Outside This Box

Post vacation funk.

I am officially in my post vacation funk.  It hit later this time than it has years prior.  All I want to do is go back.  I daydream of where I've been, who I've seen and what I've touched.  I know...it sounds silly and sentimental.  But that is the kind of person I am.

One of the reasons I hit this post vacation funk (especially after I've visited Europe) is that I miss the walking and eating of non-processed foods.  We never rent cars when we are on vacation.  We use public transportation.  I am a metro and train junkie.  I love the navigation process.  Figuring out which line to take to get where I am going.  I like to watch the people standing next to me on the subway.  Barcelona's Metro was great to ride on.  Clean and efficient it was also fun to stand on.  The newer cars didn't have partitions between the cabs.  We could watch the cabs move and sway to the turns the train was making.  Unless I am really beat I stand on subways.  When standing you can get a much better feel of the power under the train and its inevitable navigation.

While in the city we walked.  And walked.  Combine all that walking with eating olives (at least for me), fresh bread, jamon, fabulous fruit, paellas, and an occasional pan au raison roll, and the whole body feels really good.  We didn't have any formal set down dinners while there.  We ate on the go or did some light cooking in the flat we rented.

We went to two different markets in Barcelona that offered the freshest fare in any combination you might like.  The La Bouqueria Market (St. Josef) is right off of La Rambla and the Santa Catalina Market is across the street from the Cathedral in the Born District.   Each had its own character and flavors but they both shared one delicious trait.  Fresh and unprocessed food.  The colors and smells were eye candy and nose sensory overloads!  Coming home I now am relentlessly searching for olives that are similar to what I ate in Barcelona.  As I realize it isn't going to happen I become bugged.  I crave the fresh bread I bought at the patisserie near our flat.

I guess the only solution is to go back. 

The naked guy.

Before we left for Barcelona I read as much as I could about the city.  I had been to Madrid years ago but didn't remember that much about what Spain was like.  And, since then Franco is gone and the entire country is going through a quasi-cultural revolution.  I didn't know what to expect.

I found some really nice blogs that I perused daily to satisfy my insatiable need for "all things Spanish."  I quizzed my friend about her recent lenghthy stay in a flat there.  I bought the appropriate pocket sized travel guides that I lugged around with me in my "pick pocket proof" messenger bag.

One of the first places we went was to La Rambla. 

La Rambla is a street that runs north and south between Plaza Catalunya and the port.  It reminded me of what San Francisco used to be like with its street performers and artists.  It was lovely.  But you never know what you'll see on or around La Rambla.  I had read about a naked guy who wanders this area with only a tattooed bathing suit bottom on.  What are the chances that you can read about a naked guy walking around a tourist area and actually seeing him?  Very good.

My daughters spotted him first.  He had only running shoes on.  Nothing else.  He just walked around.  Who knows why he is naked or why he does this.  Any number of reasons to be an exhibitionist.  What surprised me is that nobody cared.  No police were called.  Nobody had hysterical fits about seeing a male human body in, er, the flesh.  They didn't cry and scream because a nipple was showing.  They have their priorities straight. 

Americans are extremely uptight about sex, the human form, art and expressing ourselves.  If a naked man was walking around Atlanta it would make CNN's Headline News.

Obviously this guy wasn't hurting anyone.  The authorities recognized that and left him alone.  Live and let live I suppose!

Topless Beaches: The great equalizers.

We recently traveled to Spain.  I loved it.  I actually teared up in the taxi when we were driving to the airport to return to the U.S.  I became instantly attached to the culture, their attitudes toward life, and, of course, their olives.  I have much to say about the week we spent there.

I took away a lot from Spain but there was one thing that really stood out.

We stayed in Barcelona, a coastal Mediterranean city.  Old and new, Barcelona has the best of both worlds. From incredible things to explore in the city proper, it also has some incredible beaches nearby.  As almost everything closes down on Sundays in Spain we decided we would take the train to a beach west of Barcelona.  This would be our first, and only, adventure out of the city.

