…paid off. Terrible, I know, but after dropping blatant hints for a few weeks, I was lucky enough to receive this little bundle of truly scrumptious letterpress-printed postcards and a ‘Scribble’ notebook from the Sort Design typography chaps in our Secret Santa!

As you can see, the Ideal Home girls excel in the packaging department, using a date stamp and a ‘received’ stamp (both nabbed from work but available from glamorous places such as Rymans!) to give the label a vintage, authentic look. The fact that I opened this parcel four days early is naughty I know, but it has been unfairly highlighted by this date label, which is gorgeous but a bit specific. Of course, I’ll be re-using it on Christmas Day, cheapskate that I am.

I need to think of something important to write in the lovely notebook, as it’s far too posh for shopping lists, and I might frame a few of the postcards for some wall art (not that I have much wall space left!!). If you like what you see, check out the Sort Design Etsy shop. – Ellie

In southern Hungary, the sun’s rays glow a deeper yellow to reflect upon the acres on sunflowers.  July tattoos a permanent smile upon the mouth and joy in the eyes as the fields literally dance in yellow.  The afternoons were hot, but inviting. I would take my bike or grandma’s bike, if that were the only available one, and start for the fields.  The dust trail would swell behind me and fill my pores with its grains.  I could never bathe away the scent of the country; it became an inseparable part of me.  The sunflowers loomed in stately joy above me and around me.  I loved to look into their faces.  There was nothing around but the yellow horizon and the chirping of birds who loved sharing their flowers with appreciative onlookers.

My Hungarian sister and I would go together; even the simple life had its moments of complexity when nothing but communion with God in the sunflower fields could cure. We always returned home with full hearts bearing our secret.

When I go back in time now and reflect upon my years there, I always go to the sunflower fields; I remember them overflowing in summer between villages. It’s like my life’s sweetest times are outlined or constrained between two blurred lines of yellow on the right and left sides of me. All that was left behind is laced with sunshine and sadness.

“Stop it, you’re killing me!” I laughed and continued to tickle her tender tendrils. She caught my wrist and slowly eased it away, trembling with mirth. Turned out her race has a genetic mechanism built in that synthesizes a deadly, fast-acting poison from the oxytocin released by laughter. She went on to say she wasn’t sure whether the process was natural or it was introduced into their DNA during the species’s dystopian epoch; in the end, they never bothered to remove it from their genetic code. She and I had a falling out not long after that and I never saw her again. I heard on the grapevine that she died out on some hole in Centauri. With her condition, I guess it’s not a bright idea to work at a comedy club.

  The body lay beneath the dripping soil, wrapped tightly in the clinging, cold embrace of the loveless earth.
  “Take heart”, I said, hefting spade and shovel and leaning on one, and then the other, “you might consider the great fortune you possessed in life, and how many undeserving relations you left happy memories of yourself and bygone days.
  “Or you might take some small comfort in the lavish funeral afforded you by dint of your many decades of prosperity and thrift. You left in your wake an admirable corpse, a thing not many men can boast.
  “Or”, said I, considering further possibilities now that my brain was alight, “you might rest assured that your affairs and finances were all finely put in order by your solicitous heirs, all of whom wept bitterly at word of your passing.
  “Still, you might bear some thanks up to God that your going forth from the world was as peaceful, as tranquil and serene, as you always wished it to be. Indeed, you died in the comfortable confines of your own bedchamber, a sweetly beneficent fate denied too many. Your final illness was but the fleeting murmur of a moment, compared to the hale and hearty health you enjoyed while walking upon this earth.”
  I looked up at the sky. Grey clouds began to roll in from the distance, and the wind began to chill. I must hurry up and finish my labors before the weather became intolerable, I told myself. I turned again to my charge.
  “Otherwise, count yourself lucky that you no longer have to struggle against the burdens and torments of this life, as your place in the span of human history has ceased to be. All the madness, longing, fury and frustration that are the lot of common men are yours to bear no longer, for the burden has been lifted. Count yourself among the lucky few who know no fear, pain, or hunger, and smile at the blessing of never knowing these tortures again. For, even in the midst of all your smiles and good fortune, your spiritual lot was the same as any man’s, and your heart knew misery, as well as mirth.
  “Now, your soul knows only blackness, and for that you should, most definitely, be grateful.
  “And in a thousand years, or ten thousand times ten thousand, when many billions upon billions more rest beside you in this hallowed ground, and even if the accursed world has ceased to revolve through the black passages of night, and the stars have winked out like snuffling candles in the firmament, you can cherish this final moment we have enjoyed together. For, as long as a heart beats within me, I know I will never forget your face. And I most assuredly know that you will never forget mine.”
  And then I said no more, for he was dead, and I knew he wouldn’t listen to me.
  And so I began to shovel earth back into the hole, as the winds howled and the sky drew down to a darkening grey.

