Sunday, September 28, 2003
The European Vacation: Highlight Film
Day One: Paris
"Bonjour monsieur, madame. No, we do not have your room ready yet. Please leave your bags near the fountain at the bottom of this frighteningly narrow circular stairway that is 30% narrower than the width of your shoulders. Merci."
Lacking anyplace to rest, we hop across the little bridge to Notre Dame. It's beautiful, until you climb up yet another set of frighteningly narrow and uneven circular stairs (this becomes a theme in less than an hour in the city) to reach the towers and the belfry. The belfry, of course, contains the bell. But not just any bell. This is the largest bell ever seen by mankind. This is absurdly big, like those thousand-pound pumpkins, or the world's largest chocolate chip cookie. The bell is so big that the wooden belfry had to be built separately from the stone towers because the reverberations from this bell would have shattered the towers. I suspect that if your bell is large enough to level your structure, it might be just a bit too large. Peeking out from behind a gargoyle was a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, which doesn't seem too large.
We hit the Metro after the rain starts and head for the Arc d’Triomphe. We notice the underpass to the Arc from the Metro exit area, so we are saved from the mad dart across the traffic circle like the group of Korean tourists who reminded me of the 1980s video game, Frogger. The Arc is large and ornate and celebrates the French military victories, which seems counterintuitive but exists nonetheless.
It's midafternoon and we're sort of brain damaged from fatigue, so we decide to head back to the hotel, just to freshen up and try to feel more human. Unfortunately, we were possessed by the joy of the bed. It took about five minutes to justify the desire for sleeping, and we promptly collapsed and lost consciousness for eighteen hours. I didn't dream, I didn't move, I just slept like a rock.
Day Two: Paris
They say you can’t see the whole Louvre, and quite literally, it’s true. Parts are roped off, closed for renovation or whatnot. But it is possible, with a mission in mind, to see all available exhibits, and still have time to call your friend in Paris in between exhibits.
Getting to the museum early is the only way to go. There was no line for the Mona Lisa, which is usually found at the end of an endless trail of camera-toting tourists. I don't think anyone there knows why she's been determined to be so interesting, so revered. She's like the must-have toy of the season. Everyone needs a picture of the Mona Lisa to prove that they've seen her plexiglas-shrouded self. In a museum so stocked with beautiful artwork, some with much more detail or beauty than her, she gets all of the credit.
The Louvre is enormous, and I realize just how large as we're walking through the Jardin des Tuilleries and the blisters start to appear on my toes. This is not how you want to start the vacation. After a crepe from a street vendor (why do Americans only get hot dogs in carts? why not crepes?)
We return to hotel for mid-afternoon refresher, and discover the exciting world of French game shows. The numbers and letters game was great. Of course, it would have been better if I knew some French, but I knew enough to understand what they were asking for. Voyelle. Consonant.
At the suggestion of Herve, we have dinner at the Totem, across from the Eiffel Tower, at the very American and very early hour of 7:30. C gets busted for trying to take a picture. "That ees not permitted here." Three attempts at photographing the sparkly Eiffel lightshow yields nothing.
In spite of the rain and fog, we venture to the top of the tower. With the spotlight cutting through the fog, the effect is more eerie and interesting than the usual night. Paris is wet and twice as sparkly from reflection.
Day Three: Paris
I take the blisters for another long wallk, this time down the Champs Elysses. I'm astonished to learn that my regular, ordinary Gap jeans are 70 Euro, and I don't even pay $40 here. Spending the afternoon at the museum of modern art makes me wonder exactly what qualifies as art. I have some crappy paintings that look like what hung there, and yet I have no expectation to be in a gallery. Perhaps I'm setting my sights too low.
Day Five: to Nice
Arriving at Gare de Lyon, the departures board says, "Nice TGV, Track A". We board the train for Nice at the aforementioned track. Two stops later, we arrive in Lyon, and next thing we know two train employees are kicking us off. Evidently Lyon was "gare terminus", a phrase I learned quickly. It seems that the proper train never even goes to Lyon, it just shoots through Lyon Part Deux (what an excellent name for a station). We need to backtrack to Part Deux and wait an hour for the next TGV to arrive.
