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.

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?

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.

Salad with "gratinated" goat cheese and toast. I don't know why I'm labeling it, really - how could there be any question?

Prague: 2: Layover, Frankfurt, Germany

I am in the Frankfurt airport, where I have tucked myself away in a corner of relatively isolated benches. To my left, seated at a cluster of small round tables, businessmen chat over their open laptops and two woman take up as much space as they can manage. The locals seem to think that it is mid-morning, when I - in fact - know that it is actually the absurd hour of not-even-4-am. According to our pilot, we made excellent time on our way here. The flight from Chicago to Frankfurt was - in total - under 8 hours. While this may be true, it might as well not be. When sleep is not accessible, it is a well-known fact that time moves miserably slowly. I calculate that I have slept somewhere in the vicinity of 2 1/2 hours, albeit fitfully. Fortunately, my seatmate - a young Frenchman - and I got on smashingly, which made the long hours much more bearable.

The Frankfurt airport is insanely confusing to traverse, something that I had managed to forget until my arrival. The signs are seemingly contradictory, resulting in clusters of people muttering in assorted languages and asking the people next to them if they are in the right line. Generally, those people were about to ask the exact same question, creating an instant bond. The brethren of confusion, as it were. Fortunately, this "early arrival" has allowed plenty of time for me to wait patiently in various lines, including a long security line, where the German security officers tear apart the luggage of each individual that appears to be of foreign soil. I watch as an official and a Norwegian traveler engage in a heated argument over a boxed set of "spa products." In the end, the official removes one of the items - which does not pass his inspection - as the Norwegian man rants about the 'trouble with Germans.' He repeats his accusations, directing the comments at each of us in line for emphasis. I smile politely.

The German security guards shrug, unconcerned with this opinion. As if to spite him, they promptly wave the next two people through with barely a glance at their luggage. I am one of those people, much to the annoyance of the Norwegian man, who has now discovered his missing cell phone. As I step away, I can hear voices rising behind me as he builds in preparation for the accusation of theft that I suspect is coming.

I walk...and walk...and walk, following misleading signs and completely ignoring the departure board. I had discovered, earlier, that - while it lists the flight that I am taking to Prague - it does not actually list the gate that the flight departs from. This is exactly the sort of minor detail that the Frankfurt airport does not concern itself with. Instead, there is a steady stream of announcements overhead as people are constantly called to the gate of their soon-to-depart flight; flights - I'm sure - that they've been wandering around in search of for hours.

I am slightly headachy and slightly melancholy. Both of these attributes are typical for me when I have not had enough sleep. Sleep, at present, is not an option, so I opt for my longtime allies of caffeine and sugar, and then for a quiet place to consume them. Thus, I find myself here, in this nook. I have devoured a croissant (how I miss the European bakeries when I am at home!) and a latte (I had managed to forget - also - how small and bitter the coffees and espressos are in Europe) and - to ensure the proper amount of sugar - have consumed nearly an entire package of malted milk balls, purchased in Chicago. It's working, for now, though I know the dark shadow looms: I am certain that I shall crash - without grace - from this sugar and caffeine mountain that I have ascended. It will not be pretty when it happens. I find myself hoping that I will be in my hotel room by that time.

Unfortunately, I can already feel the sleepiness pushing at the edges of my vision, and my stomach is objecting to the treatment to which it has already been subjected. It was unhappy with the in-flight vegetarian food selections, and it's even more unhappy after the caffeine and sugar invasion. As I consider this feeling, and the potential implications, I am momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity that accompanies the woman taking a seat to my right. The strong scent of wool hangs in the air about her, which prompts my curiousity enough that I begin a clandestine evaluation of her. She is sporting what appears to be riding apparel, which is accented with a wool cape - undoubtedly the source of the fragrance that accompanies her. She is, I notice, covered in bits of wool. I am fascinated. Why is she wearing riding apparel? Where is she going?

The woman leans toward me and begins asking a series of questions about internet access. After a succession of brief conversations, which do not have the satisfactory result of getting her computer connected to the internet but do have the satisfactory result of allowing me to see that her computer speaks Spanish, she abruptly packs up her computer and begins picking wool off her pants. Perhaps realizing the impossibility of the task, she desists after a few seconds and resumes adjusting her bags. Moments later she is furiously picking at the wool once again. She has an extraordinary talent for creating motion, I decide. Nothing that she does is quiet. For a reason that I can't identify, I am pleased by this.

