A multi-year hiatus - that's what I've taken from blog writing. And, even now, I'm not certain I'm back. At one point I considered myself to be a writer. Now I don't know. Is a writer something you stop being if you're not capturing words outside of your head? I know that I narrate constantly inside my head, that I tell myself stories, and that those stories color and create my world. But don't we all? Maybe some of us just more colorfully than others?
For many years, I felt driven to write words on paper. Then electronically. Then, something changed. I don't know what.
I read a statistic recently that was something like (but almost definitely not exactly) "78% of Americans believe that they will write a novel before they die." That says something about someone, doesn't it? Is it about Americans, or about humans? The world we live in today certainly creates and fosters the belief that anyone can become "realized" at any point. Moreover, it cultivates the obsessive documentation of one's "self" - one's opinions, one's daily outfit, one's every meal. Perhaps that logically leads to a belief that every being is a fountain of content that merits documentation - and that there is an appetite for it? Instant fame is a tantalizing possibility to anyone that has an online presence. We are all driven, consciously or not, to immortalize ourselves.
I am at a crossroads in life and in an ideal position to contemplate today what I am and am not. More importantly, I have a supported opportunity, in terms of time and resources, to explore and pursue what I want to be. At nearly 40, I vacillate between feeling too old and feeling that I am only just ready to do this.
Am I a writer? I don't know. What I do know is that I have a voice, as we all do, and that my voice may perhaps be loudest in writing.
Tuesday, November 08, 2016
Thursday, September 02, 2010
The Beings Of Life
“Well,” I announced to Charles as I clipped the bars of his pen shut with a resounding snap, “maybe you should have thought about this BEFORE you decided to be so wicked.”
Charles eyed me, suspiciously, from the “safety” of his litter box. He swayed - ever so slightly - from side to side as he attempted to gauge the risk of me committing the ultimate offense: The “rabbit pick-up.” I paid him no mind, continuing our very one-sided conversation.
“Yep,” I affirmed, cheerfully, “you are a wicked monFER and monFERS deserve to be locked up.”
As I moved to the kitchen I continued the chatter, becoming ever more inclusive, and began packing my workbag.
“Are you playing with your bag?” I inquired of Lulu, who was obviously playing with her bag. “That is SO SMART.” My affirmation seemed to – if anything – inspire derision. She paused, briefly, in the shredding of a paper grocery bag and gazed at me with her single eye. It can be difficult to understand the subtleties of rabbit communication, but I’m pretty sure she was – at that moment – questioning the human assertion of “superior species.”
I considered this, briefly, then – undaunted - shifted my attention to Juliet.
“You,” I announce to her sleeping form, “smell TERRIBLE. I HOPE that you are planning to take a bath before I come home.”
The chances of this, admittedly, were extraordinarily slim, for several reasons. These include: 1) I am the only human in residence, and I was leaving; 2) Juliet, being a dog, has never taken it upon herself to bathe without human intervention and is unlikely to do so at 13 years of age; 3) there is a 98% probability that she could not hear a word I was saying. I contemplated all of this, and realized my mistake: As the “leader” of the household I could not afford to lose face in front of the others, and I had now set forth a request that would be ignored. Quickly, I implemented ‘damage control.’
“You know what?” I queried of the still-sleeping canine. “I don’t trust you near the shower. You better wait for me to get home. Did you hear me? Do NOT touch the shower, or you will be in TROU-BLE.”
Pleased with my quick-thinking, I hoisted my bag unto my shoulder and stood in front of the door, surveying my domain. Lulu continued to dig at the paper bag, her bunny legs scratching furiously. Juliet, at last sensing movements indicative of an immediate departure, lifted her head to gaze mournfully at me. Charlie and Janie were reclined in their cage, deliberately conveying disinterest. Only the birds were talking: Their shrieks of protest escalated as they observed my position near the door.
“I want you ALL,” I pronounced, voice elevated so that each of the six inhabitants could hear, “To be GOOD today. I want you to THINK about your lives and HOW you could IMPROVE your little selves.”
