The Penultimate Week of the Decade

OMG it's almost 2010, a decade gone, blah blah blah. I could post about how we were all freaking out about 10 years ago and stocking up on water and band-aids due to the potential demise of the entire world. Blah, blah, how boring.

Last weekend, I got snowed into Boston. Now that's exciting. I've never been snowed in anywhere. I mean properly snowed in. Like snowed in you're-supposed-to-be-somewhere-else snowed in. Yeah, kinda "sucked" that I couldn't get to work. Actually, I kind of felt bad. And it was incredibly boring. Resa and Keph were going to teach me about football, but then that game was cancelled. So no go.

But then two days later I was in LA. And it was not snowing. Which is normal. It was also sunny half the time and overcast the other half. Which is normal. And I sat around my parents house doing absolutely nothing. Which is normal. And kind of like being snowed into Boston. Except in Boston all I had was a food court. In LA I had an entire house, which is less boring. And my family, which at least gives me the oppurtunity to get mad at someone. My Dad also recently got a machine that can convert VHS to DVD, so I spent some time watching 7 year old Callan at dance recitals. OMG I was horrible. But I was able to confirm my dance skill improvement by watching a much later performance. Damn was I good ten years later.

And then it hits me, god, it's been ten years. I remember the last ten years. All of it, well except for that one night, no just kidding. But seriously 10 years. Here's to the next decade being a lot better. This decade promises no puberty, no high school, no exams, more writing time, more theatre time, more friend time and lots of exciting possibilities. I like possiblities, the way I like white paper, so full of promise and titillation, it could become anything, a new play, a love letter, a paper airplane, it is only limited by its own four edges. Here's to the next 10 years only being limited by its 3652 days. Here! Here!

Chowder Cha-Cha

Over the last two weeks I tried three - read it - THREE different clam chowders. One in Boston - yes Dad, REAL Boston Clam Chowder (from the Green Dragon, like in LOTR [yes I just had a dork-out moment]). One from Whole Foods and a third from The Getty in LA.

And the winner is The Green Dragon.

Whole Soups

Despite the intense disappointment brought about by New York Magazine's list of New York's 50 tastiest soups, I realized that their soup list was from actual restaurants. I choose - for the most part - to cover quick lunch soup spots. Soups for on the go New Yorkers to grab and slurp with a vengeance. This way New Yorkers will have a complete - a whole, if you will - soup experience. Which leads me to my liquid thoughts on Union Square's most grab and go food destination: WHOLE FOODS.

In addition to having a fabulous salad bar, Whole Foods, has a really awesome soup bar. They have eight selections which change regularly. You can scoop the soup yourself into a variety of sized containers. Unfortunately, they don't have re-usable soup bowls for customers who stay, the way they do for the salad.

On Tuesday, I scooped up a small bowl of butternut squash soup and a small bowl of apple pumpkin soup - I couldn't resist. The butternut squash was pretty much prefect. The only better I've had was from the Harrison, and they topped it with toasted pumpkin seeds. I wasn't sure what to expect with the apple pumpkin soup as I've never in all my soup eating days encountered such a liquid concoction. It was darker in colour than the butternut soup, and milder in flavour. It wasn't actually any sweeter, but it was more dense and thicker. On the whole I preferred the butternut squash and probably wouldn't buy the apple pumpkin again. But if I ever crave squash submitted to a blender I would definitely indulge the craving with this butternut squash soup. This soup really is a whole 'nother thing.

Reflections in Soup

If you've ever tried to look at your own reflection in a bowl of soup, you know what a messy affair it is. If you haven't tried, don't, you'll wind up with a carrot in your eye and a noodle coming out your nose.

This Tuesday I shuttled myself and my cohort in soup down to Katz's deli on Houston. Yes, the famous Katz's, where I've never managed to haul myself before. I was also meeting a friend and her friend from Scotland. So on the whole I was excited about this lunch excursion.

I got the matzoh ball soup. A soup I've been craving since I got back from Scotland. Which is actually kind of strange, because I never much ate it before. But I think in my mind matzoh ball soup came to define everything I couldn't get in Scotland - except for my friends who I could telephone. It's very difficult to call a bowl of matzoh ball soup and have a conversation with it.

I find the problem with matzoh ball soup is that it is always one giant ball of matzoh. I always want it to be like two or three smaller balls floating in my bowl of chicken brothy goodness. It was oily, but not salty, everything you could ask for in a deli chicken broth.

I rounded out the meal with a mozzarella grilled cheese, a combination you could probably only in New York City. It was perfect.

In other news, I never did find out what she was having.

Solace

Why is it that no one can offer me words of comfort that stop my brain from turn and wheeling and stumbling over the biggest stress of my life? Why do I feel like I'm falling but not going down? And there are no resolutions in sight. No places for me to sit, and rest and dream of something else.

I recently finished reading W.S. Merwin's translation of Dante's 'Purgatorio'. It's a poem so full of hope and action on longing, and yet I take no solace from it. Dante might find his Beatrice after seeking her through Hell and climbing the mountain of Purgatory, but I cannot see over the next ridge of the journey and I am no where near to Dante's trial. While Dante seeks his answers among the dead, I keep living. And keep looking to live. And keep working at life. And grabbing at new pieces of it. Perhaps searching for something. Perhaps...

I know why I went to Scotland now. It took too long to figure out. I was looking for something. I didn't think I was yet old enough for a quarter life crisis, but that's the thing about life, you don't really know how long it is or how much you've really lived. I fought through a year of knowing that everything I went searching for I had actually left behind. But the thing about a wild, mad, desperate search is that even if you don't find what you want, or realize you've already lost it, you do find other things. I would not give up the things I found for anything in the world. And I think the pain was part of the finding. And I'm not just saying that because I'm an artist. The true conundrum is that you can't have the things you found and the things you left behind together. By definition that must remain apart. And no amount of wishing can bridge the distance of a year.

I found the following in a footnote to Purgatorio. It is the second most beautiful thing I've read in years. The first still being 'The Girl with Glass Feet'.

I have seen the bright star of the morning

that appears before the break of day

take the form of a human figure shining

above all others, as it seems to me.

A countenance of snow colored with scarlet,

eyes shining and full of love and joy-
I cannot believe the world has in it

a Christian girl so full of good and beauty.

And from the love of her I am overtaken

by so violent an attack of sighing

that I do not dare say a word before her.

If only she could know my desire

without my speaking she might show compassion

and so reward me for my suffering.

-Guido Guinizzello (1235-1276)

I usually don't hold with writing about my personal stress in such a direct way, and yes, this is as direct as I'm going to write about my personal stress on this blog. But sometimes I just need to spill, even when nothing directly references the stressor. This is by way of an apology to anyone not interested in this post at all.

Pride and Prejudice and ZOMBIES!!!

I would probably have never read 'Pride and Prejudice' without the ZOMBIES. I hadn't yet, and my opinion of the literature from the period, written by women is not very high. But throw in some Zombies, and hot damn, sign me up.

