Thursday, August 10, 2017

A Puddle of Love …

I tell this story all the time, of how I remember my sister's birthday, on a hot August day when I was 3 years old and a little bit. And I do – as long as I have some remembrance in my brain, I will always see that day, somewhat fuzzy, but the sound of that news will be clear.

It's been 39 years since that day and my baby sister is getting ready to enter her last year of the third decade of her life. A life that's been fun, and hard, and challenging, and interesting, sad, and incredibly funny, lonely at times, and not so lonely for the most part, and all in all, a life that's been worth it all! This much time passing just about knocks the breath right out of my chest! 39 years!

I have more memories with my sister than I have with anyone else I have ever met, I believe. Even when we're apart, we pick each other's brain – maybe more now that we're adults and respectful of each other than when we were little and picking on each other all the time.

I have learned so much from her. First off, I learned how to stop being the spoiled brat only child I was when she came along, and how to start sharing everything with her. She taught me that we're not alone in the world. We have a soul mate. And she has been mine. Not in the “exact match” kind of soul mate, but more in the “ying-and-yang” sense of the word. She is the light of my darkness, and I am hers.

As a typical second baby, she was always the competitive one. I learned patience to yield to her and teach her things. I taught her how to read and write, and later on, she taught me music and art. She has taught me love and warmth all my life, and goodness.

She is an odd mix of tender and bitey, small and powerful, meek and don't-f*-with-me-people!. Above all, she has the most beautiful, most pure smile, and the most clear twinkle in the eye.
She makes me melt only by thinking of her.

We've been through everything together and through it all, I always know she's got my back. She's raising her own family now, but I still feel like she and I share a heart just as much as when we were kids and shared a bed. Our relationship will always be strong and unique, no matter the rest of our liaisons in life. There is this bond, this sacred understanding, this blood that runs through our veins and connects our every thought that will always be there, no matter how many thousands of miles or people are between us.

Today, I remember everything: how we fought, how we laughed, how we made pranks together. I remember climbing mountains, tanning at the beach (she never burned, unlike me), eating berries till our tongues would turn black, fishing for trout with our bare hands. I remember her tom-boyish years when she was hung by her leg in a rusty nail on a tall fence. I remember fighting for boyfriends, and crying ourselves to sleep with a sigh. The following morning, we were sisters again.

I remember when she went to the ER as a small kid, with an infected hand, full of puss, and she spent days hooked up to IV's and I could not go visit her. Broke my heart! I remember dancing in clubs on the beach when I was in college and falling asleep in each other's arms, in the sand till the first rays of sun would sneak under our eyelids and wake us up.

I remember when she went to France the first time in middle school, when I thought she would never come back home. I remember how her world fell apart when I moved to the States and I thought I'd never see her again.

I remember her wedding. Her first pregnancy, every heart beat of it, every emotion, every notebook she filled with knowledge about “what to expect when you're expecting.” Then, the immense love she had to give to this small baby. I remember my wedding. Her second baby. I remember all four of us, with mom and dad, smiling for pictures and knowing that those moments were precious as they would be rare.

I wish you the best in life to come, sis, and more bright days than not, more sunny summers than not, more health, more love, and more abundance than ever before. As you approach your 40th year of life, I thank God that you exist and I thank you for giving us your all. May the next year be your best one yet, and may you forever smile and keep us guessing …

I miss you more!

Love, sorella

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

East Coast, West Coast and Beauty Somewhere In-Between

Ooh Ms. Parsley sing it out as a prayer
It's floating on sensational
You make the change in the air
Let's let it be all right
Step it up to life” (Jeb Puryear - Ms. Parsley)

I can't remember as far back as when I was first introduced to Donna the Buffalo. I was single, living in North Carolina, in my early 30's, and I was 'friends' with this guy on My Space. Remember My Space?! His name was Turk (or so he said) and he was a veterinarian (so he said). I never did keep in touch with Turk, but he will always have a special place in my heart for opening it to Donna the Buffalo. He sent me an illegal link with hundreds of Donna concerts. I downloaded all I could download and I got myself my first 100% pirated 4 cd's and I was hooked! He said “if you like The Dead, you will love Donna.”

And he was right: I only like The Dead, and I do love Donna.

I am not sure what it is about what they do, but their music is hypnotic to me. I can be tired, head-achy, moody, wanting silence and a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes, and I listen to a Donna song and it's like elements align and the world makes sense again – no pain, or discomfort, just peace. Works better than Tylenol, every time.

