Wednesday, I drove from San Francisco to Yosemite National Park to meet my family for Thanksgiving.  Another day, another rental car.  These journeys–while interesting–have begun to feel a bit tedious.

I just drove from the Bay Area to Yosemite, you know–back in August, back at the start of this project I’ve been working on, back before I knew the people I’ve been working with, back when I climbed Half Dome, in a profound and almost religious experience.  For that trip, we drove from the San Jose area; from 101 to CA-156; through Los Banos.  The Bathrooms.

This time, I took a different route.  From 80, to 580 to 205 to 120 to 49 to 41.  On and on and on.

I’ve seen so much of California in these last months.  I’ve seen the places where the Californians get their water–the deltas from which the central-state breadbasket and the suburban Los Angelenos brazenly steal their life-force; traced the aqueducts and viaducts quite by accident.  I’ve visited the bays and seasides; driven the jagged Northern California coast; walked the sands of the Southern California shore.  Tasted the wines and touched the land and reflected on the wonder of its bounty.

I’ve driven the state from side to side; flown up and down.  Talked to the people; stayed in the major cities.  It still seems like such a strange place to me.  Driving on Highway 41 yesterday, I saw billboards that struck me as being so foreign, so out of place as to be unrecognizable as native to wherever I was from.  Wherever that is.  You know I feel like a native of nowhere.

I’ve come back to family Thanksgiving for the first time in five years; this time, by car; this time, alone.  I can’t decide whether that felt strange or not, because I spent so much time alone as a married woman that spending time alone as a single woman feels no different than it did in my marriage.  Perhaps it felt stranger to be coming back to Thanksgiving in the first place.

After a first, uneventful day with the family, I had to drive back down the mountain to meet my brother and to return my rental car.  I was going to return the car in Fresno and he was going to pick me up on his way to Yosemite.  A win-win.

“Do you want company on the drive?” my father asked.

“No, I kind of like to drive alone,” I said.  I wasn’t sure whether I was telling the truth or not, but my father likes to talk about work; talk shop; talk about projects and life and philosophize about things.  I was worn out; sick of talking about the topics of the moment–work and my marriage.  I wanted to talk about things that didn’t matter, for once.  I wanted to play the satellite radio and drive too fast on the winding road.  I wanted to set my brain on cruise control, and not worry about a thing.

“Really?  Let me come with you,” he insisted.

“No,” I said, “You’ll just talk at me the whole time.”

He walked away, hurt.  But was true.

“Are you sure you don’t want company?” my mother chirped from behind a bloody mary.

“Yes,” I sighed, exasperated, “I’m sure.”

“You really should let your father come with you,” she said, “We never get to see you and…”

“Don’t start.”

“Well, I can be quiet on the ride!” she insisted.

“Doubtful,” I muttered under my breath.  I paused.  “Look,” I said, “I just want to meet my brother and spend some time with him.”

That seemed to satisfy everyone.

I made the drive slowly, for reasons I don’t quite understand.  Maybe it was because my boss kept calling.  Maybe it was because I was savoring the last of the satellite radio (I don’t have it in my own car and I’ve come to really enjoy it).  Regardless, I met my brother on time at the Fresno Yosemite International Airport (“They fly to Mexico and Canada,” my cousin assured me, “I just checked because I couldn’t believe that there was an international airport in Fresno”) where we turned in my rental car and headed back up the hill in his Honda.

Matthew, my brother, has come through the fire and lived to tell the tale.  From addict to felon to top student, he has this sense of humor that can gently mock himself, but still honors the thing that he has overcome.  I never thought I would have a relationship with him.  Two years ago, as I was SMSing my name and contact information to his phone in the event that someone found his body, I didn’t think that he would survive his addiction; his predilections; the company he was keeping.

But now, I can cherish the first time he told me he loved me; the first time he stood up for me; the first time he told me about the thoughts he had about his future.  The moment I saw him believing he had a future.

So recovering addict-probationer-honors student brother and pending-divorcee sister set out back up the mountain to rejoin the family holiday.  To rejoin the 40-years married couples, and the young, happily married parents; or the long-ish married couples working through their stuff and figuring it out.

Matthew popped in a CD he had made.  Just my taste: the Ramones; Queen; Red Hot Chili Peppers; 10,000 Maniacs.

“So,” I said, “You, uh, want to go to the Chukchansi casino?”

“Are you serious?” he laughed.  He lit a cigarette and rolled down the windows.  (Why does everyone who has been to rehab take up smoking?  Do they give you a book about the 12 steps and hand you a carton of cigarettes?)

“Yeah,” I laughed, “I’ve never been.  I’ve spent so much time in Las Vegas this year, I’m kind of curious.”

“You know Indian casinos are super depressing.  Dad calls it the Polish Indian casino.  Chuck Chanski.  It’s not funny at all, but you know Dad.  He thinks it’s hilarious.”

We pulled up to the casino–brother and sister, out of place.  Tall and rugged; short and preppy.  We walked in to find the over-70 mountain set hanging over their walkers and sliding money into slots; shouting at each other amidst the cacophony of a faux studio audience shouting “Wheel OF fortune!” as it emanated from the speakers atop the slot machines.