We had been told that all of the beaches are topless.  I wasn't sure what to expect but was looking forward to learning about myself in a situation like that.  Husband.  Topless women.  Self doubt.  American Puritan prudence at its best.  I wondered how both of my daughters would react at the beach.  In some ways, they are more shy than I am.

After we stepped off the train we walked about 2 blocks to the sandy shore.  We tried not to stare or let our gazes wander.  I was shocked.  But I wasn't shocked because the beach was topless; I was shocked because none of it bothered me.  It wasn't bad at all.  It was instantly clear to me that all of the hype about topless beaches was just that...hype.  Yes, there were boobs all over the place.  Big boobs, flat boobs, sagging boobs, boobs that really should have been covered up and fabulous perky boobs.  There were even boobs that looked just like mine!  I fit right in.  I didn't go topless but felt great about myself.  It was such a reassuring feeling to know that had I gone topless nobody would have pointed at me.  Nobody would have snickered behind my back.  It was nice to know that I would have fit right in.  They would have walked right by noticing only the fabulous aquamarine colored water and the waves crashing the shore.  This beach was the greatest equalizer of all.  Nothing left to the imagination.  And that was good.

Who knows?  Maybe next time....

A sense of Justice.

"I didn't vote for him, but he's my president, and I hope he does a good job."  ~John Wayne

When my oldest daughter was a senior in high school she hit a parked car.  She didn't mean to but was in a hurry and wasn't watching where she was going.  She called me, crying, asking what she should do.  Should she leave?  Should she acknowledge what she had done by leaving a note on the car?  She was panicked.  Instead of telling her what I would do I asked her what she thought she should do.

I was absolutely proud of her response.  She told me that she was going to leave a note for the driver under the windshield wiper blade.  She told me she was responsible and that by leaving the note she would be taking the high road...doing what was right.

The owner of the car called our home later that day.  She wasn't happy that her new VW had been smashed but she was grateful that the note had been left for her.  It turned out she was a teacher and was friends with one of my daughter's teachers.  Such a small world.

My daughter had to empty out her savings account to pay for the damages she caused.  She had to work extra hard the following year to replenish her savings account before she headed off to college. 

When I heard that our President had commuted Scooter Libby's sentence earlier this week I thought of my daughter.  She did the right thing.  We all mostly try to do the right thing.  I am outraged that our President is not doing the right thing.  How can we teach our future generations to do the right things when the most powerful person on the planet refuses to uphold the law?

Today is our cherished independence day.  The day we celebrate our freedom, our democracy, our separation from the King of England.  We celebrate being Americans.  But this dark cloud of dishonesty and lawlessness hangs over our heads.  Keith Olbermann says it best.

A sense of justice is just not enough.

Pregnancy Diaries: Not just me.

It didn't take me long to discover that what I was going through was not unique to me.  The comments, the office mimics, the stares and the ostracism were shared by many women.  Some who had had babies years before; others who had had them recently.  We all started talking.  I took more notes.

I had two reactions.  The first was utter dismay.  I couldn't believe that these supervisors and managers had gotten away with this crap for so long.  My second reaction was joy.  It wasn't like I was happy that other women had been harassed and discriminated against .  I was happy that I wasn't alone.  I also discovered that the harassment didn't only come from the male supervisors and managers in the office.  It came from some of the women too.  Knowing that really hurt.

The offending female manager was a climber.  She would have climbed over anyone at any time to get ahead.  She was competent but she wasn't smart.  She was a "yes woman".  "Yes sir."  "Whatever you ask sir."  Critical thinking skills were not her forte.  One of my female colleagues told me a story about something this manager had said to her.  The manager had heard a rumor in the office that one of her employees, my colleague, may be pregnant.  Without any verification whatsoever she confronted her employee.  She didn't ask her if she was pregnant.  She didn't take her into an office to discuss her future plans.  Instead, with the tact of a drunken sailor, she told the woman "If you are pregnant I will kill you."  No discussion was had.  No questions were asked or answered.  She walked off after she made the statement in front of several people.  That statement could qualify in many states as assault.  It was certainly something that would never be said to a man.

