Jeepers Creepers

The moment at which thoughts are cemented in writing should be taken seriously. It is so much harder than it should be to sit down and write a sentence. I had all these thoughts swirling in my head not too long ago -- this morning, yesterday morning, while I got a massage today (the lady told me i had a lot of knots in my back... um, why do you think i'm here?!) -- and yet, now, sitting with a sleeveless tank on and regretting it because i'm freezing, listening to the happy tunes of Louis Armstrong, it's hard to remember what exactly I was thinking about...

There is a lot of tumult in my head these days, I'm sure I'm grinding my teeth like crazy every night, probably partly because i am completely unsettled in the standard looking-for-work-so-i-can-then-look-for-a-place-to-live and what-exactly-am-i-doing-with-my-life kind of way. But surely not entirely...

I had a friend break up with me the other day. I had sent her an email saying -- in my neurotic way -- I miss you, and she wrote back with the sentence: We've shared a lot. And pretty much went on to say that there was no room left for me in her life. On the one hand, it would be easy to dismiss this as proof that her new boyfriend really has sucked the old self out of her... on the other hand, I suppose people do grow out of each other's lives. I've never let a friendship go unless i realized our standards had changed, our moral standards I mean... I had a very close friend whom I loved because she was a free spirit and when I realized she had slowly come to value money and success over doing what made her happy I just couldn't keep pretending i valued and admired her any more... and there was also a sneaking suspicion i had that every time i shared good news with her she wasn't happy for me, that also killed the friendship. But I never told anyone, sorry, we had good times, but i don't want to be reminded of that part of my life anymore... I'm probably being mean and oversimplifying because well, it hurt.

Considering that not too long ago someone in my family i looked up to, almost adoring more than loving, told me through actions she didn't care two shits about me, it was bad timing to have a friend also break up with me. The universe is really not on my side this month!

And I want to call a few choice friends and have a good long talk, moan about life and its stresses but also listen while said friends moan back, and share good news and listen to it, but somehow i don't get around to looking up their numbers or to sending an email. And apparently a facebook post is not enough to goad friends into finding my number and calling me! Selfish of me, definitely.

There is a very definite voice in my head that says, Stop whining, get up and do something, go running, go the British museum, hell, even go shopping, but i rather prefer to tell that voice to shut up and go back to reading Elmore Leonard. I wish there was a local YMCA around here... Park Slope Y, I miss you and your too hot, too smelly, thirty two laps to a mile track gym!

Do You Remember the Time?

I've finally gotten the chance to watch season four of Mad Men, and I have to say, what the hell was Don thinking?! He finally gets into an adult relationship with a real woman -- ok, ok, I have a crush on Dr. Miller -- and then he proposes to his secretary after a week in California? I can´t WAIT to see how that blows up in his face in season five...

It's been a blessed escape from reality here in the sunshine of southern Spain, but tomorrow will be time to face the music -- and not the fun, early 90s Michael Jackson I've been making Lucia watch on You Tube.

Of cheese, jamon, and the windmills of Don Quixote

Wow. It´s been a really, really long time. Where to even begin? How about with how annoying it is that every country has its own fucking keyboard which makes typing rather irritating for certain people who cannot abide typos... not that those people are anal, or anything...

ANYWAY, so I left Warwickshire on the 6th of November and have not been back there since. What the fuck?! I´ve been living out of the same little carry-on suitcase all this time... fortunately, with two loads of laundry in between.

Obviously, New York was wonderful. Also obviously, my citizenship test was ludicrous, especially the fact that I almost got the September 11th question wrong on account of my specifity not matching the government  sanctioned response, "Terrorists attacked America." Also, apparently the question "how old must you be to vote in the US" must be accompanied by the phrase "and up" (as if 18 yr olds might be the only eligible age for voting... come on, bureacracy, even I expected better). Not a citizen yet, though, as still have to return for my official oath-swearing... But hey, any excuse to visit New York is acceptable by me!

Ok, so NY was grand. Then I flew to Ireland which was not only seriously breathtaking (will soon run out of unique modifiers) but also full of my lovely family! Toby is an absolute blast, combining the large personality of the Whites with a kindness and genuine character ... Anyway, he introduced me to my first hangover in many years (in fact, if I´ve ever complained to you that I had a hangover, I didn´t know what I was talking about) but not the last. Killarney National Park has several lakes, sinewy mountain paths, windblown evergreens, flowers in November, green moss and lichens and vines everywhere... in short, it is fucking beautiful.