We get to Nice in time for the last hours of the triathlon. We largely ignore these intense athletes, and spend our time photographing the amazingly-colored water of the Mediterranean. The beach is rocky and uncomfortable, and I'm surroounded by topless women whose breasts hang down to their waists. I'm silently pleased that my small ones can't fall victim to gravity.
Day Six: to Milan
Nothing relating to Italy is ever easy. Want to board the train to Milan? No, there is no train to Milan. Yes, the book says so, but no. You have to get on the bus that goes to Ventimiglia, and then you get on the train there. No, no reservations needed. Just go. You’re fine.
Reservations are needed. We stand on the train for two hours, rocking back and forth on the bumpy Italian rail lines. We've had enough, and decide to get off in Genoa for lunch at decent street café in heart of town. Genoa, like all of Italy, is dirty and crowded and likely to get you killed by a passing motorist. The entire city is under construction, as though they're expecting the Olympics or something noteworthy. Or maybe it's just the Italian inability to finish what they started.
On to Milan, rested and fed. Between the outer Milan station and Milano Centrale, the train stops. Conductors run through. Questions are asked, answers are given, all in Italian that we don’t understand. When the med evac chopper, polizia and fire department arrive, we know that they hit someone. We’re delayed an hour while people angrily bark into their cell phones and wave their hands (Italians can't talk without gesturing, of course).
Day Seven: to Bologna
We spend the morning in Milan seeing il Duomo, the Galleria and the castle, all the things we didn't see the night before because of the train delay. At the castle, a vagrant-looking man is walking around with his pants unzipped and everything hanging out. A cop briefly stops him, but just lets him go.
Having learned our lesson between Nice and Milan, we get in line for reservation to Bologna. I wait in one line, C in the other. As usual, the line he’s in posts the dreaded, “Chiuso” sign, which doesn’t really mean closed, it means, “gotcha again, jackass.” He moves to my line and promptly gets ripped a new asshole in Italian by the man behind me. I explain that we’re together, but he doesn’t like it, and starts gesturing in such a way that leads me to believe that he's insulting me deeply, which makes me glad that I only know limited Italian. I don't need to know what he said.
Arriving in Bologna, we attempt to make reservations for complicated trip to Switzerland in two days. Line 1. Wait. Not right line. Go to other window on other side. Line two. Wait. Wrong line, go to line 17. Line 17. Wait. Chiuso. Go to line 16. Line 16. Wait. “It is not possible.” What? What’s not possible? Answers not clear. This is exactly the same wording that's used to explain that there is no train and we have to take a bus, so we're not sure what "not possible" means. I've gotten better responses from a magic eight-ball.
Our hotel, one of the best in Bologna, is decorated in a floral pattern. To most people, this would conjure images of a delicate floral wallpaper. No. Imagine bold flowers on all walls and doors, a contrasting floral border and a third floral pattern on the bedspreads. Accent this with bright green carpet and you're there! It felt like a home for spinster ladies.
Day Eight: to Venice
Venice: the pigeons. God almighty, this is disgusting.
Day Nine: to Switzerland
Long day, many trains. On the BOB, the conductor tells us that we’re in the wrong car and that we need to move to the front. We try to cut through the way the conductor did, and end up in the hobo car, a big freight-only car. The door to the next car is locked. Living in fear of the train splitting and ending up in Lyon again, I duck out the open hobo door (massive backpack and all) and onto the platform. C thought I was nuts and made fun of the hobo car for ages.
Dark by the time we get to Wengen, but the air is still filled with a magical combination of pine and earth and wildflowers, with maybe a touch of wood-burning fireplace. Arrive hotel 9:30 and meet Jenny. Only one option for dinner, Da Sina, where I have the best burger I've ever eaten.
The atmosphere is thin and Mars is brighter and larger than I could have ever imagined. No wonder people used to stare at the stars every night and look for meaning in the heavens. It’s filled with magic when you can actually see it.
Day Ten: Jungfraujoch
On the way to the train to Lauterbrunnen at dinnertime, we pass the farmer walking his cows (all belled up) through town. What a sight.
Find an internet café and finally download all of the e-mail that’s been backing up our servers. We run into a couple from San Jose in the internet café. Small world.
I fall deeply in love with the chiming bell tower and the down comforters as I drift off to sleep.
