my nightstand and turn off the light.

Its the true story of a couple who decided to ask themselves the question "why don't we just live as if we won the lottery? I mean, you only live once, right?" Once they asked the question, they changed their lives. It took years of planning and saving, but soon enough they quit their jobs and set out in a VW van. They traveled 60,000 miles in three years, all through South America and Africa. My gosh, its an incredible story. Right now I'm 14,622 miles in. They're in Cuczo, Peru

My brother did a vaguely similar adventure, sans the VW van. He up and moved to Cambodia for a journalism job. A few years later, he traveled through much of Asia and the Middle East on his way back to the States. He climbed to the base of Mt. Everest. He spent Thanksgiving in Iraq. He has lots of stories and photos, and he even published some articles on the way.

Sometimes I wonder when I'll muster the courage for my adventure. What will be our VW van and where will we go? I wouldn't mind having a travel blog again.

oh Canada

It was my first time in Montreal, and Jake's first time this century. We were both hopeful and, oh Canada, Montreal did live up to it's reputation. We bumbled our way through French dialogue. We stayed in Old Town at the Hotel Champ de Mars, and took the incredibly clean Metro all over the city. We walked along the Old Port and I felt colder just looking at the water. We went to a museum- Château Ramezay- and spent time in the underground mall. We ate delicious food. French food. Polish food. Persian food. We're so full and plump with food.

And we laughed. Oh, did we laugh. I love laughing with my husband. We can drive each other bonkers, but we can also love each other pretty well.  On New Years Day we spent 5 hours walking all over the city. It was a beautiful and brisk, and we were absolutely pooped by the end. Eating dinner in the hotel restaurant sounded warm and simple, so in we stayed. Unfortunately, there were a couple Russian, thug-types sitting just 10 feet or so from us, and they kept eyeing me. I felt uncomfortable. Then one of them yelled across the room at me. In Russian. I felt more uncomfortable. Then my husband showed me the face he'd make at them to scare them away- it was a quietly mean face initially, and then it went WILD, teeth bare and cheeks twitching. We broke into such wrenching laughter, I practically forgot the eyeing-thugs were there. It feels so good to laugh.

On our last night, both restaurants we still wanted to try were closed. We ended up at a distillery- suitably called La Distillerie- and asked them for a dinner recommendation. They asked if we'd had "poutine" yet. "Pout-what?" Off we were sent to La Banquise for the quintessential Montreal, French-Canadian dish. Have you had poutine? Its the ultimate version of gravy fries. La Banquise has an entire menu of different variations of the fries-gravy-cheese curd dish, and although I can only attest to 2 of them personally, I bet the entire menu is delish. Then we metro-ed our way back to Champ de Mars and had ourselves some vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce. 

On vacation you can have gravy fries and ice cream for dinner. I love vacation.

It was a lovely trip. We'd totally go back and do it all again. And I liked our travel approach to New Years. It kept all the hype of the transition at bay, and kept my heart and head in check. I'm thankful that New Years Eve was just one night a lovely long weekend, and that the celebration didn't end at midnight. Midnight isn't all that exciting, really. You know what is? A-whole-nother year ahead of us.

PS: Favorite photo of the trip: my pretending to be angry waiting for the metro:

Auld Lang Syne

Despite my adamant feelings about embracing Christmas for all its wonder, no matter my age, I struggle with New Years. I think it has something to do with the romantic, adolescent years when I longed for New Years to look and feel like idyllic, televised, Times Square. Instead it just looked like sparkling cider in my living room, and watching the ball drop on the glass screen of our tv. Then, in college, I could only picture the final scene of When Harry Met Sally. No matter how fabulous the New Years Eve party, it just can't live up to that scene.

The last two years were spent with lots of friends and themed dressing up. We ushered in 2011 with a Decade Party- I was clad in an awesome 1970s vintage, paisley and sequins find, and Jake wore a just-as-vintage track suit. He spent the night threatening to wear it at our wedding. The next morning we met back up with the same friends and a crew of us ran three miles to the ocean, and then polar-plunged. I'm third from the left with the guys, trying to look like I'm tough and won't whimper myself into the freezing water.

This year we're trying a new approach- travel. Today we're breaking out our passports and hitting the road north to Montreal. It's our last trip of 2011- the year in which we moved into our first apartment together, got married, and went on our honeymoon. I started grad school this year. We got a dog. We paid off some debt. I turned 25 and Jake turned 30. It was a big year. Time on the road will carve a space for reflection.

And it'll be our first trip of 2012- we're not coming back until Tuesday night. Three days of art museums, boutique European shops, Notre-Dame Basilica, and lots of French food. As for New Years Eve, I'll try to keep my expectations in check. Ice skating and champagne sound just lovely.