I’ve blogged about the homeless before. They congregate early evening on the Strand on the confluence of Agar Street and William IV Street, outside Ryman (the stationers), just down from Charing Cross (high security) police station, itself opposite the Zimbabwe Embassy.

These homeless aren’t ‘tramps’ in the traditional sense. These are not the frazzled, stench-ridden, matted-hair kind – haunted by the spectre of severe mental illness. Rather, these are people fallen on hard times. In their eyes – you see their solidarity with one another. Many – actually most – are immigrants, predominantly from the far corners of Eastern Europe. They came here for a better life. They came here for economic salvation. They came here because Britain is the no.1 destination for all economic-migrants, into and within continental Europe. Now times are tough here in Britain, the immigrant classes are suffering more than most. They suffer in silence, mostly. Unseen by London’s professional classes.

They gather because food is brought here. I think some of it comes from Pret-a-Manger, the sandwich chain. They gather in quite large numbers.

I walk through them on my way home.

I am lucky to have a job, much as I moan. These poor people live on society’s frayed margin and it must be a very tough life indeed.

The other evening I was walking to the tube station – through the madding crowds – to get home after a hard day at work. I work in professional services but our office is in the very heart of London’s West End (i.e. theatre, entertainment and consequently tourist district). Lively and cosmopolitan for sure, though extremely busy.

I walked past a bar with some distinctively dressed men outside, clad in breeches and waistcoats, speaking what sounded like German. They were intermittently yodeling (beer tankards in hand).

It’s a unique sound. Quite special really. It originates from Switzerland and Austria.

I’m not much of a singer but I wish I could yodel.

The Best of 2009 Blog Challenge:

Something that really made you grow this year?

Back in March, I decided to finally jump in and volunteer for CASA, an organization I’d heard about frequently during my years in San Antonio. Though the period was short-lived, it will always standout as one of those milestone events of my life.

A CASA is a Court-Appointed Special Advocate for abused or neglected kids who are in the state’s care.  Once there has been confirmation of abuse or neglect, the kids are removed from the family and placed with a foster family, a shelter or a relative.  The parents have about 12 months to shape up via parenting classes, finding a job, kicking a drug or alcohol habit, finding a habitable living arrangement, etc.

We’ve all heard the news and statistics on the issue of child abuse.  Caseworkers have workloads of 40-60 cases, with each case consisting of one or more kids.  They are responsible for the health and safety of each child but at times important facts wind up overlooked.  Attorneys are usually court appointed and swamped with their other cases.  Foster families are busy with their other children or are sometimes the cause of further abuse.  Individuals with their own agendas can switch in and out of a legal case several times, creating a lot of instability.  A CASA might be the only constant presence in a child’s life during those 12 months.

An advocate must review the case file, interview everyone involved (child, attorneys, foster parents, primary parents, teachers, therapists, siblings, etc) to get all the facts.  They monitor a case and watch out for the child.  If the child needs tutoring, medication, therapy, or anything, the CASA is the person to catch it.  The CASA attends all the court hearings and prepares court reports for the judge.  The goal of the CASA is always for reunification with the parents, provided the parents complete the service plan.  Basically the CASA is a child’s watchdog.

You can probably see the intimidation that could arise.

I went through 33 hours of training – classroom, independent study and court observation.  The morning that I spent in the children’s court was probably one of the most paralyzing experiences I’ve had in a while.  Drug-addicted parents, drug-addicted newborns, sexual abuse, heartbreaking neglect, guardians struggling to make ends meet, medicated children, sibling groups inevitably split up and sent to distant towns because local foster homes are scarce. Each graphic detail pounded me right in the gut, and soon I wasn’t quite sure how I could stand up to go home for the day.