Soon word spread about how the female manager felt about any of her employees coming up pregnant.  Her attitude and words chilled the work place.  Her female employees no longer confided in her.  They no longer told her anything that they didn't have to.  It was sad to watch her try to manage a unit of women who had no respect for her.

I guess the old adage that those who live by the sword die by the sword had some truth to it.  She was gone from work for two days.  She hadn't called in.  One of the secretaries was sent to her home to check on her.  She found her body.  She had been bludgeoned to death.  Her killer was never found.

Such a tragedy.  But even more so the tragedy manifested when we all watched the scramble over her dead body for her management position.

Small Towns

I love to travel. Always have and always will.  The idea of going somewhere new is thrilling to me.  Maybe it is because we moved every three years growing up.  Maybe it is because I like to see new architecture.  Who knows.  I just love to do it. 

I have travelled extensively over the last five years during the Summers.  I didn't go to exotic places but went to small towns.  My daughter plays softball so we did quite a bit of travel for her passion.  Mine too.  Not only did I like going places but I loved watching her play.  Last Summer I spent a week in Owensboro, Kentucky.  Owensboro is situated on the Ohio River.  The river is such an integral part of that community.  It runs right by downtown.  It was a beautiful small town.  The homes had big green lawns (something we don't have much of here in the desert).  The rolling hills into and out of Owensboro were fun to drive through.  The vegetation was so thick I couldn't see past the next mile marker on the freeways. 

This last weekend I spent a few days in Clovis, New Mexico.  Clovis is much smaller than Owensboro.  But it had its charm and uniqueness.  Situated in Eastern New Mexico, Clovis is probably more Texan than it is New Mexican.  The food is different and they talk with a twang that is unfamiliar to us Albuquerqueans.

I don't think I would be a good small town dweller.  I like my anonymity and small towns certainly do not give you that.  Aside from that though, I was saddened to see that in both of these small towns, located in different parts of the country, the independent business spirit is dying.  Walmart, McDonalds, Burger King and Walgreens have taken over what used to be thriving small town businesses.  When I go to small towns I support the local businesses.  I look for Mom and Pop coffee shops.  I search out hole in the wall restaurants.  I love to browse through the local boutiques.

I didn't see these things in Owensboro or in Clovis.  We found one barbeque place in Owensboro that was locally owned.  We found a taqueria in Clovis that was family owned.  What is happening to our small towns?  Are the corporate interests squashing local businesses?  Is the innovative American spirit taking a back seat to Reality TV?  Is the economy in such bad shape that our small towns are drying up?  I am thinking it is a combo of all of these things.

My uncle grew his business in a small New Mexican town.  He is a pharmacist and owns an indie drug store.  I remember how concerned he was when Walmart came to town.  Walmart is notorious for their buying power (really...do you ever wonder how they can sell a hoodie for $5.99?)  Walmart buys from China in HUGE quantities.  The local businesses in small towns can't compete with this type of purchasing power.  Once they move in, Walmart hires the locals but only schedules them for 38 hours a week, two huge hours short of full time employment.  Why is this a cricital issue?  Because to qualify for benefits at Walmart, the employee has to work full time.  The locals are employed but they don't qualify for health insurance.  They have to depend on the local human service departments for aid and health insurance.  It is a vicious circle.

My Uncle's competitor closed his business shortly after Walmart came in.  My Uncle joined a consortium of pharmacists in a larger town to survive.  They used their collective powers to buy and market against a retailer that has no moral compass.

Small towns. 

Bobby

I grew up with the Kennedys.  I didn't live next door to them. Actually, I never met any of them but I grew up with them.  I grew up with a John F. Kennedy salt and pepper shaker on our kitchen table.  I grew up with photos of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr. in our home.  They were treated with respect and adoration by my parents and my grandparents.  Even though they didn't know us, they were members of our family.

It is only fitting that I link to this YouTube video today.

Senator Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated 39 years ago today.  I wonder what our world would have been like had Bobby been elected President.

Outdated

It is official.  I am outdated.  How do I know?  My daughter told me so.