Day Eleven: Schilthorn & Trummelbach Falls
The ride to the Schilthorn takes years off my life: angled cable cars, and hanging gondolas. I hate both. I’m just a snapped cable away from death. But somehow I manage to survive and make it through the trip. The view is spectacular, with the three major mountains off in the distance. You’re not as high as on the Jungraujoch, but because you’re not as close to the other peaks, you feel more like you’re at the top of the world.
We return to Murren for lunch, and eat outside on a terrace overlooking steep mountain cliffs and snow-capped peaks. It may not be the 360 degree revolving restaurant at the top of the Schilthorn, but it’s cheaper and the view is no less magnificent.
Can’t go wrong with Swiss chocolate. Much to my surprise, however, you can go wrong with cheese. After a multi-day diet of cheeses, midway through tonight’s fondue I realized that I was just a mouthful or two away from needing to be checked into the Betty Ford Fromage Clinic for cheese abuse. I can’t handle it much more. I need something more than cheese as a meal.
Day Twelve: The Murderhorn (where I have to ride up the gondola again)
The day will feature a hike and picnic, so we start the morning with a trip to the bakery for some breakfast pastries and a loaf of really good bread for lunch. Next stop: cheese shop. Lord, all the world should have a cheese shop. She explained things to us, gave samples, and we walked out with enough cheeses to once again qualify for Betty Ford (after every binge I say never again, and yet the next day brings the same result). Back to the grocer for some meats (parma-style ham and dried beef), and we were off for our excursion.
The first step was climbing the Murderhorn, my name for the extremely steep gondola rode from Wengen to Mannlichen. In five minutes you ascend more than 1000 meters. Frightening. So just as I get my legs back under me at the top, C suggests a lovely trip to Grindewald on the world’s longest gondola cableway. Again, ACK! But the scenery is so beautiful, and the ride so quiet, that you can’t help but enjoy it on some level. We took the train back from Grindewald to Kleine Scheidegg, and then walked the popular trail in reverse. Interesting observation: no Americans. Seems like all of the Americans we saw last night at fondue dinner were too lazy to walk.
Back down the Mannlichen cableway, holding on for dear life. It’s 1:30 (or 13.30) and nothing is open anywhere. We decide to kill some time by riding down to Interlaken and looking for the old-style postcards that we had seen at the now-closed store in Wengen. We wander Interlaken West (after transferring from Interlaken Ost), and manage to find only one of these cards, at the Kiosk store in the train station. We take a leisurely train ride back to Wengen and discover that most of the stores in town open for a few hours on Sunday, if they feel like it, but only in the afternoon. So the trip to Interlaken was completely unnecessary and I stocked up on postcards here in town, laughing the whole time. Now I have 14 of them, and will be able to decorate whole rooms if I choose.
Day Fourteen: Back to the States
Flying, flying, flying. Endless flying. By the time we get home, it's been 23 hours since the taxi picked us up in Zurich. I'm desperately cranky, tired beyond belief, and just need to sleep for a week. But work beckons, and I'll be back in the office far too soon, with the vacation seeming like little more than a pleasant dream. I curl up in bed with my perfect pillow and light comforter and wonder if any of it was real.
Day One: Paris
"Bonjour monsieur, madame. No, we do not have your room ready yet. Please leave your bags near the fountain at the bottom of this frighteningly narrow circular stairway that is 30% narrower than the width of your shoulders. Merci."
Lacking anyplace to rest, we hop across the little bridge to Notre Dame. It's beautiful, until you climb up yet another set of frighteningly narrow and uneven circular stairs (this becomes a theme in less than an hour in the city) to reach the towers and the belfry. The belfry, of course, contains the bell. But not just any bell. This is the largest bell ever seen by mankind. This is absurdly big, like those thousand-pound pumpkins, or the world's largest chocolate chip cookie. The bell is so big that the wooden belfry had to be built separately from the stone towers because the reverberations from this bell would have shattered the towers. I suspect that if your bell is large enough to level your structure, it might be just a bit too large. Peeking out from behind a gargoyle was a distant view of the Eiffel Tower, which doesn't seem too large.
We hit the Metro after the rain starts and head for the Arc d’Triomphe. We notice the underpass to the Arc from the Metro exit area, so we are saved from the mad dart across the traffic circle like the group of Korean tourists who reminded me of the 1980s video game, Frogger. The Arc is large and ornate and celebrates the French military victories, which seems counterintuitive but exists nonetheless.