But I did. I went back to a home, a real home, to a family that, for all its dysfunction and unconventionality, was still driven by a tangible feeling of love. I went home and held my boy, breathed him in, nuzzled his fuzzy hair, and covered him with lipstick kisses until he wrestled away and sought refuge in his room.

I expected the emotional roller coaster when I decided to embark on this journey. Children are dear to my heart. Whether it is in the arena of hunger, poverty, immigration, refugees, education, or abuse, anything that affects a child has my attention. And anything that harms a child draws my ire. I knew I would have to work on not only keeping my tears at bay but also my temper.

In my world, harming a child is unforgivable. End of debate.

What I didn’t expect, then, was how much the training and working with CASA would force me to let it all go, to step back and draw up the fortitude to face an ugliness I’d only read about.

Could I put aside cultural differences, religious differences, socio-economic differences? Sure. Would it bother me to encounter surly or aggressive individuals? Hell, I was in the military. Sometimes I was one of them.

Could I deal with accused offenders? That was a tremendous leap for me.

Gradually, I found my perspective zigzagging in every direction. It’s one thing to read case file after horrific case file, stories that echoed those damn news articles we see way too often. But it’s another thing entirely to be pulled into the story with hardly a clue on how to find my way around. Every place I visited humbled me, each person I met threw off my assumptions, each incident I learned about had a series of analogous events behind it.

As everything unfolded, the lines of logic and absoluteness were blurred. The  good guys were bad guys; the bad guys were good guys. But there aren’t good guys or bad guys. There are just the cold facts. And a cold fact is that abuse begets abuse. The cold facts are poverty and underfunded social service programs and underpaid CPS workers and a shortage of CASA volunteers and deadbeat moms and 80-yr old grandmas raising gang-banging teenagers happen.

Sometimes moms get their shit together but no one believes them. Sometimes dads never get a dime in child support even though they’re raising kids on minimum wage. Sometimes abused kids want to go back to that home. Sometimes the system fails. Nothing, not even the ugliest and most sinister, is cut and dry and the realization jolted the hell out of me.

I had to gain fresh eyes.

Work constraints and business trips ultimately forced me to pull back to an inactive status, though I do hope to return. But I can say now that when I see a little kid on the street, I am reminded about a case. When I hear another tragic soundbyte on the radio, I pull the car over. The issue of child abuse is everywhere, and I sob, I yell, I give up, I regain hope, I vow to become a superhero and crack open skulls in a single bound.

But in the end it’s not about me and my hormonal reactions. It’s about stepping back and comprehending. And then doing something about it. The CASA experience showed me that much.

…

National CASA website here.

• CASA volunteers spend most of their volunteer time in contact with a child.
• CASA volunteers spend significantly more time in contact with a child than a paid guardian ad litem.
• CASA volunteers are far more likely than paid attorneys to file written reports.
• CASA volunteers are highly effective in getting their recommendations accepted in court. In four out of five cases, all or almost all CASA volunteer recommendations are accepted.
• When a CASA volunteer is assigned, a higher number of services are ordered for children and families.
• A child with a CASA volunteer is more likely to be adopted.
• A child with a CASA volunteer is as likely to be reunified with their birth parent as a child without a CASA volunteer.
• A child with a CASA volunteer is less likely to reenter the child welfare system. The proportion of reentries is consistently reduced by half. (References)

The details were sketchy. He was awoken by a phone call at midnight by one of the elders of the Filipino expatriate community in Jakarta. Something was definitely wrong. She wouldn’t call at this hour, he thought to himself.

“Hello?” he answered sleepily.

“Hi, Arnold,” greeted the feminine voice back. “It’s Jane. I have some terrible news.”

He quickly sat up, dread creeping through his body. “What’s wrong Jane? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am. It’s Glen. He’s gone. He died earlier in the evening and the funeral is tomorrow at Tangerang,” she almost whispered into the phone.