She has just graduated from high school.  Her wings are itching to take their first major flight away from me.  The apron strings have turned into bungee cords and are being stretched to capacity.  These cords quiver each time she leaves the house.  The vibration is so strong that I never know how long they will last without snapping and recoiling back to hit each of us in the gut.

I guess this is par for the course though; the mother-daughter dynamic at the crux of being 18.  The Mother, feeling somewhat lost and some despair at how her world will be when the youngest is off to school.  The Daughter, wanting that much needed sense of autonomy, and to be away from her Mom.  Far away.

I use the word "autonomy" instead of the word "independent" because there is no way either of my daughters are, or can be, independent while in college.  As much as they would like to think they are adults and can take of themselves, they can't.  It isn't because they don't have the drive or the desire, they lack critical experience that only the world can give them.  Okay...I am being way too optomistic here.  They also lack the financial means to care for themselves.  With gas just under $4.00 a gallon, they can barely afford to keep their tanks full.

I have tried to talk with my youngest about how expensive living is.  And we're not talking about living at the same standards she has here at home but living on her own.  She doesn't know what I am talking about.  We have had numerous conversations about what the world holds for her and what the world expects back.  During the last discussion we had about college and the economy she told me I was "outdated."

Hmmm.  "What do you mean by outdated?" I asked her.  She replied "It has been a long time since you have been in college.  You don't know what it is like now.  Things have changed." 

It is true, I haven't been in school since 1984.  I typed my thesis papers on an electric typewriter.  There was no such thing as an internet or word processing.  But I was in school after the concept of zero was formulated by the Mayans!  In 1984 we had books, tapes, videos, movies and a gas car. Hell, we even had MTV.  The conversation was almost comical.  But I didn't laugh at her because she was being sincere.  I was amazed though that she thinks I am clueless about all things having to do with life since 1984.

I am outdated.

Snow and Automobiles

Have you ever heard of the Sapir-Whorf theory?  I studied it years ago when I was working on my degree at the University of New Mexico.  Political and sociological theories were cool to me.  Theories about linguistics were bizarre and harder to understand.  The Sapir Whorf theory was different though; this linguistic theory fascinated me.  My fascination was in part because the professor explained it to the class in a manner we could all understand and relate to.  He talked about the Eskimos, snow and automobiles.  From Wikipedia:

Put simply, the hypothesis argues that the nature of a particular language influences the habitual thought of its speakers. Different patterns of language yield different patterns of thought. This idea challenges the possibility of representing the world perfectly with language, because it acknowledges that the mechanisms of any language affect its users. The hypothesis emerged in many formulations, some weak and some strong.

We spoke of the Eskimos and how many words they have in their language for "snow."  Snow is an important and integral part of their lives.  Americans, on the other hand, have so many words for "car." Cars are an integral part of our lives so we have many ways to talk about them.  Eskimos don't have many words to describe a car, if they have any at all.  Does our language influence our culture or does our culture influence our language?

Where am I going with this? 

I had a fabulous lunch with a friend of mine last week.  She is an explorer.  She doesn't wear funky fur mukluks or travel by dog sled.  She is actually a graphic designer who has made the choice to travel.  Really travel ...almost like an embedded reporter does when they hang with a platoon during a war. I'll call it trench traveling.  Between bites of East Indian fare, we talked about cars and the American fascination with them.  She was fascinated with the way that Europeans move; how they get to work.  We talked about how our lives are so different from that of other folks who live in other countries.  Europeans don't typically travel by car.  They have extensive public transportation systems that move them to work and them move them home.  Gas has been so high in Europe for so long that scooters and Vespas have taken the place of large numbers of automobiles.  Because the Europeans ride the metro to work they have time to read, talk with the person sitting next to them on the subway, sleep or just people watch.  Americans don't often do this unless they live in a large city like San Francisco, New York or Washington DC.  My friend and I live in New Mexico.  Without a car we wouldn't be able to move many places.  We don't have the elaborate public transportation systems others have.  We are missing out on the human connection that goes with riding a subway, train or bus.  We are missing out on the time when we could be learning something new by reading a good book or reflecting on our day because we are consumed with getting to our destination fast and in our cars.  Most of us drive by ourselves during the day which leaves us time to sing along with the pre-programmed radio station we are listening to...at best. 

