I love the shoulder to shoulder madness that is Manhattan.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I see the moon
And the moon sees me
And the moon sees somebody I want to see
And the moon sees me
And the moon sees somebody I want to see
God bless the moon
And God bless me
And God bless the somebody I want to see
God looked down from up above
And he picked you out for me to love
He picked you out from all the rest
Cause he knew I'd love you the very best
I see the moon
And the moon sees me
And the moon sees somebody I want to see
God bless the moon
And God bless me
And God bless the somebody I want to see
God bless the moon
And God bless me
And God bless the somebody I want to see
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
She didn’t smile, wouldn’t even make eye contact. She was dressed tightly in starched green, and I was pretty sure she ate children for breakfast – she was a fairy tale villain housed in a little booth and she was staring menacingly at my passport. Maybe they won’t let me in – what then? Would anyone help me get a flight back? I was over my head – what was I thinking? After fifteen minutes of gazing at my own Plexiglas reflection, my little blue passport slid gently into the bottom of the basin.
Ms. Friendly still hadn't made a glance in my direction, but I thought this was probably my cue to carry forward in the line. I couldn’t read the signs, so I followed the gentleman in front of me. The ceiling was low, and made up of dimly lit copper colored boxes. The whole place seemed dark and foreboding. I grabbed my incredibly over stuffed duffle bag from a pile of luggage at the end of the room and proceeded to drag it through a narrow metal gateway. The lady next to me was dressed in elegant fur and managed to step gracefully along in high heeled boots, rolling her suitcase easily behind her. Wheels – what a novel idea. I stood, feeling hideous and awkward in my dad’s humongous down jacket and my lumpy brown winter boots that were made for the tops of mountains, not long confident strides down airport corridors. And, for-crying-out-loud – why had I been so eager to purchase a bag that was nearly twice my size and practically impossible to carry – I wanted to stuff myself inside and ship it home.
Gulya was waving eagerly as I came through the gate. I must have looked so completely foreign and helpless, because she didn’t hesitate in her assumption of who I was – she introduced herself quickly, but my tired ears couldn’t comprehend the English through the heaviness of her accent.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand”
She rolled her eyes, “I’m speaking English.” The words were drowning in my ears.
She said her name again, but I continued to look blankly at her quick-paced mouth. If only she’d speak more slowly, then maybe I could understand. She continued to chat away – she pointed to my luggage and then to a door on my far left. It slid open and closed as people passed by –allowing quick glimpses into the dark cold sky and swirling snow on the other side.
I heaved on the thick black strap of my bag, placed it carefully on my shoulder, and teetered toward the exit. She didn’t offer to help – and for some reason that really annoyed me. She followed along beside me anxiously giving me details, I was still struggling to comprehend. I wanted to close my eyes and make her go away. It was too much noise.
We stepped into the dark; the night air burned my throat and felt sharp against my skin. I let the snow fall in circles and breathed a sigh. And a weight dropped from me – something opened up inside – and gave way for all that was new and un-experienced.
Gulya nudged me toward a parked car - “Taxi.”
It looked like any other European car to me, and I wasn’t quite sure how she had determined it was anything more. The driver sat smoking idly in the front seat, one arm draped over the window sill. He watched with complete disregard as I struggled slipping and grunting through the snow. I loaded my stuff into the trunk and then I loaded myself into the back seat. Gulya sat in front with the driver. She commanded the route, or destination (I wasn’t sure which) and then turned with a reassuring smile. I smiled weakly in return.
My eyes felt heavy, but I couldn’t bear to close them. I leaned my head against the chilled window and stared up into the eyes of the hulking stone buildings that towered over ice covered streets. They looked thick around the middle, like portly old men, and they seemed to breathe as we passed – whispering their secrets. The snow fell kindly, to cover their pain. And I fell in love – I gave the city my heart. Everything seemed so new and unfamiliar – and yet it felt like home.
“I can’t go.”
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by piles of long skirts and new sweaters. I had stopped packing suddenly – feeling, quite desperately, that what I’d said was true. I couldn’t go – it was crazy. I looked up expectantly at my Mom who was gazing back with a worried expression and knowing eyes. She nodded briefly and kept her silence. I was expecting some jeering, life-giving words of wisdom – something inspiring… or maybe all I wanted to hear her say was, “Stay here. Stay with me – I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe.” But that wasn’t how life worked. Life was painful and hard – and I needed to find it again.
Gulya turned and passed me a small slip of paper. I stared at it, trying to make sense of the unusual way the letters were collected together. The note was written in English letters – but these were not English words, I didn’t know how to make sense of them. On the note was written the names of the people I’d be staying with Vitalic, Zoya, Sasha, and Valentina – I wondered what they were like. Would their faces be happy to see me?