This, I think to myself, is my life. I have removed myself from my normal element, I have pushed my senses to the point of over-fatigue, and now everything has taken on a surreal edge. Still, even through the slight haze, I can see well enough to know that I am in the right place.

Prague: 1: Pre-Departure, O'Hare

As is customary, my obsessive need to embark upon a chosen course of action at the earliest convenience (really, in my ideal world I'd be able to act upon decisions the moment that they're made) has resulted in a typically early arrival at the airport. It is four hours before my plane departs, and I have already checked my bag, cleared customs, and deposited myself into a restaurant seat.

The restaurant of choice is billing itself as Italian. This is an assertation that - while it lacks support in the food itself - is strengthed by the fact that several members of the waitstaff appear to speak a foreign language. What that language is - precisely - is relatively unimportant in the mind of most of the diners that pass through. Assumptions will be made, and perhaps the food might be more favorably received as a result.

My waiter is a handsome young man with an accent that definitely could be Italian. He is very polite, and I am very polite in return. I order minestrone soup with a side of waffle fries. They arrive in mere minutes. I notice that this is the norm at this restaurant - no doubt a necessity when a restaurant is located within an airport. I imagine that the alternatives - anger, walking out without dining or without paying a tab - have forced this efficiency. I wonder if my waffle fries were partially fried, then re-dipped in oil for a warm-up before they appeared in front of me. The prospect sounds delicious.

The tables around me are filled with a mixture of single diners and a few couples. The common theme, I see quickly, is detachment. Those who are not immersed in a book are immersed in their PDA. I feel a bit of sadness for the waiters, interacting with these shells of people who can barely tear their eyes from the media in front of them. They barely glance at their food before they start eating, looking briefly only to secure the latitude/longitude so that they can reach for - and eat - without actually looking at it.

In an effort to compensate, I double my politeness efforts with the waiter and attempt to make eye contact with all staff members. Based on the gradual uneasiness that they each seem to develop, I decide that such behavior is now construed as "strange," which only serves to reinforce my concerns. At the end of the meal, I thank the waiter profusely, leave a generous tip, and pick my way between the tables of people. No one looks up.

When You Have Nothing Better To Do

I’ve been giving quite a bit of thought to why I’ve been finding the blogging….well, unappealing. (Yes – AGAIN. Just be quiet.) What I’m thinking right now (subject to change) is that I’m disturbed by the ‘trendiness’ of blogging. It seems that “everyone” has a blog. As you may or may not know, as soon as “everyone” is doing something, I immediately lose interest. Something about my character, I suppose.
I’ve considered the option of coming up with something wild and crazy to do with my blog forum – something that no one else is doing. Of course, since I’d be posting it on the World Wide Web, even if I HAD legitimately found something that wasn’t being done elsewhere, it would likely only be a matter of minutes before someone was imitating it. Sigh.

A “themed blog” is SO passé. “A blog about cooking.” “A blog about restaurant experiences.” “A blog about movie reviews.” “A blog written from a dog’s perspective.” “A cupcake blog.” (Actually, that last one is hard not to appreciate…just a little bit.)

I should also – I suppose – acknowledge how prone I am to boredom. Yes, it is true. I have observed, over the years, that I have a tendency to embrace new activities with great gusto in the beginning. Sadly, it is only a (short, generally) matter of time before I find said activity to be less than stimulating. It doesn’t help that I’ve undoubtedly also found a new activity that is “so much more me!” I’d put a little more thought into what that says about me, but I am so tired of self-analysis. That was so last month. (Ha. That’s actually pretty funny, since if there is ONE thing that humans never get tired of it is their individual selves. We people think that we (the individual) are SO unique, SO interesting, SUCH a mystery…blah, blah.)

[Ooops. Now that I’m looking back at this I’ve realized that the whole blog is about me. How embarrassing.]

Bottom line: I shall endeavor to use this space in an interesting manner. Perhaps I shall write. Perhaps I shall post hundreds of photos of Charles Rabbit. Perhaps I will translate popular song lyrics into Spanish. It’s hard to say. I guess you’ll have to keep watching to find out.

And She Don't Care

It appears that I have lost my desire to blog. I know, I know. You had no idea. I did a good job of covering it up, I admit. Anyone who happened upon my blog would surely have no idea...but it's true.