When I lived on the East Coast, the opportunities to see them were numerous. They are a house band, almost literally, for the Shakori Festival, and they come to NC often (sometimes several times in the same month). But when I moved out West, things got pretty sketchy: I subscribe to their newsletter and they seldom, if ever, come out there. I have lived here for seven years now and I only know of two times that they have come close to Utah (I believe they made it out here more then this, but not close enough within driving distance for me): one was four years ago in Montana, at the Red Ants Pants Festival (I am not making this up, this is the real name – https://wander-world.blogspot.com/2013/08/chasing-some-dreams.html), and the second time was this month, in Park City.

This second time, I could almost not believe my eyes when I saw the announcement: Park City is practically home for me. How did I get so lucky for these folks from Upstate New York to wander all the way over here?! So, it was a no-brainer: even if I was on a stretcher, I had to figure out a way to go see them. And thank God, I was not on a stretcher.

I have seen them all in all live for about 4 times, I think. And every time I tell myself: you've got to really love them to really keep coming back. And it's not the music: the music is amazing, and it's not even much of an acquired taste: it just has one of those melodies that just appeals to just about anyone. Not many people remain motionless and don't start to dance while listening to them. They are catchy. Beyond that, they are all also really great musicians. The organ player has always been my favorite, but what Tara does with her instruments is not short of amazing, either. Jeb's guitar picking is what gives them their unique sound, I think – they are all pretty much flawless when it comes to their peerformances.

But … there is this stage presence thing … My mom used to always say that a singer must know how to dance, or how to let us know they're happy to be on a stage in order for them to be memorable. For me, most people on this band have always been struggling just a bit with this part. Especially Tara: as talented and flawless as she is as a musician, as inspiring as a song writer, she does not look like she is having fun on that stage. She looks like she has a very serious, and very constraining job to do and she is trying really hard not to get in trouble. What she does does look very natural and very effortless. But she does it with … fear and concentration, for lack of better words. She is tense, and crisp. And frowning … I feel like she is forced to be there, rather than enjoys to be there. I am pretty sure I am wrong – being on the road for almost 20 years must offer some amount of pleasure to you, or else you'd stop doing it. But …

Jeb has some loose moments, although he can be very serious, too. For the most part, he is a warmer presence, softer, his voice very much drone-like just flows. He is more like a very easy-going hippie than an official business person (like Tara). From the other three musicians, only Kyle, the bass player, seems like he really loves being on stage, and he really loves his audience. He is the one making eye contact with people, smiling, winking, moving about, dancing. And there is another thing: I know that Kyle is the bass player, because the wiki told me so: they don't present their band on stage. I think it's the same thing for Tara and Jeb – I know their names because I investigated. As warm and inviting and party-like as their music is, there is always this guardrail at the edge of that stage, and for some reason, we are not fully invited in.

I have also noticed that they are so much more relaxed and well received by the audience (or maybe relaxed because they are well received by the audience) on the East Coast than here, in the West. I guess, to some extent, that's understandable: they are a household name back there, whereas here they are a rare apparition. I remember going to their shows in NC and people at work knew exactly who I am going to see. I have had their bumper sticker on my car for years here, and not a soul knows what the heck that means.

The other night, when we saw them in Park City, this couple approached us before the show, to ask us if we like them and if we have ever seen them live. They had never seen them live, but they listened to them, and “they sounded good”. We said yes, we had seen them live before, but I was nervous to talk them up. I love their music and I think that anyone in general should give them a listen, but especially anyone who likes bluegrass. But when it comes to their live performances, I am afraid people will be put off.

The show we saw in Montana a few years ago was a disaster, I thought: what very few people know (including us, at the time) about Montana is that it is wicked windy! Think hurricane winds as a matter of fact, howling and constant. The festival is in this wide open prairie, and there is no tree, nor mountain around to stop the wind and the sand whipping your face. Non. Stop. They came on stage and their guitar picks were blown away in the wind. The sound blew away with them. Tara got visibly mad. They were rushed, and wanted to get it done with, it seemed. People started leaving early. The crowd dwindled, and that was painful to watch. For the first time, everyone there was not there for Donna. It was new to me.

The Park City show was much, much better, I thought. The venue was small and intimate (an underground cocktail lounge called O.P. Rockwell). The sound was a bit hard, as they sounded very loud, but you got used to it fast. Tara had issues, again, which strained her nerves, visibly, because her mic was not loud enough, she thought. Their sound was a bit flat (all mics sounded like they were tuned equally, and I would have liked the instruments to be a bit more dimmed than their voices, perhaps), but they sounded good, overall, if you were not picky! And Tara is.

People were great sports. Most everyone danced and stayed till the end. They played for more than two hours, solidly – almost no breaks between songs, no introductions. They did have a short intermission.

