Time for a Seattle trip

Seattle: 2.7 coffeeshops per capita
(estimated) And all of them damn nice

Is it just me or is this year’s cold a serious pain in the neck? Still just a cold, no need antibiotics, but enough to have me emailing my upstairs neighbors to ask “Y’all can’t hear it when I’m coughing my lungs out all night, can you?”

And evolving into the kind of swollen tonsils that give the wrong impression to the new neighbors across the way. “Have you seen the guy next door? He’s always in his kitchen, just staring at the ceiling. Then he bows to his sink. What a weirdo!”

Maybe I should prep my saltwater gargle solution in plain view next time….

Seattle: where even the
dirtiest alleys are clean

All in all, it was the best of weeks, it was the worst of weeks, to escape up to Seattle for a few days. Lovely city, that Seattle. A place where you can have locally sourced corned beef hash with your lady one day, then tendon soup in a place called “What the pho?” with an old school-buddy the next.

A great place to justify an easy blog of photos, before I tell you what happened after the apian terror in Turkey with my brother. Have a swell (but not swollen) weekend!

Seattle: a very helpful sort of place

Seattle: where even the garbage is pretty

Seattle: where even the sidewalks are interesting

Seattle: where Jennyfers want to share open tacos with you

Big beauty, little biter

So small a creature, it was kind of laughable. But damn, that bite did sting. Or was it that sting that bit? With this particular little bullet of an angry bee, I wasn’t sure.

The hill tombs of Myra

My brother and I, far-from-fresh after a few days on the Lycian Way, had hitch-hiked across Turkey, headed to Demre to see the ancient hill-tombs of Myra. Our third ride heard our destination and paused, dubiously.

“Is Demre not nice?” I asked him.

“No no, Demre is nice. Demre is okay. But nearby is something better. You should go Kekova. My wife and I, this is where we go for our vacation.” He was considering something. Looked at his watch. “I am already a little late, but it is not too far, I can drive you there.”

Cevrelians!

This is the hospitality of the Turks. To pick up a pair of sun-singed hitch-hikers, carry them across a chunk of his country, and then make himself even later to get them quickly to a place with no timetable. I deeply love Turkey. I wish I could sort the Islamophobic masses of America into people who just haven’t gotten to see the truth, and the genuine jackasses. The latter are on their own, but the former should all wander around Turkey for a week or a year.

We eventually convinced our friend that we could flag down another ride, if he would show us which road. He pulled over across from it and flagged down a van to make sure we got there. We waved goodbye to another in the chain of wonderful Turkish people we’d met, and squished in with a family of even more.

What we were looking at when the attack began

They dropped us off in Çevreli, a town too adorable for quotidian orthography. We walked past greenhouses of tomatoes for tomorrow’s kahvalti, stone houses built by inhabitants’ ancestors, and these two giggling lads. Up the hill we paused, shocked by the beauty of this planet we were serendipitously born on, and enjoyed the breath of the wind.

Mean little bastard, he was

Until the wind attacked. A piece of the airy realm, curiosity congealed into belligerence, wedged itself in my brother’s hair. Finally flung free, it rested a mere moment on my finger, long enough to sting or bite or maul. Slapped down again, he wouldn’t give up until crushed beneath a well-hiked heel.

“You should probably rinse your finger, in case it put some of that threat-marking scent on you.” My brother remembered farmland lessons of bee’s ability to induce the aggression of their peers with pheromone markers. I rinsed my hand, rubbing well, careful on the spot that was already beginning to swell.

Not enough. The next bee attacked about five steps later. And so began an awkward, incredulous, this-is-ridiculous-but-kinda-freaky-anyway intermittent run/trot across the Turkish landscape. We reckoned we’d escaped them, then came around the corner to see the next batch of fields. Rows and rows of bee hives.

The apian menace

This is not your last chance to go to Cuba

Both “Cuba is changing rapidly” and “Cuba is a great place to visit” have been true for a long time, and I don’t expect either to change any time soon.

Buuuut.

Direct flights from the US are starting soon, and while I don’t expect them to obliterate the Cuban-ness of the country, hundreds of thousands of visitors to the island will undoubtedly have consequences for everyone, for Cubans and their country, and for us visitors. (For starters, enjoy booking a hotel after that starts.)

Cuba is not paradise, nor is it purgatory, and it’s definitely not Hades. It’s just a place with a different hand of cards, different achievements, different challenges. And it is precisely these differences that make Cuba so important right now, in an age where we’ve globalized both our systems and their problems.

Cuba is the sort of place you stumble on a dance class.
This one in Holguin, unexpected and welcoming.

Cuba’s excellent healthcare and education systems get a lot of attention, deservedly so, and we can use every model we can find, but they’re not the only country to achieve those. But how about agriculture? It’s glaringly obvious that our bloated and misanthropic system of pesticides and petroleum fertilizers is unsustainable, but how can an entire country switch to organic food production? Come to Cuba and you’ll see. But do it before Monsanto gets a crack at them.