However, I probably would never have gotten around to actually buying 'Pride and Prejudice and ZOMBIES' (emphasis mine). But I would have tried to borrow a copy. Lucky for me, there are wonderful people in the world, who also think I would enjoy this book - without the two of us discussing it - and think it an appropriate birthday gift. And they were right.

And it really was just as exciting as I had personally hyped it up to be. Austen should never be read without the inclusion of ZOMBIES.

A Lack of Soup

Sadly, my December first had a distinct lack of soup. However, if I had not been running around doing errands at odd intervals, I would have made soup.

I'm sure some of you still have a turkey carcass sitting in your fridge, with really not enough meat to make a sandwich. Have I got a solution for you. Turkey Soup.

Take that turkey carcass and chop it into more manageable pieces (halves, quarters, you get the point). Dump those puppies in a pot of water (any size you want, depending on how much soup you want to end up with). Boil that sucker for an hour or so. Then turn off the heat and let it cool down a little. When it's cool enough scrap off as much of the left over meat off the bones as possible. Throw out the bones, give the broth a stir and put the whole thing in the fridge.

Let that sit in the fridge for a day, or until the fat has solidified on the top into a gross white layer. Scoop that layer off and throw it away. It's gross. You don't want to eat it.

Now that you've de-gross-ified your broth pop that pot back on the stove and start bringing it back to a simmer. While that's doing its thing. Start chopping up the other stuff you want to put in that soup.

My recommendation for soup contents (in the most random order possible):
- carrots
- sweet frozen corn
- white onions
- scallions
- thyme
- rosemary
- oregano
- frozen peas
- rice or barley
- potato (although I'm aware that some people feel cheated by potatoes in soup)
- broccoli

Now chop up that onion and that scallion and saute them together in butter. Yes, butter, lots of butter. Throw some oregano into that saute pan (or frying pan if you don't have fancy pans). Pour the whole thing - yes all that melted butter - into the broth. Give the broth a stir.

Chop up your carrots and potatoes and put those into the broth. Add in the rosemary and thyme or whatever herbs you fancy. Let that simmer for about an hour. Or until the carrots and potatoes are just about soft.

Now put in the broccoli and rice or barley. Let that continue cooking for about 2o minutes or so.

About 15 minutes before you're going to serve it put in the frozen peas and sweet corn. You want to keep them fresh. That's the reason you don't put everything in the pot at the same time. Particularly the rice or barley, which can get way too over cooked and just melt into the broth and do horrible things to your soup.

When you put in the peas and corn, taste the soup. Actually taste it all along the way. But if the soup doesn't taste "finished" or like "something's missing" you have two options. 1) chop some bacon into small pieces and fry it in lots of butter, the pour it all into the soup. 2) or just put in a chunk of butter. Yes, seriously, just add some butter. Give it a stir. Let simmer a little longer and serve.

Serve in a bowl - cause it's soup moron - with perhaps some croutons on top, or some cheese and croutons. It depends on what you like.

Best wishes. Hope your Dec 1 was filled with more soup than mine.

Cobbles

Has anyone else ever noticed that cobblers are people who fix your shoes and cobblestones are things that ruin your shoes.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Returning to Soup

This week's adventure in soup brought my cohort and I back to an old steadfast: Karen's on Astor place. As I spooned warm broth into my mouth, I spooned memories into my soul. memories of weekly lunch dates with close friends where we tipped out the problems of the week, and filled ourselves with warm soupy goodness.

This time was not too much different. I had the broccoli rabe and white bean soup and my friend had the chicken and vegetable. Now, in years previous, I have loved all Karen's soups, but today it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be. I added a small packet of salt and that seemed to help. I also felt the same about my cohorts soup, but I couldn't force him to add salt to his. Mind you I was a girl raised on Campbell's soups, where the sodium content is through the roof. So I've come to believe that salty soup is the norm. Although this was never a complain on previous visits to Karen's.

All the vegetables in both the broccoli rabe and the chicken vegetable were perfectly tender and holding their shape until crushed. And the brocoli rabe's tomato broth was the perfect balance between watery and think. The chicken vegetable was a golden shiny chicken broth.

Ultimately, if you like not salty soup Karen's is for you.

The Professional

I have now entered the realm of professional writer. I got my first writing check in the mail yesterday. I'm writing for an as of yet not launched website. My editor tells me it will be launched in Russian first. So when I become a professionally published writer it will be in Russian. Yes, that's right. I'm going to be published in Russian. I know exactly 3 people who will be able to read it. And then 2 more who might be able to read it. I am in neither category. It will give an entirely new meaning to not being able to read what I've written. Normally, my handwriting is just too sloppy, but this time it will be in a foreign language. I wonder if my wit translates into Russian.

I would also like to point out to all my dramatic writing friends that because this is not a dramatic writing gig I do not need to get a tattoo as per anyone's deal. Just in case anyone asks. No way no how. Unless of course I get some wicked cool phrase in Russian that I'll never understand, cause then the tat doesn't really count.

Adventures in Soup

Apolegizes for the late review. My tuesday become incredible full.

For the premiere of Adventures in Soup I headed over to lower Chelsea and picked up my partner in soup from work and we went across the street to Rocking Horse Cafe. (8th Ave and 19th st) It's a cute, hip and sexy Mexican restaurant that aims at making mexican food haute. It was rather empty for lunch when I walked in, but it was a little late for lunch.

They only have "soupa del dia". They had a cauliflower soup and a spicy chicken. We ordered both. The cauliflower soup didn't look like too much in the bowl, but it was a creamed spoonful of cauliflower goodness, topped off with crispy duck. It was also topped with some sort of oil something, but the waiter spoke too fast for me to catch what it was. It didn't add any flavor and being a New York female my first thought was of my thighs. So if you can, order without - if you worry about things like thighs. Behind all the flavors of the soup was the slightest hint of anise. Intriguing. It's the kind of soup you'd want to curl up into and watch a snow storm.

The spicy chicken was indeed spicy and full of chicken. But not too full. It reminded me of a cross between torilla soup and minestrone. The heat lingered in my mouth a little too long, but the avocado on top helped cool that a little. I liked it, but the whole time wished it wasn't quite as lingeringly spicy. And I'm a fan of spicy.

If you want Mexican-ish soups I'd go here. But if you just want a really good soup I'd go somewhere else. Hopefully I'll find that place in the coming weeks.

The Girl with Glass Feet

One of the perks of my life is getting copies of books before they are released. This book was the best thing to come out of this life perk.

"The Girl with the Glass Feet" by Ali Shaw is probably the best book I've read in the last 10 years. When it finally hits the book shelves in January everyone should buy a copy. EVERYONE. I'd buy everyone a copy for Christmas, but it wouldn't be out so you'll have to either a) buy it yourself. or b) tell me you're willing to wait. Mind you if you tell me you're willing to wait you're making the assumption that you're on my Christmas gift list. So think before you send that email. Just kidding. If you're not on the list I'll pretend the email never made it to spare the awkwardness. I promise.