Hold your tears. Never fear: I am certain that one day I will again have many thoughts that I feel compelled to share with anyone bored enough to stop by here and read them. Lately, however, while I have had many, many, many thoughts, they've all been the sort that my mind guards jealously. I know that common theory holds that we should all be very "sharing," but my mind has never bought into that popular culture stuff. It does its own thing, and it feels quite all right about that. Who am I to question such contentment?

Since I'm typing, I'll update the nonexistent reader on my current state of affairs. I am sitting in a hotel room in Cincinnati. I just returned from a very tasty dinner that was followed by a very tasty dessert: Hot chocolate creme brulee. Dee. Lish. Ous. It tasted exactly like hot chocolate, but with a bit of a cayenne kick at the end. I will likely crave it for the rest of my life. Were I not extraordinarily confident that I will develop other more easily-satisfied cravings I might feel despondent at this thought. As it is, I just wish my cravings would start to skew more toward cucumbers and further away from buttery, creamy richness.

I might read for a bit, since I'm clearly not inspired to write. Oh! I have an idea! Any non-existent readers that don't read this can feel free to suggest a short story topic or idea, then I'll write that (very) short story as a posting! YES! I am totally off the hook, as my non-existent blogging has led to a very, very, very small blog following. Pretty close to zero, I think.

I hope I don't read this later and suggest a short story topic for myself. Damn. I should have considered that danger before posting such a brash and overconfident suggestion. I can never fully trust myself when it comes to things like this...

For the past few days, I've been sort-of planning out the travel that I intend to do over the course of next year. Hmmm. I guess that's all I feel like saying about that. Hmmm. Sometimes I'm difficult to carry on a conversation with. I feel like I'm pulling teeth here. I hope I don't look bored and offend myself.

Should I paint my toenails? Pro: They would like nicer. Con: I'm in a hotel room with no fingernail polish remover. Pro argument: You can clean them and paint over the existing polish. Con argument: Don't be stupid.

Not sure that I've answered my own question. I'll just stop thinking about it for a while again.

So.... how's work? Things are pretty crazy at my job. Plenty busy, we are. Very good in this economy.

I hear a very weird noise and I can't tell where it's coming from. Sounds like from the room below me, but that can't be right. I don't recall ever hearing noises from the room below me before.

Well, I've really enjoyed this but I have some work to do and I had better do it before it gets too late. Plus I'm still debating whether or not I should head to the fitness room. Maybe I'll wait until the morning. Over and out!

"Have you been writing on your blog lately?" my mother asked, her inquiry making it obvious that she has not been visiting it.

In light of this, I considered fabricating a rich and colorful story in which I have been posting daily, and in which my postings have generated the interest of secret society that has contacted me and sworn me to perform a very dangerous mission. I cannot, of course, reveal the nature of that mission and - sadly - they insisted that I remove the VERY interesting post that had caught their notice in the first place. I am not - in my colorful alter-world - at liberty to discuss the topic further, but I DO regret that my mother was not keeping up with my blogging.

"No." I replied. A pause. "I should really get back into that habit."

Now I am distracted by two thoughts. 1 - I have - since that time (mere weeks ago...things change quickly in my world) given up the concept of "should." There is - I tell myself - no "should" - at least not in relation to my behaviors. There is "I choose to" and "I choose not to." That's it. If I do not choose to blog, I don't blog. If I choose to blog, I blog. I am full of mini-altered-life-perspective endeavors like this, and I am curious to see how this one will play out. 2 - How long does it take to form a habit? If I do this two nights in a row, can I say that I'm "in the habit?" What's the technical difference between an "old habit" and a "new habit?"

While I would very much like to explore these distracting questions further, I can't - for two reasons. 1 - I have noticed how late it is growing and realizing that I will not at all enjoy getting up for work in the morning, and 2 - my right ear is feeling quite funny. It's sort of fluttery, but not exactly plugged, and I think I'm going to need to take some time to ponder what sort of health crisis might be headed my way. I'll definitely need to think on it a bit before bed, so I'll have to stop writing.

I'm still going to count this as the beginning of a habit.

On Our Side

I am, I realize, starting to feel a bit compulsive...perhaps panicked... about the window of time that arrives on a daily basis, beginning just after I leave work and ending when I climb into my bed at night. I've found myself spending moments of time - sometimes short, sometimes long - throughout the day contemplating what would be the optimal use of my post-work, pre-bed opportunity. Sadly, all of this thought - and pressure - has effectively paralyzed me. Were it not for my near-nightly yoga class, I suspect that I would spend 75% of my evening hours frozen in a horrified panic, certain that I had chosen poorly.