The one thing that I can clearly see that could alike them to The Dead is their long jamming sessions. They get into these long instrumental rifts that go on for a good 20-30 minutes sometimes, just wailing away. They have instrument solos during it, and dialogues, and are somewhat psychedelic, very 60's-like. They did several of these the other night, too, and the crowd exploded a couple of times.

They sounded as great as usual – like I said before: these folks surely know their stuff. It was great to hear some old songs (Positive Friction, Everyday, In Another World), but also some new ones. I would tell you what they are called, but they didn't tell us. I guess they might be on their next album, if bands do albums anymore?!

Every single song had the same effect their music has on me: feels like every blood cell in my blood stream moves with their rhythm. It's like your whole body becomes plugged into some unseen electrical outlet which makes it move with the music. They are powerful, and entertaining, but on a more cerebral level, I suppose.

If I have one bit of advice for trying them for the first time is this: listen to their recordings first. If you like what you hear, then, listen to more and more of their music. If you really think you're hooked, then, go see them live. You can be very forgiving when you love them for their music first. And they are truly lovable because of what they do and because of the precision and energy with which they are doing it. They take their seriousness and attention to every note and “step it up to life.”

Donna is the reason why I would never sneeze at an unknown hometown band – because beauty and talent does not always need a Grammy to be legitimate.

I leave you to one of my favorite tunes, and in this video Tara looks like maybe she is having just a smidgen of fun.

Proud to be a herd member! 

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Lost Paradise: My Story about L.A.

"The whole place is a glaring, gaudy, nightmarish set, built upon the desert." (Ethel Barrymore)
There are very few things that are more intrinsically American than a drive through the desert. Just long, empty roads, unfolding like slick, enormous snakes, winding through thousands and thousands piles of emptiness.

There is hardly any American roadtrip movie ever made that does not include a long and hot ride through the middle of Nothing, USA, and more specifically the Southwest. Where else in the world do you have millions of miles, it seems, of perfectly paved roads connecting emptiness and no one?! Even bad, actionless roadtrip movies go through the desert. Because the desert always speaks for itself while it makes room for any possibilities.


Driving through the Arizona desert, somewhere between Salt Lake to Las Vegas

The most talented painter of the Southwestern desert is, in my opinion, Charles Bowden. I do not possess an iota of his brilliant talent and mind to even attempt to describe it, so I'll quote:
The Southwest is a place where everyone slips their moorings and just drifts. The cities and towns are ugly, the populace footloose, the crime frequent, the marriages disasters, the plans pathetic gestures, the air electric with promise. There is so much space and so much ground that no one can for a single moment doubt the basic American dream that it is possible to make something worthwhile of life. Everything a desert tortoise is – calm, a homebody, long-lived, patient, quiet – the people of the Southwest are not. […] The landscape comes from the far side of the mind – black slopes, blue sky, burning sun.” (“Blue Desert”)



How you know you have reached the end of the Last Frontier and possibly of the world. When settlers and trail blazers have named new places everything there is to name a place they run out of inspiration or sense for what to call the last one. So, they just string some random letters together and they come up with Zzyzx Rd

The only thing more impressive than getting lost in the desert is coming across a huge metropolis springing out of nowhere in the middle of it, a huge chimera of a lost dream. Las Vegas is such a chimera. And so is Los Angeles.

I think that no matter where we are from, we are all a little bit fascinated with LA. It's an undeniable platitude to say that this city is at the very least intriguing for all of us. Some of us love it, some hate it, some are puzzled by it, but we all can tell at least one story that started there. Movies alone are great ambassadors of this.

As for myself, I feel like I grew up with Los Angeles as a distant constant in my life. My whole existence has been dotted with LA stories, movies, and music. Like the decorated chest of an old vet, little pictures of LA, old and new, are forever engraved on mine. 

When I was too young to even know how to read a map, I remember my dad telling me that his friends' daughters emigrated to the States and now they live in Los Angeles. He reminded us every day that we should aspire for that: that one day, we would grow up and move to LA. It was never “move to the USA”. It was always “move to LA.” And this LA was established in our young minds as this place people go to that offers wide open possibilities and opportunities. A place where you work your butt off, string a few dollars and live paycheck from paycheck, but you get to live next door to the very privileged, and get to absorb the culture it offers endlessly. That place where miracles happen and lives are made.

Later, in my teens, I saw “Pretty Woman” for the first time. We could not afford a VCR, so some of our friends invited us over to watch it on tape. Our friends' son was about 10 years older than us and he commented on the opening as well as the closing scene of the movie which shows this homeless (I think) guy who says something like this: “Welcome to Hollywood. What's your dream?! Everyone comes here. This is Hollywood. The land of dreams. Some dreams come true, some don't, but keep on dreaming ...” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GuWouH2RMY) Our friends' son said “this is the definition of LA and the definition of America. It's a place where you are free to dream." Some dreams come true, some don't, but they make up the fabric of the real world, just like a McDonald's burger. I continued to live into my young adult years to still wish that one day I will reach that land.

