California Roll

Eyes for Parisians

 

I’ve been observing Parisians for four days now as I walk through the streets of Marais, stand on the Metro or sit at in cafes. Differences with California society do surface. Both on the skin. To the superficial first.

 

Parisians are wearing a lot of black, even in early September. Since I wear deep pink frequently amid the the bright colors many Californians wear, the French penchant for the dark surprised me. But yesterday in my informal survey, while no one sported pink tops, two wore neon pink shoes!

 

Scarves add warmth and color to many women’s faces. Perhaps not only for good looks. I’ve found how handy it is to just unwrap my scarf to cool off when going from the chill of gray skies to a subway’s cloying warmth.

 

I’ve been eying male attire too (sorry Collin). On many trains and streets I love the suave look of the many men wearing suit jackets, both formal and casual. Also younger fellows often choose them over sweatshirts.

 

Americans and Parisians do have this in common – jeans. In fact, the French not wearing dressy clothes, are usually clad in black or denim pants. White and beig pants make only an occasional appearance.

 

Now to the more consequential. People relate across racial lines more openly than I see in California. Today on the subway I saw two  young women, one black, one white, with their faces leaned close to each other. An exchange of dear friends--sweet. At night by the Eiffel tower I saw a young black man snapping a photo of a young white couple with a baby. Friends? I wondered enough to look back over my shoulder to see what happened after the photo taking. Camera returned, good-byes given. Also inter-racial couplings seem common.

 

Three images that I don't see happening much in my home area, the "peninsula" (between San francisoc and San Jose).  It's sad, though I know my informal surveys and observations are inconclusive. I do know that trust and acceptance of people of color lags far behind what is advocated in California.

 

A friend of partial black descent has confided a few of her experiences. In a upscale East Bay neighborhood, a sales clerk in a small story refused to wait on her. Other people of color echo stories like this. When my friend and her family moved into one middle-class community, their cars were vandalized and go-away-messages posted. This wasn’t thirty years ago, or even as long as ten.

 

One thing is sure: within the public transit system of Paris people of all economic levels, ethnicities, and races rub shoulders or at least see each other. Not hidden and divided from each by the glass, sheet metal. fences, of cars and houses. Maybe it’s harder to hold on to stereotypes when the real thing is standing feet from you, and in similar clothes as you.

 

The various races I see in Paris are often wearing the similar styles of clothing, with only a few exceptions (like the women in wrapped, long dresses of African or mid-Eastern style or the black man I saw today in bright red pants and matching).

 

My favorite snapshot of racial integration occurred yesterday on the train: two teens relaxed on a bench sharing an i-pod. One of ear pieces stuck in each boy’s ear—one black, one white. Sharing the enjoyment of music, sitting close, in public, where all could view them.

 

A Trip to Death?

Death Valley Haiku

From lava dust heaped, pressed and tilted, rocks and cracks color round the plain.   No break to flatness till hills unfrill in yellow peach, rust—call such death?
	Click for larger images

Soaking in Santa Fe

I'm here in the small town of Santa Fe, New Mexico for ten days for my residency classes as I work on an MFA in Creative Writing. About forty of us are engaging in lectures and discussions on Art and Faith as we examine the works of  two outstanding authors, Gerard Manley Hopkins (poetry) and Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek).

We are also privileged to hear authors and graduating students read their works as well as critiquing our short stories in a small group setting with a faculty mentor presiding. I'n convinced that this workshopping with an expert teacher is the best way to perfect our craft in writing. I am learning much also from the lectures and various meetings.

Rain has come most every day, usually in late afternoon or evening, often accompanied by thunder and lightening. When it's not raining, the drama of clouds enthralls me. Here's my jottings from a 6 AM walk on open land surrounding the campus:

Pink ruffles a gray billowing cloud. A fiery chariot behind lights up the morning sky, turning luminous the necklines of dark ocean surges, an apparition of Gabriel blowing his horn.  I swivel my scan from east to north--everywhere the shining pink prevails. Above, dirty cotton balls dot the sky like a path. 

Yesterday I rode two city buses to reach Budget Rental Car. The first bus driver chatted to me about doing welding work in California before moving to Santa Fe be near his family. The next talked about fishing in Peco and Taos and politics in Santa Fe.  The town has a friendly ambience despite its population of 150,000. 