We groaned in unison.  But our faces were flushed with the excitement of a casino run; of spending time together; of doing something so strange and unexpected.

“So, slots?” I asked.  There were no game tables.  One room of poker.  We sat at Wheel of Fortune machines and slipped dollar bills inside.

My brother kept winning.  I kept losing.  I was on a losing streak, from my last trip to Vegas.

We finished out the $5 we each put in, and then headed out; back on the road; back up the hill.  Back past the familiar, the expected, the comfortably usual.

I’m okay, you know.  I’ve made this visit with the family for the holiday, and I am thankful for this moment; thankful for these things and this strange moment of certain uncertainty.  I am sitting in these days of pondering my status as a newly single woman; as a lawyer, a daughter, a sister.  I am accepting the things I am and am not; contemplating the things I want to be; meeting myself on the highway.  And I am filled with gratitude for the opportunities all around–even if my future is about as wonderfully, unexpectedly strange as a pit stop at an Indian casino and about as certain as playing slots.

Discovering by chance Victoire’s site: first I’ve really enjoyed the column « comme chez moi »  (« come at my home » about Belgium artits interiors). Different, fun and refine and I absolutely wanted to meet its charming enthousiastic editorial director, Anne Pochet. For three years and half , the Victoire’s paper issue has been the week-end additional magazine of daily paper Le Soir, about trends in culture, lifestyle and fashion.

 - It’s not a women magazine. The first challenge was this magazine must not be sexually identified: 52% of our readers are men. It’s a subjective vision with a proximity idea about what’s going on in Belgium. We avoided all the fashion magazines clichés. Let’s talk about us (Belgium people), not by chauvinism, but to know where is the Belgium ine the world trends. We’ve always found lots of recognition abroad, but really few at home. With Victoire, we kindly look at the country.

 So where is Belgium in wold tendancies?

 - Very good question! It’s really really difficult to say, the image moves fast: lots of people have great ideas and projects. It’s a subtile networking : everybody knows each other, a small land with many shooting stars.

Gratuated of journalism, Anne’s worked first for women magazines and sites of  the media group Sanoma for fifteen years. She wrote about youth litterature, as a children books critic :

 - A great job. I was a young mom and I was happy to make parents discover less formal worlds.

 She became a specialist  in education’s philosophy. For almost a decade now, she’s presented a less “formal vision of eduction and the pratical aspect, without any activist message” in a radio show and a tv talk show at the RTBF: Air de Famille, viewed by 200.000 homes every week. And today as the editorial director of Victoire, her first big difficulty was to make the team. Her eyes sparkle:

 - Everything works with human, but human has to bring content. I am a very good pitcher, choosing the columns. I delegate a lot. Today my big pleasure is to manage my journalits team. During the week-end, I am the most difficult reader of Victoire visiting spots recommened by my journalists.

Victoire’s future?

There is a world between the today Victoire and the one of three years ago : the magazine slowly changed, like a tectonic plates sliding. Since September 2009, we’ve had new sections « comme chez moi », « city strip », « petite semaine ». I am worried to get stocked in something successfull. Victoire magazine has to be a beautiful object: a small world.

- I have the big luck to be born in Bruxels and not in a Texan corn field, it’s a real mental comfort. Brussels is a bit  hung-up and a bit complicated and nice for living. I love this town.  

A sweet : Les Tartes de Françoise, “the best ones are with soft white cheese and Speculos”, Av. de l’Hippodrome 75, 1050 Brussels. A market : le marché du Midi « really nice atmosphere ». A restaurant: Kif Kif, Square de Biarritz 1, 1050 Brussels - Phone : 02 644 18 10. Rue Lesbroussart : “the biggest concentration of restaurants with really trendy ones”. A walk : « the Ixelles art déco walk of the Guide du Routard » A bookshop : librairie de Rome, Rue Jean Stas 16/A, 1060 Brussels. A fourniture gift : Dépôt Design, Quai du Hainaut 19, 1080 Brussels, “nice dishes”. An art gallery : Young Gallery, Espace Art 22, 22, Rue Van Aa, 1050 Brussels and WIELS, Av. Van Volxemlaan 354, 1190 Brussels, “in a splendid building, for my cultural gym : it’s terribly difficult for me to appreciate contemporary art”. Belgium designers : rue Dansaert et rue des Chartreux.

Thanks a lot Anne! Victoire: in kiosk every week-end with the daily paper Le Soir.

Parachutée sur Victoire par les mystères de la recherche on line: une rubrique crée le déclic, « comme chez moi » (intérieurs d’artites belges). Différent, ludique et pointu sans être raseur: j’ai tenu à rencontrer sa sémillante directrice de publication, Anne Pochet. Depuis trois ans et demi, Victoire - papier - est le supplément week-end sur les tendances (culture, life style et mode) du quotidien belge Le Soir.