Later on, during my college years, I watched “Beverly Hills 90201” - another “American made” dreamsical piece, another story of people starting up in the world, trying to find an identity in a big, foreign city, right next door to “plastic” people.



We had arrived

In college it is when I also discovered the music of The Doors and Janis Joplin – listening to them, watching them took me back to no other place but LA. Again. Like a perpetually spinning record, LA kept coming again and again into my life. I dreamed of one day walking the sidewalk on Venice Beach and listening to the sounds of the homeless bands there. Watching the standstill traffic on Hollywood Boulevard, and watching the roller-skaters gliding gently on The Hills “until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Then, it was the religious watching of The Oscars ceremonies, complete with the red carpet interviews, every year – even when I lived in Romania and had to get up at 3 AM.

During my whole 42 years of life LA and Hollywood have been part of my life. There has been something, at every point in my life, that connects me, albeit remotely and most times virtually, to this chimeric place, rising from the middle of the American Southwestern desert. Like a giant cobra, dancing in the heat. Appealing and wild. Scary and so seductive, at the same time.

But till a couple of weekends ago, I have never seen it in real life. Although I have been in the US for close to 20 years now, my travels have not taken me there. After driving in 111F delirious heat through the Mojave Desert from Salt Lake City and then from Vegas, we reached LA one early afternoon. On a Saturday.



The proof that the heat was no joke.

I know I will not do much justice to tell you what it felt like, and what all these landmarks I have mentioned look like in reality, so I won't even waste my time or yours. I will just make a brief list of 10 things that will stay with me, as a vivid testimony that my eyes have seen this, my skin has felt this, my pores have absorbed this dreamy, raw, real, dirty, loud, busy, wide, smelly, green, balmy (at an almost constant 75F), claustrophobically agoraphobic, surreal, shameless, shameful and intoxicating city.
  1. We have parked our car on Sunset Boulevard, and walked around Whisky a Go Go. Call me  a hippie if you want, but this was my number one must see. We did not care for the bands playing during the weekend that we were there, and wanted to explore other parts of the city that evening, so we didn't go in. But just to see the building, with its historic marquee and hear the sound of music coming from inside was breathtaking for me. I could only imagine Jim Morrison walking through the door, on the way to his first concert there. Or last. What is the difference?!



    Whisky a Go-Go on Sunset Boulevard.
  2. I have always wanted to see the stars on Hollywood Boulevard (is there any human in the whole world who doesn't know about these?!), but I never imagined that the very first star I would come across with would be … The Doors. This is not made up. Right as we were coming out of the subterranean parking lot, the first thing I saw when walking my first steps on The Boulevard was The Doors star.

  3. I think “Pretty Woman” made Rodeo Drive famous, too, and the movie does it justice. Stores lined up like forbidden fruits, so posh and upscale you feel dirty and low class, no matter who you are. I walked into one, just to see if I felt different, and I did: like I was breaking into a house that wasn't mine. They have a hostess and a personal shopper and an assistant to check you personally out at the end – all personalized, all yours. I don't think I have seen enough dollars in my life to afford something from one of these places. But it was good to put some real pictures and a palpable experience into my brain.
      




    Cars, people, billboard, and road signs on Rodeo Drive.

  4. Another thing that I believe defines a place is the food. California always stands out for me in freshness. Especially when it comes to veggies and fish, they seem to do a good job, just about anywhere you go. I also look for what really a place has to offer that is singularly theirs.

    The fish tacos on Venice Beach, at
    On The Waterfront Cafe (http://www.waterfrontcafe.com/) did disappoint, I must say. It was one of those fish sticks businesses, which was disheartening because we were on the beach. However, the guacamole was better than the one I had in Mexico or anywhere else. Californians know their avocados. At least. And you had a taco and a cold brew on Venice Beach. How much more picky can you get, right?!


    Street food on Hollywood Boulevard, outside the Chinese Theater.

    Although a (local) chain,
    Creme de la Crepe (http://www.cremedelacrepe.com/) was amazing. It had a cozy, small boutique eatery kind of feel, very French and very fresh. Where can you get warm fresh French baguette for breakfast with a serving of homemade strawberry jam?! As my husband said “that jam was not jam, it was the strawberry!”