Happiest of New Years to you! Here is one of my favorite scenes of all time- what better way to end 2011?

the sniffer

The Monday/Thursday commute in and out of Boston provides a lot of ironic solitude and brain-time. More than I recognized grad school would include. Down time has been rare in the past couple years. Now, suddenly, I have no choice but to sit still and think for 40 minutes, 4 times a week. I check news. I started reading a book yesterday. I people watch.

I am often struck by people. Getting out of our small-ish, town-ish, city, and into a big-ish city means new faces. Endearing elderly couples sitting on park benches. A business man walking his fluffy-furred dogs. That man selling color-bursting flowers outside North Station. They're new to me, and the routine is still not routine. I'm starting to catch on to what train conductors work when, and how long different walk signs last. And the sheer diversity of a city is enthralling. No matter how accustomed I get with this routine, and how familiar the faces become, I hope I somehow maintain fresh eyes to it all.

Last night the train contained a sniffer. One who sniffs. Constantly. For the first 10 minutes or so, I thought there must be someone quietly sobbing somewhere in our train car. For the next 10 minutes, feelings of guilt settled upon me- "should I ask if she's ok?" and "what if something is really wrong?" Then, I finally tracked down the sound to the woman sitting right diagonally across from me. A SNIFFER. There was nothing wrong. My guilt was entirely misplaced. This woman was unconsciously sniffing her way home. Every 5-10 seconds, another dry nasal sniff resounded through our area, and she calmly read on. 



the sniffer wears old school tevas

We're funning, aren't we? Our quirks and idiosyncrasies. I wonder what nicknames I've earned in my commute. The twirler? I tend to unconsciously twirl my curls. Dry eyes? My contacts dry out and I use eye drops a lot. The judger? Always coming up with nicknames for other passengers. How about you? What could your anonymous-commuter-nickname be?

fire and creativity



sing. dance. love. east-africa style.

A couple days ago I reflected back into my time abroad. Tonight I started to read some of my 2007 blog posts that eventually created mzungu memoirs. That blog reads like a different person. I like that woman's writing style. Her fire and creativity. Her desperate search for truth. Her attempt to figure out where her "deep passion and the world's deep hunger meet" (Buechner). 

A conversation over dinner prompted the husband and I to delve into my ol' blog from days of yore. He wasn't in my life in those days, and he's still getting to know that version of myself. The blog post that wiggled it's way into our dinner? About America's role abroad, of course. Its a topic that still fills me with boomerang-style questions- questions you ask, that inevitably land right back in your own hands. 

I love re-reading the comments on that blog. Words from my mom, my brother and sister, friends and church family- their support made evident through their commitment to me across timezones. They continue to be people who love and support me. My mom and sister still read my writing, no matter how pigheaded or silly. And even now, I'm asking so many of the same questions.

That's what I'm committed to- asking. I still want to be a woman full of fire and creativity, searching for truth. Its just so easy to get caught up in life, isn't it?

enjoying the small things

Have you heard of Enjoying the Small Things? Its a gift, really. The writing is thoughtful, beautiful, funny, sincere. I've read and reread the story of their second daughter's birth- you can find it here- and it brings me to tears every time.

AND, the daily posts are also wonderful. Wednesday's post felt like it was from my own insides: 

"The driving force of my passions and inspirations will probably always vascillate between seeing new parts of the world, meeting new people and simply rooting myself deeper into my contentment of home. On every trip, just when I begin to feel gluttonous for more landmarks...my other self starts longing for home--rainy day quilt forts and tomato soup with grilled cheese."

Jake and I had just been talking about traveling. The conversation about the economy (which is not doing so hot, apparently) inevitably turns into me asking where we should move instead. We talk Uruguay. Jake likes Uruguay's economy. I like the idea of Europe. I like bicycles and French food. And then the conversation turns to family. I love the idea of living abroad. I hate the reality of losing time with my parents, losing the childhood of my niece and nephew. "And what about when we have kids? Don't you want them to know their grandparents? Like, really know them? Have them in their lives?" 

Growing up, we ate dinner at the kitchen table every night. Except for Sundays. Sundays we ate in the living room, watching the Sunday Disney movie on tv, and we always had grilled cheese, tomato soup and popcorn. We'd dip our grilled cheese in the soup, dodging the popcorn we'd dropped in there too. I know our kids can have that with us- we can eat dinner in the living room on Sundays. I want them to know the people who started that tradition though. My little spunky mother who worries too much, but laughs an equal amount. My big Ukrainian father, a quiet Baptist minister with a Massachusetts accent. They're Baba and Papa now. My niece and nephew squeal with delight when they see them. I think my mother may do an equal amount of squealing too.

Uruguay or Denmark or what-have-you is still a ways off. Grad school will keep us here for the next 2 years at least. In the meantime, I'll soak up the convenient vicinity of family; try not to take it for granted. And I'll make sure to eat tomato soup, grilled cheese and popcorn as a reminder of where I came from and where I'll always come back to.