The car pulled up outside a rumpled apartment building of orange and grey. The heavy paneled door hung exhausted on its hinges from years of ritual release to hunched and shuffling ladies, small skipping strangers, and men bent with worry. A light flickered in the entry and illuminated a row of metal mailboxes stapled to the wall. Gulya started tiredly up the stairs, and I followed slowly behind. There was a faint smell of cigarettes and urine, and my nose willed me to take shorter breaths. We were headed to apartment number eight on the third floor.
“Thanks Dad.”
I took the plastic Rubbermaid and heaved it down the hall toward my room. I was trying hard not to be embarrassed. I’m sure it was pretty normal for parents to bring their kids to college. Especially kids who didn’t have a car. No. I was ashamed. I wanted them to disappear. I wished there weren’t so many people around. I came back down the hall to find my Dad talking animatedly to my new roommate. I rolled my eyes. He was laughing at his own joke, and she kept looking to the boxes, stacked in piles around her, for help.
“Da-ad.”
“What?”
I wished my Dad was here with me now.
I took a deep breath as Gulya pounded on the big metal door. While we waited she explained that there was another English teacher living in the building – but that I’d have to go all the way back down to the street and go in through a different door to get to her apartment. I didn’t really listen. I was too anxious – too tired – my mind kept reeling with worry and excitement – and I couldn’t wait to crawl into a nice warm bed.
The door pulled open.
“Bone - nyeh.” It was my name, but it didn’t sound familiar. She smiled widely, and pulled me, stumbling into her arms. She wrapped her hands around my shoulders and eased me through the tiny entrance. Two little faces came running eagerly into my line of view babbling incoherently and giggling – they began to sing loudly, with their hands out stretched and clamped together, “There wasa lidel turdle.” Their words slurred together – and I could tell they didn’t know what they were singing. “His name es-tiny teem.” They sang gleefully – happy to be sharing my language with me. Their eyes were bright and comical – full.
“I know, I know Mom.” I was trying my hardest not to hang up the phone. Not because, I was angry, but because I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered. She couldn’t make me feel. I wouldn’t.
“I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Well don’t be – I’m fine.” I snapped. I knew it was a lie.
She did too. She sighed.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She sighed again.
I hung up.
I sat there staring at the phone in my hand – like it would suddenly spring to life and give me answers to all my questions. But that was the thing – those questions maybe didn’t have answers. I’d have to put them in a box, and hope that that box got old and dusty – but in order for that to happen, I’d have to stop cracking open the lid and staring hopefully at the things inside.
Ms. Friendly still hadn't made a glance in my direction, but I thought this was probably my cue to carry forward in the line. I couldn’t read the signs, so I followed the gentleman in front of me. The ceiling was low, and made up of dimly lit copper colored boxes. The whole place seemed dark and foreboding. I grabbed my incredibly over stuffed duffle bag from a pile of luggage at the end of the room and proceeded to drag it through a narrow metal gateway. The lady next to me was dressed in elegant fur and managed to step gracefully along in high heeled boots, rolling her suitcase easily behind her. Wheels – what a novel idea. I stood, feeling hideous and awkward in my dad’s humongous down jacket and my lumpy brown winter boots that were made for the tops of mountains, not long confident strides down airport corridors. And, for-crying-out-loud – why had I been so eager to purchase a bag that was nearly twice my size and practically impossible to carry – I wanted to stuff myself inside and ship it home.
Gulya was waving eagerly as I came through the gate. I must have looked so completely foreign and helpless, because she didn’t hesitate in her assumption of who I was – she introduced herself quickly, but my tired ears couldn’t comprehend the English through the heaviness of her accent.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand”
She rolled her eyes, “I’m speaking English.” The words were drowning in my ears.
She said her name again, but I continued to look blankly at her quick-paced mouth. If only she’d speak more slowly, then maybe I could understand. She continued to chat away – she pointed to my luggage and then to a door on my far left. It slid open and closed as people passed by –allowing quick glimpses into the dark cold sky and swirling snow on the other side.
I heaved on the thick black strap of my bag, placed it carefully on my shoulder, and teetered toward the exit. She didn’t offer to help – and for some reason that really annoyed me. She followed along beside me anxiously giving me details, I was still struggling to comprehend. I wanted to close my eyes and make her go away. It was too much noise.
We stepped into the dark; the night air burned my throat and felt sharp against my skin. I let the snow fall in circles and breathed a sigh. And a weight dropped from me – something opened up inside – and gave way for all that was new and un-experienced.