It's midafternoon and we're sort of brain damaged from fatigue, so we decide to head back to the hotel, just to freshen up and try to feel more human. Unfortunately, we were possessed by the joy of the bed. It took about five minutes to justify the desire for sleeping, and we promptly collapsed and lost consciousness for eighteen hours. I didn't dream, I didn't move, I just slept like a rock.
Day Two: Paris
They say you can’t see the whole Louvre, and quite literally, it’s true. Parts are roped off, closed for renovation or whatnot. But it is possible, with a mission in mind, to see all available exhibits, and still have time to call your friend in Paris in between exhibits.
Getting to the museum early is the only way to go. There was no line for the Mona Lisa, which is usually found at the end of an endless trail of camera-toting tourists. I don't think anyone there knows why she's been determined to be so interesting, so revered. She's like the must-have toy of the season. Everyone needs a picture of the Mona Lisa to prove that they've seen her plexiglas-shrouded self. In a museum so stocked with beautiful artwork, some with much more detail or beauty than her, she gets all of the credit.
The Louvre is enormous, and I realize just how large as we're walking through the Jardin des Tuilleries and the blisters start to appear on my toes. This is not how you want to start the vacation. After a crepe from a street vendor (why do Americans only get hot dogs in carts? why not crepes?)
We return to hotel for mid-afternoon refresher, and discover the exciting world of French game shows. The numbers and letters game was great. Of course, it would have been better if I knew some French, but I knew enough to understand what they were asking for. Voyelle. Consonant.
At the suggestion of Herve, we have dinner at the Totem, across from the Eiffel Tower, at the very American and very early hour of 7:30. C gets busted for trying to take a picture. "That ees not permitted here." Three attempts at photographing the sparkly Eiffel lightshow yields nothing.
In spite of the rain and fog, we venture to the top of the tower. With the spotlight cutting through the fog, the effect is more eerie and interesting than the usual night. Paris is wet and twice as sparkly from reflection.
Day Three: Paris
I take the blisters for another long wallk, this time down the Champs Elysses. I'm astonished to learn that my regular, ordinary Gap jeans are 70 Euro, and I don't even pay $40 here. Spending the afternoon at the museum of modern art makes me wonder exactly what qualifies as art. I have some crappy paintings that look like what hung there, and yet I have no expectation to be in a gallery. Perhaps I'm setting my sights too low.
Day Five: to Nice
Arriving at Gare de Lyon, the departures board says, "Nice TGV, Track A". We board the train for Nice at the aforementioned track. Two stops later, we arrive in Lyon, and next thing we know two train employees are kicking us off. Evidently Lyon was "gare terminus", a phrase I learned quickly. It seems that the proper train never even goes to Lyon, it just shoots through Lyon Part Deux (what an excellent name for a station). We need to backtrack to Part Deux and wait an hour for the next TGV to arrive.
We get to Nice in time for the last hours of the triathlon. We largely ignore these intense athletes, and spend our time photographing the amazingly-colored water of the Mediterranean. The beach is rocky and uncomfortable, and I'm surroounded by topless women whose breasts hang down to their waists. I'm silently pleased that my small ones can't fall victim to gravity.
Day Six: to Milan
Nothing relating to Italy is ever easy. Want to board the train to Milan? No, there is no train to Milan. Yes, the book says so, but no. You have to get on the bus that goes to Ventimiglia, and then you get on the train there. No, no reservations needed. Just go. You’re fine.
Reservations are needed. We stand on the train for two hours, rocking back and forth on the bumpy Italian rail lines. We've had enough, and decide to get off in Genoa for lunch at decent street café in heart of town. Genoa, like all of Italy, is dirty and crowded and likely to get you killed by a passing motorist. The entire city is under construction, as though they're expecting the Olympics or something noteworthy. Or maybe it's just the Italian inability to finish what they started.
On to Milan, rested and fed. Between the outer Milan station and Milano Centrale, the train stops. Conductors run through. Questions are asked, answers are given, all in Italian that we don’t understand. When the med evac chopper, polizia and fire department arrive, we know that they hit someone. We’re delayed an hour while people angrily bark into their cell phones and wave their hands (Italians can't talk without gesturing, of course).
Day Seven: to Bologna
We spend the morning in Milan seeing il Duomo, the Galleria and the castle, all the things we didn't see the night before because of the train delay. At the castle, a vagrant-looking man is walking around with his pants unzipped and everything hanging out. A cop briefly stops him, but just lets him go.