What you need to know about this book is that my best friend and I agree that it is the most beautiful kind of sad and "gorgeously painful".

As the title makes obvious the focal character has glass feet (I'm loath to say main character, because it's not that easy). The book explores the inhabitants of a small Northern island as the girl with the glass feet searches for an answer to her peculiar physiognomy. Through her journey she forces the people who she seeks out for help to confront the solidarity of the lives they have built themselves.

This book will make you both want to grab life by every piece of its existence; drink it up, slurp it down, chew it up and roll around in the glory of it. It also makes you want to stop and notice the flowers emerging from the winter snow, a fish jumping through the ocean's waves and the crinkles around the eyes of your best friends when they laugh just so. And make you cry for the joy and beauty even in the most sad of times.

Gay Marriage

In an article on Gay Marriage - or as my friend has taken to calling it "Genderless Marriage" a term I have decided to adopted - Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi are called Ms. DeGeneres and Ms. de Rossi. Normally I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But they're married. It didn't seem like the right titles. Mind you I'm not a big fan of titles generally in newspaper articles, I think all readers will understand who is meant by "DeGeneres", rather than "Ms. DeGeneres". Which, as a side note, completely relates to our cultural obsession with forcing gender identities on to living things. I mean who cares if that PERSON walking down the street is "male" or "female". Does it matter? Really? In the larger scheme of things? As long as they've found someone they can happily get freakly with in their own bedroom I don't care what pronoun may or may not be referred to using.

Returning to DeGeneres and de Rossi. Why are they "Ms. DeGeneres and Ms. de Rossi" rather than "Mrs. and Mrs. DeGeneres and de Rossi"? Did the writer think their readers would assume they were married to other people, even when the entire article was about their marriage to EACH OTHER? "Mrs." is the married female title. They are both married females. They just happen to be married to another female. So what? They're still married. They can legally commit adultery.

But let's just get rid of titles. How about it? We don't officially recognize soveriegn titles, so why these? Mind you I see no problem with academic titles as they are already genderless.

Down with gendered titles. Down with them.

Tuesday is Soup Day

As of this coming Tuesday, the 17 of November every Tuesday is Soup day. Which means Tuesday night a new post will go up reviewing my Tuesday Adventures in Soup. Now why would I want to review soup EVERY week. Well my friend, I'll tell you.

As fall descends upon us - and then bounces back into the clouds and then tries falling again, because he didn't quite do a good job the first time - the diets of New Yorkers become more liquid based. The intake of soup in the city nearly doubles during these colder months. And if you're eating that yummy liquid goodness so much more often you want to know exactly which soups are worth your time to slurp.

As a preview of what's to come, I stopped by Hale and Hearty Soups on Bryant Park yesterday, just to test run my tasting abilities. I had the Tomato Basil with rice soup. On the whole it tasted like eating tomato sauce. Which it kind of is. So if you're really into tomato sauce, then this soup is for you. You could stop into any location fo Hale and Hearty and get yourself a bowl full. However, I'm more into my soup not tasting like tomato sauce. Mind you I'm not much of a tomato sauce person when it's supposed to be tomato sauce. It did have the consistancy of soup. Soup with chunks of stuff in it, which is good for a soup. If there's not stuff in it, really it's just broth and that's such a tease. I'm not a fan of being teased by soup in this way. There are other ways soup can tease you and I'm totally down. But not like this.

I look forward to seeing all your eye balls back here on Tuesday for another addition of Adventures in Soup.

Plays I wanna see soon

In the Next Room; or the vibrator play by Sarah Ruhl
Superior Donuts by Tracy Letts

And these because I I'd much rather see a play than read it.
Oleana
Brighton Beach Memoires
Our Town

If you're interesting in seeing these with me let me know.

It's that time of the Play again

What to call that damn thing that I've just been refering to as 'the surfer play' for almost a year now. While that moniker does have a ring to it, and the play is about surfers, someone its feels like its not quite a real title. Any thoughts are greatly appreciated. Its a very realist magical realism play, emphasis on the realism and everyone is a surfer. Takes place Venice Beach, LA.

So, the list thus far:

Floating
Drifting
Ripin'
Ripin' (or the surfer play)
This Play is about Surfers (seriously, dude!)
You know, the one with the surfers. And the thing.

As you can see I've been really inspired in terms of titles.

Caribbean

The five of us in a clean Mexican tourist port. Look how santized our surroundings are. Just look. We did get a chance for a quick tour through where the people of Cozumel live. I wish I could have walked through though, it's hard to take photos from a moving bus.

GIRLS ON A BOAT!!! Writers Gone Wild! Look at them they're going CRAZY. on the inside. can't you tell?

I'm sure this picture will look better without me blocking the view and mucking up the image.

Much better. Isn't that a lovely beach. Cozumel folks. Paradise Beach. Just after all the tourists left and the beachside bars shut and the employees when home. So it truely was beautiful.

Caves in Cozumel. Jules, Resa and I were shown these caves on our "Jungle Hike" to explore "Mayan Ruins". Which amounted to a long walk through an overgrown fruit ranch to look at piles of rocks. Mostly disappointing. The only thing we were able to bring back from that trek were hundred of mosquito bites. So I guess it wasn't a total loss.

This was the one pile of ruins that was actually rather interesting. As you could still see the stairs and the shape of the structure. But you could also see the force of the jungle claiming back what rightfully belongs to the wild. The King James bible says "for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Genesis 3:19). But in truth we are not dust, we are life and to life we will return. tucked into the folds of the earth we move towards to light stretching new leaves sunward wriggling new toes in the same earth.

This truck made me think of Cuba.

PIE ON A STICK!!! What more could you possibly want in life? I mean really? Really? If you have a thought spill it, cause I think I could now die happy. Its actually frozen key lime pie covered in chocolate on a stick. Ummmm Pie on a Stick. I'm also in Key West, so Key Lime pie is absolutely appropriate. As a fan of pie in general, I'm not all that keen on Key Lime pie to be honest, and I was that entire piece. The whole shabang on a stick. I ate it. This girl. First Key Lime pie I've ever one that too. Usually I take a bite and decide "nope not really me cup of tea". At which point my mother reminds me that I'm tasting a piece of pie, which is why it's nothing like a cup of tea. But if you're ever in Key West, seriously, don't resist being the tourist, try the pie.

This movie theatre was so cute I had to take a picture. I wish I had had time to look inside. It just makes me want to pinch it's cheeks.

Three of my travelling friends standing at the Southern most point of the United States. Nothing but ocean for ninety miles until you run ashore on Cuba. At which point you quite to yourself an appropriate line from Monty Python "run away!"

Key West cocks. That's right. I said it. They have a special kind of cock in Key West. They're protected. These cocks don't get caught, shot and eaten. No cream of cock soup is made of these birds. No way, no how. They are left to their own devices all day. Just left to peck around willy nilly as they chose, chasing chicken tail or pecking at holes in the ground. Lucky son of a cock.

