I am deporting myself. (And fair warning, a lot of sex talk.)

Note: This is not my favorite of my posts, nor typical, so if anyone finds it via Lisa's reblogging of my other post, skip this one and read any of the others for a better representation.

I remember thinking that eating in a restaurant or seeing a movie alone were the loneliest, saddest things on Earth.

Nothing to do with the blog, just lots of Santa Cruz pics.

I got over the first one many years (and many passport stamps) ago, but I had never actually seen a movie alone until this week. I wanted to see The Hobbit before he put on his ring and vanished…from theaters. So I biked into town for the Tuesday matinee.

I can happily report that I didn’t feel lonely, awkward, or out of place for being there alone. But I did feel lonely and out of place…in America.

The preview to the previews  was commercials, but fine, show me ads. But they showed this one. I don’t like linking to an advertisement, but in case you’d like to see what I’m talking about.

Ugh. More digitally animated baby humans and animals. Yawn through the pastiche.

But worse than dull, I find this ad irresponsible. It’s an implicit endorsement of a culture whose parents are too immature to talk to their kids about sex.

“Where do babies come from?” Asks the kid. The parents evade. Chuckle chuckle. Then the kid goes home and learns about sex from the internet. We have an entire generation (or two…or three?) who have learned about sex from pornography. That is a crime against ourselves.

Why talk to kids about sex even if it’s uncomfortable? Because otherwise they’ll get their sexual miseducation elsewhere. I presumably got mine from a 70’s era informative book of the “When a man and a woman love each other very much, they share a special kind of hug” variety, with drawing of the fuzzy pencil type that I associate with advent calendars. Illustration more appropriate to missionary handouts than the missionary position.

But I really got my info on the playground, which was cute in a clueless adorable way, but man oh man am I glad there was no internet back then.

Of course, neither kids not parents enjoy that process (though judging from my experience in college, Jews do a much better job of it) so my advice to parents: delegate the job to an uncle/aunt/godfather/godmother.

My family’s rather progressive-for-the-era plan was for our godmother to buy us a Playboy when we turned 14. Or as it 13? I don’t know, because years before that my folks caught us with a Hustler. We didn’t know why we wanted it, but we knew we weren’t supposed to have it, since sex was this big secretive thing that was the focus of 90% of pop culture, and that was good enough for us.

Part of America: urban gas guzzlers saying "B educ8d."

I am sooo tired of television, and our mass culture, performing for our weaknesses. And it’s not that I think I’ll find a country that does it any better, but it’s harder to tolerate when it’s your own. We fancy ourselves such cultural pioneers, but even after all these decades we’re even still fighting about gay marriage? Really?

Ok. Breathe. Thank you for letting me rant. I feel much better. Did you know you were a therapist? What do I owe you?

After my tirade played itself out in my head, I sat in the theater feeling out of place while everyone else cracked up. I deeply envy those who can just laugh at a cutsie commercial and not overthink it, I really do, but I can’t help it. Television, advertising, the media, all that stuff is way too powerful to waste on easy outs and inane fluff. And if I start thinking about the messages it sends women…my vision is already hazing towards red.

It’s enough to make me flee the country.

So I think I will.

I am being deported.

Three months in one place seemed like a long time back in December. I could unpack! Use a machine to wash my clothes! Cook food!

I've enjoyed this time in Santa Cruz. I got some work done on my project(s), socialized with Americans, and took lots of pictures. (Hence I'm spraying a few up on each blog from now on. I also tried a new HDR software...but it's free and ergo, crappy.)

Three months has become three weeks.

I decided I wanted to stay here and work some more, but then I started looking for housing. I knew the housing market here is crazy, but I didn't have the perspective before. For example, according to this blog, a proper 1 bedroom apartment in the upscale Eixample neighborhood of Barcelona costs the same as a crappy little 310 square foot studio with half a kitchen and no insulation in Santa Cruz, and you'd be lucky to find the studio at all.

I've walked through the Eixample. It should cost twice as much as here.

According to this site, which compares the Cost of Living in various cities, rental prices are 68% lower in Barcelona than Santa Cruz. 46% lower in Rome. 42% in Paris.

I am being deported. By the rental market. So where do I go?

I only got to see the corner of South America, with a long beautiful loop of countries starting in Peru and winding south, east, then north. I have a prospective project I could work on there, a list of great NGO's to visit, and most importantly, I speak the language. That is invaluable in improving a traveling experience. I loved the parts of the continent that I saw, and am hungry for more.