I stressed key words for emphasis as I spoke, looking from feathered to furry faces in turn. “That’s right.” I turned and placed my hand on the door handle, preparing for the wrap-up. “You be good, and I’ll be back.”
As my hand turned on the handle, I launched into one of my favorite departure bits. “I’ll,” I announce in a voice several octaves below normal and in a thick, Austrian actor-turned-governor accent, “be BAAAAAAAAAACK.”
The last elongated syllable still hung – suspended - in the air as I opened my door to see the couple that lives across the hall - my neighbors - standing in the common area…clearly staring at my doorway. Quickly the male half of the duo turned away, mumbling an awkward “hello.” His girlfriend swiveled to busy herself with the lock on their door –gaze fixed, earnestly, upon the deadbolt.
Closing my door firmly behind me, I greeted them and smiled in what I hoped was a poised and nonchalant way. If only, I thought, this were the first time they overheard my “conversations”….they might just think I were drunk, or heavily medicated. Alas, I knew for a fact that it was NOT the first time they had overheard my interactions with my pets. An unfortunate reality of our condo complex is the ability to hear – from the common area – all sorts of sounds from within the individual condo units. Passing through, I frequently overheard conversations, music, television, vacuum cleaners… essentially, whatever activity was occurring within. I had also – on more than one occasion – opened my door to find my neighbors in the hall, on their way to or fro their own condo.
Now I moved quickly, slipping past my neighbors and down the stairs to make my escape out the front door. As I breathed in the late summer air, heavy with humidity, I reflected upon the version of “me” that must exist in my neighbors’ minds, and in how they would likely describe me to visitors or friends. To them, my defining qualities no doubt culminated in a title of “crazy pet lady” – a label enhanced by the correlating status of “single.” They might, I reflected, be on to something with the “crazy” part, and were definitely accurate in the current assessment of “single.” Still, there was nothing about either adjective that I feel – at this stage in my life – uncomfortable with. I am, I feel certain, exactly where I am meant to be – and am surrounded by the beings that I need to be with at this stage of my journey. Who am I to question the fact that the majority of them are less than 10 inches tall and sport fur or feathers? They are, after all, tolerant of my (relatively speaking) freakish height and baldness.
While the creatures that I share my life with may not hold up their end of a verbal conversation well, they hold up their end of a much more important exchange: They hold a space in which I am fully myself, and am accepted as such. Should I choose to gallivant about in my living room, cloaked in a Santa suit and eating ice cream (visual not based on actual events), it might cause a stir of alarm but it would not – in the least – affect the relationship that I have with my co-inhabitants. More importantly, the non-human beings in my charge hold a space in which THEY are fully themselves, and I am allowed to observe….and to learn. They are a gift, and one that I (being human) recognize only in brief moments.
These moments, I think, are worthy of pursuit. I endeavor to appreciate – always – everything that these creatures offer… but I am a bit too much of a realist for that. I acknowledge that there will be times that my perspective will be knocked askew – times that I will, for a while, forget the feathered and furred gifts that are patiently watching, waiting, for my return – but I also know that, in the end, “I’ll be BAAAAAAACK.”
Charles eyed me, suspiciously, from the “safety” of his litter box. He swayed - ever so slightly - from side to side as he attempted to gauge the risk of me committing the ultimate offense: The “rabbit pick-up.” I paid him no mind, continuing our very one-sided conversation.
“Yep,” I affirmed, cheerfully, “you are a wicked monFER and monFERS deserve to be locked up.”
As I moved to the kitchen I continued the chatter, becoming ever more inclusive, and began packing my workbag.
“Are you playing with your bag?” I inquired of Lulu, who was obviously playing with her bag. “That is SO SMART.” My affirmation seemed to – if anything – inspire derision. She paused, briefly, in the shredding of a paper grocery bag and gazed at me with her single eye. It can be difficult to understand the subtleties of rabbit communication, but I’m pretty sure she was – at that moment – questioning the human assertion of “superior species.”