- Ce n’est pas un féminin, on sort des étiquettes. Le premier défi  était que le magazine ne soit pas identifié sexuellement: 52% de nos lecteurs sont des hommes. C’est une vision subjective, avec une idée de proximité. On a évité tous les poncifs des magazines de mode. Faire parler de nous, pas par chauvinisme, mais plus pour savoir où se situe la Belgique dans les tendances mondiales. On a toujours eu beaucoup de reconnaissance à l’étranger, mais peu chez nous. On va regarder tranquillement le pays.

Et donc: où se situe la Belgique dans les tendances mondiales ?

- Excellente question! C’est très très difficile à dire, l’image est très mobile : beaucoup de gens ont des audaces. C’est un très subtil résautage : tout le monde connaît tout monde, un petit pays en surface, avec des petites étoiles filantes.

Diplômée en journalisme radio et presse écrite, Anne travaille pour les magazines et sites féminins du groupe Sanoma, pendant une quinzaine d’années, où elle écrit sur la littérature jeunesse, comme critique de livres pour enfants :  

- Un chouette job. J’étais une jeune mère. J’aimais ouvrir les parents à des univers moins coincés.

Puis elle se spécialise dans la philosophie sur l’éducation et présente une vision un peu moins « protocolaire et l’aspect pratique, sans aucun étendard militant » dans une émission mensuelle de radio et un talk show à la RTBF: Air de Famille, suivi par 200.000 foyers chaque semaine. S’ajoute Victoire, en tant que directrice de la publication, dont sa plus grosse difficulté a été de constituer l’équipe. Ses yeux pétillent:

- Tout fonctionne à l’humain, mais l’humain doit apporter du contenu. Je suis une bonne lanceuse, comme pour le choix des rubriques. Je délègue beaucoup. Aujourd’hui j’ai plus de plaisir à gérer une équipe de journalistes. Le week-end je deviens la lectrice la plus acharnée de Victoire et je vais très souvent visiter les lieux dont parlent mes journalistes.

Victoire de demain ?

- Un monde entre le Victoire d’aujourd’hui et celui d’il y a trois ans : le changement s’est opéré en douceur, comme un glissement de plaques tectoniques. Depuis septembre 2009, nous avons de nouvelles rubriques « comme chez moi », « city strip », « petite semaine ». Ma crainte : être enfermée dans quelque chose qui marche. Le magazine Victoire doit être un bel objet, un petit univers en soi.

- J’ai la grande chance d’être née à Bruxelles et pas dans un champ de maïs texan, c’est un vrai confort mental (rires). C’est une ville un peu complexée, un peu compliquée, plutôt agréable à vivre. Je suis amoureuse de cette ville.

Une gourmandise : Les Tartes de Françoise « les meilleures sont celles au fromage blanc et Spéculos (spécialité belge) », Av. de l’Hippodrome 75, 1050 Bruxelles. Un marché : le marché du Midi « très chouette ambiance ». Un restaurant: Kif Kif, Square de Biarritz 1, 1050 Bruxelles – Tel : 02 644 18 10. Rue Lesbroussart: « la plus grosse concentration de restaurants avec des tentatives très très branchées ». Une promenade : « le parcours art déco d’Ixelles vu par le Guide du Routard » Un livre : la librairie de Rome, Rue Jean Stas 16/A, 1060 Saint-Gilles. Un cadeau déco : Dépôt Design, Quai du Hainaut 19, 1080 Bruxelles « de la chouette vaisselle ». Une galerie : Young Gallery, Espace Art 22, 22, Rue Van Aa, 1050 Bruxelles et WIELS, Av. Van Volxemlaan 354, 1190 Bruxelles, « une ancienne brasserie dans un bâtiment splendide, pour ma gym culturelle : j’ai énormément de difficultés avec l’art contemporain. Ultra pointu ». Des créateurs belges : rue Dansaert et rue des Chartreux.

Merci beaucoup Anne et longue vie au magazine Victoire! En kioske, dans Le Soir du week-end.

I’m on my way to SFO again.  What else is new?

This time, Virgin America–a slightly later flight than my usual United Flight 5.  No need to get up at 3am this Monday.  Tell that to my creature-of-habit subconscious.  I didn’t get to sleep until after 3am.  Tossing and turning; worrying about the future; about work; about all those late night what-ifs that consume a girl between midnight and morning.

Yesterday, I handled the domestic stuff and things that come with moving to a new place.  Hanging paintings; arranging furniture; running out to Target.  My sister CJ was, of course, along for the ride.

“My travel really wreaks havoc on relationships,” I said from the driver’s seat, as we made our millionth turn around in Brooklyn–attempting to get from Ikea in Red Hook to Target on Flatbush Avenue.  (NB: Google Maps likes, knows Brooklyn about as well as any Manhattan cabdriver.  Which, for the uninitiated, is to say not at all.)

“These last months have been hard,” she said, charitably.  She left out the part about how they’ve been more than hard; about how I’ve been back and forth between the moon and New York City–constantly off-kilter from time changes; unable to commit to anything, any date, any event; living as the dreadful type who cannot be counted on for anything.

A pause.