I rented the car so that I could drive to  Bandelier State Monument on our day off yesterday. It was both gorgeous an fascinating. I'll put up photos of it after I return home.

This afternoon I did some true soaking at Ten Thousand Waves, a lovely Japanese style spa complete with hot baths.-One good thing about a fender bender accident that took place two weeks ago is it has given me a reason to indulge is such a treat!

 

An [over-the-]Mountain-Top Experience

(the title is collin's fault)

Our pilot turned around under his shoulder strap. "I count myself a success when I see a person's lower lip quiver and a tear roll down their cheek." He gazed at the seven passengers in his small aircraft and we gulped.

An hour later, we flew over wisps of clouds among a crowd of white-capped peaks and tears did roll down my cheeks. In all directions I looked, pure white unfolded like a linen tablecloth, but linen so stiffly starched and ironed then unfolded that each fold stood upright and apart, accordion-like.

My sense of astonishment and awe did not crest and fall. Instead from my first view of Mt. Huntington, followed by Mt. McKinley, the amazement kept swelling. The ride was not just one sight of beauty and majesty followed by normalcy, but novel and fantastic sights kept coming at me: wide swaths of white alternating with dark gray in the valleys below the white peaks; the ice of glaciers extending 3/4 mile below the surface; the "ice kettles" pocketing the glaciers--pools of blue truer and purer than the most clear sky; and last, but not least, the 90° vertical wall extending for six miles on one side of Mt. McKinley.

I kept trying to record this momentous sight on camera, but I knew its tiny slice was like a drop of water compared to the ocean. No photo can measure or convey the beauty, majesty and meaning of what shined all around me.

My feelings seemed akin to Job's at the end of his story when God reviewed with him all the wonders he had made and that Job could not comprehend. In these mountains of Denali National Park was more than just beauty to arrest my eye. In this overwhelming majesty is a reminder of who God is and the call to trust the rightness of his judgments.

Every passenger on board was astonished along with me. Upon removing their earphones they also gushed their joy at what they'd experienced. But without meaning attached to the experience, awe and thrill can dissipate soon. I saw so this morning. I greeted fellow passengers as we boarded our coach bus this morning and searched their eyes. Just twelve hours ago they were drunk with beauty, but jubilation was gone. They stepped onto the bus like weary schoolchildren.

But the beauty and the majesty was still keenly in my mind's eye. Perhaps because I know whom it points to. My heart leaps to the one who walks on the high places, who can melt a glacier and in two giant steps stand on the peak of The Mountain.

Lessons from New York

    I'm back from a six day trip with my 18 year old daughter to attend orientation at her college for next year, Stonybrook, and then see sights together in NYC.  Thunderstorms over the JFK airport prevented us from leaving on the night of the fifth day as planned. 
    We could have done worse.  Yesterday morning, a patient fifty-some passenger told us he'd been travelling some 30 hours, and that was with another nine hours to go.  His plane from Paris to SF got rerouted to NY and then the next plane (ours also), got cancelled.  He'd spent the night on the airport floor since hotels nearby were full. 
    So I counted Jenny and I fortunate to find a pillows and a mattress on which to lay our weary souls before boarding a plane yesterday morn from NY to LAX for a long layever and then on to SFO.
    In NYC I learned that hotels are incredibly expensive.  For $150 a night, Jenny and I took a room in the Chelsea Hotel. The exterior of brick and wrought iron railings stunned me.  The lobby inside was like a modern art gallery and included a human-size ceramic figure swinging from the ceiling.  On the way up to our second floor room, more paintings and the marble staircase enchanted me. All this was worth the price to me, but others might object to  our one double bed in a hotel room that didn't have a bathroom -- our low-priced "student room."
    To use a toilet or take a shower we stepped out into the hallway to the next door down and with a key opened the door to a small bathroom with a dirty floor. We were okay with sharing it and glad for the $100 less paid, but I was disgruntled when someone else left ashes in the sink, towel on the floor and later stuffed the toilet with paper.  Jenny was surprised when she met someone emerging from the bathroom in her underwear!
    I found that despite their reputation, many New Yorkers are kind, friendly and endearing. On more than one occasions a store clerk returned my smile or called me sweetie or someone offered directions.
    I learned that when trying to take the subway uptown, it's essential to be on the right side of the street.
We needlessly walked some three extra blocks, uncomprehending of why all the signs on the stairs descending to the sub said, "downtown only."  We merely had to cross the street.
    I learned that if you buy tickets from the Metropolitan Opera House web site that you may not be going to attend an opera.  Ours was the ballet of Sleeping Beauty. Fantastic, but not what we were expecting!
    And I learned that  if you give an airline your home phone number, they may call your husband at 3 am to tell you that your plane's departure is delayed.  Then call 45 minutes later - just when he got back to sleep? - to say that it's now back to the original schedule!
    I found NYC an exciting place to be - pulsating with positive energy, a plethora stores with fashionable clothes and some at amazingly low prices and museums that I could spend weeks in and still not have tired of exploring. I'm glad Jenny will be just an hour's train ride away from all this and I can go and visit her.