Dear Blog,

Oh, I'm so sorry I have ignored you. I have been much too wrapped up, I in other types of words. You see, I discovered reading for pleasure. Its this thing people do when they don't have books forced upon them. They read whatever they want. As fast or slow as they please. I'm having the most marvellous time. But, dear Blog, I promise, I will return to you. I have so many wonderful thought that this reading for pleasure has sparked in my brain. Soon I'll need to share them with someone. And, sweet Blog, why not you?

Two Weeks and Counting

I've officially been a school free adult for two weeks now and what do I have to show for it?

Well, my work keeps paying me. That's something.

I typed up a scene for my new play and successfully changed all the character's names.

Next week I'm going on a cruise to the Caribbean with my best friends.

I suppose this is adulthood. Life just keeps rolling along, each day passing and being forgotten. Part of it is releaving. No deadlines to worry about. No silly writing assignments meant to stretch my brain. No unsolicited brain stretching of any kind. Lots of reading for pleasure. Lots of sitting home in my pajamas because I don't want to take the bus into the sitting. Lots of free time to let my brain wander over the problems of any of the plays I've ever written (On which note, I think I finally solved a massive problem in a play I wrote four years ago. Now, I'm deciding if the play is worth rewriting at all).

I suppose this is a really long winded way of saying that my life is pretty boring at the moment.

The First Day of the rest of my Life

I turned in my master's thesis on Wednesday. Printed it out, bound it together and mailed it to Scotland. I'm longer a student. Everything I've known for the last twenty years of my life is no more.

It is the most liberating feeling ever.

Despite that I know I'll go back for a doctorate eventually - the most stressful moments of my masters degree are the ones that motivate me towards the PhD - but I can't leave NYC to do it - I feel like a person, in the most complete sense of personhood. If anyone understands that.

I feel free to write whatever I want. I feel some how more... there's not a word for it. I feel like in situations where before I thought I'd be dismissed as a young student trying to find herself, now they might take me serious. Now I'm ready to let them take me seriously. I'm ready to stand up and tell them that I do have something to offer them and that no they will not find a better candidate. I'm the woman for the job. I've seen my friends all around me being real people, being trusted - they've done away with those little girl smiles that get them in doors - now they look that man straight in the face and tell them what's what, without blinking and then they go for it. I'm ready to do that too.

I'm ready to call literary directors and ask if I can take them to lunch and pitch them my play. Ask them what they can do for me, where they think I should point my career's compass. And then I'll do it. Gone are the days when I thought my plays would be swept off their feet and on to Broadway. I'm not usually that naive, but I can dream. Bring on the cold calls and the short lunches. Bring it.

This is the first day of the rest of my life. I'm going grab it and squeeze every piece of it until I have all I want.

America's Best Idea

Last night I had the great pleasure of going to the launch party for the Ken Burns PBS documentary 'The National Parks'. A family friend was interviewed for the documentary because he is a John Muir scholar, a man very instrumental in he creation of the National parks.

A year ago I would not be one to wax poetic about America, but I completely agree with the film's tag line. The single thing that's sets America's wilderness apart of from Europe is the rawness of our wilderness. As absurd as that may sound its the truth. The American wilderness is absolutely wild. So much of the European landscape has been shaped by the hands of people for millenia. In Scotland - my main point of reference - there is only one small section of ancient woodland that has remained, for the most part untouched by man. But here, on our western continent, the new world, so much - pieces the size of European countries - has never been changed and shaped by man. Yes, people have lived with the land, but they never farmed it en mass, tearing down forests, clearing stones, re-routing water. We have swathes of land that are almost as pristine as when the Europeans - and my forebears - imposed themselves on this new world. I am completely in favour of keeping them that way.

Scotland is a beautiful place. Everyone asks and its true. But can you imagine a landscape that has born the brunt of human endeavor for thousands and thousands of year. And I've studied the country. They've been reshaping that land since there were people in Scotland.

But looking past all the rhetoric and politics, the clips from the documentary made me cry a little bit. So if I have the time to watch the full shebang, I know I'll bawl my eyes out.

In other news on that evening, Assistant Secretary Strickland was there to make a speech. Ahead of the performance he was mingling with the crowd, and I thought I recognized him, but couldn't place it (like always) so I just eyed flirted with him. *giggle giggle*

Things I Miss

So I've started to miss a few things about Scotland.

1) My friends
2) Beer, Ale, Lager. There really are some things Americans can't do
3) Thursday night dancing and hot chocolate in Kilau

This list will be slow to populate, but its a start.

Everyday occurances

Two people are walking down the street towards each other. Straight at each other. In the US they both step to the right and avoid any unnecessary eye contact. In the UK they both step to the left and avoid smacking over sized noses.

But what if an innocent American finds herself walking down a Scottish street and runs into this conundrum. They both follow their natural instincts and nose smack into eyes and the street is covered in various kinds of goo. Soon the American learns and starts stepping left. Stepping left naturally.
Then that American moves home, but still stepping left. Resulting in more eye contact than the average New Yorker is used to having to negotiate. The young American is scared and confused. Will she every go back to normal and naturally step right? There's so much riding on this innocuous habit. Not to mention how this might impact her political leanings.

Death to Soundscapes

Death to soundscapes echoing through marble halls
Force in you ear plugs
Death to sound waves bouncing off marble walls
Send down the thugs

Death to the designers who think they are hip
Pull out the rugs
Death to the dressers who give lots of lip
Release the big bugs

Death to the little black dress
Choke on the drugs
Death to assistants for causing this mess

The Final Straw

I feel like I've been fairly patient about the incursion that is fashion week. Really they are only another group of people trying to pay their rent while feeding their own egos and depricating the rest of us. Wouldn't we all love a job like that?

But now they've gone too far.

They're actually holding a fashion show INSIDE the library. Anger, rage. And because of it I can't get into my study room. When an industry that feeds off the low self esteem of others interferes in the culture building academic pursuits of others THAT'S JUST WRONG.

I'm trying to write a masters thesis here people. Get out of my way. Normally I'd just step over the velvet rope and go along my merry way. Velvet ropes only stop the people who see them as an impedement. They're just a game. However, they had a NYPD officer stationed at the hallway. You know, to keep out the academic riff-raff in their funny tweed coats with elbow patches and horn rim glasses. Not that it matters that the models are ON A DIFFERENT FLOOR. And that we really don't give a crap about the whole affair.

Now the show has started and their weird new age soundscape is echoing through the whole building.

Maybe they'll write my chapter on 'performance', they seem so good at acting up.

I'm pretty sure I just walked past Vera Wang. Looking lovely in a green embroidered jacket.

