Ladies and gentlemen, the road trip is officially about to begin. We spent a weekend in Lake Tahoe with my parents, and have now given ourselves one day to assemble all necessary items for 2 months on the road before heading off to Yosemite, the first stop on the itinerary.
That one day of preparation is today, and I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger logo instead of sorting laundry, organizing camping gear, working out the budget, researching routes, buying last minute gadgets, or even taking a shower.
The thing is, I hate packing. Packing for a 3-day trip can take me up to 12 solid hours, and I've never even traveled for longer than 2 weeks at a time. I've moved across the world more than once, but going somewhere to live, somewhere with drawers and cabinets and a feeling of permanence, is an entirely different thing. Jordi has lived like a turtle with his home on his back for a number of months on several different occasions. I, however, still have the tags on my big North Face backpack.
When I moved back from Amsterdam, I had a total of 5 bags--2 suitcases, 2 duffel bags, 1 backpack--and the airline charged me an extra $100 to get them all on the plane. This was after throwing out or giving away piles and piles of stuff, and I was only there for one year. In the midst of that disaster, I decided to simplify my life and just have less crap.
This road trip is my chance to prove that I can. Jordi keeps telling me I just don't need very much, but this is coming from the guy who's wardrobe consists of 6 t-shirts and 2 hoodies. I see how stress-free his packing process is, and I try to channel some of that minimalist energy, but I know I'll never be able to match his level of freedom and flexibility when it comes to material goods.
The problem, as with most things in my overly considered world, is that I can't handle the decisions. You essentially have to see into the future, predict what scenarios might possibly befall you, and make sure you're prepared. I, however, have an overactive imagination and an inhuman ability to worry about things most people don't even think about. I imagine weirdly specific and unlikely scenarios, and then somehow decide that bringing 15 tank-tops is the best way to prepare for them. Not surprisingly, all this leaves me with is a big tangle of semi-soiled spaghetti straps and more weight than I ought to be hauling around. But I continue to bring too many of everything because I just can't stand the prospect of being unprepared.
They say you should stack up everything that you want to bring, and then bring half of it. This, I may be able to do. I just wish I could also leave behind the half of my brain that is illogical, irrational, and convinces me to pack my entire summer wardrobe for a fall trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Wish me luck.
28 September 2009
23 September 2009
Ladies' Home Journal and Me
As I waited this afternoon in Livermore's Piazza for Hair (fancy, eh?) while a woman called Gail coiffed Jordi's mane, I started flipping, as one does, through Ladies' Home Journal. Making my way for the interview with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams I stumbled across this article about chronic worriers. Below the title, the infinitely wise Ladies at the Home J. asked, as though speaking right to me, as though reading my mind, Hey Honey, "Spending too much time thinking about all the things that could go wrong in your life?"
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".
It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"
But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.
I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.
My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.
Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.
Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.
4:58...4:59... 5:00!
Ready...aaand...worry!
Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.
Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.
18 September 2009
The Flying Dutchman
I'm writing this post for two reasons: one is to provide more details about the next few months of my life, and the other is to use that oh so clever, impossible to resist title that I'm sure has you all just tickled. It does, doesn't it? Doesn't it? I know.
Anyway, as we speak, there is a Dutchman flying over the continental USA, soon to land in San Francisco, get in a little Honda Fit, and be swept off to my home town. This mysterious individual stepped foot in our proud country for the first time but one week ago. He visited New York City and Washington D.C., and now he will visit Livermore. Glorious, typical, suburban Livermore. I am dying to know what he thinks. He's from the bold city of Amsterdam, has traveled extensively through Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Northern Africa, but I have a feeling this place will really surprise him. And cue culture shock.
I have an invested interest in this visitor for several reasons, the foremost being that he is my current beau. We're, ya know, going steady. Young love and all that sort of thing. His name is Jordi. And, to clarify, that is pronounced "Yordi" as the Dutch "j" makes a "y" sound. He often introduces himself to non-Dutch speakers as Jordi with a "j" sound, as though the real pronounciation is just so foreign and strange that our brains will blow a fuse and we won't be able to talk to him at all. Right.