Cars are status to most Americans.  Recently I was asked a question by a woman about which car I would prefer if I could have any at all.  I told her I would prefer "not to have a car."  She was blown away by my response.  I personally don't care for cars.  They aren't novel to me.  Because I have to have a car I drive one that fits my budget.  I am more interested in gas mileage, its affect on the environment, and the car's engineering than in how fast the car goes or how many gadgets it has.  When I travel to a large American city or to Europe I love to ride the subway.  I love being with all of those people.  I love the ride.

I think I know what my friend was talking about.

Meet Arlene.

Mother's Day has always been a special day for me.  It has historically been a day that I get to spend with both of my daughters, eat at a restaurant I like, or, maybe, if I could afford to, buy myself a new outfit or new shoes.  It was a "me" day; one of selfish indulgence.  The one day a year when I would promise myself I wouldn't do a load of laundry or wash the dishes.

My Mother's Day changed after my Mom, Arlene, died.  She was 56 years old and much too young to leave this Earth and her family behind.  She had a rare heart condition that had gone undetected by a lazy and unmotivated cardiologist she was treating with.  He did not recognize the signs of her heart failing.  She died in a sterile and spartan doctors office, alone, without her family near.  Not until she was gone did I realize what Mother's Day really was all about.  It wasn't about me.  Not at all.

My Mom was an incredible woman.  Unfortunately I didn't realize just how incredible she was until after she died. 

My Mom was taken from her mother at a very young age.  My Grandmother was mentally ill; the state stepped in and took her daughters from her.  My Mom was raised in numerous foster homes.  I would like to think that she was loved and cared for when she was young but that isn't what happened.  Most of the foster parents she had were abusive, ugly people.  She was locked in closets, fed ketchup sandwiches and sexually abused. 

Mom was a smart girl.  She got good grades despite the different schools she went to and the dysfunctional home lives she had.  When she was high school aged my Grandmother came back into her life and moved her to the Southwest.  She was able to get through high school and go to nursing school.  She was an incredible nurse; she would have been a fabulous doctor had she had the chance, love and support of a functional family.

My Mom raised four kids.  I am the oldest.  What was most amazing about my Mom is that she was able to raise all of us with limited resources in foreign lands and strange places.  My Dad was employed by the CIA.  His job took us all over the world; my Mom and four kids in tow.   In the most desolate of locations, my Mom was able to find us clothes, Christmas presents and ingredients for Birthday cakes.  She kept us safe from rocket fire and disease.  She found ways to make our lives healthy and happy even though most of our childhoods were spent without a TV and in the middle of a Southeast Asian jungle.  To compensate for our obvious lack of American pop culture we had a record player and records.  She made sure that we always had Sesame Street, Trini Lopez and Neil Diamond albums to sing along to. 

She always loved us.  Unconditionally.

She watched all four of us graduate from high school.  She lent her support for those of us who went on to college.   She was here for all of our weddings.  She was in the delivery room holding my hand when I had each of my daughters. 

My Mom was loved.  By all of us.  Unconditionally.  Each Mother's Day that passes I miss her more.  Time does not heal all wounds.  And I don't think it should.  I want to continue to feel her, to hear her voice, remember how her hair smelled when I hugged her.  I want to remember what her hands and feet looked like.  I want to remember the clothes she wore and the goofy Christmas ornaments she would buy us at the hospital's bizarre.  I want to remember her house, filled with green plants, and her kitchen drawers stuffed with wax paper and tin foil.  I want to remember the camera she took with her everywhere she went.  "I need to get pictures" she would tell us.  Her house was full of pictures.  Pictures of us. 

Now my house is full of pictures of my family.  Pictures of my Mom.  Pictures of her on her honeymoon with my Dad.  Pictures of her with me when I was three.  So many beautiful memories of a woman who left us much too early.

Mother's Day is not about me.  Mother's Day is about Arlene, my Mom.  It is about her struggles, her passion, her life and her love. 

I miss you Mom.  I love you so very much.  Happy Mother's Day.