I considered this, briefly, then – undaunted - shifted my attention to Juliet.
“You,” I announce to her sleeping form, “smell TERRIBLE. I HOPE that you are planning to take a bath before I come home.”
The chances of this, admittedly, were extraordinarily slim, for several reasons. These include: 1) I am the only human in residence, and I was leaving; 2) Juliet, being a dog, has never taken it upon herself to bathe without human intervention and is unlikely to do so at 13 years of age; 3) there is a 98% probability that she could not hear a word I was saying. I contemplated all of this, and realized my mistake: As the “leader” of the household I could not afford to lose face in front of the others, and I had now set forth a request that would be ignored. Quickly, I implemented ‘damage control.’
“You know what?” I queried of the still-sleeping canine. “I don’t trust you near the shower. You better wait for me to get home. Did you hear me? Do NOT touch the shower, or you will be in TROU-BLE.”
Pleased with my quick-thinking, I hoisted my bag unto my shoulder and stood in front of the door, surveying my domain. Lulu continued to dig at the paper bag, her bunny legs scratching furiously. Juliet, at last sensing movements indicative of an immediate departure, lifted her head to gaze mournfully at me. Charlie and Janie were reclined in their cage, deliberately conveying disinterest. Only the birds were talking: Their shrieks of protest escalated as they observed my position near the door.
“I want you ALL,” I pronounced, voice elevated so that each of the six inhabitants could hear, “To be GOOD today. I want you to THINK about your lives and HOW you could IMPROVE your little selves.”
I stressed key words for emphasis as I spoke, looking from feathered to furry faces in turn. “That’s right.” I turned and placed my hand on the door handle, preparing for the wrap-up. “You be good, and I’ll be back.”
As my hand turned on the handle, I launched into one of my favorite departure bits. “I’ll,” I announce in a voice several octaves below normal and in a thick, Austrian actor-turned-governor accent, “be BAAAAAAAAAACK.”
The last elongated syllable still hung – suspended - in the air as I opened my door to see the couple that lives across the hall - my neighbors - standing in the common area…clearly staring at my doorway. Quickly the male half of the duo turned away, mumbling an awkward “hello.” His girlfriend swiveled to busy herself with the lock on their door –gaze fixed, earnestly, upon the deadbolt.
Closing my door firmly behind me, I greeted them and smiled in what I hoped was a poised and nonchalant way. If only, I thought, this were the first time they overheard my “conversations”….they might just think I were drunk, or heavily medicated. Alas, I knew for a fact that it was NOT the first time they had overheard my interactions with my pets. An unfortunate reality of our condo complex is the ability to hear – from the common area – all sorts of sounds from within the individual condo units. Passing through, I frequently overheard conversations, music, television, vacuum cleaners… essentially, whatever activity was occurring within. I had also – on more than one occasion – opened my door to find my neighbors in the hall, on their way to or fro their own condo.
Now I moved quickly, slipping past my neighbors and down the stairs to make my escape out the front door. As I breathed in the late summer air, heavy with humidity, I reflected upon the version of “me” that must exist in my neighbors’ minds, and in how they would likely describe me to visitors or friends. To them, my defining qualities no doubt culminated in a title of “crazy pet lady” – a label enhanced by the correlating status of “single.” They might, I reflected, be on to something with the “crazy” part, and were definitely accurate in the current assessment of “single.” Still, there was nothing about either adjective that I feel – at this stage in my life – uncomfortable with. I am, I feel certain, exactly where I am meant to be – and am surrounded by the beings that I need to be with at this stage of my journey. Who am I to question the fact that the majority of them are less than 10 inches tall and sport fur or feathers? They are, after all, tolerant of my (relatively speaking) freakish height and baldness.