When we first met and he introduced himself to me using this Englishified version of his name, I laughed and asked if it was a nickname. He said no, but thanks. I much prefer the Dutch version because it's cool and different and, to be frank, because the other version always makes me think of Geordi La Forge, the blind guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation who wore a visor over his eyes that looked like a headband.
You may also recognize him as LeVar Burton from Reading Rainbow.
My mom is a big Star Trek fan--always pining for Captain Jean-Luc Picard--and when we were kids we used to have to watch episodes with her in the evenings while we ate our ice cream. She had all the collectible ceramic plates hanging in the kitchen of our old house. There, I said it. I tell you this because I want you to know that I'm not familiar with Geordi La Forge because I am personally a fan. On that one, I'm guilty by association. But I did enjoy Reading Rainbow. Who didn't?
So, back to the matter at hand. Jordi is on his way here not only to see my roots, but also to join me on a 2-month road trip around California and other states in the West. So far, the trip is only very loosely planned, but there will be more to come on our adventures. After Mr. La Forge... I mean, Jordi... after Jordi leaves the U.S., he'll be flying to Guatemala and backpacking down there until he runs out of money or something else spurs him to go home, or somewhere else. As far as I know, that's his plan. You could say he is, in fact, like the Flying Dutchman, "a ghost ship that can never go home, doomed to sail the oceans forever." We have very different traveling styles.
This difference will account for many of our adventures, I'm sure, but I'm nothing but excited for the places we'll go and the things we'll learn from our surroundings and from each other. I mean, I can go anywhere! There are friends to know, and ways to grow...
But you don't have to take my word for it. Stay tuned.
Anyway, as we speak, there is a Dutchman flying over the continental USA, soon to land in San Francisco, get in a little Honda Fit, and be swept off to my home town. This mysterious individual stepped foot in our proud country for the first time but one week ago. He visited New York City and Washington D.C., and now he will visit Livermore. Glorious, typical, suburban Livermore. I am dying to know what he thinks. He's from the bold city of Amsterdam, has traveled extensively through Europe, Asia, the Middle East and Northern Africa, but I have a feeling this place will really surprise him. And cue culture shock.
I have an invested interest in this visitor for several reasons, the foremost being that he is my current beau. We're, ya know, going steady. Young love and all that sort of thing. His name is Jordi. And, to clarify, that is pronounced "Yordi" as the Dutch "j" makes a "y" sound. He often introduces himself to non-Dutch speakers as Jordi with a "j" sound, as though the real pronounciation is just so foreign and strange that our brains will blow a fuse and we won't be able to talk to him at all. Right.
When we first met and he introduced himself to me using this Englishified version of his name, I laughed and asked if it was a nickname. He said no, but thanks. I much prefer the Dutch version because it's cool and different and, to be frank, because the other version always makes me think of Geordi La Forge, the blind guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation who wore a visor over his eyes that looked like a headband.
So, back to the matter at hand. Jordi is on his way here not only to see my roots, but also to join me on a 2-month road trip around California and other states in the West. So far, the trip is only very loosely planned, but there will be more to come on our adventures. After Mr. La Forge... I mean, Jordi... after Jordi leaves the U.S., he'll be flying to Guatemala and backpacking down there until he runs out of money or something else spurs him to go home, or somewhere else. As far as I know, that's his plan. You could say he is, in fact, like the Flying Dutchman, "a ghost ship that can never go home, doomed to sail the oceans forever." We have very different traveling styles.
This difference will account for many of our adventures, I'm sure, but I'm nothing but excited for the places we'll go and the things we'll learn from our surroundings and from each other. I mean, I can go anywhere! There are friends to know, and ways to grow...
But you don't have to take my word for it. Stay tuned.
Here's something lovely.
The next time you want to buy a gift for a special someone (including yourself), consider supporting a local Bay Area artist, Rebecca Medrano, designer of Riella Creations. She makes truly beautiful jewelry by hand, each piece unique and from the heart. To browse her lovely creations, visit her etsy shop, and see what's new on her blog.
15 September 2009
Praying Agnostic
Tonight, as I was carrying my heavy Trader Joe's bag through the dark parking lot, I saw a mother and her child get out of the car next to mine. The mother wore lavendar scrubs and crocs, probably having finished a day of work at the nearby hospital, and her little boy, maybe 5 or 6, wore a bright tie-dye shirt. As she helped him climb out of her old minivan, an ambulance sped through town, its siren lifting a call of distress over the rooftops and down to our tired ears. She and her son exchanged a glance, and at once I saw his little hand sweep across his chest, making the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. He knew someone needed help, and he'd been taught that every little bit counts.