What is this strange obsession that I have with time? I suppose that it is not so strange, after all. I am hardly the first human to have it, and it was perhaps even passed to me from another troubled spirit. For as long as I can remember, it has existed in one form or another. As a teenager and young adult, I filled my rooms with clocks. Digital clocks, battery-operated clocks, clocks that had to be wound regularly....I was generous with my affection, accepting of clocks of all sorts of appearances and of varying degrees of accuracy. In fact, I've always taken a bit of perverse pleasure from clocks that are not synchronized. The louder, the better. Let them all scream their perceptions of fading moments, argue our position in the universal calendar.

Now, in my kitchen, there is a clock that refuses to acknowledge daylight saving's time, and another that runs parallel to its nearest neighbor. The clock in the bedroom maintains - always - that the time is four minutes ahead of whatever the microwave says, and the clock on my cell phone considers itself superior, foolishly feeling secure and comforted by regular check-ins with a network satellite. The clock on the VCR has faded away, the light dimming as the technology inside its host machine becomes obsolete. In my car, the clock amuses itself by changing - periodically - without warning. I know always that it is not accurate, but never by what degree it mocks this illusion. I find this cacophony of time-keepers reassuring. The fact that time surrounds me in varying degrees of existence, but never in agreement, fills me with a sort of hopefulness. The truth, I think, is buried within this discord. If I could only find the time to discover it...

Yesterday, as I bounced on my trampoline,
A spider descended, rapidly, from the ceiling
Inches from my face
Suspended by his own magic
Perhaps I jumped, startled
But I wouldn't know
I was already jumping

I watched as he landed
Softly on the radiator
And bounced
A jumping spider!

In unison we jumped
For several moments
Perfect synchronicity
Jumping spider
Jumping woman
Just jumping

Typical Morning (Or "Hey, At Least I'm Blogging")

5:45 am: Alarm goes off. I contemplate turning the alarm off and rolling over, but decide potential consequences outweigh enjoyment of extra sleep. I’m up, and out of bed.

5:47 am: Charlie has noticed I’m up. Immediately begins throwing wire pen around.

5:48 am: Charlie can’t believe I’m still ignoring him. Throws pen even more violently.

6:09 am: Initial pet care is complete. Dog out and fed, birds fed and watered, rabbits watered and given treats, and Charlie and Janie released for morning exercise time.

6:10 am: Charlie, after his 20 minute tantrum during which he acted as if the confining walls of his pen were stifling his life essence and reducing him to near-death, has positioned himself under the table where he has fulfilled the urgent need to….recline, apparently.

6:30 am: Only 20 minutes into “bird-time” and I’ve already been bitten several times and broken up at least 3 bird fights.

6:31 am: Magazine that I’m reading suggests that my life will be completely different if I own these “key basics.” I analyze basics and consider potential impact on my life. Decide that Charlie would definitely chew on "key basics," birds would poop on them, and Juliet would shed all over them. Seems like it wouldn't be much different from current life.

6:32 am: Charlie is eating carpet. Yell at him.

6:33 am: Janie has been corrupted and has started eating carpet. Yell at her.

7:00 am: Birds back, cut “morning apple” for rabbits, begin prepping food for day’s lunch and snacks.

7:03 am: Charlie has finished his apple and is trying to run – unseen – through the kitchen into the “forbidden zone.”

7:25 am: Have finished food prep for day: Salad made, apple chopped, watermelon cubed, cheese and crackers gathered. Eat breakfast.

7:30 am: Have changed litterbox and added hay to Charlie and Janie’s cage. Begin trying to reason Charlie back into his area.

7:33 am: Charlie is not interested in reason. Start trying to chase him back into his area.

7:35 am: Charlie is thoroughly enjoying the “chase me” game and circles the table repeatedly in glee.

7:37 am: Charlie and Janie successfully contained. Now running late. Petula whining at the top of her lungs, already. Get in shower.

7:47 am: Out of shower, getting dressed. Wearing yellow – bad idea, as it requires extra make-up. Too late to change.

8:10 am: Arrive at work, late. Greeted by email from client who has misunderstood entire project process and is making impossible demands. Wonder why I am so tired.

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

We were on a tour, between activities, when my parents and I found ourselves the reluctant captive audience of our tour guide. During our time in Thailand, my mother and I had observed that these tours guides were oddly drawn to my father - pulled by some force that neither of us could see. Because we tended to be in the vicinity of each other, my mother and I often found ourselves a part of the father/tour guide bonding experience.