(Rental prices are 80% cheaper in Lima than Santa Cruz...)

Or, do I go to Southeast Asia? Specifically, Mynamar is just opening up, and going now would be a different experience than it will be in even a few short years. It's more...authentic...today than it will be after tourism really gets going. I hear tales of what Thailand was like 20 years ago... I want to be telling those tales about Myanmar in 20 years.

So, blog reading people. Where do I go? (You can vote on the poll at my other page.)

Monuments, funerals, and a flying disease wagon

After the Air Force Monument we headed to Martin Luther King, Jr.’s. The statue itself is a stern one, and I felt it highlighted the severe nature of the struggle more than his compassion. Though it honestly reminded me a bit of the Soviet monuments I saw in the Baltics, I would be more offended by a fluffy-light monument, and the quotes engraved on the wall behind him are a clear testimony to the caliber of the man.

I was in Washington DC for the funeral of my step-grandfather. After a career in the military spanning three wars and three decades, his ceremony was held at Arlington National Cemetery, with full military honors. I may not agree with every one of those conflicts, but it is a clear thing to honor the life of someone who gave so much of themselves.

The ceremony was held on a chilly morning of crisp air and even crisper salutes, and the 21 shots from the honor guard were felt as much as heard. The familiar taps military funeral melody was suddenly far more poignant than I’d ever heard it as it echoed over the headstones of generations of servicemen and women. We drove out past tombstones from World Wars I and II, rows with dates only days apart in 1864, and some reading simply “civilian.”

It’s a sobering place to be, and I can only hope that our leaders will rise to be worthy of these sacrifices. Lobbyists and profiteers need not apply.

The primary occupation of my time however was meeting the step-family, which proved to be an entertaining endeavor. Faces bearing familiar resemblances spoke with accents from New York to rural Texas. They have some strong women in that branch! Why not climb Mt Kilimanjaro for one’s 60^th birthday, and why not still swim half a mile at age 91? You go, gyrlz!

My brother and I went for some quick sightseeing our last morning. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to remove the pocketknife from my bag when I left home. Having a thumb-sized precluded me from entering 95% of that most fearful city, and I was not allowed to even wait inside the building while my brother checked out an exhibit by Ai Weiwei.

Luckily there was a work in the courtyard.

The flight home featured some impressive turbulence over Missouri, nearly sufficient to overwhelm the symphony of enthusiastic coughing that erupted relentlessly from bronchial tubes all around me. One guy behind me apparently believed that the key to coughing was not just the expulsion of air, but the simultaneous vibration of the vocal cords, so he basically shouted his coughs.

So this morning I am nursing a waterfall of a nose and squishy sneezes. Three cheers to an unending cup of hot green tea.

Peanut butter and jelly before dawn, with many miles still to go.

I was shaking my head as I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 4:30 in the morning yesterday.

A pbj sounded absolutely disgusting at the moment, and the bread felt cold and dry in my hands. The peanut butter was stiff and stubborn, and as usual the jelly worked its way up the knife and onto my fingers.

I explained to a sleepy Scoobie: "I'm flying to Washington DC in a couple hours, and they don't give you any food on planes anymore. They might have pbj's for sale, but they'd probably be, like, $8."

Scoobie didn't buy my exaggeration, and went back to bed. I looked at my sandwich, grimaced, and slid a slice of pizza into a second bag, then stuffed them both in my bag.

A few hours with later I pulled the menu up on the plane and saw that yes indeed they sold pbj's, and they were $4...for a half. So no Scoobie, I was not exaggerating. They do indeed want $8 for an undoubtedly small sandwich which would probably be dryer than an Algerian lint trap.

The wealthy blond lady next to me glanced at my homemade food as she ordered another "snack pack" of crap for $12.

They charge you for the TV or movies on the plane too, but they had some free shorts from YouTube, so I put on "Written by a Kid." I don't want to give you high expectations, but you should go watch it. Watch several of them.

My neighbor glanced at me again as I shook uncontrollably, and a tear came out of my left eye to slide down my cheek.

As we touched down on the runway in Washington I leaned over to her and asked, in a Scottish accent "Excuse me miss, but can ye see the Statue of Liberty from here?"

I gave her a couple moments to stammer before admitting that I was kidding. She looked relieved.

That evening I met up with my parents, and some friends took us on a quick driving tour of a couple monuments. The Airforce Monument stretches three spikes high into the sky while suitably solemn bronze statues look on in front of a wall engraved with "Integrity, Service, and Excellence."

The new fella in my life.