Arnold’s stomach tightened. How could that be? He had just seen Glen a month ago outside of church. Admittedly, it was odd that Glen didn’t want to step into the service. Glen was nine years his senior but he was in the pink of health except perhaps for a leg injury that dogged him for almost two months after an ojek accident.

The first time Arnold rode an ojek, or motorcycle taxi, was also the last time he did that. He couldn’t stand the derring-do of the motorcyclist meandering in and out of the traffic. Arnold could almost touch the door of the next vehicle with his knee. But Glen was unperturbed until the accident. The ojek he was riding was seconds away from being rammed by a car and he was certain that the ojek would get hit. That’s when he decided to jump from the motorbike. Glen hit the ground, injuring his leg. He suffered crack in the bone and had to be on crutches. Meanwhile, the ojek driver drove away unharmed.

“Thanks Ate Jane. Thanks for letting us know,” he replied. “Allan and I will be there tomorrow. Good night.”

Putting his mobile phone back on the bed stand, Arnold tried to go back to sleep but sleep was nowhere near. He got out of bed and popped in a movie into his laptop.

Liza was walking out of the building when he spotted her. He ran to her and blurted it out.

“I received bad news last night,” he said gravely.

Damn, thought Liza to herself. The chain text message said good news would be coming, not bad news.

“What happened?” she asked apprehensively.

“A friend of ours, also an English teacher, died last night,” he narrated. “I just can’t believe that he died of a heart attack. He’s too young for a heart attack!”

“When and where is the funeral?”

“It’s at Tangerang, which is at the other side of Bekasi. Allan and I will be leaving at 3pm today to attend.”

“Did anyone know about his heart condition?” she queried.

“That’s the thing! We didn’t know he had a heart condition!” he said, his voice climber higher with each word.

 “I’ll know the details later when we get to the funeral,” he added in a calmer tone. “He was with an international school in Jakarta and had been in Indonesia for eight years. The last time we hanged out together was when we watched the finals of Asian Idol.”

She let him ramble on. She didn’t know Glen and had never known him, but was nonetheless affected. Like her, he was away from home and dying in a foreign country was a tragedy. Dying before your time was a tragedy in itself, she told herself.

“The dark horse at the time was Hady Mirza from Singapore. He was just getting by with his charm. He didn’t have a fan base unlike the other contestants from Indonesia, Philippines and Malaysia who were the top contenders. But Hady won! We were so surprised with the decision,” he rattled on.

It was the evening following their chat that Liza learnt about the death of one of the members of the community.

“Where’s Allan? Isn’t he coming with us for dinner at Hard Rock Café?” she asked.

“He’s still at the funeral. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to join us,” he answered, as the SUV crawled through the Saturday night traffic.

“Funeral? Didn’t you and Allan go yesterday afternoon?”

“We were on our way but we turned back because the jam was very bad,” he explained. “Allan is there right now. I didn’t go because I’m disappointed, sad and angry. I don’t feel good about attending Glen’s funeral.”

Silence settled inside the SUV.

“He didn’t die of a heart attack. Jane whispered to me in church that he hanged himself with a belt in his flat,” he went on.

“Suicide?!” she uttered in shock.

“His sister said he was depressed after he got into an accident. But the rest kept saying that he didn’t look depress at all,” he said, mixed feelings crowding his face.

Arnold continued: “We were in touch for a while but we lost contact. Glen loved going to the mall. He loved socializing but he was a loner. He was also the only guy I knew who brought his toiletry kit everywhere he went, including a straightener-crimper.

“He sent for his parents from the Philippines to keep him company here a few days before he killed himself. I was told he was feeling lonely although his sister is here. But she has her own family now – she married a local and has one child. He told me before that he was disappointed with his sister’s sudden marriage and pregnancy. He wanted her to help him in supporting the family.”

Note: Filipino Glen Osano Kordoro was found dead Thursday in his house at Modernland housing in Tangerang according to The Jakarta Post dated December 6, 2009. Tangerang police’s head of the crime unit Commissioner Budhi Herdi Susianto said his mother found the 38-year-old hanging near a window and Glen might have committed suicide as no marks of physical violence were found on his body aside from rope marks on his neck.  ”According to witnesses and friends, it was due to his depression,” he told tempointeraktif.com. His colleague, who requested anonymity, said Glen had been depressed since he got an accident three weeks ago. “He fell from ojek (motorcycle taxi) and his leg suffered a fissure.”