Cuba’s economic policies are important to study, but for me, there’s another crucial question that I think Cuba might be able to help us with. How can we maintain the networks of family, friends, and culture that make life rich, in a modern world where no one seems to have any time or energy left after they get off work?

Make no mistake, Cubans are eager to join the global economy, and they are about to face the same challenges we have, that choke art, literature, creativity and the sheer ecstasy of just hanging out with kin. I will be watching closely to see how they adapt, and I hope we can all incorporate more of that Cuban good living into our future. But in the meantime, I’m going to try to soak up as much of their salsa dancing, not-neighbor-fearing, painting and music-making philosophy as I can while it thrives.

So no, this is not your last chance to see Cuba. But it might be your best.

(And in case you agree and would like help getting access to all this art, there is a magnificent itinerary available April 9-17 through Ethical Traveler and Altruvistas. For more information, check out the itinerary here, then sign up at Altruvistas.com. Hasta pronto!)

Discouraged and recouraged

Okay, not actually this guy. Though a mentor in
rural Cambodia would indeed be fantastic.

I knew right away that I wanted this man to be my mentor. It was just obvious. He had no kids, my father died when I was four, he was a legend in the field I desperately wanted to enter, and we lived a mile apart. Jeez, we even loved the same countries and understood the need to find them. Maybe I should have informed him. Maybe that would have helped. Or just been incredibly, indelibly awkward.

Either way, it didn’t happen. No mentor showed up to do their job, and my fumbling attempts fumbled around, stepping in wasted time and tracking ink all down the halls of not being published. It’s just that you hear these stories. “I showed up without a clue and the editor took me under their wing…”

“I still don’t know why she’d do it. Here she was, established and on top of her game, and I was some dumb kid.”

“I learned more from him than I ever could have in an MFA course.”

And alas, not her either, since a mentor
from Cuba would be life changing,
I'm sure.

That sort of thing. Maybe everyone’s just too damn busy nowadays. Sometimes I feel guilty about being the only human left with spare time...until I try to plan something with family and friends, then I realize I don’t have it either.

I’m sorry, you’re going to have to postpone your birthday. I’m all booked up.

But eventually I noticed that going it alone was not going. So I took a seat at the table, intermittently framed with fellow word-wanters, once a week after everyone else has gone home. I liked their words, I liked their styles, I liked their faces. But when they asked me, “What are you writing about?” I could feel the thing on top of me, a backpack of rocks and memories, but just couldn’t say what its point was. I couldn’t see its destination, just the stamps along the way. But I had the sense it could be useful.

I came out of class feeling like a bucket of crap. Not gonna lie. “If anyone feels discouraged…” the teacher said, politely omitting my name. Discouraged? Yeah, you could say that.

If only, my Turkish friend.

Until a conversation about something tangential, with someone otherly influential, came around and knocked that dis- right off. Courage? Is that what this is? No, but close enough. And she’s not a mentor, but maybe a coach will work better anyway. I don’t know how people are supposed to link up, mentors in absentia, but eventually, if we’re lucky, and if we try sometimes, we’ll get what we need.

Maybe Mick Jagger will be my mentor.

Attack of the anxiety

The human body is a lunatic. Why else would it get up, barely bothering to wake you, install a racing pulse, shaking vision, and burn so many calories that on a not-particularly-warm night you’re standing in your living room dripping sweat?

Or at least, my human body is a lunatic.

I’ve had those anxiety attacks, periodically episodically hellishly, for my entire life. Early on I’d run to my mother’s bedroom, pound on the door and retreat to my own room, waiting for her to come somehow stop the insanity that had wedged itself in my brain. I do not envy her those moments. From the disruption of sleep, which is annoying, to watching your child in terror, which would be much worse.

Then the self-reliance convalescence of adolescence (since babies, being so profoundly helpless, must be fundamentally self-reliant in a world where no comfort zone exists) and I started waiting them out on my own, hands shaking as I moved aside schoolwork to reach whatever might distract me best.

The couple in college were embarrassing. My roommate asked for no explanation at the time, for which I owe him a debt of gratitude and a truckload of amazement. That first one knocked me out of class for a week, then out of town for another, until I could come back medicated.

But I don’t want a chemical crutch, and don’t trust Pharma (even before the current face of punchworthy privilege arrived; in anger the other day I insulted a fellow driver as a Shkreli, and felt immediately bad about it) so after a year I weaned myself off it.

On down through the list of apartments and rented rooms. Hotel rooms here and there, hostel hallways. Those were terrible too. And always the underlying “What If…” that wants to tie me up. What if it happened on a plane? Mustn’t sleep then. What if it happened and I had nowhere to go? And the worst one. What if it didn’t stop?

That one’ll drive you mad. In body and mind.