Having learned our lesson between Nice and Milan, we get in line for reservation to Bologna. I wait in one line, C in the other. As usual, the line he’s in posts the dreaded, “Chiuso” sign, which doesn’t really mean closed, it means, “gotcha again, jackass.” He moves to my line and promptly gets ripped a new asshole in Italian by the man behind me. I explain that we’re together, but he doesn’t like it, and starts gesturing in such a way that leads me to believe that he's insulting me deeply, which makes me glad that I only know limited Italian. I don't need to know what he said.
Arriving in Bologna, we attempt to make reservations for complicated trip to Switzerland in two days. Line 1. Wait. Not right line. Go to other window on other side. Line two. Wait. Wrong line, go to line 17. Line 17. Wait. Chiuso. Go to line 16. Line 16. Wait. “It is not possible.” What? What’s not possible? Answers not clear. This is exactly the same wording that's used to explain that there is no train and we have to take a bus, so we're not sure what "not possible" means. I've gotten better responses from a magic eight-ball.
Our hotel, one of the best in Bologna, is decorated in a floral pattern. To most people, this would conjure images of a delicate floral wallpaper. No. Imagine bold flowers on all walls and doors, a contrasting floral border and a third floral pattern on the bedspreads. Accent this with bright green carpet and you're there! It felt like a home for spinster ladies.
Day Eight: to Venice
Venice: the pigeons. God almighty, this is disgusting.
Day Nine: to Switzerland
Long day, many trains. On the BOB, the conductor tells us that we’re in the wrong car and that we need to move to the front. We try to cut through the way the conductor did, and end up in the hobo car, a big freight-only car. The door to the next car is locked. Living in fear of the train splitting and ending up in Lyon again, I duck out the open hobo door (massive backpack and all) and onto the platform. C thought I was nuts and made fun of the hobo car for ages.
Dark by the time we get to Wengen, but the air is still filled with a magical combination of pine and earth and wildflowers, with maybe a touch of wood-burning fireplace. Arrive hotel 9:30 and meet Jenny. Only one option for dinner, Da Sina, where I have the best burger I've ever eaten.
The atmosphere is thin and Mars is brighter and larger than I could have ever imagined. No wonder people used to stare at the stars every night and look for meaning in the heavens. It’s filled with magic when you can actually see it.
Day Ten: Jungfraujoch
On the way to the train to Lauterbrunnen at dinnertime, we pass the farmer walking his cows (all belled up) through town. What a sight.
Find an internet café and finally download all of the e-mail that’s been backing up our servers. We run into a couple from San Jose in the internet café. Small world.
I fall deeply in love with the chiming bell tower and the down comforters as I drift off to sleep.
Day Eleven: Schilthorn & Trummelbach Falls
The ride to the Schilthorn takes years off my life: angled cable cars, and hanging gondolas. I hate both. I’m just a snapped cable away from death. But somehow I manage to survive and make it through the trip. The view is spectacular, with the three major mountains off in the distance. You’re not as high as on the Jungraujoch, but because you’re not as close to the other peaks, you feel more like you’re at the top of the world.
We return to Murren for lunch, and eat outside on a terrace overlooking steep mountain cliffs and snow-capped peaks. It may not be the 360 degree revolving restaurant at the top of the Schilthorn, but it’s cheaper and the view is no less magnificent.
Can’t go wrong with Swiss chocolate. Much to my surprise, however, you can go wrong with cheese. After a multi-day diet of cheeses, midway through tonight’s fondue I realized that I was just a mouthful or two away from needing to be checked into the Betty Ford Fromage Clinic for cheese abuse. I can’t handle it much more. I need something more than cheese as a meal.
Day Twelve: The Murderhorn (where I have to ride up the gondola again)
The day will feature a hike and picnic, so we start the morning with a trip to the bakery for some breakfast pastries and a loaf of really good bread for lunch. Next stop: cheese shop. Lord, all the world should have a cheese shop. She explained things to us, gave samples, and we walked out with enough cheeses to once again qualify for Betty Ford (after every binge I say never again, and yet the next day brings the same result). Back to the grocer for some meats (parma-style ham and dried beef), and we were off for our excursion.