I'm not religious; my parents raised me in the Methodist church and I went with the trendy Christian kids to Young Life camp in high school, but I have since come to relate more to the agnostic belief system than anything else. Religious devotion is something that I fear at times, something that I often can't help but admire, and something that I will probably never understand.
Prayer, though...prayer is something this agnostic gets. I don't know if prayers are ever answered, or if anyone is listening, but I believe in sending positive energy into the universe, and in so doing nurturing one's own soul. I like to think that every source of love, every smile, every helping hand, every tiny plea for someone else's well-being, adds to the overall good of humankind and pumps the energy we all share with new light. Just as every tragedy, every hate, every insult or ill wish, hurts us all.
As the siren faded into the distance--a passing emergency that, this time, didn't involve us--I watched the boy finish his prayer and walk off, hand in hand with his mother, to help pick out groceries for a late dinner. After a few steps, she stopped to lean down and kiss his little face, then on they went. And now, sitting here in my quiet house, I find myself wanting to pray for them...whatever that means.
Maybe there is no sense, no purpose or meaning to life, to all of our daily toils and triumphs. Or, maybe, there is something that connects us all. I'll never claim to know what's going on, to know the answer, but I will always try to do good, to treat others right, and to send love into the world--even when that means merely closing my eyes and hoping that whoever is on the other end of that siren will be OK--because to me, that seems to be what matters most.
I'm not religious; my parents raised me in the Methodist church and I went with the trendy Christian kids to Young Life camp in high school, but I have since come to relate more to the agnostic belief system than anything else. Religious devotion is something that I fear at times, something that I often can't help but admire, and something that I will probably never understand.
Prayer, though...prayer is something this agnostic gets. I don't know if prayers are ever answered, or if anyone is listening, but I believe in sending positive energy into the universe, and in so doing nurturing one's own soul. I like to think that every source of love, every smile, every helping hand, every tiny plea for someone else's well-being, adds to the overall good of humankind and pumps the energy we all share with new light. Just as every tragedy, every hate, every insult or ill wish, hurts us all.
As the siren faded into the distance--a passing emergency that, this time, didn't involve us--I watched the boy finish his prayer and walk off, hand in hand with his mother, to help pick out groceries for a late dinner. After a few steps, she stopped to lean down and kiss his little face, then on they went. And now, sitting here in my quiet house, I find myself wanting to pray for them...whatever that means.
Maybe there is no sense, no purpose or meaning to life, to all of our daily toils and triumphs. Or, maybe, there is something that connects us all. I'll never claim to know what's going on, to know the answer, but I will always try to do good, to treat others right, and to send love into the world--even when that means merely closing my eyes and hoping that whoever is on the other end of that siren will be OK--because to me, that seems to be what matters most.
14 September 2009
Beautiful Botanicals
Over the weekend on a trip down to sunny LA, I enjoyed a lovely afternoon with my family at the Huntington Library. We took a liesurely stroll through the botanical gardens and saw some very old manuscripts, including Shakespeare's First Folio. These are a few of my favorite photos from that delightful Saturday afternoon.
Word.
Since I claim in my irresistably charming 'About Me' to be a big reader, I thought I might prove it to you all by sharing from time to time what it is that I'm currently falling asleep to when I go to bed every night.
At the moment, it is none other than The Lord of the Rings. Some of you may wonder why I hadn't already read this monstrosity, while others may wonder if it isn't a few too many elves and goblins for my liking. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a diehard H. Potter fan, but other than that the fantasy world is not one in which I spend much time. Be that as it may, I find myself thoroughly enjoying Frodo and company, and I certainly tip my hat to ol' Tolkien for doing it first.
I figured if I was going to embark on the quest to the land of Mordor where the shadows lie, I'd do it right. This includes a giant, red, 1200-and-some-page edition of the classic and reading about those pesky wraiths by a dying fire at a secluded camping spot in Norway, a black cliff stretching up behind me and a great, still lake curling around the rocks to my side. There could have been wraiths anywhere. Anywhere!