Gulya nudged me toward a parked car - “Taxi.”
It looked like any other European car to me, and I wasn’t quite sure how she had determined it was anything more. The driver sat smoking idly in the front seat, one arm draped over the window sill. He watched with complete disregard as I struggled slipping and grunting through the snow. I loaded my stuff into the trunk and then I loaded myself into the back seat. Gulya sat in front with the driver. She commanded the route, or destination (I wasn’t sure which) and then turned with a reassuring smile. I smiled weakly in return.
My eyes felt heavy, but I couldn’t bear to close them. I leaned my head against the chilled window and stared up into the eyes of the hulking stone buildings that towered over ice covered streets. They looked thick around the middle, like portly old men, and they seemed to breathe as we passed – whispering their secrets. The snow fell kindly, to cover their pain. And I fell in love – I gave the city my heart. Everything seemed so new and unfamiliar – and yet it felt like home.
“I can’t go.”
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by piles of long skirts and new sweaters. I had stopped packing suddenly – feeling, quite desperately, that what I’d said was true. I couldn’t go – it was crazy. I looked up expectantly at my Mom who was gazing back with a worried expression and knowing eyes. She nodded briefly and kept her silence. I was expecting some jeering, life-giving words of wisdom – something inspiring… or maybe all I wanted to hear her say was, “Stay here. Stay with me – I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe.” But that wasn’t how life worked. Life was painful and hard – and I needed to find it again.
Gulya turned and passed me a small slip of paper. I stared at it, trying to make sense of the unusual way the letters were collected together. The note was written in English letters – but these were not English words, I didn’t know how to make sense of them. On the note was written the names of the people I’d be staying with Vitalic, Zoya, Sasha, and Valentina – I wondered what they were like. Would their faces be happy to see me?
The car pulled up outside a rumpled apartment building of orange and grey. The heavy paneled door hung exhausted on its hinges from years of ritual release to hunched and shuffling ladies, small skipping strangers, and men bent with worry. A light flickered in the entry and illuminated a row of metal mailboxes stapled to the wall. Gulya started tiredly up the stairs, and I followed slowly behind. There was a faint smell of cigarettes and urine, and my nose willed me to take shorter breaths. We were headed to apartment number eight on the third floor.
“Thanks Dad.”
I took the plastic Rubbermaid and heaved it down the hall toward my room. I was trying hard not to be embarrassed. I’m sure it was pretty normal for parents to bring their kids to college. Especially kids who didn’t have a car. No. I was ashamed. I wanted them to disappear. I wished there weren’t so many people around. I came back down the hall to find my Dad talking animatedly to my new roommate. I rolled my eyes. He was laughing at his own joke, and she kept looking to the boxes, stacked in piles around her, for help.
“Da-ad.”
“What?”
I wished my Dad was here with me now.
I took a deep breath as Gulya pounded on the big metal door. While we waited she explained that there was another English teacher living in the building – but that I’d have to go all the way back down to the street and go in through a different door to get to her apartment. I didn’t really listen. I was too anxious – too tired – my mind kept reeling with worry and excitement – and I couldn’t wait to crawl into a nice warm bed.
The door pulled open.
“Bone - nyeh.” It was my name, but it didn’t sound familiar. She smiled widely, and pulled me, stumbling into her arms. She wrapped her hands around my shoulders and eased me through the tiny entrance. Two little faces came running eagerly into my line of view babbling incoherently and giggling – they began to sing loudly, with their hands out stretched and clamped together, “There wasa lidel turdle.” Their words slurred together – and I could tell they didn’t know what they were singing. “His name es-tiny teem.” They sang gleefully – happy to be sharing my language with me. Their eyes were bright and comical – full.
“I know, I know Mom.” I was trying my hardest not to hang up the phone. Not because, I was angry, but because I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered. She couldn’t make me feel. I wouldn’t.
“I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Well don’t be – I’m fine.” I snapped. I knew it was a lie.
She did too. She sighed.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She sighed again.
I hung up.
I sat there staring at the phone in my hand – like it would suddenly spring to life and give me answers to all my questions. But that was the thing – those questions maybe didn’t have answers. I’d have to put them in a box, and hope that that box got old and dusty – but in order for that to happen, I’d have to stop cracking open the lid and staring hopefully at the things inside.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Saturday, September 01, 2007
As most of you already know, I have upped and moved to Pennsylvania.I made the drive across country solo – much to my parent’s dismay. My Mom was adamant that my Dad go with me – she didn’t think it was safe – it was along way to drive alone – all the usual worries – and my Dad seemed quite disappointed when I strong-headedly insisted that he remain on the opposite coast. I think he had really been looking forward to the trip. But somehow it just seemed like something I should do alone. My first steps out into the unknown.