While the creatures that I share my life with may not hold up their end of a verbal conversation well, they hold up their end of a much more important exchange: They hold a space in which I am fully myself, and am accepted as such. Should I choose to gallivant about in my living room, cloaked in a Santa suit and eating ice cream (visual not based on actual events), it might cause a stir of alarm but it would not – in the least – affect the relationship that I have with my co-inhabitants. More importantly, the non-human beings in my charge hold a space in which THEY are fully themselves, and I am allowed to observe….and to learn. They are a gift, and one that I (being human) recognize only in brief moments.
These moments, I think, are worthy of pursuit. I endeavor to appreciate – always – everything that these creatures offer… but I am a bit too much of a realist for that. I acknowledge that there will be times that my perspective will be knocked askew – times that I will, for a while, forget the feathered and furred gifts that are patiently watching, waiting, for my return – but I also know that, in the end, “I’ll be BAAAAAAACK.”
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Communication
Do you, he asked, write?
The answer
writes itself
Do you, I asked, write?
The answer
already written
Do you, he asked, know?
Do I?
Was it the question
or answer?
Do you, I asked, think?
Silence
filled only with thought
or words
so difficult to differentiate
Do you?
He asked
The answer
writes itself
Do you, I asked, write?
The answer
already written
Do you, he asked, know?
Do I?
Was it the question
or answer?
Do you, I asked, think?
Silence
filled only with thought
or words
so difficult to differentiate
Do you?
He asked
Monday, March 29, 2010
Manual Focus: Part One
I am making a concerted effort to be focused – focused in a different sense than I have been in the past. Certainly I have experience “focusing”…. One might even say I excel at it. Unfortunately, the things that I’ve “focused” on have not necessarily been healthy, nor have I been managing that focus. At all. In truth, “focus” is a euphemism in this particular situation…a euphemism for, say, “obsess.” This approach, or lack of approach, has not served me well. It is only recently – however – that I have realized just how “unwell” it is, and – so – I am (once again) embracing transformation.
The practice of true focus, or concentration, is – I know – particularly challenging in this overwhelming, over-stimulating world that I (we) am (are) immersed in. Not only am I over-stimulated, but I have – while shunning many parts of it (television: non-existent in my home; radio: no, thank you; loud music: not happening…) –paradoxically embraced other elements of it like a child embracing a balloon. I am, particularly, drawn to my “smart phone.” I am so attuned to this device that I have taken to imagining that it is calling to me at all times, even if it is not – actually – possible. The chirps and beeps of other people’s phones brings me to a halt in the middle of whatever I am doing, as if I were a mother hearing the sound – in the distance – of her child in distress. I routinely pat down the sides of my body in response to imagined vibrations of my phone heralding an incoming communication. This is undoubtedly disturbing to the people surrounding me at those times, particularly when they may witness this compulsive “patting” ritual several times in a five-minute time span. Were I to see someone else engaged in this bizarre behavior I might suspect that they carried a concealed weapon, and that they were planning to use it.
Ironically, this over-engagement and attentiveness to all incoming communications leads – more often than not – to disappointment when the actual message is received. When my entire life – the activity and/or thoughts that are the essence of my ‘living’ – stops in response to an incoming message, how frequently can that message possibly be worthy of the suspension of my “being”? Not – I assure you – very often.
[Work in progress. To be continued.]
The practice of true focus, or concentration, is – I know – particularly challenging in this overwhelming, over-stimulating world that I (we) am (are) immersed in. Not only am I over-stimulated, but I have – while shunning many parts of it (television: non-existent in my home; radio: no, thank you; loud music: not happening…) –paradoxically embraced other elements of it like a child embracing a balloon. I am, particularly, drawn to my “smart phone.” I am so attuned to this device that I have taken to imagining that it is calling to me at all times, even if it is not – actually – possible. The chirps and beeps of other people’s phones brings me to a halt in the middle of whatever I am doing, as if I were a mother hearing the sound – in the distance – of her child in distress. I routinely pat down the sides of my body in response to imagined vibrations of my phone heralding an incoming communication. This is undoubtedly disturbing to the people surrounding me at those times, particularly when they may witness this compulsive “patting” ritual several times in a five-minute time span. Were I to see someone else engaged in this bizarre behavior I might suspect that they carried a concealed weapon, and that they were planning to use it.