Details from the Filipino community revealed that Glen was 39 and it was his father who found him. He thought his son was simply looking out of the window until he noticed that his feet were not touching the ground. His father came in to ask him to come down for lunch. That Glen was indeed depressed and the leg injury was one of the reasons is the current scuttlebutt in the community.

A farmer on the outskirts of Saniquellie, Liberia, itself on the outskirts of the town Ganta, itself near little but Guinea…

I ask, “Do you stay in town?”
“Yes, I stay in town with my wife and my children.”
“With your wife?”
“Yes.”
“And how many children?”
“I have…I am trying to figure out my children.” Long pause. “Sixteen. I was a very strong man.”

“Wow! How connected you are!” he said, sarcasm dripping thickly into the cool night. She was taken aback at his sardonic remark, remembering him to be nice and polite way back in high school and which was why she loved hanging out with him.

That scene was years ago. She couldn’t remember what topic they were discussing on the rooftop of his parents’ house at a little get-together he hosted. It was a mini reunion of the old high school gang, and she decided to attend for all time’s sake at the last minute. She regretted it, wishing she’d trusted her instinct that she wouldn’t have fun at all. What she did remember was the disparaging comment and attitude at her new-found profession then – teaching. She had accepted the position of English teacher at their old high school, which was really part of her goals in life. She had planned to give back to the academic community that the late Mrs. Doreen Gamboa had built. Mrs. Gamboa established a school based on learning to be free, of balancing freedom and responsibility, and of fostering creative and thinking individuals, not mindless clones. And here was Mr.-Big-Shot looking down on her simply because she was a teacher who didn’t earn an iota of what the modern day slaves earned in a month.

He was a big disappointment as was his mother, her former English teacher. She – the former English teacher – decided one afternoon to talk about how she viewed each student in her class. She said one of the boys was a temperamental prat and should develop a level of maturity, making him walk out of class in a huff at the provocative remarks. Despite that she went on and on until she reached her. She was her favorite teacher thinking she understood where she was coming from best compared to her other teachers.

“What’s feminism really? I know you believe in that but I don’t see any point in it,” she went on in class while looking at her. “It’s just a group of disgruntled, strident women who don’t know what they want.”

She stared at her stoically, her mind racing to grasp at what she just heard. All the while she thought she understood her. All the while she made her believe that her beliefs mattered, she silently said to herself.

No melodramatic exits for her. If this woman, she thought, didn’t get her beliefs and didn’t even have the decency to respect them, walking out would just signal a victory for her. She simply waited until they were dismissed and she walked out of the classroom. So be it.

Her English teacher might have eschewed feminism but she was above infantile behavior to disavow her due credit. She taught her classes well, preparing them for the academic challenges that university life would throw their way without impunity. She thanked her for that.

That sarcasm towards people in the teaching profession never waned, she learned. They just came in various forms.

“Yes, I teach.”

“Ah, you teach,” some would recite like a first grader learning a new word and smile ambiguously.

“Yes, I teach.

“Ah, you’re a teacher,” others would remark nodding their heads uneasily, making her wonder if they suddenly had the attack of the runs.

Sarcasm was one thing and sarcasm and condescension was another issue altogether. At some point in her life, especially during the height of the global recession, there was an exodus of out-of-job corporate people into the academe. Teaching had become some sort of door stop to the careerists who were biding their time until the economy picked up.

But the corporate people-turned-teachers were easy to handle. They made no show of altruistic inclinations towards molding the minds of the future generation. It was the throng of pseudo-academes that riled her to no end. They were the ones who turned the values of education on its head and went about pontificating when they were the very epitome of unscrupulousness.

She remembered N vividly, that pot-bellied nincompoop colleague of hers and M, his ninny wife. N thought he was being smart by questioning her assignments and methods in his class. He never confronted her on this issue.

“He doesn’t like it when we work on your assignments,” said one of her students back then.

“We don’t really read the textbook,” added another one.

“He resents you Teach because we pay more attention in your class,” chirped one more voice from the room.