“I was going to bring one of my jackets over, to hang in your closet so you’d have something,” she said, “But I thought that might be weird, since people already think we spend too much time together.”  She smiled.

I laughed a little; smiled, too, knowing that these months ahead will not be time that I spend alone.  “Your friend is your needs answered,” I thought, and it struck me how much I needed her; how much I cherished the support she’s given through this whole thing.

It struck me, too, that maybe we–she and I–would be just fine without the overcoats after all.  Despite all the miles and hours and broken plans that had come between us over eight months.

So I kept driving.  I made another u-turn.  I hate Brooklyn.  A skinny-jean’d hipster passed on a bicycle as we sat in traffic, riding a children’s bike with the seat jacked up to adult proportions.  Requisite scruff; baseball cap and bandana fashionably around his neck; horn rims.  I hate hipsters–Brooklyn hipsters, in particular–with their non-ironic brand of smug irony.  I can see your package and you’re riding a children’s bike.  Take your fair-trade coffee and your microbrews and get over yourself.

CJ and I eventually made it to Target; made it back home.  Dropping our packages, we ventured out to dinner.

“This feels like home,” I said for the millionth time, just to hear it, just to say it.  Just to feel the chaos settle a little and to feel anchored to a place.

“This is where I always imagined you being,” she said as we pushed open the door to a Mexican restaurant.  Chips, salsa, guacamole: we sat and enjoyed the meal, enjoyed being together, blatantly ignoring the fact that I was due to leave again the next day and would be traveling for almost two weeks straight, with just a pit-stop at home on the way.

No one envies my domestic air travel program, really.  Airports before dawn and after midnight.  I don’t know whether it’s funny or sad that I was excited to leave for the airport with the sun already in the sky.  But I love to travel, and I think I would sink, drown without the buzz of having to be in ten places at once.

It’s the trying to be ten things to people all at once that kills me.

I’m headed to the bay area for business, then driving across and down to meet my family in Yosemite.  I haven’t been to Thanksgiving with my family, and now, to come back to the main event as a woman riding out the shockwaves of the ol’ marital sonic boom…it seems strange.  They’re my family and they love me, but are they being nice to me because they feel sorry for me?  Or is it because I’ve changed–really changed–and have become the kind of person who no longer drags down a room with fuss and frenzy and frustration with other people?

Don’t know.  All I know is that I have a suitcase full of Blueprint Cleanse; have accrued an unfathomable number of domestic airmiles; am heading home for the holiday for the first time in ten years as a single woman.

Budapest ist an vielen Stellen keine schöne Stadt – abgewohnt, mit realsozialistischen Zweckbauten oder neukapitalistischen Einkaufstempfeln und Fast-Food-Buden zugepflastert. Dazwischen tauchen aber immer wieder überraschende Kostbarkeiten, meist Fin-de-Siècle-Schönheiten, auf. Irgendwie haben sie das ‚kurze 20. Jahrhundert’ (1918—89) überlebt oder sie wurden in den letzten zwanzig Jahren renoviert.

Zum Beispiel die Stationen der Metrolinie 1, die zum ungarischen „Millenium“ 1896 eröffnet wurde. Oder die Stephansbasilika, die von außen eine gewöhnliche große Kirche und von innen ein Meisterwerk katholischer Kirchenprunkausstattung ist (ohne dabei zur Lächerlichkeit zu verkommen – auch das muss man können).

Besonders ans Herz legen würde ich jedem, der nur kurz in Budapest ist und daher nur ein eingeschränktes Besichtigungsprogramm wahrnehmen kann, aber die Matthiaskirche auf dem Burgberg: Ihre heutige Innenausstattung mit reichem Fresken- und Glasfensterschmuck entstand gleichfalls in den 1890er-Jahren als bewusste Synthese aus westlichen und byzantinischen Einflüssen.

Die Fassade ist zwar derzeit eingerüstet, aber das bunte Dache lässt auch schon von außen ein wenig das innere Bildprogramm erahnen. Und so nebenbei hat man von der nebenan gelegenen Fischerbastei (surprise, surprise: errichtet Ende des 19. Jh.) einen Ausblick v.a. über die Pester Stadtseite und die Donau.

I finally returned the Ford Fusion this morning–early–at SFO.  Despite my newfound ability to attach sentimentally to inanimate things, I developed no love for that tin can.  I’m a little girl who likes a big engine.

I’d forgotten to fill the tank with gas.  Well, not so much forgotten.  I’d been told I couldn’t expense prepaid gas.  But there are no service stations between Burlingame (where I stayed last night) and SFO that are not terrifying at 4:00am.  So what might have been inexpensive gas became…practically, gas by the litre.  NB: The cost of the car for 9 days was…$133.  The cost of the refill tank was…roughly the same.  Jesus.  The gentleman checking in the car gave me a lecture.  I wanted to shout that Thrifty could suck it and that the customer is always right and if I wanted to pay for the gas I damned well could…but that seemed a bit…unseemly.  Particularly at 4:00am.

Regardless, the car is back; I’m on a plane; and I am homeward bound.  This time, in an aisle seat.