Ironically, this over-engagement and attentiveness to all incoming communications leads – more often than not – to disappointment when the actual message is received. When my entire life – the activity and/or thoughts that are the essence of my ‘living’ – stops in response to an incoming message, how frequently can that message possibly be worthy of the suspension of my “being”? Not – I assure you – very often.
[Work in progress. To be continued.]
Monday, November 09, 2009
Prague: The Life Not Lived
As my time in Prague draws to a close, I am beginning to feel the bittersweet sadness that I feel at the end of most of my travels. When I leave behind the places that I have only begun to know, I cannot help but imagine the alternate life that I am also walking away from: The life that I would possess were I not - exactly - 'me'. It is certainly not a reflection of any dissatisfaction with my present life that I feel this way. It is, instead, a regret for the inevitable closing of doors that we all engage in as we move through life: Choosing one meal over another; one job over another; one love over another; and - ultimately - one life over all the others that could have been.
I suspect that there is no cure for what ails me, and I would not dream of giving up the many things that I gain as I see the world simply to avoid these mild pangs of regret. I think, in fact, that these uncomfortable sensations ultimately cause me to appreciate more the life I am fortunate enough to lead. The truth is this: When I leave, I take a little bit of each place with me. Inside me, there is a growing cosmos - a galaxy of knowledge and experience that colors and lights me from the inside. These experiences - the moments that create the place that builds within me - are the choices that I make. They are the doors that I open.
I suspect that there is no cure for what ails me, and I would not dream of giving up the many things that I gain as I see the world simply to avoid these mild pangs of regret. I think, in fact, that these uncomfortable sensations ultimately cause me to appreciate more the life I am fortunate enough to lead. The truth is this: When I leave, I take a little bit of each place with me. Inside me, there is a growing cosmos - a galaxy of knowledge and experience that colors and lights me from the inside. These experiences - the moments that create the place that builds within me - are the choices that I make. They are the doors that I open.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Prague: 4: Day Two (Friday) - Worship
Yesterday, Katarina assured me that there was really no way to get too lost in the streets of Prague. This morning, I cheerfully proved her wrong in a matter of just a few hours. After rising late (odd, considering the insane amount of sleep I got) I visited the hotel breakfast buffet before heading out for my day of exploration. I deliberately set out with no real objective, which is undoubtedly how I found myself wandering the streets quite aimlessly before happening upon the Church of Our Lady Victorious, which houses the famous Infant Jesus of Prague. Though I am sure you are all quite familiar with the Infant Jesus of Prague and the stories surrounding the statue, I will recap: The small statue was brought from Spain in 1628 and is believed to have protected Prague from plagues and wars. Some believe that it bestows miracles, which - naturally - draws a steady stream of tourists from all over the world. When the pope visited Prague, I was once told, he went first to see the Infant Jesus, before arriving anywhere else in the city. Knowing all this, what choice did I have but to go inside the church and see for myself?
Generally speaking, I like churches - particularly old churches. I find them peaceful and comforting, and often feel compelled to sit quietly in them for long stretches. This church was no different...except for the steady, annoying chatter of tourists. From my seat in a pew close to the Infant Jesus, I watched with - in turn - horror and amazement at the behavior of the visitors. Despite the prominent signs requesting silence and forbidding cameras, the air was heavy with chatter and the periodic flashes of photos being snapped. This was disturbing enough in itself, and I could barely contain my amazement as I noticed that the trend was - bizarrely - to take one's photo with the statue in the background. After positioning, affecting a sober face (Italians), and reviewing the photo, the photo's subject would generally throw in a cursory prayer at the railing surrounding the Infant Jesus. Transfixed, I watched this happen, over and over, for nearly an hour. As I sat there, observing, I was struck with the realization that these people had traveled from all over the world (many of them - it appeared - from Italy and Spain) only to stand in front of the statue with a barrier erected between themselves and the very object that they had come to see. Unaware of the irony, they stared purposefully into the tiny screens in front of them, zooming the focus in and out to get the "best shot" of the object of their quest.