He, however, constantly pestered on the topic of marriage. She was single; he was married to the ninny and had a salacious son. One time, M, urged her little boy to kiss her goodbye out of politeness – it was a cultural thing – when she felt a hand rub her derriere. She looked at the less-than-10-year-old boy – his smile exuded lasciviousness.

Ninny, on the other hand, was a downright nut case.

“Okay, class. You’ll know tomorrow if you have quiz. It’ll depend on how easily I can open the door to your classroom,” she announced to her students, which, she learnt later, became a year-long policy.

The door was crooked and one needed to give it a strong nudge to open it, which wasn’t difficult. Far from being troglodytes, the students made sure the door was left slightly ajar so they wouldn’t have to sit through a mind-numbing quiz.

Horror stories of how class funds were systemically siphoned by the couple to fund their house and vehicle zipped through the grapevine. They were hearsay but, nonetheless, she wouldn’t let such shenanigans past them.

It was a constant battle of wits between her and the couple she had dubbed the Master and Mistress of Chicanery. And it was getting to be annoying and bothersome so she decided to put an end to it.

 “Yes, I do those things in class that you’ve been questioning in your class,” she told him pointedly.  “I make my students, read, think, critique, question, write, comprehend and reflect on issues confronting their lives directly or indirectly.”

“I…” he stammered.

“Don’t interrupt me. I’m not done yet,” she said, glaring at him.

“Yes, I teach unlike you who do nothing but criticize others when you’re not even teaching your class at all.”

“No…” he tried to argue.

“I said I’m not done yet. You have a comprehension problem, don’t you? It’s no wonder your students come out of your classroom none the wiser.”

“Wait…” he attempted to say.

“Shut up! Listen and you might learn something!” she shouted at him.

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” she continued, her eyebrow arched.

 “Yes, I teach my students. I make them see that second chances are not guaranteed, and that they, at most times, will only have one chance at greatness.

I teach them to say ‘thank you’, ‘please’, ‘good morning’, ‘good afternoon’ and ‘good bye’, as well making themselves presentable at all times. I also let them know that reeking of sour milk is not the norm.

I teach them to have their own opinions and not merely parrot what others have said.

I open their eyes to the beauty of words, the magic of numbers, the wonders of space, the thrill of natural elements and the magnificence of colors.

I teach them the folly of their ways and set them straight on the path again.

I fill their hearts with compassion not avarice.

I teach them to speak with coherence and intelligence.

I make them honor their commitment to people and apologize with sincerity if they aren’t able to.

I emphasize to them the importance of time and that tardiness is not acceptable.

These are the things I work hard to impart to my students. What about you?”

Before he could answer, she turned and walked away. She didn’t see any point in wasting another second with the Neanderthal. Life is too precious and short to waste on such fools, she told herself as she made plans to book for a facial.

On a whim and while bored to tears at work, I decided last year to spend Memorial Day Weekend in the Chihuahuan Desert, the second largest desert in North America.

I’d never been out to West Texas before, even though I’d given the Lone Star state ten long years of my life. I don’t know what possessed me to choose it. South Padre, an islet in the Gulf Coast, is rumored to be lovely, and New Orleans is just a few decadent hours away.

Maybe it was the recent Marfa hype, the remote Texas town where No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood were filmed. Perhaps it was my recent obsession with Into the Wild, the theme of “going Thoreau” or communing with nature still fresh in my mind.

I wanted solitude. I wanted tranquility.  I wanted rejuvenation. I wanted one single spot in this world that still had a soul, a place devoid of Walmarts and traffic jams and ridiculous spreadsheets.

But on this afternoon, I reserved a hotel, a car, and airline tickets for my brother and my mother to join me.  I wanted to share my joy. We were going to canoe the Rio Grande and tour this forgotten land. Live deep and suck out the marrow of life. My family was going to love it, to love me.

Happiness is only real when shared.

“So let me get this straight,” my brother said when I called him. “You want to take 3 Hispanics out into the desert, on the Mexican border, and put them in a boat on the Rio Grande? Do you not watch the news?”

“Oh, quit the dramatics. And bring your passport.”

“Of course I’m bringing my passport. You’re trying to get us arrested. So what town are you talking about?”

“We’re going to Terlingua. It’s a ghost town. Isn’t that cool?”