Then on to the Spanish roadtrip! Although I´ve never seen the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Toby alluded to it several times... although none of us were ingesting drugs, exactly, unless you count beer and wine and Manchego and Jamon Iberico and not sleeping nearly enough for any reasonable human, and especially not for an old granny like me! To skip ahead for a minute, can anyone whose known me in the last ten years imagine me Tapas bar-hopping until 4 am and then allowing myself to be taken to a nightclub, not to return to the hotel till past 6? Cordoba... (must be said in a tone mixing villanious intent and awe, a la Toby)

So, to the cast of characters:

• Toby, my cousin from Cork, seemingly immune to the effects of drink and exhaustion
• Brendan, the urbane country gentleman (or the country urbanite?) from Dublin, who would doubtless cringe if he heard me describe him as such, who runs through the rain from sheltered doorstep to sheltered doorstep as only a very tall Irishman can (Toby and I were content to stride grimly through the rain, although I couldn´t help laughing at Brendan´s swinging arms and legs, almost as if he were dancing some hyperbolic manic jig)
• Martha, the sweet and quirky Spanish transplant to Ireland, who abandoned us to see her family midtrip
• And myself of course

We began in Barcelona, drove through Aragon to Calacietes. Imagine a village of 1200 people, its population down by two-thirds as young people fled towards jobs and ... probably anything else, really. The looming sand-colored buildings date from at least the time of the Moors (1600), the wind was scouring through the empty streets, the cold was biting fiercly -- yes, I felt a little as if we had arrived at a zombie village where none would be seen until after sunset.

Anyway, on towards Toledo, stopping at small towns along the way and sampling olive oil from little plastic cups (the purpose of the trip being to procure the best small olive oil suppliers). Martha acted as translator until she left midweek, leaving the job of asking about olive oil acidity and manchego pastuerization to me... and of course, Toby couldn´t resist having me ask questions like "how much milk does an average sheep produce daily?" Along the way we toured a modern ham-curing facility that felt like we had stepped into Space Odyssey 2001, with plastic coats, hair nets, and booties covering us from head to foot like disposable mad scientists. So many legs of ham! It fucking stunk, and unlike my companions, I did not cherish this stink. No. Then of course there were the famed windmills of Don Quixote, as picteresque as one could imagine, minus the bus of tourists dismounting to the right (luckily just as we were leaving).

Finally we arrived in Malaga, where we were nearly dead from exhaustion and from Cordoba of the night before, and after a brief siesta we headed to Los Banos Magicos de Malaga, the Arab-style baths. Interestingly enough, there are no baths per se in this sort of institution, but rather a series of fountains of hot water and marble slabs to lie on, into which one ventures armed with a blue plastic bowl and then -- strange as this sounds -- pours water onto oneself continually until the heat and humidity induce horizontal positioning. As your head pulses from the heat and from the evident detoxification of your body, you realize that the Arabs really were the most advanced of the ancient civilizations, inventing the number zero being only the most minimal of their achievements. Funnily enough, we accidentally arrived at the Baths during a time reserved for a special "couples promotion," so there we were -- two English cousins and a tall Irishman, amidst several sets of intimate Spanish couples pouring water over each other tenderly and huddling together. Serious party-crashing!!

And now at last I am in Granada, in a lovely hostel I seriously recommend called the White Nest, in a city that, having toured much of Spain I can now say with some small authority is the most beautiful amalgam of Moorish and Renaissance architecture and cultures one could imagine, complete with mideival buildings, tiny winding streets, stone-stair strewn hills, and the largest and best preserved Arabian palace in all of Spain overlooking the city. GO THERE!! Or rather, come here...

On Thursday morning I ride the bus to Almeria to spend a quiet couple of weeks with family. Sleeping in the same bed for fourteen days straight seems absurdly luxurious to me.

And there my ramblings pause... Please send news of your own lives! I do miss you and would relish even a few terse but evocative lines... love, E

Yes, there are 435 members of the House of Representatives and 27 amendments to the constitution

I've been quite busy the last few weeks, so much so that to write up everything I've done would be boring for me, and boring for you...

But I have enjoyed myself! I went to a storytelling slam which made me laugh for two hours. It's run by a group of poetry-loving boys whom I now love: http://www.aisle16.co.uk. Thanks again, Mary Meek!

Have also indulged in some art appreciation: Mark Bradford exhibit in East London. It was a series of huge collage/paintings that were really affecting... beautiful and dissonant. And American! It's amazing how much American pride I'm exhibiting these days.