Rushing Past Paradise

A few days ago I walked into Daylight Donuts in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii.  I stood behind a counter, waiting for the clerk to serve the person in front of me. A young local with shoulder-length black hair took an order for croissant sandwiches.  She turned away from the counter to go make the sandwiches.  An elderly woman with bent shoulders and black hair turning-grey came to take the next order.  Almost simiultaneously, a blond haired customer stepped to the counter beside me.   While indicating me with the point of her chin, the croissant clerk said to the new clerk, "Take care of her."
        I started to order.  "I want a dozen ..."
        The newcomer beside me broke in. "I only need two donuts and two cups of coffee."
        The incoming clerk looked confused.  While indicating me with the point of her chin, she said,  "You were here first, weren't you?"
        The previous clerk turned around and scowled at the hurried customer.
        "Yes."
        The blondie leaned into the conflict.  "Oh, I didn't mean to butt in, but I only need two donuts and two cups of coffee."
        Perhaps she actually needed to hurry to make a scheduled tour.  Perhaps if I were to take my turn before her, the sailboat might leave without her.  A desire to be kind swept over me.  Or maybe it was a less worthy motive. 
        You see, I'm blond myself. These donut shop clerks were black-haired or greying-black.  I wanted  to demonstrate that not all blond tourists were selfish, rude and frantic about time. I asked the obvious to rushing woman. "Are you in a hurry?"
        "Oh, yes!"
        "You can go ahead of me."
        The clerked flashed a suspicious glance at the hurried blond and then turned a concerned gaze at me.  "Are you sure?"
        "Yes, it's okay.  Picking a dozen will take a while."
        Like broken record, the hurried blond said once again. "I only need two donuts and two coffees."
        I wish I had said, "Things here don't move at the pace you're used to."
        Instead, I just thought, you think no one's time is as important as your own.  Since I couldn't think of a way to be both gentle and truthful, I pursed my lips shut.
        I hope the hurried blond learns how to relax.  I hope she realizes what time in Hawaii is really about.  I hope she doesn't rush past Paradise.

I fell in Love. . . with Santa Fe

I'm sold on Santa Fe.  I love the light, the colors, the gorgeous art and jewelry everywhere, the myriad of small stores with kind clerks and amazing merchandise.

The unpretentiousness, helpfulness and friendliness of everyone in this New Mexico tourist town astounded me.  The B & B host,  the waiters, jewelry or art store clerk, or real estate agent looked me in the eye, smiled, chit-chatted.  So opposite to the Bay area.   Even  the twelve- year old behind the store counter tried hard to answer questions and help me find merchandise. 

All these various people made finding my way and shopping in the new place fun and easy.  Even the taxi cab driver didn't mind when I ran back in my lodging, up the stairs and to my room to get a needed slip of paper.  No extra tip for her, but she didn't mind.

Just the people in themselves make living here seem better than the Bay Area. 

The buildings didn't impress me at first – just a bunch of clay huts.   Now they are seeping into my soul – the soft contours, the earth colors, the pale washes of peach or pink.

St. John's College also proved wonderful.  A young fellow entering his senior year  lead us around. A parent on the tour whose daughter graduated from St. John's eight years ago talked eloquently of the unique virtues of the school. He'd been diametrically opposed when his oldest daughter wished to attend there.  He passed on the comments of a four star Navy Admiral in Annapolis (where another St. John's campus lies), “It's the best university in the world.”    I'm sold.