“Huh.”

“Marfa and the Davis mountains are nearby as well. They’re supposed to be gorgeous.”

“—”

“We also have a cabin in the desert, with only basic amenities, but it’ll be good to totally decompress for a while, to get away from it all.”

“Wasn’t the Texas Chainsaw Massacre a true story?”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

My mother took the news even worse, worrying in Spanish about the excessive heat, the lack of a TV for her novelas, and possible deportation. I reminded her that she was a U.S. citizen, but she would hear none of it. She heard stories, lots of stories, stories about mistaken identities and the ruthless border patrol. She wasn’t just some helpless senior citizen, you know. She was informed.

Oh, they’re good, those Univision spin doctors.

I wondered if maybe I should find one single spot in this world devoid of grumbling family members. To be alone in order to preserve my sanity.

…

Riding into town Photo: Cathey Franke

Terlingua, Texas, a very remote region just minutes from the Mexican border, remains unincorporated and has no defined borders.  With its early beginnings as a mining Mecca, “downtown” Terlingua now stands as a ghost town, replete with dirt roads, ruins, historic mines, creeks, buttes, tiny shops and miles of desert landscape. Figures from the last census indicate there were fewer than 300 individuals calling Terlingua home.

Three hundred. About the size of my high school graduating class.

Chisos Mining Company Motel Photo: Cathey Franke

We stayed in the Chisos Mining Company Motel, a mining relic from the past.  Our cabin was one of several that dotted the land behind the main building. The one-room structure had no phone, no TV, no Internet, no cell phone service, only two functioning outlets, and intermittent hot water. There weren’t even any lamps; we used our flashlights in the cabin at night. A place to get away from it all – check.

The only light outside the cabin was the porch light.  There were no lighted paths of the terrain between the buildings.  If I wanted to go out for an evening stroll, I needed the flashlight and a good dose of courage to venture into the darkest nighttime setting I have ever seen.

Our cabin, lucky #13. Photo: Cathey Franke

We were somewhat unprepared for the heat.  Despite hauling several pallets of bottled water and sucking back water like it was beer, we still had to limit our time outdoors during the day.  The average daily temperature reached 108.  The sun was murderous.

In town, the lone church was about the size of my garage. The “mall” was a series of 5 connected stores with miniature mariachi figurines in the front. The ice cream parlor sold only 3 flavors, none of which included vanilla.  I knew of about a handful of local eateries – including the burger stands.

One restaurant/bar in particular, La Kiva, won me over because it was underground and so over-the-top. I forgave the BBQ menu because, after all, we were in West Texas. The men’s urinal was an old cast-iron pot that used to be a planter, and the sink in the women’s bathroom was a rusted bucket. In the dining area, the focal point is the “Penisaurus Erectus”, a fictional creature crafted out of random bones.

It’s worth mentioning that GQ magazine named La Kiva “the #1 most bizarre bar you must visit before you die.”

Every vacation I take must include an adventure sport of some kind, and this was no exception. The canoe trip on the Rio Grande taught me a couple of things.  First and foremost, I now know to team up with someone of equal weight. Josh, my 9-yr old son, was in my canoe, and he weighs less than my backpack.  Since there was practically no bow weight, I succeeded in making us go around in circles.  The rest of the group was hundreds of yards ahead, and my canoe looked like it was being steered by Stevie Wonder.

About halfway through, the fantastic guides at Far Flung Adventures, who arranged the trek, suggested Josh and my mom switch places. My brother, with much more upper-arm strength, welcomed Josh into his canoe and kept the vessel on perfect course. This led to my second revelation to hit the weights when I got back home. I may never reach the physique of my ex-Marine brother, but I should at least be able to paddle a damn boat.

The towns of Marfa and Alpine, the Davis Mountains, and the McDonald Observatory are all about 2 hours away from Terlingua. Most of the unlit desert roads run through undeveloped territory and winding mountains, so driving at 1am can be somewhat dicey (though I personally enjoy that kind of driving).

In the outlying towns, go enjoy:

Maiya's Restaurant

• Lunch or dinner at Maiya’s, a restaurant next to the Hotel Paisano where the film Giant was filmed. Our waiter had the privilege to serve the casts of No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood when they rolled through the area.

