Let's Take Autumn, Fold It Up, And Tuck It Away In My Pocket

You know, to keep me zen and centered when, come January, in the bitter chill of winter, I'll be forlorn and depressed staring at my ashy, ghost white legs, wondering if I'm using the wrong moisturizer because one's legs surely shouldn't ever be this dry, no matter how cold temps drop outside?

Providence, Rhode Island

Sunday. 3 November. 2013.

It wasn't until my twenties that I began to notice the pretty of autumn. Up until then, fall held little value other than signaling the first term of school and field hockey practice. The physical metamorphosis happening outside was more of an annoyance, what with all the lawn work that came with the season. Do you know how annoying it is to locate a field hockey ball that rolls into a patch of leaves caught on the fence lining the sideline? High school problems: they are serious.

My mother's parents, my maternal grandparents, came to visit the States exactly once. My mother grew up on a farm a couple hours outside of Seoul. Knowing this, I did not, for the life of me, understand why my grandfather flew such a long distance and, as a man of few words, when asked what he wanted to do, said that he wanted to go for a walk.

A walk.

A walk?

I had absolutely no interest in strolling outside to admire the scenery. I mean, the trees? Aren't there trees in Korea? Branches and leaves? Grass? Yawn, dude. Yawn.

Oh, the simple minds of ignorant pre-adolescent know-it-alls.

Now, every year around this time, I look up at the vibrant firetops of the trees, how they perfectly blot themselves in front of the city skyline and think, oh, I bet weh-halabuhji (Korean for maternal grandfather) would have loved this. He would have adored a November walk on the East coast. There's nothing quite like it.

My grandparents' visit was a long one, overlapping a chilly March when there was a freak snow and ice storm that closed Philadelphia schools for a full week. That was the second and last time that I would spend time with my grandfather. I've visited his grave once, more than a decade ago. He's buried at the highest point of a mountain, one that is so steep that the only way to descend is to side step with your feet perpendicular to the slope of the mountain. I bet at this time of year, he enjoys a sweet, breathtaking view.

The Cake Was Good, Too*

4-inch satin heels + Julia + 6.5 hours
               = Rare.

4-inch satin heels + Julia + 6.5 hours + no blisters or sore calves
               = When pigs fly.

But fly they did.  Fly they did in all their porky glory.  Over a pretty little island we know as Martha's Vineyard, they squealed and oinked as my dearest of friends joined the ranks of the blissfully wed.  To see her at her happiest, at her most beautiful for as long as I've known her, dancing around and around, I thought to myself, This must be what they call euphoria.  This was her day, but true to her form, she was still busy giving; unknowingly giving me the purest of gifts as I watched her radiate a joy so palpable that I could almost reach out and scoop some into a jar.

Oak Bluffs.  Massachusetts.
10:12 pm.  Saturday.  6 October.   2012.
When a tiny sliver of alone time opened up the morning after, I found myself standing along the water's sandy edge.  That unhurried sensibility, that delicious ocean smell, that calm from the sound of lapping waves, they were all there patiently waiting: more gifts on the most generous of weekends.  Time after time, the waters that surround this island give me something that no other place, no one thing, no one, has yet - a deeply soothing sense of serenity.  I am smitten with it and it me at every visit.  I think I'll be ok this winter.

*So good that I had two slices.  But not before all the guests had their firsts.  I might be greedy, but I still have manners.

Butt Status

Officially kicked.  And hard.

I'm hanging in.  Sorta.  How are you?  I miss my time here.  It's funny how a little blog can morph into something akin to a companion.  Once I get through this weekend and make good on a promise I made to a friend, I'm pretty sure I'll start seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  For now, I wouldn't argue with you if you said that Longchamp isn't my new best friend.

Away I Went

Menemsha.  Martha's Vineyard.

12:14 pm.  Monday.  2012.  28 May.

Clumsily toddled along nippy shores and murmuring waves.
Sunk my bare feet into sunkissed sands.
Goodness.
What I'd give to start each day with a walk along a quiet beach.
The salty edge.
The still calm.
The soft breeze.
I'd be a whole new person.

Stood on a narrow bridge over the stillest pond I can remember.
Heard a plump little frog plop squarely into that pond.
And then another!
Couldn't quite put my finger on the sound.
Maybe it was my first frog plop?
It's quite delightful.
That curious perfection ringing in my ear.

About kitchen-ing.
I'm one impatient little diva.
Let a few tiny drops of yolk into the separated egg whites.
Cheesecake turned out more than fine.
Thank you very much.

Fresh pasta.

I can understand the hype a little better now.

Baked panko-crusted eggplant.

Yum.

It had been a long time since I had been away.