You heard it here first

Fashion week officially commences today and there is much flurry about Bryant Park. What's on the runways? No idea. They'd never let me in even if I bought a ticket. What is every one who is attending fashion week and staying off the runway wearing? Little black dresses. Knee to midthigh length. Kind of flowy. Flowy black sweaters. Medium chunky to chainy necklaces. Black sunglasses. And black ankle boots. All of them in ankle boots. All. And of course their entrance passes.

So notify the press: ankle boots are in.

TeddyCare

After watching President Obama's beautiful, moving speech I propose that the new system be called TeddyCare.

Naming aside, Obama clearly laid out exactly what he wants the health care reform to do and exactly how he wants to achieve them. No bullshit. He just put it all out there. I appreciated how many times he said that anyone's current health care would not change. I think its absolutely ridiculous that so many opponents honestly believe that this plan will completely rupture the current health care coverage of all the Americans who are fortunate enough to have health care.

As a new un-covered American, facing an extremely uncertain future. I have no health care and no job. In the depth of my heart I'm scared. But personal feelings aside, I'm completely in favor of the health care plan. Let's do it. Pass this bill people. I'd love to see it go even further to be honest. Let's aim for a system like Canada or Great Britain. I've experienced both of them on a first hand basis and they've great. Sure their are a few hoops that seem unnecessary to jump, but you'll find that anywhere. And this is America people, we're the greatest country on earth, we can make these systems better than anyone else.

I won't rant on about the other things I really wish they'd add to the bill. And I understand that the liberals are making concessions in order to pass this. And I see this as the first step in a long journey. But let's start this journey tonight. Yes we can.

Fashion Weak NYC

This week in Bryant Park the Spring 2010 fashion collection premieres on the runway. I am currently finishing my thesis at the main NYC Public research library at - can you guess - Bryant Park.

While I love that I live in a city that's chic enough to host a fashion week I do truely prefer to read about it online rather than walk through it every day.

Number of models spotted: 2
Number of times I feel like a furry footed hobbit: 2
Number of catcalls I get in Bushwick in 10 minutes: 6
Number of catcalls I get in Bryant Park in 10 minutes: 0
How often I feel inadequate: always

There are some things Bushwick can't get you, for everything else there's anorexia.

Falling in Love

Wandering around New York City I'm falling in love all over again. It's like waking up in the morning next to your husband who you've been cheating on for a year and then realizing that you're actually truly in love with him. And you haven't only been cheating on him, you've been cheating on yourself.

The other thing I am only just now noticing about the city: NYC is so fucking hip. I probably didn't notice before because I was from LA - which despite my protests is pretty hip - so it all felt like normal. But after returning for a little tiny city, which is not particularly hip, its like seeing NYC through the eyes of all those people who move here from the Midwest with their eyes full of dreams, their hearts full of hope and their heads full of naivety.

Independence

There's something so essentially independent about being in control of you transportation. Not having my own way of getting around makes me feel like a child again, it makes me feel like I'm being forced into a role of inferiority. This is how I feel in places like LA or Aberdeen. Not that I can't drive, but when you don't have a car you're stuck. Trapped in your location until someone decides they'll transport you. Its condescending. Not always. It does depend on the person. There is a certain wonderful person with a car in Aberdeen. She never made me feel like a small fumbling child when she gave me a lift. So thank you my friend.

The only thing that makes this feeling worse, exponentially worse, is guys saying they want to "take care of you". I hate it. Because really that's code for "I'm going to give you what I want you to have" rather than " can I help you get what you want?". Then they never actually help you with things that would be useful, like lifting heavy boxes.

What makes NYC different? What gives me that ultimate feeling of being completely in charge of my life? The subway. That's the first one. And endless mode of transportation that puts me in charge. And cabs. The fact that I'm paying them takes away the feeling of being hauled around by a begrudged parent. If I wasn't in the backseat and handing them cash at the end of the ride the cabbie would be hunger and homeless (or doing something else, but let me dream).

Secondly, men here don't take care of you. I can get myself home at night, they don't feel the need to pay for a cab. They don't want to force me into a trip to ikea for furniture which I can't afford. But they will carry my filing cabinet up the stairs without being asking. It makes a big difference. You don't have to stroke their egos to get them to help you, they just do it and gracefully take your unending thanks.



That's what makes me feel independent. And I love it. Makes me feel like the adult my father just realized I am.

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Things I learned…

...in Scotland

Patience: Everything took about three times long to do in Scotland and after a while there's nothing you can do about it. So take a deep breath and inspect your hair for split ends while whatever it is you're waiting for becomes ready for you. No mind that what your waiting for is the bank teller to stop inspecting their split ends.

Lots of people still live in very old-fashioned ways. I'm shocked to admit it, but the idea of not having a cell phone or something like that didn't seem to be an option. Mind you I don't have an ipod, but a cell phone? What would I do without it?

Some people have no problem with their own racism and don't feel like it's a problem to be so. I'm not completely naïve, I know that people are still racist, but I'm also so shocked to meet people who are so upfront about it. I always thought racists would keep it to themselves and only vent around the people they know agreed. But I suppose if you're racist, you're not really about being PC or sensitive to the feelings of others. America really is seen as some mythic strange new world by many people. Although they might feel similarly about America as I feel about Belize – not much, but it seems exotic – it's strange to experience the perceptions foreign nationals have about your own country. I also was in this strange and happy position, where if I didn't open my mouth people assumed I was Scottish and had no problem ranting about the problems of America directly in front of my. And I mean ranting, like seriously, things that could be extremely offensive if said in front of the wrong person. It was nice to experience such an uncensored view of people's emotions.

…about myself in Scotland:

Perhaps not by New York standards or LA standards, but compared to the rest of the world. I'm spoiled. And I mean spoiled in every sense of the word. My parents would hide 'spoiled' under the façade of 'privileged' or 'lucky'. While I didn't think I was privileged or lucky enough to get a new sports car on my sixteenth birthday. I did get a car while in high school. But I bought the 80's beast myself. Not that I paid for the insurance. Mind you even in a less obvious way. There were also fresh fruits and vegetables around, and meals were interested and varied. But I didn't realize there was another option. I didn't realize some people couldn't afford to eat the fun things I ate. I've never not been able to pay my heating bill. Mind you my last place was a bitch to heat and I preferred to wear a sweater and socks, but we were able to turn the heat on.

I'm interesting: I didn't believe it, but some people actually find me interesting to talk to and to listen to. People think I know stuff and am funny and value my opinion. Not to say that people in the US don't think I'm interesting. I just thought I was closer to normal on the scale of interesting, but man, there are some people out there who are not interesting. Not to downplay the importance of farm techniques or the best gear for go through round abouts at top speed, but honestly?

Despite the fact that I'm a dyed in the wool liberal, I now completely understand why people on the other side are in favour of smaller governments. There are some things the British government does that I think are absolutely ridiculous, like years car inspections to make sure it's in working order. Or the National Health Service's decision to not tell anyone the sex of their unborn child, in case they get it wrong and you sue them. I'm sure one case spoiled it for every new mother.