“I think,” asserted the guide, a native of Thailand who spoke English reasonably well, “these movies now, they no good.”

He took a moment to evaluate our reactions. I stared blankly. My mother stared, slightly quizzically. My father was nodding, already looking like he had something to contribute to the conversation.

“Not like old movies,” the guide continued, his enthusiasm for the topic clearly building, “Not like cowboy! Yes,” he grinned and nodded. “Cowboy! American western. Very good.”

He smiled broadly, looking in turn at each of our faces. I already knew what was next. Another mystery of Thailand, I’d discovered, was the way that people repeated themselves over and over. This seemed to be especially prevalent among tour guides. I had already lost count of the number of times that we had discussed the day’s agenda on this tour.

“Cowboy, very good!” The tour guide continued enthusing. “Not like movies today. Today movies no good. Very bad.”

“Well,” said my father, who had been waiting for an opportunity to join the discussion, “I wouldn’t say they’re ALL bad. There are SOME of them that are OKAY.” He stressed key words as he spoke, drawing them out. This was his discourse technique. He was acknowledging the validity of what his conversational partner said, but implying that there may be more layers to the topic – layers that he would be happy to expand upon. Generally this technique works very well for him, often resulting in an engaging and lively conversation that he derives great enjoyment from.

The tour guide stared at him for a long moment, face devoid of expression. There was a heavy pause as – for a time – both my parents and I watched him.

“I think,” he said, finally, “movies today, they no good.”

It was as if my father had never spoken. This was also not uncommon in Thailand, and had to do with the cultural value of "saving face." It did not - as a rule - deter my father.

“Before,” he continued, gesturing with his hands, “the movies, the cowboys, they show us America.” He nodded, once again beaming broadly at us. “Yes. They show us American life. Very good. Very good.”

His face changed, an expression of disgust filling it. “Today, movies no good. What they show? No good. No cowboys.”

Despite my affection for independent film, which I am fairly certain falls into the genre classified by our tour guide as “no good,” I had to concede that he had a point. There are shockingly few cowboys in today’s films. He had us there. I briefly considered bringing up “Brokeback Mountain,” but decided that it was too risky. There was a high probability that the conversation could rapidly degenerate, particularly if I had to start describing the plot in order for him to figure out which movie I was referring to.

My father appeared to be revving up for another attempt at conversation when – fortunately – our tour guide was distracted by additional members of our party.

As he hurried off, waving and shouting enthusiastically, I sat back to wait. There was, I knew, no need to worry about where he was going or what he was going on about. He’d be back. They were always back. As long as I stayed close to my father, I was safe.

One Night In Bangkok

Tonight is the second-to-last night that I will spend in Bangkok, at least on this trip. I think we can safely say at least for this year, since I am using up all of my allotted time off from work. It is certainly worth it.

There is much that I wish to say and write about my time here, and what I have seen and learned, but tonight I am not ready to say or write it. Tonight I will share only a few words.

This evening, as we were leaving a restaurant after a lovely dinner, we saw - outside the door - a large tray holding at least 30 crabs, claws bundled tightly to prevent them from moving. They were stacked together like bricks, beautiful variations of red and orange. My brother stretched a finger out and stroked the shell of one of the crabs, between the beady eyes. The crab retracted its eyes, the only part of it that had not been bound. It retreated, in fear, the only way that it could.

We left them, mere feet from the scene of their inevitable executions. I looked inside the restaurant windows, at the tables filled with customers laughing and eating. The tables were filled with the remnants of former bodies. Prawn shells, crab leg casings, lobster cartilage. The colors were still beautiful - red, coral, orange.

I wondered, then, what the crabs saw at the last moment, how long their eyes remained attached. Did they see the diners at their tables, or where they carred through a back door? Did they see waitstaff? Pots? I've read about the way that crabs are prepared for cooking, and I know that traditionally they are kept alive as their parts are harvested. The eyes, I understand, are the first thing that is cut off.

The crabs sit now, I'm sure, fewer in number. Their eyes, still attached, can stare only at the Bangkok street in front of them, or at the people that stop, like us, to examine them, or at the hand that finally reaches for them.