    The very inviting, very French Creme de la Crepe Restaurant
     
    We ate at Dinah's (http://www.dinahsrestaurant.com/),
    too which is a local emblem, we found out, having appeared in many movies (google it to find out). They had a collection of vintage radios and you really feel like you stepped back in the 50's when you walk through their door.





    Dinah's Restaurant in Culver City.
  5. Speaking of Venice Beach – it is everything you see in the movies, except not as swallowingly huge – bright, busy, eye-popping, gregarious, loud, fast, sandy, and smells like a cross-between sun lotion and stopped up public toilet ... We walked for about a couple of miles (one in either direction) alongside homeless people, artists, t-shirt stores, palm readers, beer patios, walls covered in murals, cafes wreaking of pot, and (very) high end small apartments sprouting almost right from the sand.

    Venice Beach has a timeless quality about it. You have the feeling that this place has seen pretty much everything there is to see: from sex on the beach to murder, homeless folks dying in DT spasms, from Flower Power beauties clad in leis, from
    "couples, naked race down by its quiet side" to the police chasing riots and putting away protesters. The history of Venice Beach, no doubt, can be captured in one family album's worth of time, but it would be a thick and diverse album. You also have the feeling that the story of Venice Beach is far from being wrapped, yet. 
    In a city that has almost exclusively million dollar homes, I wondered how much an apartment on Venice Beach would cost. I researched this: a one bedroom apartment was listed at 1.85 million dollars. Now, why would you spend this kind of cash in a building two feet away from people peeing on walls and drunks throwing up 24/7?! I suppose because you can and you only live once. LA is nothing if not the American Sybaris.


    Parade of flags on Venice Beach, with the Romanian flag to the right. Somewhat of a full circle. 

















    Venice Beach visuals
  6. Remember that movie with Michael Douglas, “Falling Down”? His car breaks down in rush hour LA traffic, and he abandons it where it's at and starts walking across the city, all mad as hell. I always thought “yeah, right, Michael! Who does that? Who leaves a car abandoned in traffic?!” Well, I am here to tell you that LA people do! We were on this severely backed up highway, just a few minutes (normally, but there is nothing 'normal' about LA traffic) from hour hotel, in a high-rise residential neighborhood, and there was this car flipped completely upside down in the middle of the road. The traffic was backed up for miles and we were not going anywhere. Some people pulled on the shoulder or in the median, stopped the car, took their backpacks, put in their iPhone earbuds, and off they went. All I could think of was that they must live nearby in the many flat buildings we saw around us, and they could just walk to their homes and come back later for the car?! Very strange indeed. And traffic was, by the way, where we spent about 30% of our time in LA. 

                                     


    Traffic on Rodeo Drive
  7. Possibly the most recognizable landmark of LA is The Hollywood sign. I wanted to ensure that I would not leave this city before I took one shot, at least, of it. I am not sure what it is – it is nothing but some huge, horribly industrial-looking letters, kitschily displayed in blinding white paint on top of a random hill. They have nothing of the reverence and history of Louvre and The Tower of London, and nothing sacred and awe-inspiring like Notre Dame or Westminster Abbey. And yet, they are, to me, as pausing, and as reflective. They bear in their name and symbolism the essence of this city: LA would be nothing without the world of Hollywood. America would be a very different country without Hollywood, as well. And to so many LA is America, still.

    We drove up this steep hill (Muholland Highway) through a very posh neighborhood, to get closer to The Sign. The streets were almost Italian in width – extremely tight and with cars parked everywhere. Lots of “do not park” signs and “stay away from my gate.” But we managed to reach the closest point to it, and I jumped out to snap my shot, my husband frightened someone would shoot him for stopping on this narrow lane, guarding the car. Another bucket list item crossed.


    The Hollywood sign, as seen from Mullholland Highway

  8. The Dolby Theater, home of The Oscars, star attraction of the Hollywood Boulevard, although done up in red regalia and about half a trillion natural white roses, for a multi billionaire's daughter's wedding, was old, drab, and very dirty. Emphasis on very. It definitely did not have the posh allure that E! portrays in their broadcasts before the ceremonies. Hollywood Boulevard was wall to wall of people that day (a Saturday of all days!), very similar to the Vegas strip on a torrid day, or New Orleans during an exhaustingly humid afternoon. I kept thinking I have waited 30+ years to see this theater and all I wanted to do now was get the heck out! I felt about seeing The Dolby somewhat similarly to what I felt when I saw Buckingham Palace – the shine, the glamour, the stones and glitz are missing in real life.