What would it take, I wondered, saddened by the spectacle, to ground these people? How difficult would it be to reconnect people - without gadgets and distancing mediums - with the essence of life itself? A miracle?
Generally speaking, I like churches - particularly old churches. I find them peaceful and comforting, and often feel compelled to sit quietly in them for long stretches. This church was no different...except for the steady, annoying chatter of tourists. From my seat in a pew close to the Infant Jesus, I watched with - in turn - horror and amazement at the behavior of the visitors. Despite the prominent signs requesting silence and forbidding cameras, the air was heavy with chatter and the periodic flashes of photos being snapped. This was disturbing enough in itself, and I could barely contain my amazement as I noticed that the trend was - bizarrely - to take one's photo with the statue in the background. After positioning, affecting a sober face (Italians), and reviewing the photo, the photo's subject would generally throw in a cursory prayer at the railing surrounding the Infant Jesus. Transfixed, I watched this happen, over and over, for nearly an hour. As I sat there, observing, I was struck with the realization that these people had traveled from all over the world (many of them - it appeared - from Italy and Spain) only to stand in front of the statue with a barrier erected between themselves and the very object that they had come to see. Unaware of the irony, they stared purposefully into the tiny screens in front of them, zooming the focus in and out to get the "best shot" of the object of their quest.
What would it take, I wondered, saddened by the spectacle, to ground these people? How difficult would it be to reconnect people - without gadgets and distancing mediums - with the essence of life itself? A miracle?
Friday, November 06, 2009
Prague: 3: Day One - Walkabout
Immediately prior to my departure from the US, I was suddenly struck with inspiration and sent an email to a woman who organizes personal, individualized tours. My hope was that I could secure the services of someone on my first day in Prague, which would - in turn - make it easier for me to get around for the remainder of my trip. Because it was such a last-minute idea, and because I was then unable to check email until I arrived in Prague, I had no idea of whether or not someone would be available to walk me about. Fortunately, someone was - indeed - available.
So it was that I found myself at 9 am, in my hotel lobby, bent over a timeline of Czech history with my guide - Katarina. Katarina appeared to be in her mid-fifties, well-educated, and - as I later learned - well-traveled. Her grasp of Czech history is - frankly - astounding. I understand that her role as a guide lends itself to the development of said expertise, but at times it was truly inhuman. Her conversation would be peppered with phrases like 'why do I mention this,' which - I learned - did not necessitate a response from me. She would launch without hesitation into the reason for mentioning it. In fact, very little of what was said required any input from me. It was, perhaps, little wonder that after five hours of intensive Czech-related education, not broken by any respites or refreshments, I was so exhausted that I could barely understand the ongoing narrative. Perhaps, I allow now, the fact that I landed here only yesterday afternoon also contributes to the fatigue. Regardless of the reason, shortly after calling an end to the tour I found myself back in my hotel room where I napped for three hours.
Despite the chill in the air and the deluge of information, the day was fantastic. I suspect that I am forever spoiled by the personalized nature of the tour. I felt free to ask random questions (Question: Why are there no family members at that wedding? Answer: Russians. What do you expect from them? [insert derisive face, following by face of slight horror as face-maker remembers that she is with a tourist, followed by 'just making a joke face.'] There is much bad blood between the Czechs and the Russians, something that I knew but not in the way that I know now.) When Katarina talked about Prague, particularly about the communist occupation and subsequent Velvet Revolution, she talked about it as someone who has experienced it. She attended the meetings that led to the Velvet Revolution. She described the communist state, and the fear that people felt as they fought against it. She was also an incomparable resource when it came to understanding the 'quirks' of the Czech culture.
So interesting was the day spent with her that I am considering engaging her services again before I leave, to cover other areas of the city. In the five hours that we spent together, we covered only the Old and New Towns. I have so much yet to do! So much, in fact, that I felt a bit guilty when I woke up from my nap and saw the darkness hovering outside my window, pressing eagerly against the glass, hoping that I'd dare to engage it tonight. I did not. I spent some time answering emails, then went for dinner in the hotel restaurant.