And finally, oysters at Whitstable -- delicious! Brought on some good memories, too, being back in Canterbury. Valentina Baez Rizzi, I thought of you!

I'm also watching The Hangover by myself in the middle of nowhere, England... Have to say, I do miss Brooklyn -- and my very own wolf pack!

Hahahaha... Next week, New York and my civics test. I have memorized all 100 questions -- so go ahead, Uncle Sam, ask me anything! I'm ready.

Late love

What a week! First, I descaled, gutted, and beheaded a fresh-caught trout -- a present from a patient to my aunt/uncle. Ah, the countryside!

Second, I saw my lovely friend Alice again, who dragged me on a beautiful walk along the Thames -- five miles of it! There is a real plethora of swans in england -- they're everywhere.

Third, I  decided to apply for English graduate programs next year, and actually did something about it.

And finally, I rediscovered with joy the poet Jackie Kay, a few of whose poems can be listened to here:

    http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoet.do?poetId=5682

and read in print (I'm one of those neurotic people who needs to see what I'm listening to) here:

    http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/jackie_kay

Here's one:

Late Love by Jackie Kay

How they strut about, people in love,
How tall they grow, pleased with themselves,
Their hair, glossy, their skin shining.
They don't remember who they have been.

How filmic they are just for this time.
How important they've become - secret, above
The order of things, the dreary mundane.
Every church bell ringing, a fresh sign.

How dull the lot that are not in love.
Their clothes shabby, their skin lustreless;
How clueless they are, hair a mess; how they trudge
Up and down the

Publish Post

streets in the rain,

Preview

remembering one kiss in a dark alley,
A touch in a changing room, if lucky, a lovely wait
For the phone to ring, maybe, baby.
The past with its rush of velvet, its secret hush

Already miles away, dimming now, in the late day.

Language and the great outdoors, with a Sunday roast for good measure

This weekend, I was introduced to a few of the pleasures of country life. A walk through the village of Stow on the Wold evokes adjectives that are the reserve of guide books: quaint, authentic, charming. With my typical American crassness, I insisted that everything was "so cute!" Doorways and arches of long ago collude to give me a sense that I am almost not quite vertically challenged... those sweet, malnourished English of the past!

I met a lovely old school-friend of my uncle's, whose name, Bob, reminded me of my favorite Jonah Winter poem as all men named Bob do, which provided me with a private (and difficult to explain) chuckle. After a pub lunch of chicken and mushroom pie, we embarked on a failed mission to visit a Jacobean house, during which time I was ruthlessly mocked for saying Juh-cobe-ian instead of Jack-oh-bian... argh the damn English think they own the bloody language...

Rather than visit the house, which mission was aborted for boring bureaucratic reasons, we trekked half-way across the countryside through a field of giant cows. Yes, yes, of course I was terrified. Having been chased by a crazed cow at the age of ten and recently read a book on natural selection, I was not eager to put myself at risk of a stampede. I mean, at least walk around the things! But, despite the frequent piercing looks from the cows around us, all went well (An aside that combines English propriety over the language with cows: I mentioned a "calf" I admired with no success and only bewildered looks until, having repeated myself three times, I said, "baby cow?" "Ohhhhh, a 'caw-f'. What the hell is a 'cah-f'?" Sigh. Further ruthless mockery ensued).

Finally, after tramping along what felt like an endlessly uphill public footpath, we arrived at a quietly spectacular Iron-age settlement (well, the much grown-over, tree-covered outline of its fortifications). It looked, in the 21st century, like a circular secret paddock complete with friendly horse, and had an air of being haunted by the prehistoric past.

Sunday, a roast (both lamb AND chicken!) was accompanied by three kinds of green vegetables and "roasties" (has anyone else ever noticed that the English like to cutesfy everything via shortening and long E addition? barbi for barbecue? telly for tv? reccie for reconnaissance? ok, that's a less good example but the principle holds. And they think they're so dignified...). "Lunch" went from 12:30 to 8! After the main meal came apple pie and custard followed by tea followed by brief stroll around the village followed by clotted cream and scones and more tea... Ye gods.

Below is a link to the Jonah Winter poem and a few photos from the weekend. Pay particular attention to my uncle's pants (that's trousers, not underwear) -- yes, they are indeed tucked in to his socks! Also of note is a photo of a painting we saw in a gallery window. Soft porn for English aristocrats, perhaps?



Sestina: Bob (http://rawyouth.blogspot.com/2005/03/sestina-bob.html)

Terror on the country lanes

Well, it turns out the most terrifying aspect of driving in Warwick is not remembering to stick to the left hand side, it is trying not to freak out that there IS no left hand side! These country roads are skinnier than *insert overly skinny person's name here* and a volvo station wagon is like a bloated duck in comparison...