    The Dolby Theater
  9. You go to cities like LA, and New York, and Paris, and London for their history, but also for their art. You are almost always guaranteed to see an exhibit or ten that hub really important and remarkable artistic works. We only had two days in LA, so we could not afford the luxury of time to visit all the artistic venues it hosts, but we did visit The Getty. It was the best time spent during the whole time we were there – and this was surprising to us. The complex is not only a masterpiece of modern architecture, its location is also key, atop a hill with the entire LA bowing down at its feet, but it also collects beautiful works of art, amongst which: 17th century oil paintings, a collection of pastels, even, which were amazing in detail and elegance and quality of preservation, old Irish photographs, Greek and Roman statues in a state of impeccable wholeness, Louis XIV furniture, and some of the most elegant gardens I have ever seen. But the one exhibit that really shocked me was the one on concrete poetry. I will let you google it yourself and find out what that means, because it was news to me, ashamed I am to say, because I am, after all, a literature major. It was truly a mind-opening, enriching experience.

    And this is ultimately why I travel, right?! The good and the bad and the different all blend in to create an experience which is like no other, stranger and newer than my stomping grounds that I see daily, and that much richer.








    Concrete poetry and gardens at The Getty

  10. The last thing that will forever stay with me was probably the most shockingly ubiquitous: the smog. I have read about the California smog for decades, but I have never seen the LA skyline quite so mucky, desolate, and gray in any of the movies, pictures, or friends' albums. I have never shot a skyline more desperate, and more disarmingly desolate. If it were not for the hub-bub of the traffic, I would have thought we were in a town after the atomic bomb has fallen and everyone has died. 

    I was shocked that the fog never lifted in the three days (some partial days, too) that we were there. Like a hopeless burka, it enveloped the city into darkness, in the middle of an otherwise calm and cool day, hiding its beauty away. The vibrant city I was hoping to find was alone, stranded, smelly and remote, with only the sick and threatening warmth of a human burning oven … 


    Despite the dirt and the filth in the air, the mighty city of LA borrowed something from the mighty desert that surrounds it, and the dirty polluted “a
    ir felt electric with promise”, secrets; you almost can hear its heart beating bloody and unapologetic into another day …

    I commend you to cut through the smog, though, and dare to explore. Driving around Beverly Hills, with the posh lawns, giant palm trees almost snapping they are so tall, and thoughtfully diversely architectured homes is a treat you don't see anywhere else. The hole-in-the-wall eateries are worth the traffic fight. But unfortunately, what will stay with you, the 'overall' summarizing picture of LA, from afar, will be the skyline – and that is a sad sight. Saddest I have seen in a long while. It is sort of ironic: California is always a leading force behind recycling, anti-pollution, renewable energy, and the likes. And its most iconic city fails to live up to those efforts.

                                    

    As you enter the state of California, from Nevada, you see this immense solar power plant. The giant mirrors intensify the sun rays and multiply its power million-fold. It looks amazingly intimidating and powerful, and yet ... it's just the sun. The intensity of the heat around these few miles of road is the highest I have ever felt in my life.

I could not help but pause at the irony of this picture: the LA skyline.
People of LA are happy and content, but also tired. They are not the pawns walking in robotic gestures of the metros of New York City, hurryingly staring at the pavement. They walk slower, and smile more. They are making up a perfect and customary American mosaic adding to it their different backgrounds, cultures, skin tones, music, accents, and attire. They are not boring, for sure. Nothing about LA is remotely boring. Just a bit lost, and a lot sad, and tired. But there is this life you feel the pulse of very clearly as you watch lights coming on across the metropolis, and the sky dipping behind the hills into another night. This energy that makes the heart of the city beat, in the dark cloud of smog.

As I look back at LA, I hear Jim singing:

Well, I just got into town about an hour ago
Took a look around, see which way the wind blow
Where the little girls in their Hollywood bungalows
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel?
City of Night, City of Night ...
L.A. Woman, L.A. Woman
L.A. Woman Sunday afternoon
(...)
Drive through your suburbs
Into your blues, into your blues (...)
I see your hair is burnin'
Hills are filled with fire
If they say I never loved you
You know they are a liar
Drivin' down your freeway
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars,
The topless bars
Never saw a woman...
So alone, so alone
(...)
Motel, money, murder, madness
Let's change the mood from glad to sadness
(…)
(The Doors: LA Woman)

And now, many moons after I heard this song for the first time, I actually know what he means. 

The dream, as all dreams, was worth having for 30-40 some odd years. And it's good to meet your dream. Even when it wants.


Click the picture to access the album that captures this trip. The true beauty of The Getty gardens and art, details of Hollywood Boulevard, more Venice Beach life, and more await ... 

Saturday, June 24, 2017

The Wonders of Modern Travels

PS: and yes, I realize that the word 'modern' in my title has become outdated the second I typed it. 