Working with the hospitality industry–especially luxury hospitality, as I do–has made me incredibly critical of American domestic travel.  We’re so spread out, people.  We travel to live; we travel to work; we travel to connect.  Why do we purposely make this a miserable process, then grub and grab and destroy any bits of convenience or sunshine geared at making this process less unpleasant?

I shake my head.

Take, for example, the fact that Google is offering free wireless on Virgin America flights for the holiday season.  I usually pay for the wireless on these flights if I have to fly east in the day time and “lose a day.”  It’s worth the $9.99 to me.  The internet is blazing fast, and it’s fantastic.

This is my first free-wireless flight.  Almost every single row of seats has at least one laptop flipped open; internet browser popped up.  Many of these people would probably not pay the $9.99 because they either won’t be reimbursed for it; or they don’t have to do the work they’re doing; or they don’t want to pay.  Regardless…there are many, many more internet users on this flight than usual.  As a result, my wireless is…crawling.

I would rather pay the $9.99 and be able to use the internet in a way that works for my business needs, than have it be free and have my purposes thwarted.

The tragedy of the commons.

So I’ve left San Francisco, for what I thought was going to be the last time for a while, then found out I need to be back on Monday.

In between now and then, I have to move.  Move my things out of the remaining space I still share with the man to whom I am still legally-but-not-quite-completely-married; from whom I am not-yet-fully-divorced; move my things out of storage; move into my new apartment.  I feel like I’ve been on the move forever now, and it seems so disorienting and surreal.

I have to complete the mundane tasks of moving–calling ConEd; calling TimeWarner; remembering where things are; remembering to get a cashier’s check to pay the movers; remember to keep my head screwed on straight; remember to tell my boss where in the country I am.

Travel drains, sometimes.  Travel wears; grates; frays relationships.  But I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.  Because if I were stuck at home, it would be my personality that would be doing the damage on people, and I’d rather have an excuse.

Ein kleiner Schritt für die Menschheit – aber ein großer Schritt für mich: Freiwillige Turmbesteigung der Budapester Stephanskirche. 96 Meter Höhe vs. meine Höhenangst. Doch: Dicke Steinbrüstungen geben Sicherheit, der Rundblick ist genial und schwummrig wurde mir erst beim Abstieg im Treppenhaus (‚freischwebende’ Wendeltreppe mit potentiellem Ausblick nach gaaanz weit unten – hinaufgefahren waren wir mit dem Lift). Fazit: Sehr gut, dass wir uns Sonntag Mittag rechtzeitig (und in diesem Fall auch erlaubterweise) von der dauerquatschenden Professorin abgeseilt und dadurch auch noch was anderes als die dritte Gemäldegalerie von innen gesehen haben.

My stamina is starting to run low after three months of non-stop work.

It’s that point in the transaction I’m working on where our personal lives creep out to the forefront, and everyone’s flying in snacks from all over the world; where those Chinese prawn peanuts I love magically appeared; where someone coming in from France may or may not be bringing in the dragees about which I frequently wax poetic. (The dragees never materialized btw…he came bearing a book about Twitter instead. Men.)

I am still driving a Ford Fusion.

My world has been reduced to microcosmic proportions, I’ve realized. JFK; LaGuardia; SFO; DCA; occasionally, Dulles or McCarran–for a change of pace. The New York office; the DC office; the client sites.

“You’re not really even visiting California,” someone recently remarked.

I’m not really “in” California, you know. Even as a non-native daughter, I know that.

In August of last year, staying with my college roommate in Pacific Heights, I walked in San Francisco from Fort Mason to the baseball stadium. Commencing the trek on foot, I stood in the park at the Fort, looking out over the Golden Gate, seeing it all with the eyes of a foreigner. Of someone who had seen it dozens–if not hundreds–of times before, but to whom the landscape would never register as “normal.” As “home.”

I walked. I walked almost the entire city, end to end, to meet an ex boyfriend for dinner. He was the same, and I was the same–but he was mostly the same as when I’d left him, and I was more of myself than I’d ever let myself be with him. He was just as much a Californian as ever, and I was less and less of the girl trying to fit in.

Now, I travel to San Francisco almost weekly, and I fly over the Bay like I’m from another country, still. The runways bump and skid beneath United Flight 5 like they do for all the other people on the plane who are mostly headed off to Asia or Australia; back to British Columbia. Occasionally, it’s a late flight into the city where I can’t see anything and the Bay lurks like the Atlantic or the Sound or the Potomac or any other body of water I fly over–frequently–to land.

It’s all the same. It’s all foreign. It’s all different. Terminals, towncars, rental car counters. Camaros with their growly, sexy V8s better suited for the Garden State Parkway; Ford Fusions perfectly, sensibly suited for the trek down 101, but that look out of place next to the SUVs and the Benzes and the Priuses.

The funny thing though–the thing I’ve realized–is that I don’t have much to talk about except the trains, and planes and automobiles. The travel. That I don’t have much of a personal life.