So I was enjoying all the orc-beheading goodness until a wicked combination of jet lag, too much time on the internet, and one very boring page rained all over my hobbit parade. I have been stuck on the same sentence halfway through the second volume for literally 2 weeks. I go to bed every night, settle in with the 10-pound book crushing my intestines, and read this:
I know I must press on, and I will finish this book. But let's just say it could be a good, long while before I am posting about new reading materials.
At the moment, it is none other than The Lord of the Rings. Some of you may wonder why I hadn't already read this monstrosity, while others may wonder if it isn't a few too many elves and goblins for my liking. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a diehard H. Potter fan, but other than that the fantasy world is not one in which I spend much time. Be that as it may, I find myself thoroughly enjoying Frodo and company, and I certainly tip my hat to ol' Tolkien for doing it first.
So I was enjoying all the orc-beheading goodness until a wicked combination of jet lag, too much time on the internet, and one very boring page rained all over my hobbit parade. I have been stuck on the same sentence halfway through the second volume for literally 2 weeks. I go to bed every night, settle in with the 10-pound book crushing my intestines, and read this:
The day passed uneasily. They lay deep in the heather and counted out the slow hours, in which there seemed little change; for they were still under the shadows of the Ephel Duath...And then, like wizard magic, I am unconscious.
I know I must press on, and I will finish this book. But let's just say it could be a good, long while before I am posting about new reading materials.
08 September 2009
Gimme S'more
I hope you all had a great long Labor Day weekend! I missed 4th of July this year, and I've been out of the country for the last two Thanksgivings, but dammit! I was here for Labor Day. And with the heat we're having this week, it doesn't feel like the end of summer to me. Though, I guess that's also probably because I don't have a job and don't go to school and am, all things considered, a feckless vagabond contributing nothing to society.
Happy Labor Day!
Anyway, on the topic of the good ol' U.S. of A., there are things I'm not too thrilled to be back for, but I won't get into that now. What I am thrilled to be back for is the food. The food you just can't get in Europe and that I've unsuccessfully tried explaining to my European friends far too often than they cared for, I'm sure. I'm talking about Mexican food, burgers (real burgers), big giant salads with names like 'Wiqui Waqui BBQ Chicken' or 'Quesadilla Explosion.'
I can't tell you how difficult it was for me to explain s'mores to the four Dutch people and one Danish person I went camping with in the Netherlands in the spring. They don't have graham crackers in Holland, of course, and nothing really resembling them (aside from maybe speculaas, a kind of cinnamon cookie), so from the get go it was a challenge. They're like, "you eat burnt marshmallows with crackers?"
What they came up with were the cheapest cookies they could find (being Dutch) and multicolored marshmallows that were at least the right size. The cookies were plain, round, with one side coated in chocolate. So not the idea. And instead of roasting the marshmallows on the long sticks that I meticulously selected from the firewood and then placing the hot gooey puff in between two cookies, they used little wooden grill skewers, basically like big toothpicks, and stuck them through both cookies and the marshmallow and held the whole sloppy thing over the fire. This, of course, failed. At one point they were using empty Heineken cans to prop the ridiculous cookie sandwiches up near the fire, because the tiny skewers they tried using were of course too small and didn't allow enough distance between hand and flame for proper roasting. Essentially, it was a disaster.
One of these amateur Dutchmen will be arriving in California in a matter of days, and I can't wait to show him how it's really done. As for me, I'll go on enjoying my favorite American fare until the next time I go abroad. Like yesterday, when my mom made ribs, corn on the cob, and this delicious apple pie:
It's good to be home. And now, hungry readers, I'm going out with my brother to get a legit steak burrito the size of my arm from a cockroach-infested hole, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Lekker!
Happy Labor Day!
Anyway, on the topic of the good ol' U.S. of A., there are things I'm not too thrilled to be back for, but I won't get into that now. What I am thrilled to be back for is the food. The food you just can't get in Europe and that I've unsuccessfully tried explaining to my European friends far too often than they cared for, I'm sure. I'm talking about Mexican food, burgers (real burgers), big giant salads with names like 'Wiqui Waqui BBQ Chicken' or 'Quesadilla Explosion.'