How many times do you go through the day and think “Oh, brother! I wish I would have come up with that idea!”?! I know I do about half a dozen times! I had one of these moments the other week, when on a trip to DC, I had my first Uber experience.

My more worldly friends will chuckle, but yes, I am a provincial. Always have been and even now that I live in America, I still am. Provincialism is something that speaks to me, and probably runs through my veins. Sort of a weird melancholy that you only understand that you like to hang on to, kind of like the passe, moldy smell of country cottages.

So, although I am more worldly than most people living in Utah, I am still a small town girl. And yes, Uber has been around for a while, but I never needed it. Out here, in the West, we are in charge of our own driving, in the remote place we live. Anywhoo … forced by circumstances at the time, I had my first (and second) Uber experience.

The whole concept of the deal blew me away: you install this app on your phone, and you spot the “Ubers” in your area. You put in the address that you want to go to, and you are given several options of Uber vehicles close and far away from where you are (the phone detects where you are, you see, if you activate “Locations” on it). You choose one car, and you are given their distance from you, their name, and make and model of the car you are waiting for. It might be more, but I was not the one placing the request and this is all I was given when I asked how it works.

While waiting, you know exactly what car you are looking for, and you can watch on a map exactly where they are at the moment, how far, etc. I wondered, in one of our instances of using Uber, whether we'd all fit in one car, as there were seven of us waiting. The person summoning the Uber (I am still new to this: do you hail a Uber? Call (up) a Uber? Order an Uber?! Not sure.) told me to relax: “we are getting a Uber-X, they know we have 7, so we're all going to fit.”

Once you are picked up, it feels kind of like you are in a cab, only a cleaner, more comfortable cab. No weird and doubtfully working credit card machines strapped with duct tape to the back of the passenger seat, no faded ID picturing an angry chauffeur with an unpronounceable name hanging from the rear-view mirror, no antiquated meter, mounted crooked on the dash. It feels like you are in your friend's car and they're just giving you a lift on their way somewhere.

Our Uber-X was a GMC Yukon and yes, we all fit in it. The inside was pure luxury: all leather, smoky windows, nice smells, and incredibly clean – it was definitely a newer car, not your usual run down cab in a large city. The driver was wearing a suit and white button-down shirt, with no tie. Our passenger in the front seat was having a cold that day, so the driver promptly pulled out a box of tissues and gave her a bottle of water to take for the road. I have never had that kind of service from a cab driver in my life, in any country I have ever traveled.

Sonja, the driver of the second Uber (a Volkswagen Jetta), was super friendly. One of our passengers was from Raleigh, and Sonja talked about her cousin who lives there and how she probably should take some time off to visit her down in Raleigh. It was like watching old pals catching up. She was friendly, without being intrusive, which is my favorite kind of strangers, but hard to find.

We gave the wrong address first to Sonja, so, the person who called the Uber had to rectify that: with a few taps on her phone, she corrected our destination address, and the address updated immediately on Sonja's phone, sitting on the cradle on the dashboard. And I mean immediately: the second our friend hit “Update” on the map on her phone, I watched Sonja's phone refreshing and the map finding the new address. At the end, we all said good bye and moved on with our lives. I asked my friend who was going to pay for all this. She said “the app takes it out of my credit card.” No money, no tips, no dirt, no fuss, really. Just a ride.

I am sure you can worry about hackers breaking into the Uber database and stealing the credit card numbers, but I don't much worry about such things. After all, we're all Amazon shoppers, right?!

So, yeah, I was pretty blown away about it all: the convenience, the speed, the ease of the process, the courteousness of the drivers and the comfort and the politeness they offer with their service. And just the idea of this service, from the ingenuity of the app to the seamless process of knowing your driver, and what car you're getting into before it happens, the map system, and everything – would you have wanted to come up with that?!

And I must say: the phone has come a long way since Mr. Carson allowed it into the pantry. 

Monday, May 22, 2017

The Longest Shortest Flight. And the Life Questions It Bore

Besides making me chuckle and making me feel like I am looking into a mirror (she is born one day after me, after all) Anne Lamott's books always make me evaluate my life. They always make me ponder upon such things like “where am I?”, “where am I going?”, “have I made the right choices so far?” (in case you are wondering, they are all “right” choices), and “are my thighs the right size?”. You know – the important stuff.

But this one time in particular, recently, I was reading an Anne Lamott book (“Some Assembly Required”) on a flight from Montreal to Toronto and I was not only forced to ask the questions, as usual. I was forced to answer them, too. After all, I had plenty of time. That plane was not going anywhere.