Yesterday, we all (i.e., the group I’ve been traveling with these past few months; the people I’ve been bumping paths with and sharing my life since August) got in the car and drove Highway 1 from Carmel down towards Big Sur. It was a drive I hadn’t made since I was nineteen. Freezing, cerulean sea; waves crashing on rim-of-fire rocks; igneous boulders leading up into sandstone topped by chaparral and then evergreen.

One of my companions and I got out of the car and walked along the beach. The rest of the party stayed up along the cliffs.

“How could anyone come here and not get out a bit?” he asked, rhetorically. I said I didn’t know. We dipped our toes in the water; the strong currents sucking the rough sand out from beneath our feet.

I realized, though, that’s what this time has been. Strong seas, sucking sands; losing my footing sometimes. But the current ebbed again and went back out and we continued our walk along the beach, steadier now.

At the end of the stretch of sand, there was a nude sunbather–sixty years old, maybe–his golden buns like two halves of hamburger brioches glistening brownly in the afternoon glare.

We turned around to head back down the beach and decided to go wine tasting instead.

My travels in California are so classically Californian: watching the VW surf vans ahead on Highway 1 as we speed down the coast; walking barefoot on the sand on sunny Sunday afternoons; winetasting. But I marvel that I used to live in this place; that these things were always within my reach; that I could have done them any time, and now they feel so delightful and vacationy and strange.

I’m worn out, but these moments–they are a nice break from the quotidian of going, doing, being.

Alan Wilson and Bob Hite took the band name “Canned Heat” from Tommy Johnson’s 1928 “Canned Heat Blues”, a song about an alcoholic who had desperately turned to drinking Sterno, generically called “canned heat”. Sterno is a fuel made from denatured and jellied alcohol. It is burned directly from its can primarily for use in the food service industry for buffet heating. Other uses are for camp stoves and as an emergency heat source.

Yummy

Zwei Burgenländerinnen, eine Steirerin, eine Nieder- und eine Oberösterreicherin. Könnt ihr euch diese geballte ostösterreichische partielle Orientierungslosigkeit („Miaß ma schau in die Richtung???“), die für Außenstehende wahrscheinlich extreme Breite des Dialekts und die regelmäßig hervorbrechenden, krachenden Lachsalven vorstellen? Die Budapester jetzt schon. Kurz gesagt: Lustig wars, anstrengend auch, sowohl Gruppe (22 Leute) als auch (abendliches Ausgeh-)Grüppchen (genannte fünf Mädels) hat gepasst. Und das Wetter war für November geradezu unglaublich. (Mehr kurze Berichte oder vielleicht auch ein größerer folgen).

Last night, we went for Thai food, in my rental car.

The last time I traveled, they rented me a sweet Camaro.  (NB: the last time I rented, I rented from Avis.  They were not jerks; there was no labyrinthine process in order to obtain the key, etc., and I received a Camaro at the end of the deal.  I felt like I was from New Jersey, which, truth be told, was kind of awesome for about a day.)

This time: Ford Fusion.

When I was in Africa in 2008, one of my friends remarked, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat American food.”  This was when we were eating American food.  In Africa.  In a hotel owned by Lebanese hoteliers.  In Kumasi, Ghana.  All against my will and better judgment, but that’s another story for another time.

So.  Thai.

We drove to Thai Bistro II (after a call to Hong Kong to determine where, exactly, in Pacific Grove, CA we should dine–that, too, is another story for another time), and sat down to eat. Me gorb, in particular, on the advice of Hong Kong, who kept shouting on the other end of the line, “Me gorb,” and I kept saying, “Okay,” and she kept not believing me that I knew what she was talking about.

This, of course, has become part of the slapstick of my travel life.

“You really need to start dating,” my dinner companion said, “You can’t wait forever.”

“It really hasn’t been that long,” I said.

“Too long!  You’re goal oriented.  I’m giving you a goal of three dates in the first three months of 2010.”

I groaned.  “I just don’t have time for anyone else in my life.  I travel.”  I left off the parts about not liking other people; about having to fly coach; about not wanting to explain the rheumatoid arthritis and the recovery from an eating disorder and the crazy family and the whole “Little Matchstick Girl” narrative that lurks behind the polished blonde facade.

We crunched our sticky, delicious me gorb in meditative silence; finishing out the meal with a spicy tom young goong; then pad thai; then a creamy panang curry.

After dinner, we ambled back out to the Ford Fusion, which was parked jauntily at the curb like a silver nag, ready to speed us to our next destination on the Monterey peninsula.

“Where now?” my companion asked.

“Karaoke place.”  I handed her the other page I’d printed–directions from google maps.  There was no GPS in the car, and I am a planner.  One of the perks of being notoriously eccentric AND being a planner is that I can rally people, while on travel, into going to shady karaoke places if I have to travel over weekends.  Maybe part of my charm, charisma, or maybe people tolerate me because they think I’m a loose cannon.

Regardless, we were going on a recon mission before the big event.

We drove.  Highway 1 North; roads I knew but hadn’t traveled in 10 years.

“Visualize your date.  The date you’re going to go on.”

“I’m driving.”

“No, visualize.  Where are you going to go?”

“Dinner.”

“Where?”