The first step was climbing the Murderhorn, my name for the extremely steep gondola rode from Wengen to Mannlichen. In five minutes you ascend more than 1000 meters. Frightening. So just as I get my legs back under me at the top, C suggests a lovely trip to Grindewald on the world’s longest gondola cableway. Again, ACK! But the scenery is so beautiful, and the ride so quiet, that you can’t help but enjoy it on some level. We took the train back from Grindewald to Kleine Scheidegg, and then walked the popular trail in reverse. Interesting observation: no Americans. Seems like all of the Americans we saw last night at fondue dinner were too lazy to walk.
Back down the Mannlichen cableway, holding on for dear life. It’s 1:30 (or 13.30) and nothing is open anywhere. We decide to kill some time by riding down to Interlaken and looking for the old-style postcards that we had seen at the now-closed store in Wengen. We wander Interlaken West (after transferring from Interlaken Ost), and manage to find only one of these cards, at the Kiosk store in the train station. We take a leisurely train ride back to Wengen and discover that most of the stores in town open for a few hours on Sunday, if they feel like it, but only in the afternoon. So the trip to Interlaken was completely unnecessary and I stocked up on postcards here in town, laughing the whole time. Now I have 14 of them, and will be able to decorate whole rooms if I choose.
Day Fourteen: Back to the States
Flying, flying, flying. Endless flying. By the time we get home, it's been 23 hours since the taxi picked us up in Zurich. I'm desperately cranky, tired beyond belief, and just need to sleep for a week. But work beckons, and I'll be back in the office far too soon, with the vacation seeming like little more than a pleasant dream. I curl up in bed with my perfect pillow and light comforter and wonder if any of it was real.
Friday, September 26, 2003
5 Days
I have only five days left until the studio opens. I have approximately 14 million things to do. I'm scared, I'm overwhelmed and I'm deeply certain that I'm just in over my head. And then the clarity comes. I know that I've done this right. I know that I've researched it to death. I know that this is the right thing to do, and that for the first time in my life I'm doing something just for me. And the panic goes away.
To be honest, even when I'm panicking, it's not nearly as bad as I'd expect. I used to get more worked up than this about meetings with my boss or whether or not I should buy myself a bottle of nail polish (of course I never thought I deserved something so frivolous). But with this, it's more of a low-grade buzzing excitement/nervousness. I swear it's a result of the medication. There's no other reason to explain why I'm not suffering from crippling fear.
I have only five days left until the studio opens. I have approximately 14 million things to do. I'm scared, I'm overwhelmed and I'm deeply certain that I'm just in over my head. And then the clarity comes. I know that I've done this right. I know that I've researched it to death. I know that this is the right thing to do, and that for the first time in my life I'm doing something just for me. And the panic goes away.
To be honest, even when I'm panicking, it's not nearly as bad as I'd expect. I used to get more worked up than this about meetings with my boss or whether or not I should buy myself a bottle of nail polish (of course I never thought I deserved something so frivolous). But with this, it's more of a low-grade buzzing excitement/nervousness. I swear it's a result of the medication. There's no other reason to explain why I'm not suffering from crippling fear.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Haiku(s)
Neighbors fight on lawn
Kids sit back, silently cry
Old beyond their years
Grandmom isn't here
Shell of a woman, not her
What makes the heart beat?
Jetlag drags me down
No energy for business
Taking the night off
Many claim interest
Just one has seen my new place
Visit means so much
Neighbors fight on lawn
Kids sit back, silently cry
Old beyond their years
Grandmom isn't here
Shell of a woman, not her
What makes the heart beat?
Jetlag drags me down
No energy for business
Taking the night off
Many claim interest
Just one has seen my new place
Visit means so much
September
September has always represented back-to-school time, a time of new beginnings and big wishes. Even though it's been nine years since my last back-to-school experience, I still find that the change in the air and the shorter days brings the same sensations.
Today I was possessed by that recurring September dream, the one where this year I'd be popular, this year I'd be pretty, and this year all the boys would fall for me, not just want to be my friend (I've had more than my share of male friends... they're great, but not when you spend all your time wanting to be kissed). I didn't want to be the smart, goofy-looking, too-tall girl with glasses and braces. I just wanted to be pretty and popular. But I wasn't homecoming queen material (although some of my guys did mount a small campaign for me for homecoming court... I got five votes, about five more than I had expected). Funny, I can't even remember who won homecoming queen, and it meant so much at the time.