Just as a side note: I realize this post is rather narcisstic and mean and petty to a lot of people. That's not what I meant. These are things I learned while I was in Scotland, that does not mean these are ABOUT the Scottish people. Somethings I was just ready to learn at that time of my life and probably would have learned them in Scotland or where ever I was at the time. All the people I became friends with in Scotland are incredible people. I plan on being friends with them for the rest of my life. Being in Scotland simply exposed me to many, many things and people that I would never have exposure to had I not gone to Scotland. And I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything in the world.

A Place of My Own

When I first moved to Bushwick two years ago and told my friend who at the time did not live in or know much of New York thought I was kidding. It is the kind of joke I would make. Bushwick, is almost lewd. With the right tone of voice it's fairly easy to make it sound dirty. Better yet I didn't know anyone else who lived out there, so I could spin the neighbourhood however I wanted to.

'Bushwick, the place where the grass grows freely' (nudge nudge)

'Bushwick, home of many neatly trimmed shrubs' (wink, wink)

'Bushwick, where the Vikings went to shave' (say no more, say no more. No really, don't say that)

Okay, I probably wouldn't have made that last comment until I went to Scotland and learned that towns in Britain ending -wick, -wich, etc where settled by Vikings. Mind you, the joke in this whole thing is that this unbelieving friend now lives in Bushwick. Who has the last laugh now.

Two years later and I've moved back. Onto a more residential street, but I can still use the same Laundromat – they still have me in their computer – and I can still get coffee and the only trendy coffee shop in the area – and they still remember my face, but they never really got my name. The interesting part is they weren't really sure how long I'd been gone, not that I thought they would. How can you expect to know you haven't seen a customer for 14 months. After a while it all goes blurry. But they were shocked I had been gone for long and that I was back. Somethings don't change.

And something's do. Bushwick is probably now officially an artsy ghetto. Step 2 of gentrification. Which is too bad, and I hate to contribute, but I can't afford other places. The whole area reminds me of Venice beach from my childhood, except minus the crack and the AK-47's. And I'm not kidding about those.

The local grocery store has changed. When I first moved two years ago the only things in the store that looked familiar enough to eat where the cereal and the canned soup and even the soup was touch and go. But slowly the management smelled the winds of change (no my Bushwick friend, that's not a reference to anything) and granola appeared on the shelves. And dried fruit. Obvious signs that new-age yoga-class-attending people had moved into the area. Slowly this shelf expanding to two shelves, three shelves, an entire section, half an aisle. That's when I left. Now I wonder the aisles and recognize food in all of them. Mind you I still don't think I'd buy the fruit. But they have organic milk and expensive bottled water. The mysterious South American fruits have not disappeared, they are still there and that's relieving. The longer time residents still need to eat the foods they have been cooking for years. I will never deny anyone access to their native foods. It is the aisles and aisles of rice – different bags from each country in South America – whose loss I celebrate. And the endless bags of beans. How many different brands of pinto beans does one store really need to stock?

Yes, many will paint me the ruthless, white, bourgeoisie invader all copper hair and blue woad face paint bearing down at them Mel Gibson style, that is just as much a Hollywood mock up of me as it is of William Wallace. My daily life would tire easily without the confrontation of foreign fruit – and no I don't mean European Gays – in the grocery store or cat calls in a cornucopia of Spanish dialects. And while I don't entirely miss being the only white girl, or gringa, or shiksa, buying two-ply at the bodega, after a year in Scotland I just want to kiss the cluster-fuck of cultures.

Observations from the Outside

Despite my own New Yorker-ness, I'm probably still a bit of an outsider. And now I feel like a little but of an outside-America-er.

So I was thinking recently, the difference between the self-proclaimed Upper middle class and the self-proclaimed Lower middle class:

The UMC go to university and major in something they love, rack up lots of debt in the process and then get out and have no idea what kind of career they actually want, but yet still manage to go to yoga and pay rent. The LMC goes to university a major's in something that guarantee's them a job, racks up lots of debt, finishes university and get that's guaranteed job and pays off their debt and their rent and avoids yoga like the plague.

Thus Far

"Today is Tuesday." I was told once by my improv coach, and strangely it's become one of those sayings I live by. It does mean a lot more than the lexical understanding of those three words. Its hard to live by mantra you can only use once a week. So despite the fact that today actually IS Tuesday. It means, that everyday is special and unique and that something excite can happen, you just have to find that thing that's worth improvising a scene about. It's Tuesday, an ordinary day, but something has to make it worth putting in front of an audience. For me thus far today, on this ordinary Tuesday in NYC in August, nothing as of yet is worth making a scene about. But its early in the day.

I've now been back in NYC for a grand total of four days. Woot!! And things are slowly shaping up. I don't have an apartment and I'm not going to find a job for a while. I still have a dissertation to finish, but that gets more done everyday and I have a desk and a key card at the NYC public library. It makes me feel all professional. Its absolutely incredible seeing all my friends and there are still more to see. Generally, I just can't wait.

An Homage to Aberdeen

Which should not be confused with me calling Aberdeen my home. Its not anymore. I'm back in the US of A. And now, a photo essay of the view from my room.

SEPTEMBER

EARLY FALL

LATE FALL

DEAD OF WINTER

APRIL

MIDSUMMER

Instead of Being Productive

Rather than being productive and like editing my dissertation. I figured I'd post some pictures of my trip to the Netherlands. Sorry to disappoint, I was not in Amsterdam and did not partake in the activities that are famous partaken of in Amsterdam. I was out in the country. But there is a windmill.

This is the view from the front walk of the house I was staying at. As you can tell the only thing in the picture is a field of wheat and some trees in the background. And yes, that is in fact actually a field of wheat. Do not be mistaken my friend, somewhere in the world they have to grow the wheat that makes your bread. Here's some of it. A great big old field of wheat.

And the house I was staying in:

No, just kidding. This is actually a house at an open air museum. The house is made of peat bricks. People don't actually live in them anymore. Its kind of picturesque from the outside, but the inside is small, dark with room for the goats and full of spiders. OMG there were so many spiders all over Holland I couldn't escape them. I think that's what I'm most proud about from this trip, the fact that I didn't have a panic attack from all the spiders and have to be sent home early. Because man were there a lot of spiders.

This is the house I actually stayed in, which was described lovingly as either VillaVillaCoola from Pippi or the Burrow from Harry Potter. I couldn't quite understand what they were saying on the first day, because I wasn't yet used to the accent, but later I was more comfortable listen and understanding my host family. Although I think either of the two places apply, but on more thought I'm pretty sure she was referring to Harry Potter.

And as promised, a windmill. Isn't it pretty?