Evidence

Exhibit A: The Cubicle

The cubicle shows considerable evidence of K. Ruvalcaba inhabitation. Perhaps more evidence - in fact - than any other area that has been examined. There are assorted pieces of silverware tucked between desktop items. Additionally, there are an unusually high number of job jackets that seem to move about during periods of inobservation. Crumbs on the floor suggest the consumptions of foodstuffs - another indicator of a species Ruvalcabalis presence.

Exhibit B: The Automobile

The automobile shows considerable signs of life-forms. Due to the heavy layer of canine fur that coats all surfaces, it is difficult to determine exactly what sort of beings have utilized this space. Objects currently being excavated from beneath the fur appear - at this stage - to be 1) a yoga mat, 2) sunglasses, 3) a library-loaned book on cd.

Exhibit C: The Condo

The condo is filled with exotic species of creatures. Among the documented species:
1) 1 Caninus-Pastis-Primus. The main pastime of this animal appears to be sleep.
2) 1 tiny (but fierce) Green Warrior Bird From Hell. Very rare, and very, very dangerous. It is advised that this bird be avoided whenever possible.
3) 1 Birdus Dramaticus. The most outstanding feature of this avian is the exuberant bouffant that it sports atop its head.
4) 2 Ear-deficient rabbits. These particular creatures – while willing to interact on a limited basis – seem to lose interest when foodstuffs are not presented within a matter of seconds.
5) 2 Excessive-eared rabbits. Wicked, wicked things. We are unable to observe from a close vantage point as the chocolate-brown one throws things around in such an angry manner that we fear for our safety.

The flourishing health of the documented exotic species is the best evidence that has been found so far of the purported existence of the K. Ruvalcabalis. The investigation will remain open.

My Perogative

I am almost certain that I have decided upon the color that I would choose for my skin, were I not restricted to the naturally occurring colors in nature. I would be fuschia. This was not an easy decision to come to, particularly as I've been quite fond of green and orange - in general - lately. In fact, even as I think about green now I am tempted to switch. But, no - fuschia it would be. With lovely teal hair, I think.

Back To Earth

Perhaps you've been wondering why there have been no new postings to this blog lately? (Or perhaps not....but I shall not even consider that as a REAL option.) Well, as it turns out, I spent five days with my mother for our Annual Mother/Daughter Fantastic Birthday Bonding Extravaganza. It kept me quite busy, you see. Sure - it's true that I MIGHT have been expected to return to writing after she left, but then - you know - I had to go back to work. Going back to work after three days of PTO is a horrible experience. (Side note: I don't even want to THINK ABOUT what it will be like after two weeks of PTO in March, when we jaunt over to Bangkok. Aargh!)

Here's a bit of a clue as to how much recovery time this PTO will require: It's Sunday night at approximately 8:30 pm. I am working. I have been working for 4 hours. I have not even crossed off 1/10 of the items on my "Urgent To-Do" list. Sigh. Woe is me. (Side note: My father is probably giddy with delight at this point, as he considers each additional task imposed upon me to be a harbinger of employment stability. Sympathy is not required, in his opinion. Effusive congratulations, on the other hand, are quite appropriate.)

[Random thought: I should not have eaten two donuts today. Why did I do that? Prior to today's donut incident, I had allowed nearly an entire year to pass by in which I had only consumed two donuts. Why would I suddenly need to match last year's record in a matter of minutes?]

Before I sign off to continue my work (with the promise of "real" postings resuming this week), I want to extoll the virtues of my latest venture in the yoga world: AcroYoga. This - my friends - is truly amazing. Today, in a two-hour Acroyoga workshop, I learned the most fantastic things about trust, community, and yoga. (I also learned that when you suspect someone has weak and spindly limbs that cannot support your body weight, you may very well be correct, despite any demonstrations of overconfidence and declarations of "experience.") You will hear more about this topic soon - believe me.

Pop

It's not the popcorn addiction in itself that concerns me....it's what that popcorn might represent.

Popcorn - after all - is an incredibly violent food.

Had this addiction developed years ago, I might be able to dismiss it. It could - I would theorize - be just a "chance" addiction, born out of ignorance. The truth of the matter - however - is that I developed my habit AFTER I read the full - raw - truths about popcorn.

It started nearly a month ago when I received some fresh ears of popcorn in my CSA volunteer goody-box. What, I wondered, is popcorn, exactly? Why doesn't any-old-sort-of-corn pop? WHY does popcorn "pop?"