So now I'm 30, quite a bit older and debatably wiser. I'll never be one of the cool kids, but I have a nice group of geeks and nerds that I can consider to be true friends. I still have this urge -- some sort of preprogrammed imperative -- to want to go out and buy new clothes in the hope that I'll be one of the cool kids this year. But my life is good and maybe, just maybe, the cool kids will want to be me.
September has always represented back-to-school time, a time of new beginnings and big wishes. Even though it's been nine years since my last back-to-school experience, I still find that the change in the air and the shorter days brings the same sensations.
Today I was possessed by that recurring September dream, the one where this year I'd be popular, this year I'd be pretty, and this year all the boys would fall for me, not just want to be my friend (I've had more than my share of male friends... they're great, but not when you spend all your time wanting to be kissed). I didn't want to be the smart, goofy-looking, too-tall girl with glasses and braces. I just wanted to be pretty and popular. But I wasn't homecoming queen material (although some of my guys did mount a small campaign for me for homecoming court... I got five votes, about five more than I had expected). Funny, I can't even remember who won homecoming queen, and it meant so much at the time.
So now I'm 30, quite a bit older and debatably wiser. I'll never be one of the cool kids, but I have a nice group of geeks and nerds that I can consider to be true friends. I still have this urge -- some sort of preprogrammed imperative -- to want to go out and buy new clothes in the hope that I'll be one of the cool kids this year. But my life is good and maybe, just maybe, the cool kids will want to be me.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Philly
Well, I've been here for less than 48 hours and already I've managed to put my grandmother into the hospital. I thought she was having problems with her feeding tube, but it might turn out to be the more serious bowel obstruction option. I feel really bad. She was in the bed in the ER last night, freezing cold and bundled in blankets (it was chilly, but not nearly as cold as she thought it was). She was staring off into space, and most of the time I wasn't entirely sure that she knew that mom and I were there. They didn't get her a room until 3am. Mom was mentally useless by then, so it was handy to have a daughter who was still operating on west coast time and didn't feel like it was quite so late.
The nurse is getting her changed into her hospital gown from her street clothes, and says, "Oh, did you have a mastectomy?" What was the big giveway? The missing left breast or the gigantic scar and skin graft that takes its place? She's just a mess of scars. The largest one, by far, is the mastectomy scar because of the skin graft -- it's sort of shaped like a football. But then there's her appendix scar, her hysterectomy scar, her scar from when they had to remove large sections of her cancerous intestine.... The poor woman. I feel like an ass to be self-conscious of my belly button scar, knowing that I'll probably be covered in them later on.
I leave for Paris tomorrow night. In lots of ways, it doesn't seem real yet. I'm just hoping that everything goes smoothly and I have a relaxing, great time. Ciao!
Well, I've been here for less than 48 hours and already I've managed to put my grandmother into the hospital. I thought she was having problems with her feeding tube, but it might turn out to be the more serious bowel obstruction option. I feel really bad. She was in the bed in the ER last night, freezing cold and bundled in blankets (it was chilly, but not nearly as cold as she thought it was). She was staring off into space, and most of the time I wasn't entirely sure that she knew that mom and I were there. They didn't get her a room until 3am. Mom was mentally useless by then, so it was handy to have a daughter who was still operating on west coast time and didn't feel like it was quite so late.
The nurse is getting her changed into her hospital gown from her street clothes, and says, "Oh, did you have a mastectomy?" What was the big giveway? The missing left breast or the gigantic scar and skin graft that takes its place? She's just a mess of scars. The largest one, by far, is the mastectomy scar because of the skin graft -- it's sort of shaped like a football. But then there's her appendix scar, her hysterectomy scar, her scar from when they had to remove large sections of her cancerous intestine.... The poor woman. I feel like an ass to be self-conscious of my belly button scar, knowing that I'll probably be covered in them later on.
I leave for Paris tomorrow night. In lots of ways, it doesn't seem real yet. I'm just hoping that everything goes smoothly and I have a relaxing, great time. Ciao!
Friday, September 05, 2003
NJ
The weather is bizarrely Californian today. The rains from yesterday passed through, and now the sky is blue and the humidity is low. Combine that with the astonishing greenness of everything -- the humidity and the rain makes everything so deeply green. I've gotten so used to California dry green and brown that I always forget what it looks like back here.