A proper trip.

One that requires extensive time on a moving vessel of some sort.

As someone pointed out.

Six hours is like.

Europe.

Or Cali-pohr-nia.

(Hab you seen that dairy campaign?

Featuring a talking cow with a Korean accent?

It's good stuff.)

I'm proud of myself.

For acknowledging that I'm still learning me.

That maybe I'm not always able.

But this time.

For trying.

And for being able.

The Venerable Acrostic

I have a summer sickness that makes me peep out into the hallway on Saturday mornings before I even pee or brush my teeth or get the crusty sleep out of my eyes.  It's called The New York Times Magazine.  I mentioned it in June {+}, but since then, I have fallen even more head over heels in ♡♡♡ (read: love, love, love) with acrostics.  I know some people complete these bad boys in under something crazy like fifteen minutes, but I don't care if it takes me all morning.  I find it terribly satisfying when I solve one in a single sitting.  Really, it makes me much more giddy than it should.

This week's solution reads:

              Animals that adapted to land did so through the trick of taking their former environment with them.
              No matter how high and dry the mountain top, no matter how secluded and modern the retreat,
              we sweat and cry seawater.

Lyn Margulis, Microcosmos

All these smart people - they produce the cleverest of observations.  I ♡♡♡.

I should be better about actively keeping my mind engaged.  I take longer to process information and read more slowly than ever before.  Generally speaking, my pace is not what it once was.  I relearn chess every few years or so whenever somebody has a board.  Sadly, I don't enjoy the game (hence the need to re-learn the rules every single time - not much sticks in the old noggin when I'm disinterested).  This was the set on which I played last summer in Peru.  We played every day, for hours sometimes, and yet, I'm still not sold.  The only things I found remotely interesting were the aesthetics of this particular set.  The Incans vs. Spaniards, an integral part of Peru's history, was everywhere in Lima.

A Message From The Sky

Did you know you could send e-mail from tens of thousands of feet above earth?  I didn't until late this morning when Soeur sent a brief note en route to the West coast.  The subject line was "Just flying over Utah..." The brevity of her message, "No big deal..." was irony at its best because she had attached this picture as well.

Photo taken by Soeur at 11:20-ish a.m. EST today, probably on her iPhone.
// edit 8/17/2011: Soeur is back and she says that she took this shot with her iPad!

Helloooooooooo, Utah.  Aren't you just stinking gorgeous?  I don't know much about Utah, but I do know it's the Mormon mecca, Dooce {+} lives there, and every blogger in Utah or from Utah appears to be the sweetest and kindest person on earth.  Seriously, can anyone explain the inordinate number of darling Utah bloggers?  It's uncanny.  Now that I think about it, every single person I've ever met who was raised in Utah was also sweet as pie.  That land must be chock full of mountain air and sunshine and rainbows and fairy dust.

Anyway, I presume Soeur landed safely in California by now since she texted a few hours ago to ask if I thought it was safe to eat the chicken sandwich she had picked up at La Guardia this morning.  Whatever she ended up eating, it better be substantial because based on her itinerary, it looks like she's drinking her way through California's wineries for the next several days.  I wouldn't put it past her and her gang to attend wine tastings and fake-spit into the buckets.  What I wouldn't give to be so talented!

Olive

I had one day to myself in Peru and on that day, I did what I do best: I went for a long walk.  Lima is a city that relies on taxis and my legs were in shock from the sudden inactivity.  I headed on foot in search of an olive tree park that I had only read about in New York and admired through a glass window of a tour bus earlier in the week.  Unfortunately, I didn't remember its name so I hoped for the best and followed a rough map I had torn out of a small hotel guidebook.  A small green circle marked "Parque something" looked promising.  "Parque something" turned out to be none other than a big concrete circular intersection where an impressive Catholic church stood next to every American chain restaurant you could imagine.  D'oh.  Exhaust fumes from passing vehicles mingled unpleasantly with greasy wafts coming from its neighbor, Chili's; the bright red of the restaurant's chili pepper logo matched the fresh flowers someone had lain at the foot of the towering stone saint statue that stood before the church entrance.

I eventually turned and took a parallel route back in the direction I had come.  (Cue Wisconsin accent) DONT-CHA-KNOW, fifteen minutes later, I turned the corner emerging from a small residential side street and looked up to see the prettiest stretch of greenery and trees.  I couldn't believe it, but less than twenty feet in front of me was a cluster of olive trees.  And beyond that were rows and rows more!  I had literally stumbled into San Isidro's famous El Olivar, a tranquil sliver of Lima where old olive trees lived, some more than two hundred years old.  "Somebody loves me," I said to no one in particular.