So, after much internet and phone wrangling, I finally purchased ridiculously expensive but fully comprehensive car insurance on "my" very own boat, the 1990 station wagon of my dreams. You can see her picture below. I think I'm going to call her Isabel.

How did I celebrate my new found freedom? By promptly getting myself lost in the outskirts of Warwick! I had a map, a thoroughly useless artefact because I couldn't find my starting point on the map before I left, and when I finally found it while simultaneously poring over the map and enjoying a full English breakfast at the pub I stopped at, I had no idea where the pub was... bah!

However, a lovely older gentleman whose postal route used to take him by my home village gave me directions and repeated them several times to help them stick in my slippery little head. Unfortunately, another older gentleman soon proceeded to give me new (and opposite) directions, which I tried my best to block out. Apparently, if you sit outside with a map at a pub, there's no shortage of helpful older gentlemen. The second gentleman wasn't actually helpful except that he kept telling me how stunning my dimples were, which is helpful to my self-esteem, if nothing else.

I wish there was a way to telepathically thank strangers who have been incredibly helpful. Those directions were spot-on, and I soon found myself steering Isabel slowly back up the drive. Success!

London wins round one

If you'd like nothing more than for London to slap you in the face, get out at Euston station after having spent a few days in the countryside. From picking pears and apples in the orchard -- yes, in the orchard -- there is nothing quite like the shock of a people-crazed train station at rush hour.

Luckily, just like in the movies, the friend who was meeting me came out the tube entrance into the main hall and almost ran smack into me. Unlike in the movies, she was fifteen minutes late and in my state of generalized anxiety -- so many people! so many English people! -- and in recognition of the futility of my fervent wish that I was of an ethnicity that stood out, I positioned myself just where the tube exit was spewing the most people.

We did what city natives do, i.e. go to a museum but only to eat in the cafe, and enjoyed a cup of tea. Yes, my Englishness is coming out in spades. Soon I shall be writing "cuppa." There is nothing quite like a friendship that can survive years and years apart only to snap back into place like a rubber band in slow motion.

Later, I visited my favorite London couple, the Meeks! It is with much nostalgia and tender feeling that I walk the familiar route to Acfold Road. With its rooms and rooms of books, gas fireplace, and seriously comfortable sitting apparatuses, I can say that in addition to loving the witty, warm, and charming Meek family, I love their home. Besides, their name is Meek -- what's not to love?!

It appears that women in London seem to have confused leggings for pants as much as any woman in New York. Some things are impossible to escape, I guess.

The case of the limited personal space and the charming republican

I left the house with goodbye kisses from Willie and a guilt-inducing stare from the dog. Henry, after attempting without success to cajole me into giving him ideas for his English paper -- i.e. cheating -- finally stopped pouting and sent me off with a hug. At the airport, my mother asked if I had my passport, and then, seeing my face, admitted that, as a reminder, it was a bit late. Somehow we managed to get through three fights as we searched for the right parking terminal. Seriously, America, get your signage in order!

The flight itself was much more pleasurable than first impressions intimated it would be. The seat and space around the seat was ridiculously small, even for me -- and I'm only a couple of inches over five feet. I wondered if American airline companies had larger seats because sixty eight percent of Americans are overweight or obese, and if this was the first time a nation's obesity crisis had ever been invoked as a good thing.

On the plane I was seated beside a gentleman who soon proved to be my ideological near-opposite as well as a charming young man. Weird. I would never have guessed that I could so actively enjoy the company of someone who thought Obama was a terrible president, the worst since Jimmy Carter (who hates on Jimmy Carter? The man just negotiated the release of prisoners from North Korea, didn't he?). My first clue that our philosophies might diverge came when he asked me to describe the book I was reading, and I explained my Richard Dawkins obsession despite my criticisms of his near-dogmatism, and that the book I was reading was a long exposition of the evidence for evolution. When he asked me what my verdict was, I hesitantly ventured, "on evolution? um, yes, I believe in it." To be fair, I think he does too, but I didn't ask and the fact that he considered it possible I might say no tipped me off to our opposing world views. As crazy as I thought he was (he believed that income should never be taxed, only resources via VAT), I enjoyed his company completely. He was smart, funny, and honest. I may have to rethink my categorical rejection of all Republicans from my life!

I arrived in Warwick to a gray and damp day, and immediately felt at home. I'm back, baby!