But as I waited for the dregs of adrenaline to filter back out of my bloodstream, somewhere in the numberless hours of the night just past, I found the familiar thought “That wasn’t so bad.” The reality, never as bad as the fear beforehand. It’s a familiar idea. The dentist, the work engagement, the social situation, none as scary as imagination’s previews.

So that’s my reminder to myself this morning. And hopefully to you too. Your fears are worse than your future. Or rather, your future is better than your fears.

A domestic Friday morning

Continents don't drift this slowly.

Yet always it is my turn, your reminder, to turn my head toward you.

I am sorry, my anonymous benefactor, who should not be seen as an assassin,

mask notwithstanding.

Mental vacation

My hands are tenting too.

I never do that, yet it's always time to relax them.

They fold into tensile triangles of their own accord.

They don’t ask my say.

Adele again. She’s legitimate, not fabricated machinated pop poop.

In a moment Coldplay will come on,

and as your metal scrapes my perception you’ll say

“I so hate Coldplay.”

My laughter will not move my mouth,

but it will shake the chair.

These chairs, always these chairs, like

sleeveless space bobsleds.

I hope you know the dirt down there didn't come from me.

I just don't want y'all to think me a lout.

I know I don’t need parking validation,

and last week’s forest mud shows around the edges,

but my shoes are clean.

A voice from the pen next over, I recognize those harsh tones.

They make me want to do my homework and apologize for something.

I'm glad I don't have The Mangler this time, compassionate like

a hammer in snow.

Whereas when you put the needle in my flesh,

I barely feel it. I love you.

And that fire extinguisher.

I have to ask. How often do

your patients catch fire?

The verdict is good.

I appreciate the compliment for my stout enamel.

Hardworking stuff, it is.

And yes, I promise to floss.

See you in six months.

I'm kind of naive.

I’m kind of naive. And I’m trying to stay that way. But with the right approach.

I wanted to use this in my signs post.
Kinda makes sense here too, no?

I believe opinion bubbles are a bad thing. Groups of like-minded people only ever talking to each other, never considering other viewpoints. And I dearly, desperately wish I could remember the name of the guy (he was interviewed on The Daily Show for crying out loud) whose study showed that moderates who do this, on any branch of the political spectrums (spectrae?) will push each other into more extreme views. Our country, our planet, does not need more extremism. We need more cooperation, compromise, and concubines. (Sorry, needed a third “co” for my list. Moving on.)

So I’m left with a determination to find people who don’t agree with me, and talk to them. This is dangerous and difficult in America, a land that has forgotten how to discuss and remembers only how to fight. “You don’t agree with me? You must be my enemy! Mrrrah!”

But standing around agreeing isn't very interesting. Testing your opinions to see if you still agree with them, that's fun! So I was terribly excited to learn that my employer encourages us to talk about real issues with people. To challenge their assumptions, even if it makes them uncomfortable. Excellent!

I wonder what these boys on a train in
Myanmar would have had to say?

Now I just need to practice being tactful. Crud-monkeys.

I don’t remember the specifics, but it was basically “Islam is a religion of violence!” followed by assorted xenophobic foaming at the mouth and idiotic posturing devoid of any understanding of the world, much less compassion for it. I thought my comment was pretty good. Respectful. Non-mocking. Fact-based and reasonable, even in the face of their chest-pounding idiocy. Something small, about my personal experience with Muslims and in Muslim countries, how I’ve always found them to be marvelous, welcoming, kind people with inspiring hospitality.

The response? It was interesting to be on the receiving end of a deluge of hatred, misplaced rage, and threats of violence. Thank you, facebook, for that lovely experience. Turn notifications off, please.

But I was fighting the good fight! Right?

Ahhh! Scary Muslims! Giving away
free food to the public because
it was a holiday. Terrifying. 

“No, no you shouldn’t have made that comment.” Said my distressingly insightful British friend. “Because when you advocate a different view in a group like that, you’re not offering a different opinion, you’re providing a focal point for their rabid self-agreement. They’re not going to remember your one dissenting view, they’re going to be reassured by their twenty angry responses. It’s counterproductive.”

Damn. He was right.

So what now? Don’t try? Let everyone keep drilling down into the bedrock of their own unquestioned certainty, until we all reach the core and the planet fractures apart? No. I work hard at maintaining an open mind, and following the light of that British lantern, I can look for others who do the same, from different starting grounds. But when people have already taken the bit of their self-certainty in their teeth? Let them ride off into the angry sunset. I’ll be here if they ever come back.

Or one can go on believing everyone
overseas is scary. Like this guy.

So what does that mean for my professional parlance? Call me travel-philic, but I believe anyone who pays time and money to go abroad is probably a rather questioning, open mind. My people! Drawn from all over the country, I look forward to a beautiful diversity of opinion, from outside my Bay Area bubble (which is not as progressive as it thinks it is, by the way).

And in the meantime, how about the much-reviled blogosphere? Anybody have anything they’d like to talk about? (Special points if you can advocate for Trump. That’s a viewpoint I thoroughly do not understand.)