About three hours out of Ogden, I was having second thoughts. Would the whole continent be so bleak, and tedious a drive? I’d never make it. I’d fall asleep at the wheel. Suddenly, I remembered, that while they’ve stopped selling my favorite ice cream in Utah – it is still sold in the East. Raspberry Cow Tracks – here I come. The gas pedal received a little extra nudge. I persevered through Wyoming and part of Nebraska – I’d hoped to make it to Lincoln – but that was some poor planning on my part. I ended up staying in this dirty little hotel with beer cans on the floor. My Mom had made me promise not to camp or sleep in my car – but I’m thinking either of those would have been better options. I curled up on one corner of the bed, and hoped I wouldn’t wake up with lice.
Day two I hit the road hard. I hadn’t left home with any sort of well formatted route or time schedule, but I needed to be in Lancaster before Sunday so I could meet up with some friends. I had a goal to see Nauvoo (I don’t know when this idea got into my head, but it was lodged in tight). Once I got to Lincoln I veered through the city, stopped at Russ’ Market for some grub and a chat with the locals, and then headed into Iowa along meandering one lane roads of farm trucks and buggies. Now, I have this little problem when I travel – I tend to wonder off the beaten path, get lost, find a place to swim, hike, etc. It took all of my will power not to turn off at every little point of interest, and not to stop and meander through the streets of every old quirky mid-western town I passed through.At one point I saw a driverless horse-drawn carriage. I realize that this isn’t quite as alarming as a car that has no driver, but still… Do those horses really know what they’re doing?
Another favorite site was an old farm house full of cows. They were actually peering out the windows curiously as I drove past.
The Mississippi is wide and deep, with an unfortunate amount of industry cluttering its banks - but is beautiful and still manages to sing a tune of simpler days and happy summers. Driving north along its shore was similar to driving up the Sechelt Peninsula – lots of houses, some big, others tiny and run-down, looking out over the water. I’d like a house looking out over the Mississippi, or the ocean – I’d like a house.
I pulled into Nauvoo at 4pm – I was confused, and it took me way too long to find the visitor’s centre, but the sister missionary there was very helpful and set me on my way. I ran from house to house to try and see everything. This is not how you should tour church history sites. It loses meaning. But I did enjoy a quite moment looking out over the river.I decided that I would not take the time to drive to Carthage. I would head for Chicago instead. It was getting late, and I was tired. But about 30 minutes north of Nauvoo I ran across a sign pointing to Carthage. Shoot. Maybe I should go. I pulled off the road – should I turn right or keep going straight. I decided to keep going. I didn’t need to go to Carthage – And then five minutes later I made a U-turn, and headed for the jail anyway. I’m so glad I did. It was by far the best part of my day. The feeling in the jail house was very unexpected – even opposite of what I had anticipated. Peaceful.
I spent the night in my car – nestled on top of all the luggage in my backseat – parked neatly in a row of large semi-trucks. Don’t tell my Mom.Day three was very, very long. I drove across Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. I spent a lot of money on toll roads. For some reason – and it might be that I dished out a lot of cash - I expected the toll roads to be fast moving with very little traffic. Sadly, I was disappointed – they have rush hour like any other highway, and the limit was only 65. I’ve always hated Oregon because the speed limit is 65. Now, I can also hate all of the mid-western states. At least they let me pump my own gas.
I spent the afternoon in Kirtland. I enjoyed it a lot more than Nauvoo. It was more personal. I now have a desire to read books about church history – especially Joseph Smith – Does anyone
have any recommendations? And if you say the “Work and the Glory” series, I’ll punch you.Now, I should have probably given up at this point, and finished my trip off the following day – but I couldn’t take it any longer, I was so very sick of driving, and my poor car was too. I had to make it home.
Pennsylvania is beautiful. At least the part I saw in the daylight. Trees everywhere. And long bridges spanning river carved chasms. It feels old and secretive.
My neighborhood has a lot less trees than northern Pennsylvania, and a lot more farms – but is still very beautiful. Lancaster’s streets are narrow, and generally one-way, lined with brick townhouses, laundry, and people in deck chairs. I live on the outskirts of the city next to a corn field and large red silo. So far I feel very at home – very happy.
** I would have taken more pictures along the way, but my camera battery was dead so I had to keep trying to recharge it in gas stations, restrooms, etc.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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