We went on the tour of northern NJ today: Pappy's hot dogs, the old house, the high school.... The house is in a garishly tacky development that screams new money. The driveways are guarded by gargoyles on pillars and all have circular driveways highlighted by large fountains (from Fountains of Wayne, of course) and strange-looking replicas of famous sculptures. It just doesn't make any sense.
We drove out into the regular part of the town and the old houses have so much character. I could easily live in one of the old houses with a front porch. I could sit on my porch and drink lemonade while sitting on rocking chairs or a porch swing. That's the kind of life I want. I'm a dork at heart.
The weather is bizarrely Californian today. The rains from yesterday passed through, and now the sky is blue and the humidity is low. Combine that with the astonishing greenness of everything -- the humidity and the rain makes everything so deeply green. I've gotten so used to California dry green and brown that I always forget what it looks like back here.
We went on the tour of northern NJ today: Pappy's hot dogs, the old house, the high school.... The house is in a garishly tacky development that screams new money. The driveways are guarded by gargoyles on pillars and all have circular driveways highlighted by large fountains (from Fountains of Wayne, of course) and strange-looking replicas of famous sculptures. It just doesn't make any sense.
We drove out into the regular part of the town and the old houses have so much character. I could easily live in one of the old houses with a front porch. I could sit on my porch and drink lemonade while sitting on rocking chairs or a porch swing. That's the kind of life I want. I'm a dork at heart.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Why?
Why do you always know the words to say that make me feel better? Why do you completely remove all stress from my life for a few beautiful, fleeting moments? Why do I feel this way every time I see you? Why can't I stop feeling like this?
Why do you always know the words to say that make me feel better? Why do you completely remove all stress from my life for a few beautiful, fleeting moments? Why do I feel this way every time I see you? Why can't I stop feeling like this?
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Dizzying Highs, Frightening Lows
The last few weeks have been such a roller coaster ride. Sometimes I'm completely overwhelmed by waivers and employment agreements and other times I'm practically giddy with anticipation. Most of the time, though, I'm just hyper. At the doctor's office the other day, I was stunned that my blood pressure was low. I feel so wound up that I was sure it would be through the roof.
I packed for Europe in these great backpacks that J&K lent to us. They seem to have an endless supply of space in them, but the drawback is that they weigh about 4,000 pounds each. I think it's just because the basic backpack is heavy, because I really don't have much in it, especially when you consider that I'll be gone for almost three weeks.
I have an 11:30 meeting with the ad rep for the local paper, and a 4:00 with my trainer. Tomorrow I have a 3:00 with the accountant and a 5:00-ish with a friend who's coming to town. I'm really looking forward to seeing him. It gives me the chance to show off without anyone demanding anything of me. Plus I always have a good time with him.
I assembled a bunch of the Ikea stuff this weekend. It's a slow process, making the studio look put-together and lived-in, but it's a start. I really like my artwork, just to add a bit of color to the walls. I'll paint eventually, but I don't think I'll have time before the October 1 opening.
There's just a million things in my mind right now. It's amazing.
The last few weeks have been such a roller coaster ride. Sometimes I'm completely overwhelmed by waivers and employment agreements and other times I'm practically giddy with anticipation. Most of the time, though, I'm just hyper. At the doctor's office the other day, I was stunned that my blood pressure was low. I feel so wound up that I was sure it would be through the roof.
I packed for Europe in these great backpacks that J&K lent to us. They seem to have an endless supply of space in them, but the drawback is that they weigh about 4,000 pounds each. I think it's just because the basic backpack is heavy, because I really don't have much in it, especially when you consider that I'll be gone for almost three weeks.
I have an 11:30 meeting with the ad rep for the local paper, and a 4:00 with my trainer. Tomorrow I have a 3:00 with the accountant and a 5:00-ish with a friend who's coming to town. I'm really looking forward to seeing him. It gives me the chance to show off without anyone demanding anything of me. Plus I always have a good time with him.
I assembled a bunch of the Ikea stuff this weekend. It's a slow process, making the studio look put-together and lived-in, but it's a start. I really like my artwork, just to add a bit of color to the walls. I'll paint eventually, but I don't think I'll have time before the October 1 opening.
There's just a million things in my mind right now. It's amazing.