You can tell me the truth. That blog I wrote about the veggie pasta I cooked? It sucked, I know. I wasn’t sure what to say during this stationary interlude, and tried to talk about the adjustment of it…

But now I definitely have something to say. Because there is someone new in my life. Someone…wonderful. I am learning so much!

This individual is affectionate and loving, but without being clingy.  The one in question…he…is independent and self reliant without being aloof.  And so considerate! For example, he hardly makes any mess when he goes to the bathroom.

In fact, he usually just goes in the neighbor’s yard.

I am occasionally prone to platonic man-crushes, but this one is different in one rather significant way.

His name is Scoobie. Now hold out your hand for a moment and let him sniff you.

Good, he likes you. We can still be friends.

I am now going to try and avoid ranting about a cat for far longer than necessary. I will fail at this task. I will not regret that failure.

This is Scoobie after reading my book.

 When he has decided that I have slept enough, he walks across my chest and onto the end table. Once there he will go through my stuff, perhaps push the book around or nibble on the prayer beads I brought back from Nepal.

This is an effective method of getting me out of bed. I am glad my college roommate never tried it.

This is Scoobie interrupted during intimate grooming time.
You will now look away. You will apologize.

 This website does not do well with text, photos, and captions. If Scoobie felt like it he could design a blogging site that worked far better, but he has better things to do. (See: picture below.)

This is Scoobie stoned on catnip. You will rub his luxurious stomach. You will feel privileged to do so.

This is Scoobie laughing. It's okay to be a little afraid.

Scoobie says you may go now.

Say thank you, and do not turn your back as you leave.

A lesson learned in the worst supermarket on Earth.

Some friends did me a favor the other day. They asked my opinion.

Everyone loves to feel like an expert, and travelers may be the worst of all. But I am leery of trying it, because I am vaguely aware of how much I don’t know, and because most people sound like pretentious jackasses while they expound on their expertise. (“I had a two hour layover in Dubai three years ago…let me tell you what the Middle East is like…they’re so organized! They like everything to be nice and orderly, A1, A2, A3, that sort of thing…”)

But I was surrounded by friends, and tales were flowing like the hard alcohol none of us drink anymore, so I indulged.

They were asking about Europe, 27 of whose countries I’ve visited (29 if you count Vatican City and Monaco) and I found myself recommending, as my secret #1 pick: Slovenia.

The capital, Ljubljana, is a friendly place of details, history, and local character which I would describe as “quaint” if I didn’t hate that word so much. Plus have you ever seen a word more fun to say? I’ll wait while you practice a few more times. Make sure to really get that “lyuh” sound. Lyooblyana.

Coastal Slovenian city of Piran, after a truly epic storm

It’s not as expensive as its western and northern neighbors, but is more developed and luxurious than much of Eastern Europe. There are trees, caves, and the coast is absolutely gorgeous.

At the time I thought nothing of it, but just now I was putting away laundry and I noticed the little glass tea-light candle holder I bought in Ljubljana and never gave away. And suddenly I remembered…

I was miserable in Ljubljana.

My time in Ljooobljaaana (calm down) stands out as one of the two lowest points of that first long trip, which are probably my worst moments on the road to date. (Knock on wood.)

It was cold, I didn’t have the proper gear, and I’d spent two days trying to win over a Czech cutie who turned out to be hung up on some dude in Prague whom she admitted was a total jerk. Those three things were actually fairly par for the course, but what really made me miserable was the timing.

I was standing in the deli section of a basement supermarket, deciding whether to have spaghetti again or splurge on some runny goulash, when it hit me.

It was Thanksgiving.

Somehow the fact of being there, surrounded by people who had no idea it was my favorite holiday of the year, so far from my family, and deciding what to eat on another lonely night in a grungy hostel…

 

Have you ever cried in the supermarket? In a foreign country? I hid in the pasta section while I tried to stop. It took awhile.

But there I was last weekend, recommending Slovenia and its capital as among my very favorite places, not even remembering that damn supermarket. Because sadness passes. Because we remember both happy and sad things, but can choose to spend more energy on the former.

And because I just spent Christmas with my family.

K was not there, and nor was her family, who I feel are part of my own, but I can see the sadness of that, accept it, feel it, and focus on the happiness of seeing all my siblings gathered in one place for the first time in 4 years. Watching my parents hand out presents, and all of us immediately knowing they’re socks.

So yes, Ljubljana is one of my favorite places. So is Monterey, California. So is Antwerp Province, Belgium. There’s happiness in all of them. I can focus on that.