Ashland, Oregon

    Arrived in Ashland, Oregon at 9 pm on Friday night,  despite leaving at 12:30 noon.  Yahoo maps disappointed us again:  5.5 hours was their ETA time.  My 17 year old daughter drove with Collin coaching her and I in the back seat trying to remain calm by closing my eyes and sleeping.  Still, when I the car lurched from one lane to the next or I heard the hrumph, grumph sound of jolting across dividers, I'd awaken with my heart in my throat.  With my eyes open it was worse. I asked Collin in the privacy of a rest stop if Jenny's driving unnerved him.  "No."  I guess I'm just anxiety-prone, a control-addict who comes unhinged easily. 
    Many have told me how wonderful Ashland is, but no one detailed to me how.  I love the large deciduous trees lining  main streets, the small stores in the walking-downtown/theatre area, the small river rushing over rocks through a tree-filled canyon of a city park bordering the downtown.  I love our hotel -- the Stratford Inn on Main, just a ten minute walk from downtown and full of friendly, pleasant and helpful staff with real wood furniture in our rooms and a continental breakfast where the bagels and muffins are moist and Collin, my coffee-snob husband, even likes their coffee.
    The plays, "Bus Stop" and "Up" have been wonderful.  Deep, believable, likeable characters that drew me in and kept me in the dream.  The theatre is small and intimate - held perhaps 150 people, as size large enough to make me feel part of a group experience of laughter and tears but not so mall as to feel too visible. 
    Both plays have poignantly touched on the human dilemna and questions.  In Bus Stop underneath the veneers of beauty and poise are lonesome people who want to connect deeply, but who find actually living with someone more than they can actually carry off for long.  In "UP" a middle-aged father is stuck on the past andn fails his wife and son miserably.  At the beginning of his marriage he had created a lawn chair that flew, powered by 40 weather balloons filled with helium.  It was the true heigh of his existence and still some twenty years later he spends his days trying to invent something that will again bring him that sense of freedom and fame.  Meanwhile he doesn't act on what his wife and son needs -- a terrible parable of our being too caught up in our desires for significance and freedom.
    Time to listen to one of my favorite sermons now from the church I used to attend in Kobe, Japan.  You too can listen at http://www.kbfweb.com/index_e.html

Moaning in the Caverns

   

Why did I ever say I wanted to do this?  That was the question that often entered my mind yesterday as I dangled over a 120 feet drop, supported by a harness and steel clips, among breathtaking view of stalactites and stalagmites in the huge Moaning Caves cavern.
    First-time rapelling didn't come easy to this 50 year old.  The teenagers in our party scampered down the wall.  But my 14 year old reported it was the scariest thing she ever did.  I'd agree--I'd say this ranked right up there with being lost in Tokyo and giving birth naturally.   Delight at the initial idea of lowering myself 140 feet turned to apprehension and misgivings as I heard the rules and instruction from our guide. I have to remember all this and if I do it wrong I'll bang up my body?  Die?  And I've signed away any right to sue?  How safe is this? Concern turned to panic when I was actually seated in the harness trying to figure out where to place my feet on the wall of rock in front of me. A kind guide talked me through the first six feet, but then I was out of his sight and largely on my own. Sometimes my feet slipped off the wet wall, sometimes I spun around wondering if i'd ever find my way back the wall.   Somtimes my arms just couldn't seem to pull that rope.  Sometimes I thought it was impossible for me. Twice I had to descend with nowhere to put my feet--just me in space.
    I'm glad I did it despite the panic I felt at times.  I'm glad because I conquered fear and that itself is a good thing I believe.  I'm glad because I stretched my limits, as I am trying to do in writing this novel.   I'm glad because I saw a whole lot of gorgeous things much closer than I would have from the floor.  I'm glad because in the analogy of foot by foot, hand by hand, making my way down, I find some inspiration for this very daunting task of getting my novel idea into book form and into people's hands.
    When I started this novel, I had no idea how hard it would be--just like rapelling.
When I wrote my first chapter, it was just a story--no idea it would become a novel.  When my novel was underway, I had no idea that me--sensitive, shy intovert--would have to not only work hard to overcome my reactions to rejection in order to get it published, but to actually get people to buy it.  Writers who don't do this publicity work have many volumes of their novel sent to shredders after six months and no publisher will take on their next book.  But now that I'm committed to this--dangling in that harness oveer a huge drop--I'm determined to keep going, hand over hand, word by word, to get my novel written and into people's hands.