A Conversation with my Father

Me: I'm going to a funeral tomorrow.
Father: Oh, for who?
Me: Stanley Robertson, the major storytelling guy of Scotland?
Father: The one you interviewed?
Me: No, hadn't got to him yet.
Father: That's too bad.
Me: I guess.
Father: Network!
Me: What?
Father: Everyone in Scottish storytelling will be there. Take a notebook, write down their names. Network. Introduce yourself. Make the people you know introduce you to everyone else.
Me: What? Network? At a funeral? Is that even allow.
Father: Network!!

Moving Back

Just saw the most amazing apartment in Craig's list. It has hard wood floors, a gas stove and big windows, located at Myrtle and Himrod and just almost affordable, but heat was included. I really really really want it. But the sad truth is that since its on Craig's list now (June) the people want the renter to move in July first and while I'm totally willing to move back for July the truth is its not going to happen. I have already arranged commitments for July and it will cost me a lot of wasted money to cancel them. So I'll watch as my dream apartment gets lived in my someone else. But since I'm crazy enough to call the people renting it out and ask about the place, I learned they rent out outs of similar places in the same area and maybe something else will be available when I'm ready. Maybe something in the same building. OR maybe no one will take this place and when I'm part I can bargain them down a few hundred dollars because it's just been empty for 3 months and they really need it rented. Here's to hoping.

Classes are done

Well, I'm officially done with classes for my masters degree. YIPPEE!!! Am I out celebratiing with friends, painting the town red, causing scandels that Aberdeen isn't soon to forget? No. Not at all. I even only just realized I had a beer in the fridge. And the first sip of lime infused Corona makes me sick for hot summer nights in cities I love.

At least now I can say that I've completely 2/3 of the work I need to do for this damn degree. And even if I quite now I'll still get a diploma, but not a degree. So I'm sticking through. This weekend should be fruitful. I'm attending some storytelling events which should lead to contacts with people I want to interview for my dissertation. And in other good news I might just end of working on a film commemorating Jeannie Robertson. Fingers crossed on that.

In other positive news, I've turned in a tenative draft of a chapter in for my dissertation, because I wanted to submit the essay for an academic essay competition and I had to be officially submitted to my academic institution. So my extremely wonderful prof. accepted the essay. Fingers crossed on the essay competition as well, it will look good on my resume. But having written about 2500 words that will go towards my actual dissertation feels really really good. So that's something to celebrate.

Best Thing Ever

I am so glad I can call up my best friends and just chat for a few brief minutes about anything, even though they're an ocean and 5 time zones away. That's the stuff that cheers me up. I really should call more.

Valencia

So apparently I didn't take many pictures in Valencia. Which makes sense, because I wasn't there for very long and I took this really long walk through this old riverbed which is now a giant public park and where they had a how much of sports facilities. I think Valencia might have hosted the Olympics way before I was born. I should look that up. Anyway, so I took this long walk, which I didn't realize would be so long. I was trying to get to the Museum of Archeology. Never did get there. I walk took too long. But it was nice and sunny. So I'm not overly upset. I even got some sun that turned into a beautiful golden tan. Er, or ya know, normal people color, since I'm so pale.

This is some orange trees in front of a building.

This is looking in the opposite direction. The Placa something or other. I think maybe Reina Sophia. Or Reina somebody. But its pretty. Oh, just looked it up, it's Plaza de la Virgin. So I was close. Queens. Virgins. Same thing.

Anyway, inside that building on the right - which is the Cathedral - is something lots of different people have been searching for, for about 2000 years now. I don't know why they keep looking, it's been in Valencia for about 600 years.


In that glowing wall sconce behind everything is....drum roll... THE HOLY GRAIL.

That's right folks. Here's a close up. The Holy Grail not only exists, but it's alive and well and being housed in Valencia. I don't know why Tom Hanks was tramping all over Europe looking for it. You'd think a well educated man like that character he was playing would know better. They never even went to Spain in that movie. They stayed in France. Well, fuck France.

I do actually think I like Spain better. It reminds me of all the good things about CA and none of the bad things. Because, yes, there are good things. The dreams of my childhood are wrapped up in the myths of what California could have been. And then I grew up. And realized the dreams of orange groves, the sun setting over the ocean and endless summers, were just the glaze on a rotten cake. And you know young kids, sometimes they only want the frosting.

Granada

Granada, the city of the Alhambra. Interestingly enough Granada was ruled by the Moors until 1492, the same year Columbus went in search of a western route to China, but instead got twarted by a pesky landmass. Silly Chris.

This is a view of the hills from the Alhambra.

This is some of the ornamentation in the buildings. You can still see the paint, which is pretty cool.

This is in the courtyard of the main Palace of the Alhambra. The Alhambra as a whole is a, well, I'd go with small fortified city. Kinda. It's a Palace and gardens and a collection of other buildings. If you look carefully the water surface belies the fact that everything looks warm and beautiful and sunny.

This is me in the gardens in front of a giant wisteria. Although it is not the largest wisteria that I saw whilst in Spain.

This is a view of the Jarden de Machuca. Part of the Alhambra Palace proper. Those are orange trees in there.

This is a few from the Alhambra towards the coast. I don't think you can actually see the water though, it's a long way off. But all the gardens look so lush and green and the sky looks so lazy. It just makes me want to take a nap.

This is a garden path in the Architect's Garden at the Alhambra.

Doesn't that look like a postcard. But I was actually there. Yup, took that shot myself. All of these actually. Jealous yet?

I apologize for the gloating. It would have been nice to have company. This is a shot of a tower in the Alhambra, from another tower.

Ooooh, these are cool. No, it's not a maze. But its aMAZing. hehheeee. No, it's the bases of walls that were once a ghetto inside the Alhambra fortifications. The rooms are sooo small. But each of these buildings potentially had two more floors made of rickety wood. There's also a well at the other end, which still has green stuff growing from it, so it probably still has water. I'm actually surprised to see that these people had stone floors.

More Alhambra.

This is NOT the Alhambra. This is one side of the Cathedral in Granada. I like the shape of the street lamps (the square-y glowing things). The cathedral was cool inside too, but I went in right as they were closing and actually got locked in, which kinda scared me. But I wasn't alone and the person locking up shook his head at us and then let us out. Thank goodness. I don't want to get locked in a cold stone cathedral all alone all night.

Next stop: Valencia.

Tarifa

Tarifa, the next stop on my journey through Spain, is the Southern most point of land in Europe. Now many of you might have thought that it's Gibralter, but it's not, it's Tarifa. Tarifa apparently means tarif in English, my Spanish speaking friend pointed out to me one day before I actually visited the place. In situations like this I do what I call 'intellectual vamping', other people call it making shit up. I prefer my term because usually the made up bits are based on actual facts. So after learning about the meaning of Tarifa, which is really rather obvious, I went on vamping about how it makes complete sense, because Tarifa is the closest point between Europe and Africa and therefore a HUGE trading port with lots of goods moving back and forth. These goods where probably taxed. Hence, Tarifa, the place where shit gets taxed. The better part about this is that I'm actually pretty close to correct. Since I'm not stating any actual facts, I'm as good as golden. The port is still very active and does still host business interactions between Europe and Africa.