The research led to some ugly, ugly truths. Why does popcorn pop? Because it's being heated to high, high temperatures....UNBEARABLE temperatures...and because the poor kernel can't breathe. That's right. Air cannot escape the little morsel, and - in one horrific, violent moment - its center liquifies as the husk explodes. The now-liquid inner kernel hardens as it hits the air - one final gasp as rigor mortis sets in.

I warned you. It is not pretty.

What does it mean, then, that since learning the truth about the horrific ending that each kernel of popcorn meets in my Whirly-Pop popcorn exploder, I eat it nearly every night? What sort of horrible monster am I?

A Post

[Behind the scenes of this blog posting: I spent a great deal of time wavering back and forth on potential topics. I even began writing a posting, which quickly turned so melancholy that I deleted the entire thing. At that point, I was sorely tempted to ditch the project and crawl into bed with my copy of "Through The Looking Glass." No - I reminded myself. Your intent is to do a bit of writing everyday. It doesn't have to conform to any standards or notions of what it "should be." I resigned myself to trying again, but - alas - my creative juices are shriveled. This could easily diverge - at this point - into a posting about WHY the juices are dried up (clue: because of work, the severe intellectual fatigue that it induces, and the copious amounts of my time that it has been consuming) but that's not what I want to discuss either. So here's what I'll do: Bore you with random details about today. Aren't you glad I've set this new personal goal?]


Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.

It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.

This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.

Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.

I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.

The Final Nail

Today, after my massage, the massage therapist stared at me thoughtfully for a few moments.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Good. I feel good. The shoulders feel much better." I hoped that my response was enthusiastic enough. I never feel quite certain - in circumstances like these - of the appropriate answers.

She nodded, still looking thoughtful.

"That's good," she said, at last. Then there was a pause. "It feels," she continued, finally, "like your left hip is still further forward than your right."

[There really is no story here. This is it. If you don't understand why I would post this, then I must refer you the the posting directly preceding this one - "You Put Your Right Hand In."]

You Put Your Right Hand In

A number of years ago, as a new student to Pilates, I was informed by my instructor – an intimidating drill-sergeant sort of woman – that I was completely lopsided. I was, she continued, horrendously unbalanced – my right side completely dominating my left. Her tone implied that I was as close to a freak of nature as anything that she’d seen in some time.

As I grew to know this woman, I understood that I could not be bothered to take personal offense with anything that she said. Were I to do so, I’d be unable to take her classes. “Tough love” would be far too kind a term to describe her teaching style. In spite of – or perhaps because of – this, I returned over and over to her classes. They were amazingly effective.

Besides, I couldn’t afford not to go – now that I knew about my horrible affliction. However had I had managed to live in ignorance for so long? After spending many long hours and days pondering the dilemma, I identified the root of this evil. Juliet Juniper. Caninus Maximus Strongus: the ultimate restraint-resistant 70-pound ball of canine muscle. Not only had I been walking 3-5 miles daily with her for eight years, but I had been doing it using only my right hand. Even worse: She strained against the leash the entire time we were walking, and if she spotted another dog she surged forward with enough power to have broken through several heavy-duty collars in her lifetime. It was, I realized, no wonder that the right half of my body had developed super-human strength.

Sadly, identifying the cause of the problem did not fix it overnight. My life – instead – became much more difficult as I began to walk Juliet with my left hand. This sucked. Juliet could overpower my left side with no trouble at all, which proved to be quite problematic – and embarrassing – on several occasions.

Many years (and many left-side specific exercises) later, I’ve grown much closer to a “balanced self.” My left side is still not as strong as my right, but it plays a good game. Imagine, then, how disturbed I was to notice – last week – that my right hand (and other right-side parts, by extension) had begun to step in where it was not necessarily welcome. Without warning, it would reach for something that the left hand had intended to grasp, or it would assume control of a device just as the left hand had begun management.

Where, I wondered, had this attitude come from?

I had spent many years teaching my right hand that about the value of “stepping back,” of “working cooperatively.” Now it seemed as if none of these lessons had truly taken hold. After a period of thought, I identified a likely reason for this right-sided domination: my recently-developed addiction to the game of solitaire. The game I play is not just any solitaire....it is the sort of electronic solitaire that is available on my phone. You can imagine how handy this is. I play solitaire if I’m standing in a line, I play solitaire if I’m waiting for someone to meet me, I play solitaire if I’m talking on the phone. Sadly, I also play solitaire at many other times, including the time right before I drift off to sleep. Yes, that is right. Late at night, you can find me curled on my side, eyes drifting shut but hand – RIGHT hand – clinging to the bright face of my phone, moving the red 7 to the black 8.