As a vegetarian in the Czech (meat-loving) Republic, I am leery of many menu items. This is the standard excuse that I employ in all European countries to explain my wicked-bad bakery habit. I adore European bakeries. Before today, I felt the French and Spanish bakeries to be the best that I had experienced thus far - ranking above Italy, Monaco, and Germany. The Czech bakeries, as it turns out, are giving them a run for the shared title. The pastries (only 1 1/2 days here and I've already had several) are fantastic. This is actually NOT a good thing. What did I have for breakfast? Pastries, albeit with a side of raw vegetables and a bit of cheese. What did I have for lunch? A pastry. What did I have for dinner last night? Pastries, with a side of cheese peanuts and some bizarre rolled tortilla chips. When I am at home, I eat what is possibly an absurd amount of fresh produce. I eat so many fresh fruits and vegetables during the day that I have little room for the sorts of indulgences that I am now stuffing myself with. In the Czech Republic, this does not seem to be practical because 1) produce is more expensive, and 2) I can't figure out how to buy it at the grocery store.
While I would love to exist solely on pastries while here, I realize that it would cause me to have even more sleep-laden days like today, and that I will probably not fit into my clothing for the return trip. That - of course - is why I forced myself to eat an actual dinner this evening BEFORE my pastry dessert. At the hotel restaurant, I evaluated the menu at length, despite the fact that I had already perused it several times in the elevator, where it is handily posted on the wall. After much thought, I ordered the salad with "gratinated goat cheese and toast." I was not sure what "gratinated" meant, but I could tell by the waitresses' limited English skills that she would not be able to enlighten me. The two other salads on the menu were suspicious for fish-related reasons, so I felt that "gratinated" was the safest option.
The salad arrived, topped with a slab of what appeared to be pan-seared goat cheese, adhered to a thin round of dark bread. Perhaps it was toast, but it had already absorbed so much of the vinegar and oil salad dressing that it was impossible to be sure. I stared for a bit, trying to decide if I now understood "gratinated." I did not. Despite this, the salad was quite good, and was the perfect prelude to my final destination: the pastry dessert.
Now it is 8:30 pm here. I debated, at some length, whether or not to go out again this evening. I feel a bit of pressure to 'use my time wisely' while I am here, but I am trying to talk myself out of that approach. It is - I feel - smarter to rest when I need to and to really enjoy myself when I am out - well-fueled and rested - rather than forcing myself from one location to the next, battling exhaustion and forcing 'good memories.' It is with that reasoning that I am putting myself to bed early tonight. Tomorrow I shall - once again - tackle Prague. I do, after all, have to retrace my steps from today. Naturally, my camera battery died one hour into my five hour travels, on what might have been the only sunny day that Prague will see this month. I am certain that - somewhere - the Russians are laughing.
So it was that I found myself at 9 am, in my hotel lobby, bent over a timeline of Czech history with my guide - Katarina. Katarina appeared to be in her mid-fifties, well-educated, and - as I later learned - well-traveled. Her grasp of Czech history is - frankly - astounding. I understand that her role as a guide lends itself to the development of said expertise, but at times it was truly inhuman. Her conversation would be peppered with phrases like 'why do I mention this,' which - I learned - did not necessitate a response from me. She would launch without hesitation into the reason for mentioning it. In fact, very little of what was said required any input from me. It was, perhaps, little wonder that after five hours of intensive Czech-related education, not broken by any respites or refreshments, I was so exhausted that I could barely understand the ongoing narrative. Perhaps, I allow now, the fact that I landed here only yesterday afternoon also contributes to the fatigue. Regardless of the reason, shortly after calling an end to the tour I found myself back in my hotel room where I napped for three hours.