I can't tell you how difficult it was for me to explain s'mores to the four Dutch people and one Danish person I went camping with in the Netherlands in the spring. They don't have graham crackers in Holland, of course, and nothing really resembling them (aside from maybe speculaas, a kind of cinnamon cookie), so from the get go it was a challenge. They're like, "you eat burnt marshmallows with crackers?"
What they came up with were the cheapest cookies they could find (being Dutch) and multicolored marshmallows that were at least the right size. The cookies were plain, round, with one side coated in chocolate. So not the idea. And instead of roasting the marshmallows on the long sticks that I meticulously selected from the firewood and then placing the hot gooey puff in between two cookies, they used little wooden grill skewers, basically like big toothpicks, and stuck them through both cookies and the marshmallow and held the whole sloppy thing over the fire. This, of course, failed. At one point they were using empty Heineken cans to prop the ridiculous cookie sandwiches up near the fire, because the tiny skewers they tried using were of course too small and didn't allow enough distance between hand and flame for proper roasting. Essentially, it was a disaster.
One of these amateur Dutchmen will be arriving in California in a matter of days, and I can't wait to show him how it's really done. As for me, I'll go on enjoying my favorite American fare until the next time I go abroad. Like yesterday, when my mom made ribs, corn on the cob, and this delicious apple pie:
07 September 2009
Eeny meeny miny mo
So the current happenings in my life are... um, let's see... mostly just trying to figure out WHAT THE HELL TO DO WITH IT. I spent a shiftless year in Europe, my greatest ambitions to maintain sanity while two heart-stealing little boys (or vampires, if you'd rather) sucked all the energy right out of me, and to see as many different places as I could cram into 3-day weekends.
Now I have a 2-3 month road trip with a foreigner planned (more on that later) around this vast, American wonderland we call the wild, wild West. After that, your guess is as good as mine. It'll either be more travel (possibly funded by teaching English to eager learners on a continent I have yet to explore) grad school (should I be foolish enough to undertake the application process while on the road), or moving to San Francisco or New York and knocking on doors until some merciful soul hires me.
Here, ladies and gentlemen, are the options I've laid out before me. The first step is to choose one, then narrow things down within that vague selection, then figure out how to make something work. Sounds easy! Now, where do I begin...?
Oh right, I have no clue.
This is where you come in, my older and much wiser (or is it wiser and much older?) readers. I'm not shy to admit that I'm currently floundering in a rough sea of possibilities, so I've certainly had advice dumped on me before by those who will listen to my wretched 23-year-old woes. Most people just smile and shake their head at me, fondly recalling that happy-go-lucky time when they had nothing but freedom and a rusty volkswagen.
They say, "Don't worry! Follow your heart and the right opportunity will present itself in good time. You just have to make sure you take it." Then I nod and breathe a sigh of relief before I go home and make myself blind and dizzy sitting in front of the dim computer screen scrolling through ten million job postings, university websites, and volunteer abroad programs waiting for the "right opportunity" to present itself. Then, my brain explodes. This has happened more times than I can count. Apparently, the internet does not have all the answers. Maybe I should try searching 'my soul' on Google or Wikipedia.
So what I'm wondering is this: how did you all come to decisions back when the world was your proverbial oyster? The way everyone else talks about it, you'd think they rolled through life without any stress at all over what to do next, where to go, or who to go there with. "Oh, I moved here, then got this job, then we met, then we went here, then we traveled, then we got married, then he got this job, then I got my masters here, then we moved..." Were things actually simpler back then? Or do people just tend to forget how hard it was to decide (and agree on) all that stuff?
If you have a nugget of wisdom you'd like share with me, please leave a comment. I promise, anything would be appreciated. Maybe you want to tell me to get a grip and be a grown up and stop dicking around on Blogger when I could be doing something productive. If so, that's fine too. I'll take anything.
Now I have a 2-3 month road trip with a foreigner planned (more on that later) around this vast, American wonderland we call the wild, wild West. After that, your guess is as good as mine. It'll either be more travel (possibly funded by teaching English to eager learners on a continent I have yet to explore) grad school (should I be foolish enough to undertake the application process while on the road), or moving to San Francisco or New York and knocking on doors until some merciful soul hires me.