“Um….I don’t know.  Downtown?  Chinese?”

“And then where?  A movie?”

“I haven’t seen a movie in a theatre in going on…thirteen years?”

A gasp.

“See, I’m going to be terrible at this dating thing.  What exit am I supposed to get off at?”

We exited the highway, and made a left on to a long stretch of deserted road dotted with car dealerships and auto chop-shops.

“Are you sure this is it?” my companion asked me.

“Yup.  Oh my God, we’re going to get shot.  This is so shady.  The perfect place to do karaoke.”

And whether for business or pleasure, that, I suppose, is how any good karaoke story begins.

Best friend that is. Have you ever had a friend that you were so close with, maybe lived with, shared good times and bad, shared secrets with, laughed so hard with them til snot came out of your nose, and so forth? I had one of those, remember that I said had. We were different as night and day. She was a few years older than me, but we became friends instantly after meeting. We eventually became best friends. We shared the same love for clothes and a good time, but other than that, we were very different. I am a very independent person. She is a very co-dependent person. She always has to be dating or have a boyfriend. I, not so much. She would be upset if she went more than two weeks without a date. Also, she’s not the best at handling her alcohol either. Almost a year ago, she and our circle of friends just couldn’t get along. Honestly, looking back, she was 28 and going through the quarter life crisis in my opinion. We tried offering her advice, and to no avail, it did no good. I just think our group and she were going in different directions. To me, friendships are like relationships. They require work and effort on both parts. All people need to be on the same page or recognize work that needs to be done. You need to be wanting the same things and wanting to go in the same direction. I think we all were heading South per se, and she seemed to be going North. It all came to an end this Summer, when we decided to dissolve our friendship. So, it’s been about a half year roughly since I’ve spoken to her. But, throughout this whole six months, I’ve felt like I was back in middle school again. It seems like she just trash talks my friends like no tomorrow. After awhile, I was just over the whole situation, but now she started again. She is almost 30 years old for pete’s sake. You don’t want to be my friend, nor I yours. Fine. No use in bad mouthing each other you know. We’re better than that. This isn’t 7th grade where I write bad things about you on the bathroom stall. I’m over it. I actually miss her sometimes. We shared the same space. Sometimes, you just need a break when things get too crazy. Time to regroup and to start anew. Step #8 from Alcoholics Anonymous states, “Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.” No people, I’m not an alcoholic, but I am a Christian. I was raised to believe in God, but my parents aren’t overtly religious. I became a Christian at 8 on Easter, and my goal is to try to be a better person and a better Christian. But I think and still believe that she owes me an apology. There was a lot that went unsaid, unexplained. But you know what, who cares who talks first. At the end of the day, while you lay your head on your pillow, it’s only you and God. It’s about doing good things and being a good person. It’s not about holding grudges. Maybe, that person is hurting. Maybe, you are the one person who brings a smile to their face, keeps them alive, keeps them facing their day. Well, my point in writing this is, today just a little while ago, on the way back to work. I saw my ex-best friend’s car on the side of the interstate. I didn’t stop; because, I just couldn’t do it. But, for the next 5 minutes after seeing her car, I kept wondering, “What if she’s not okay? What if she needs help?”. When I got to work, I decided to bite the bullet and talk first. Even though, she has hurt me, my feelings, and my friends. So I messaged her and said I know it’s been awhile since we’ve spoke, but that I saw her car and wondered was she okay and did she need help. I was so nervous. This girl used to be my best friend. I literally was nauseous thinking that I didn’t want to put up with the drama. We haven’t spoke or had any kind of communication in over six months besides her being rude to my friends. Finally, she responded that she thought her battery had died and thanks for asking. I replied that it was no problem. She eventually said that she had actually run out of gas and her father had brought her some and asked to catch up next week sometime. This catching up will not happen, but I finally feel at peace about the situation. I feel like when I go out now this tension will be gone, and the simple head nod or a small hello would be an olive branch. Those small gestures will be better than catty eyes and whispers; because, that’s what girls do. Even though, I know my friend circle will probably not agree and probably would not have called, but I know that later down the road if I found out that something had happened to her, I would not have been able to live with the fact that I did nothing. I am learning being the bigger person is harder than being the bitter one.

I’ll do another post to explain my involvement in Breaking Ground but for now, I’ll just share the pictures of NEw York.  Jonathan and Jeremy joined me, making this the third year we’ve managed a really great fall event, and I got some stuff done for the campaign as well!  I have no idea how to imbed this on WordPress, so here’s the link.  Enjoy.

New York Fall 2009

Beware if you click, it has audio.