Enough, intellectual vamping. PICTURES!

This is me (duh) in Tarifa (double duh). That mass of dark blue and green behind me is the Mediterranean. The light blue and white mass is the sky.
I hit Tarifa on 6 April, which was the monday after Palm sunday and the monday before Easter sunday. Smack dab at the beginning of Semana Santa. So of course they have a procession. When I just caught sight of them it actually freaked me out because they were dressed in the same thing the KKK wear, except in purple and green. It took me a minute to realize they were Catholics not racists, but I was scared there for a minute, because I think racists are scarier than Catholics. I caught more of the precession a little farther down the road. In the above picture you can see the people of Tarifa carrying their giant statue of Jesus and a donkey (I think) through the street. They were also playing instruments, some were carrying a giant cross and others were carrying palm fronds (now weren't they lucky, palm fronds don't weight nearly as much as that statue).

This is another shot of the Mediterranean. Off in the distance, through all the clouds, you can see Africa. No, seriously, you can see Africa. It's like right there. If I was a major league baseball player I could have thrown stones at it. Well, maybe not that close. It's about a 35 minute ferry ride from Tarifa to Tanger. Just like the picture of the boat below says. Also just off the bow of the boat, that brownish mountain looking thing, that's Africa. I'm really proud of this shot. It packs in a lot of information. The only thing that would make it better is something making it very obvious that the photographer is standing in Tarifa. I guess if you look closely the car plates have the EU stars on them.


And another shot of the Mediterranean from Tarifa with Africa in the background.
And a shot looking about 90 degrees to the right.

The actual most southern point of Europe is out on that piece of land in the upper right of the photo. However, as typical of governments, that small bit is a military base and closed to the public. But I did walk out along the wee strip of land as far as public people are permitted to pass.

The thing about Tarifa, aside from being really close to Africa, is that it's also on the Atlantic Ocean. That's right, two oceans for the price of one.

This is the beach that is washed with the waves of the Atlantic ocean. On the water are two sail boats and three kite surfers. Although it was sunny in Tarifa the day I was there, it wasn't really warm enough to sit out on the beach due to the wind. There is sooooo much wind. But this makes it a kite surfers paradise. At another popular beach, farther up the Atlantic coast (so to the right of this photo) is where more of the kite surfing is done.

I took a hot bus from Seville to Tarifa and as she finally came out of the low mountains that sweep along the coast the ocean stretched out in front of us and the air was filled with kites of all colors. Flitting and dashing and fighting for space above the waves. The sun was low in the sky, reflecting off the water and illuminating the undersides of the kites so they glowed in rainbow strips of nylon. There must have been five hunderd kites in a stretch of beach a mile long. I can't even imagine anyone trying to navigate through those kite strings. But it was beautiful, like a hundred million butterflies skimming along tree tops. And then the image was gone as we rounded a corner behind another hill.

Seville

The next stop on the Spain trip was Seville. It was also the city Kenna left me in. She had to get on a plane and fly all the way back to Rome, how tragic.
I thoroughly enjoyed Seville. The weather was beautiful, the architecture was beautiful, the people were beautiful. The whole city was done up for Semana Santa, chairs for the upcoming processions lined every street. The whole city seemed to be in a vacation mood, or maybe it was just me projecting my happiness on everyone else. Either way, it was great.

The funny thing I noticed about the people in Seville is that, I assume the Mother's, dress up their pod of children (generally not more than 3) in matching outfits. It was adorable when the kids were all under the age of 5. Cute little blouses with matching embroidery on all their kids, both the girls and the boys matching each other. And these outfits seemed like something from 1914. The little girls had matching bows in their long dark curly hair and the boys were also in tights. No seriously. Although it all started to get strange when you saw an 11 year old boy in an outfit that matched his 3 year old sister and 2 year old brother. The matchingness had no age limits. I felt sorry for these boys, they looked rather silly, because they were obviously old enough to dress themselves and they very obviously didn't. Sadly, I don't have any pictures of this because it's creepy taking pictures of other people's kids.

This is the outside of the large cathedral in Seville. Originally on this spot was a Moorish Temple, but they did away with that when they did away with the Moors in Seville and built this huge cathedral. What they didn't do away with were all the orange trees, which were original to the yard of the Moorish mosque. There were orange trees every where and they were all filled with fruit and the air smelled like orange blossoms. It was absolutely incredible.

This dark picture is actual the dark interior of the above cathedral. These two statues hold up one end of Chris Columbus' giant tomb/memorial thingy. Chris was actually buried in the New World - don't remember which part. But I have heard that he was broke, sick and nobody liked him when he died. So they weren't really sure where he was buried. But someone decided that he should be dug up and moved to Seville. So they dug up a skeleton and hauled it on a boat across the Atlantic ocean. Now they still weren't really sure if it was him, so they didn't tell anyone this and continued on like nothing was wrong. Flash forward to the age of genetic testing and someone who remembers - or read in a book or something - that people were a little uncertain about these bones in Chris' tomb. So some scientists pop open the tomb and extract some DNA. Now you're thinking, they can't just read the DNA and it will say 'Chris Columbus was here'. No. What they do know for sure is where is brother is buried, which if I recall correctly is somewhere else in the New World. So they dig up Brother Columbus - he was not of a religious order to my knowledge, nor was he anyone's "soul brother", just little old Chris' bio-bro. So they test the DNA against each other and apparently the two sets of bones are brothers. So the people, who are probably all dead now, who dug up Chris are all celebrating that they got the right dead guy. YIPPEE!!! However, I'm wondering how many of the bones in the tomb they actually tested. It could be possible they only tested one bone, and that one bone matches. But that's almost too much good luck.

Anyway, so while the Catholics were pulling down the Moors' mosque, probably a long time before Chris sailed the ocean blue, they decided that the minaret that the Moors built was pretty nifty, and they didn't tear it down. Good choice! It is pretty nifty too. It was built with a ramp instead of stairs all the way to the top so that the soldiers could ride their horses all the way to the top. Or for future annoying tourists to push their baby carriages up, thus blocking everyone from going in the other direction.

Despite annoying tourists, the view from the top is pretty stunning.

These are some other building that I didn't go inside, but the evening light was so pretty I took a whole bunch of pictures of it and here's a decent one. The light in the evenings was so beautiful, low and golden.

This is another building in Seville whose name I can't remember, real helpful right? Anyway, it's obviously left over from the Moors. Oh wait, I remember, it was a Moorish section of a palace that each monarch since like forever (probably actually only 1200ish) has added their own section to. So every part of the entire compound is different. It's pretty cool. And the gardens were amazing. And so many orange trees. So if you go to southern Spain drink the orange juice. It's fresh squeezed and the most amazing orange juice in the world. And I actually don't like orange juice. Also, they call it zumo naranja. For anyone whose taken Spanish, they DON'T use that other word for juice. The one that just slid out of my brain.

Ok, so next stop Tarifa.