It is embarrassing to admit to, this addiction. Even more so now that I realize the effect that is has had. You see, it is much easier to play solitaire with my right hand – especially if I am sleepy. As my addiction has increased, so has the strength and dexterity of my right hand.

This confession is not just embarrassing – it is detrimental. It is the reason that I find myself – tonight – working once again on reprogramming my body. LEFT hand, I remind myself sternly as I reach for the refrigerator door. LEFT HAND, I mentally shout as I lift ingredients off the cupboard shelf. Moments later, I reprimand my right hand for attempting to take control of the spoon.

As I eat my macaroni and cheese, my left hand – always a good sport – does its best to hold up its part of the arrangement. The first spoonful is so full of heaping macaroni that I nearly choke on it.

“That’s okay,” I assure my left hand, whose self-confidence is now flagging. “I’m really hungry anyway.”

The next spoonful contains a mere two pieces of macaroni. “Wow,” I enthuse, “way to adjust! You’re a fast learner!”

I hope that it doesn’t hear my stomach growling, protesting the slow pace at which dinner is now appearing. The third try is once again overflowing, and I briefly entertain the idea of letting the right hand – now sitting smugly next to the bowl, taunting me with its availability – take over. I see a tremor of uncertainty in the hand holding the spoon, and my resolve strengthens. My mouth closes firmly over the pasta, and I barely choke at all.

Well Hello 2009. How Funny To See You Here.

For those of you who missed it, the calendar year of 2009 has come upon us. No, don't get up. He's an informal sort of fellow. In fact, he'll just hang around in the background while you go about your business. No - really. Keep doing what you're doing. He doesn't mind.

Yes, I'm sure.

In honor of 2009's arrival, I decided to humor him and his "resolution" fetish. He's waited a long time for this, after all. Over 2000 years. Because I have been a bit indecisive as late (thanks to his younger brother 2008 and his chaotic influence) I proposed that we use a bit of time - mutual time - to really make certain that I pick the resolutions that "work for both of us." (His words.)

I will, therefore, be using the month of January to "try out" some different resolutions and find "the right fit." There have been no decisions made as to the number of resolutions that are to come out of this experiment, but there is tacit agreement that the more difficult that they are to adhere to, the fewer I shall adopt.

I admit, I did try to use that unspoken agreement to sort of...well....cheat.

"I will," I stated, dramatically, "resolve to WILL myself into a man."

2009 was silent. I could feel the disapproval. He - apparently - doesn't take these resolutions as lightly as I do.

"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I've been reading lately about a number of species of animals....or at least fish... that spontaneously switch genders. I shall will myself to do that as well! This will - of course - be EXTRAORDINARILY difficult, so perhaps it should be my ONLY resolution."

I refrained from mentioning that at the slightest sign that such an experiment was having any effect I would be forced to cease all efforts immediately. I mean - really - who would want to be a man?

In disgust, 2009 threatened to leave.

"Fine." I conceded. "We'll pick something LESS INTERESTING." I sighed melodramatically, and affected an air of disdain that was meant to suggest that 2009 was LESS than "with the times." He - naturally - didn't even pause to consider such an absurd notion. (It was, admittedly, a lame affectation...what with him BEING "the times" and all.... but I was still smarting from the rejection of my proposed resolution.)

Since our conversation, we've resumed a semi-affable relationship and have been tossing ideas about all day. Most of mine have been shot down immediately. It appears that the resolution to not scratch itchy skin is not a lofty enough goal, and that the resolution to enjoy peanut butter is not an option - just because I ALREADY DO!

"Who," I asked, peeved, "Is making up these little rules?"

Still in the running: The resolution to write - a little something - every day; the resolution to try a new form of exercise every month; the resolution to tackle (unnamed - at my insistence) a long-ignored project.

"I can't help but notice," I sniffed, as we reviewed the potential candidates, "that - so far - all of my potential resolutions involve ME exerting effort, and YOU doing nothing but sitting back and watching."

2009 smiled, saying nothing. He didn't need to. He knows that I don't have - metaphorically - a leg to stand on. His role is not nothing. In the accomplishment of these resolutions, as in the selection of them, we will need to work as a team. At the moments of failure, it will be his role to offer me another chance, to pick me up and carry me forward to the next opportunity.

Still, I don't care for the smug look on his face.

Fortunately for me, nothing has been set yet. When it comes to the selection of my year's resolutions, time is on my side.