So, by now, you probably think I am crazy, because the flight from Montreal to Toronto should not be long enough to ponder one's existence. Oh, but you are mistaken. Pilots and airports lately can make the shortest distance seem never ending. The Toronto airport, as big and international, and “key” as it might sound, had only ONE (it calls for all caps here) runway open. ONE. That was it. When we arrived in the Montreal airport, several flights to Toronto were canceled because of early morning fog. Then, later flights (ours included) were being delayed, because they could only fly one airplane in at one time, and let one fly away, after that one. Given that Toronto is a super busy and super international airport, there were tens of planes queued up to land and take off.

We boarded the plane in Montreal and waited for the go from Toronto that we could leave. We waited for an hour, I think, on the ground, in Montreal. Then, the pilot let us off the plane because there was no sign that we would be given the OK to approach Toronto any time soon (the flight is about 35-45 minutes, if that!). We waited at the gate for another hour. Then, we finally boarded and we flew towards Toronto. We're all giddy with life and anticipation by then.

And we make it, we are told, to the capital of Ontario, but we cannot see land. We are all en-wrapped in clouds, and we are hovering. We can really feel like we are not moving forward, but just going around in circles, or just hovering. And we hang there. For another hour and a half, or more. A flight of 30 minutes took about two and a half hours from gate to gate. I have flown over the Atlantic many a times, but a flight never seemed so long as this one. When you're thinking you're there in a spell and you're not, the seconds linger and extend like balls of warm chewing gum between a finger and a thumb … So, then, during this time, with nothing to look at but sleeping people all around me, I am forced in mandatory confinement, just me, myself and Anne Lamott. Pondering life and meaning of it all.

Many a things came to my mind. Things I am happy about – like the fact that I made it on this other side of open heart surgery and I lived to tell the tale with only two or three maybe brain cells missing; like the fact that I have shelter, and a job and food good enough to eat at the end of every day; and the fact that my husband is there to catch me every time I fall, on my face, or otherwise; the fact that I had just visited my nephews who take my breath away with possibility and unbounded dreams; the fact that the war has not started just yet.

But then, there were the dark thoughts, too. Things I am not so happy about. Like the fact that some days I feel physically exhausted with putting up an appearance anymore – to live in Utah as an 'outsider' will do this to you after seven years. For those who know me well, you'll wonder why I bother with the appearance, since I never seemed to get the hang of it before. I am not sure I do now, either, but I have to earn my living, so putting up an appearance it is; or at least trying my damnest to do that. Some other things that I questioned during my confinement were: I miss my friends, I miss North Carolina, I miss the Ocean, and life is too short to not have what you want nearby, especially when you could, theoretically. I also am tired of having no friends, no real friends, close by … you know the ones you could call in the middle of the day on Sunday and just go out to the drive-in for ice cream, or something …

I never live for regrets, so being here in Utah for the past seven years has not been a bad thing at all, but it's like a circle that never completed. It's missing a big chunk of it, and it's starting to collapse into itself.

Then, I questioned my job, my role on this planet. I have felt a book, maybe several coming to me over the years, but now, that I have literally seen death, I should get the memo and the ultimatum that time is precious. And books are not written from the grave. Lots to think about it here. Huge sigh!

Like any Lamott book would do, it made me reconsider and redefine my relationship with my parents. As always, there is a lot of complicated “stuff” there. Lots and lots of love, with many a disappointment mixed in. But to quote my mom “it's a sad day when your kids judge you.” But what if they don't leave you any choice but to judge them? What if they can't see that? I know, I know … there is always a choice … blah, blah, blah – it does not make it easier, because we're human and they raised us smart and questioning, so we judge them … I know now not to let their lack of care for themselves make me cry and make me lose sleep. It's still hard, because, like I said, there is lots of love and lots of wanting them to live forever, but … I cannot pity them anymore. That is just it: my pity meter has gotten stuck on empty. And the refill station has closed for business. I hope for the best, but I have a life, one fragile, solitary life of my own to live, too … so I won't poison it with my frustration to their disregard of theirs. But it hurts, and it bleeds, and it makes me sad …

When we made it to the other end of the runway, I felt like I used to feel after confession: like all my worries were left behind me, washed away by some divine hand. And it's only going to be the straight and narrow from here on out.


Doubtful. But one thing I know for sure now: when in doubt about your life, impose some kind of confinement on yourself, and focus on something that centers and anchors you. Leave those waves alone to wash you clean of good and bad. And just remain solid, pure and unmoving – like the Gibraltar rock. Just cleanse your system and restart. With all the thoughts cleansed, your mind, your heart, the core of your being will be ready to fill up again with new possibilities. And just like that: restart. 


After the smoke starting clearing - above Toronto, ON