Here, ladies and gentlemen, are the options I've laid out before me. The first step is to choose one, then narrow things down within that vague selection, then figure out how to make something work. Sounds easy! Now, where do I begin...?
Oh right, I have no clue.
They say, "Don't worry! Follow your heart and the right opportunity will present itself in good time. You just have to make sure you take it." Then I nod and breathe a sigh of relief before I go home and make myself blind and dizzy sitting in front of the dim computer screen scrolling through ten million job postings, university websites, and volunteer abroad programs waiting for the "right opportunity" to present itself. Then, my brain explodes. This has happened more times than I can count. Apparently, the internet does not have all the answers. Maybe I should try searching 'my soul' on Google or Wikipedia.
So what I'm wondering is this: how did you all come to decisions back when the world was your proverbial oyster? The way everyone else talks about it, you'd think they rolled through life without any stress at all over what to do next, where to go, or who to go there with. "Oh, I moved here, then got this job, then we met, then we went here, then we traveled, then we got married, then he got this job, then I got my masters here, then we moved..." Were things actually simpler back then? Or do people just tend to forget how hard it was to decide (and agree on) all that stuff?
If you have a nugget of wisdom you'd like share with me, please leave a comment. I promise, anything would be appreciated. Maybe you want to tell me to get a grip and be a grown up and stop dicking around on Blogger when I could be doing something productive. If so, that's fine too. I'll take anything.
06 September 2009
ripe for the picking
I was just scrolling through my iPhoto and decided to start sharing some of my favorite photos with you every so often. I'll just pick out one from time to time and post it to give the bloggy a little color and something to look at. Ya know, for those times when you can't bare to read another word of my infinitely insightful written treasures.
For starters, here's a produce shop in Madrid. We bought bananas and tangerines, and the tangerines mysteriously disappeared before we got around to eating them. Their whereabouts remain a mystery.
05 September 2009
The Wheels on the Bus go... where?
As you all know, I've returned to California. Livermore, California to be precise. This is the town where I grew up and where my parents still live. It's a town I know and love, and can't help but appreciate for its quirks and eccentricities--usually hidden behind the guise of typical American suburbia.
We have, for example, the longest burning lightbulb ever recorded in history. Seriously, it's in the Guinness Book of World Records. It hangs from a single wire in the fire station, and has been burning for over one hundred years. We also have a rodeo every summer and, even better, a rodeo parade. There's a lovely little downtown area with great restaurants, even greater dive bars, and a sex shop called 'Not too Naughty' right next door to the frozen yogurt shop.
Don't get me wrong, Livermore is really a lovely place. It's surrounded by golden brown hills scattered with around 30 small wineries and vineyards, the weekly farmers' market is one of the better ones I've been to, the ale house on First Street serves the best burgers and fries I have yet to find anywhere. But with all the small town charm you ever wanted, the place can still be a little dull.
Tonight I joined my parents at a free outdoor concernt where the grass is covered with people on blankets and lawn chairs picnicking and drinking wine as the sun goes down. My parents go every Friday. It's a lovely way to spend a summer evening.
While we sat there sipping our Livermore chardonnay out of plastic cups, eating 'white' oreos and observing the people around us, my mom said that when they get bored they watch the buses come and go and make fun of the people getting on and off. My dad chimed in enthusiastically. "Oh yeah, I'd say at least 30 or 40 buses go by here every night!" He was sincerely excited and after much teasing from my brother and I, continued to point out every bus that went by, partly to make fun of himself, and partly, well, because he noticed them.
It's definitely an adjustment to land back in good ol' Livermore after living in Amsterdam. When I mentioned this, my mom argued that we weren't actually in Livermore for the concert, but rather Pleasanton, the adjacent town. I told her yeah, we had to leave Livermore to find entertainment as enthralling as counting the buses that go by.
But hey, tomorrow I'm gonna get me one of those half-pound burgers, on Thursday I'm gonna go to the farmers market, and as soon as possible we'll all go out on a day of marathon wine tasting, because that's just what you do in Livermore. Although you may not be able to tell by passing through, it's a place unlike any other. And if I do get bored during my visit here, I can always count on my parents to keep things interesting.