I made my way through the carefully laid out grid of trees and sauntered about.  I left my earphones in but turned off the music.  Silence was nice.  I was alone.  With my camera.  Happy as a clam.  I patiently tested the settings half guessing, half knowing like only an amateur would.  I had no idea where to start.  How to capture the regal presence of these olive trees; their thick trunks wound tightly; the fluttering smooth leaves of their branches?

I don't think I had ever seen an olive branch up close before.  I recalled a biblical tale.  After the floods, Noah releases a dove that returns time and time again with nothing until one day, it returns with a single young olive branch in its mouth.  A sign of new life after God angrily flooded the earth.  Then there's a rainbow, God's promise that no matter how angry he might get, he would never again destroy as he did with the flood.  As I continued to admire the olive trees, the enormous hulking trunks of the older ones reminded me of The Odyssey.  Odysseus' bed was carved from the trunk of an olive tree, its thick intertwined roots still grounded in the earth.  God, I love Homer.  It's time to read that poem again.

My mind wanders so.  I am so good at this, this being alone in my own world rambling silently with aimless thoughts.  I could go on forever.  Then I somehow blink back into the present and realize that hey, it's time to go back.

The Yah'-Moes at Parque de las Leyendas

When I couldn't locate the section of the zoo where the native llamas were chilling out, I stopped a passing groundsman pushing a wheel barrow and asked "Donde esta los llamos?"  No, that is not a typo.  I actually said yah'-moes.  What the frick is a yah'-moe?  Embarrassed, I rolled my eyes and the sweet groundsman and I laughed together, although he was probably laughing more at me than with me.

When I finally found the llamas, they were chilling with the alpacas.  Calm as can be, the llamas just stood there. Their sole responsibility...to look cute.  But the alpacas were pretty cute, too.  There was this really feisty one.  He maniacally dropped himself to the ground, rolled himself around in the dirt a few times over, and then quickly jumped back up only to shake his body for a good ten seconds straight letting loose a great cloudy sphere of brown dirt all around him.  And then he'd do it all over again.  It was like a little dance.

Zoos can be a little sad with all the bars and cages, but sometimes the furry cuteness makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside which in turn cancels out the sadness just a smidgen, just enough to make you enjoy your visit.

Midtown Tunnel

Speeding through just before 11:30 last night.

Warm and humid here.  Big change from Lima's chilly season.  Was tucking myself under fluffy down comforters every night.  Now I'm running around naked in air conditioning.  Bizarre.  

Have e-mails to read, bills to pay, and bags to unpack.  Most importantly, a job to get.

Dónde...

...están los VEGETABLES in Peru??????????

The handful of asparagus spears I found between my bun and burger last night nearly made me cry.  Two nights ago, I ordered chicken with vegetables.  There were a few thin julienned slices of carrot and snap peas amidst the mountain of chicken chunks and the mound of white rice.  Was totally bumming out.

Totally not complaining here.  Just seeing the ugly signs of constipation on the horizon.  TMI?  Well, you will forgive, right?

The food here is good because the potato reigns king.  This means a whole lotta starchy carbs with a whole lotta meat.  A city along the Pacific Ocean, fresh seafood is popular.  Cebiche is a Lima star but I have yet to try it.  My jeans aren't holding in the muffin top.  Well, less than usual.  Ruh-roh.

Ruffage of New York, watch your back.  Julia is going to get you when she gets back.

Soles

I don't have much internet down time, but I wanted to report one thing while I had a minute to spare.

The local currency here is the nuevos soles.  For some reason, whenever I whip out my wallet, I think not of nuevos soles, but "huevos rancheros" which you might know as a popular American brunch menu item. 

The mind works in mysterious ways. 

Leavin' On A Jet Plane

Delays.
     Cancellations.
          Fainting spells.
               Xanax overdoses.
                    Strange white powdery substance in a tampon applicator.  (It's always the least likely ones...)

At the time of this publishing, if none of these potential snafus interrupted my scheduled itinerary, I will be stepping off a plane onto South American soil.  I'll be making my way to join a terribly long line for my turn to speak to a customs and immigrations officer, but hey, if you've ever stood in the infamous Saturday afternoon Trader Joe's Manhattan checkout line, then you'll understand when I defiantly bid the Peruvian government to BRING IT, BABY.

On my way, I'll catch up on some podcasts and New Yorkers.  I also downloaded a few chapters of audiobooks and some of Soeur's tunes onto my iPod.  I am lurving One Republic's tunes.

This has gotta be a good life

This has gotta be a good life

This could really be a good life

While I'm away, I'll likely be radio silent in this space, but here's to a good good life for all of us.  See you when I get back.