Despite the chill in the air and the deluge of information, the day was fantastic. I suspect that I am forever spoiled by the personalized nature of the tour. I felt free to ask random questions (Question: Why are there no family members at that wedding? Answer: Russians. What do you expect from them? [insert derisive face, following by face of slight horror as face-maker remembers that she is with a tourist, followed by 'just making a joke face.'] There is much bad blood between the Czechs and the Russians, something that I knew but not in the way that I know now.) When Katarina talked about Prague, particularly about the communist occupation and subsequent Velvet Revolution, she talked about it as someone who has experienced it. She attended the meetings that led to the Velvet Revolution. She described the communist state, and the fear that people felt as they fought against it. She was also an incomparable resource when it came to understanding the 'quirks' of the Czech culture.
So interesting was the day spent with her that I am considering engaging her services again before I leave, to cover other areas of the city. In the five hours that we spent together, we covered only the Old and New Towns. I have so much yet to do! So much, in fact, that I felt a bit guilty when I woke up from my nap and saw the darkness hovering outside my window, pressing eagerly against the glass, hoping that I'd dare to engage it tonight. I did not. I spent some time answering emails, then went for dinner in the hotel restaurant.
As a vegetarian in the Czech (meat-loving) Republic, I am leery of many menu items. This is the standard excuse that I employ in all European countries to explain my wicked-bad bakery habit. I adore European bakeries. Before today, I felt the French and Spanish bakeries to be the best that I had experienced thus far - ranking above Italy, Monaco, and Germany. The Czech bakeries, as it turns out, are giving them a run for the shared title. The pastries (only 1 1/2 days here and I've already had several) are fantastic. This is actually NOT a good thing. What did I have for breakfast? Pastries, albeit with a side of raw vegetables and a bit of cheese. What did I have for lunch? A pastry. What did I have for dinner last night? Pastries, with a side of cheese peanuts and some bizarre rolled tortilla chips. When I am at home, I eat what is possibly an absurd amount of fresh produce. I eat so many fresh fruits and vegetables during the day that I have little room for the sorts of indulgences that I am now stuffing myself with. In the Czech Republic, this does not seem to be practical because 1) produce is more expensive, and 2) I can't figure out how to buy it at the grocery store.
While I would love to exist solely on pastries while here, I realize that it would cause me to have even more sleep-laden days like today, and that I will probably not fit into my clothing for the return trip. That - of course - is why I forced myself to eat an actual dinner this evening BEFORE my pastry dessert. At the hotel restaurant, I evaluated the menu at length, despite the fact that I had already perused it several times in the elevator, where it is handily posted on the wall. After much thought, I ordered the salad with "gratinated goat cheese and toast." I was not sure what "gratinated" meant, but I could tell by the waitresses' limited English skills that she would not be able to enlighten me. The two other salads on the menu were suspicious for fish-related reasons, so I felt that "gratinated" was the safest option.
The salad arrived, topped with a slab of what appeared to be pan-seared goat cheese, adhered to a thin round of dark bread. Perhaps it was toast, but it had already absorbed so much of the vinegar and oil salad dressing that it was impossible to be sure. I stared for a bit, trying to decide if I now understood "gratinated." I did not. Despite this, the salad was quite good, and was the perfect prelude to my final destination: the pastry dessert.
Now it is 8:30 pm here. I debated, at some length, whether or not to go out again this evening. I feel a bit of pressure to 'use my time wisely' while I am here, but I am trying to talk myself out of that approach. It is - I feel - smarter to rest when I need to and to really enjoy myself when I am out - well-fueled and rested - rather than forcing myself from one location to the next, battling exhaustion and forcing 'good memories.' It is with that reasoning that I am putting myself to bed early tonight. Tomorrow I shall - once again - tackle Prague. I do, after all, have to retrace my steps from today. Naturally, my camera battery died one hour into my five hour travels, on what might have been the only sunny day that Prague will see this month. I am certain that - somewhere - the Russians are laughing.
Salad with "gratinated" goat cheese and toast. I don't know why I'm labeling it, really - how could there be any question?
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