We have, for example, the longest burning lightbulb ever recorded in history. Seriously, it's in the Guinness Book of World Records. It hangs from a single wire in the fire station, and has been burning for over one hundred years. We also have a rodeo every summer and, even better, a rodeo parade. There's a lovely little downtown area with great restaurants, even greater dive bars, and a sex shop called 'Not too Naughty' right next door to the frozen yogurt shop.
Don't get me wrong, Livermore is really a lovely place. It's surrounded by golden brown hills scattered with around 30 small wineries and vineyards, the weekly farmers' market is one of the better ones I've been to, the ale house on First Street serves the best burgers and fries I have yet to find anywhere. But with all the small town charm you ever wanted, the place can still be a little dull.
Tonight I joined my parents at a free outdoor concernt where the grass is covered with people on blankets and lawn chairs picnicking and drinking wine as the sun goes down. My parents go every Friday. It's a lovely way to spend a summer evening.
While we sat there sipping our Livermore chardonnay out of plastic cups, eating 'white' oreos and observing the people around us, my mom said that when they get bored they watch the buses come and go and make fun of the people getting on and off. My dad chimed in enthusiastically. "Oh yeah, I'd say at least 30 or 40 buses go by here every night!" He was sincerely excited and after much teasing from my brother and I, continued to point out every bus that went by, partly to make fun of himself, and partly, well, because he noticed them.
But hey, tomorrow I'm gonna get me one of those half-pound burgers, on Thursday I'm gonna go to the farmers market, and as soon as possible we'll all go out on a day of marathon wine tasting, because that's just what you do in Livermore. Although you may not be able to tell by passing through, it's a place unlike any other. And if I do get bored during my visit here, I can always count on my parents to keep things interesting.
Who wouldn't love a nervous piece of bacon?
04 September 2009
My bathroom calendar didn't prepare me for this.
After a 24 hours of travel, I am now back in California feeling appropriately strange after having spent a year on another continent, with just one stateside visit over Christmas. It's been a while, and I found myself searching for the flush handle on the toilet at my parents' house because it of course isn't a plastic button to push on top, like I'm now used to. Welkom in Amerika!
The night before I left Amsterdam, my boyfriend finished reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig's popular 1974 philosophical memoir. He closed the book and sat there quietly watching me pack up all my things, my face red and tear-stained from a few emotional goodbyes earlier that evening. It was hard for us not to be nostalgic as we thought about our time in Amsterdam together and separately. It's been his home all his life, and now having finished school, he'll be traveling and living out of a backpack indefinitely so he's got some goodbyes to say too.
I told him I'd rather not think about any of it if I can help it, that leaving is hard enough as it is and I can't be getting all choked up over good times that ended too soon. Then he reached for his book again and showed me the beginning of Pirsig's afterward about the ancient Greek view of time.
But it's here. It's September. My year of few responsibilities and European escapades has come to a close, and I'm back in the States getting dangerously close to decision-making time. How the hell did that happen?
I guess all I can do for now is take baby steps backwards into the future, blindly groping for the best choice, the best opportunity, and hope I don't trip on the way. And I suppose I'll allow myself a little nostalgia. The memories of my past are fond, and they deserve some attention.
I told him I'd rather not think about any of it if I can help it, that leaving is hard enough as it is and I can't be getting all choked up over good times that ended too soon. Then he reached for his book again and showed me the beginning of Pirsig's afterward about the ancient Greek view of time.
They saw the future as something that came upon them from behind their backs with the past receding away before their eyes.I wonder if the Greek say anything about how fast the future comes upon you from behind your back. Do they mention how even with a calendar hanging over your toilet, a countdown widget on your dashboard, and every rational molecule in your brain reminding you that time is passing, that September is here, you'll still be blindsided, rammed and plowed over by the future?
When you think about it, that's a more accurate metaphor than our present one. Who really can face the future? All you can do is project from the past, even when the past shows that such projections are often wrong. And who really can forget the past? What else is there to know?
But it's here. It's September. My year of few responsibilities and European escapades has come to a close, and I'm back in the States getting dangerously close to decision-making time. How the hell did that happen?
I guess all I can do for now is take baby steps backwards into the future, blindly groping for the best choice, the best opportunity, and hope I don't trip on the way. And I suppose I'll allow myself a little nostalgia. The memories of my past are fond, and they deserve some attention.
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