Few snapshots of Little Dragon after their live in Brugge yesterday: Yukimi Nagano (vocals), Erik Bodin (drums), Fred Wallin (bass) and Hakan Wirenstrand (keyboards). Those Swedish gifted musicians (yes I’m in my Scandinavian era!) play an exciting creative music. I’m addictive of their inspired second album, Machine Dreams. The clear mellifluous voice leads us in a melodic universe full of small crazy sounds (My Step) and air keyboards (Feather), with a strong groovy bass-drums. To listen again and again. If you’ve never heard them in live, rush to Antwerp tonight: Petrol – Herbouvillekaai 25, Antwerp - onstage at 11.45pm.

www.little-dragon.se 

Related posts:

Dani Siciliano: muse électro de Gaspard Yurkievich

Midi Music Festival

Copenhagen night: restaurant, bars & music

Quelques snapshots des quatre membres de Little Dragon, juste après leur excellent concert à Brugge hier: Yukimi Nagano (chant), Erik Bodin (batterie), Fred Wallin (bass) et Hakan Wirenstrand (claviers). Un condensé de talents made in Sweden (oui je ne décroche plus de ma période scandinave), pour une musique créative et enthousiasmante, dédiée à tous ceux qui soignent leurs oreilles. J’ai complétement flashé sur Machine Dreams, leur deuxième album mélodieux et dansant. Guidée par la voix suave et fluide, on entre dans un univers empli de petits sons déjantés (My Step) et claviers aériens (Feather), boosté par un tandem bass-batterie ultra groovy. A écouter en boucle inlassablement. Si vous ne les connaissez-pas encore, allez les voir en concert ce soir à Anvers: Petrol – Herbouvillekaai 25, Anvers - sur scène à 23.45

www.little-dragon.se  

Autres articles:

Dani Siciliano: muse électro de Gaspard Yurkievich

Midi Music Festival

Copenhague, la nuit: restaurant, bars et musique 

The Sheraton Gateway is located inside the Lester B. Pearson International Airport in Toronto, On.  You literally get off the plane, go through Customs, round a corner in Terminal 3 and boom, your there.  How convenient ‘ey?   One look at this place made me realize how thankful I was to have Ashley pack me the snack bag.  A Guinness at the bar is going to cost you $12 and a bacon cheeseburger will run you close to $30 with a drink.  This was my first trip to Canada  so I was eager to get out and explore.  I soon found out this place was not close to anything and not within viewing distance of the CN Tower which I really wanted to see.  I’m going to look into renting a car.  The rooms are nice but without a view.  It didnt look like any room in the place had an interesting viewpoint.

]]> http://mademoisellelek.wordpress.com/2009/11/17/young-gallery-brussels-ehibition-of-nick-brandt-a-shadow-falls/ Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:16:22 +0000 mademoisellelek http://mademoisellelek.wordpress.com/2009/11/17/young-gallery-brussels-ehibition-of-nick-brandt-a-shadow-falls/

Rewind, November 10, 8 p.m.: arriving at the Conrad Hotel, surprise surprise, it’s crowded in front of the Young Gallery. My first opening in Brussels, course Nick Brandt is a star. Ok, I make my way through peolpe to get in the gallery: “Excuse me, are you a press officer?“. And I find myself in front of a press photographer’s camera of the opening. I cheese and catch my kind gallery officer: “Well, I’d like to make an interview of Nick Brandt, the photographer“, “Oh! He’s…mmmh around. He’s got a jacket with inscriptions on his back“. Good…”And what does he look like?“, “My height, not really tall“, “Thanks!“. Perplexed. An amused look at the moving crowd: how locating in half light an inscription on jacket’s back? Fantastic pictures (big crush on the elephants ones) and great gallery’s atmosphere: I quickly forget the interview for those snapshots! Enjoy!

Young Gallery: Avenue Louise 75b – Wiltcher’s place – Conrad Hotel – 1050 Bruxels – Belgium

Related posts:

Young Gallery in Knokke: Photo Exhibition of Josef Hoflehner

Antwerp: “Paper Fashion” Exhibition at MoMu, the Fashion Museum

Paris: “Koyasan”, the photo exhibition of Yoshimitsu Nagasaka

Rewind, mardi 10/11, 20h j’arrive au Conrad Hotel: surprise, un monde fou devant la Young Gallery. Mon premier vernissage bruxellaire, certes Nick Brandt est une star. Ok, me “fraye” un chemin dans la galerie bondée: “Escusez-moi, vous vous occupez de la presse?“. Et je me retrouve nez à nez avec l’objectif de la photographe du vernissage. Souris, rattrape au vol un membre de la galerie: “Heu non, je souhaiterai interviewer le photographe“, “Oh il doit être quelque part par là, il a une veste avec une inscription au dos“. Humm Mwoui… “Et il ressemble?“, “Ma taille, pas très grand“, “Merci!“. Perplexe. Amusée, j’interroge du regard la foule telle un GPS virtuel en littuanien: comment localiser dans cette masse mouvante une inscription au dos d’une veste? Les photos sont superbes (suis fane des éléphants), la galerie très agréable, j’oublie vite interview et GPS littuanien, pour ces snapshots!

Young Gallery: Avenue Louise 75b – Wiltcher’s place – Conrad Hotel – 1050 Bruxelles – Belgique

Autres articles:

Young Gallery à Knokke: Expo photo de Josef Hoflehner

Anvers: Exposition “Paper Fashion” au MoMu, le Musée de la Mode

Paris: exposition photo “Koyasan” de Yoshimitsu Nagasaka