• Getting lost in Alpine like I did, something that defies logic since the town is about the size of a postage stamp. So erratic was my driving that I earned a lovely police escort out of the city.

McDonald Observatory Photo: Larry Landolfi

• The serpentine switchbacks up the Davis Mountains, if you can brave it. At the top of the nearly 7,000 feet crawl sits the McDonald Observatory, an astronomical observatory owned by University of Texas Austin. The Star Parties are definitely a must-see: a chance to peer into the night skies through an array of telescopes, accompanied by fun lectures and activities. According to the Observatory’s website, some of the darkest skies in North America hover over the Davis Mountains. The sight of billions of stars is magical. The nighttime desert cold – unexpected.

• The Marfa lights phenomena: unexplained orbs of light that appear along Hwy 90 near Marfa.  They float right above the horizon and move around, merge, split, dart about. It’s difficult to actually reach the lights because of the treacherous terrain. There is a viewing station right off the highway where you can stand from a distance and observe the activity. Yes, I saw them. No, I’m not sure what they are. I’d have to say the experience was creepy as hell. There are no lights on the highway and no lights on the walk from the side of the road to the viewing station.  All I could do, at 2am in this remote off-road moment, was think about the number of creatures nearby that could sting, bite or eat me.

The Window. Photo: Cathey Franke

• Hiking the Chisos Mountains, which is the only mountain range enclosed within a national park. Definitely head up to see The Window, a popular vista point where you can view hundred of miles of valleys.

Santa Elena Canyon. Notice my miniature brother in bottom right corner. Photo: Cathey Franke

• Exploring Big Bend National Park, only about 15 minutes from our hotel.  It is huge, it is rugged, it is three environments (river, desert, mountains) in one. According to Wikipedia, it has 1,200 species of plants, more than 450 species of birds, 56 species of reptiles, and 75 species of mammals. The Santa Elena Canyon, my favorite highlight, is a seven-mile gorge cut by the Rio Grande visible over 10 miles away. The limestone ridges reach a height of 2,000 feet, making it virtually impossible not to have your earthly significance put in check.

…

We did not have any international incidents. No one was detained or deported. There were no heat victims or deadly snake attacks. We did not run into any angry black bears on Chisos Mountains nor did we encounter Leatherface in our secluded cabin.

Despite the nay-saying and lack of creature comforts, two city slickers and a child were able to enjoy themselves in the middle of nowhere. We drove hundreds of miles through undefiled land, danced by flashlight, ate dried goods out of Styrofoam containers, got bug bitten and muddy, took thousands of pictures, and laughed.

We lost our cell phones. We forgot about the TV. We remembered our family ties.

I considered my search for solitude and realized that the true essence of the experience was only possible by sharing it.

The joy of road trippin'. Photo: Cathey Franke

Terlingua/Big Bend Landscape Photos:

Where to start…

Well, we’ve been super busy with Nutcracker vignettes and rehearsals. I’ve been having a lot of “Senior Moments” where I suddenly realize, “This is my last SPF Breakfast” or “This is my last vignette” or “This is my last Nutcracker rehearsal”. Nutcracker has been such a huge part of life these past 14 years and I will miss it greatly. Enjoy some of my favorite pictures from vignettes and rehearsals.

Sugar Plum Fairy Breakfast

my future husband, will mason garner!

the traditional spf shot

Leah with her rockstar Bahbt buddies

Mall of the Mainland Vignette

Kate accidentally put on her tutu with the hanger still on. Gosh I love 5,6,7, Kate moments.

king and i in our pose

t-rav and i as arabian

Kemah Vignette

Mommy helping me with my SPF headpiece

i love my best friend. max and i rockin as spf and cavalier.

Rehearsals

photo credit: max isaacson

Come out and see Bay Area Houston Ballet and Theatre’s The Nutcracker. Performances are December 5th,6th,12th,and 13th at 2pm and December 4th, 5th, 11th, and 12th and 7:30. For more info visit www.bahbt.org

Love you all so much,

CC

]]> http://theyearzero.wordpress.com/2009/11/30/reliving-wuthering-heights/ Mon, 30 Nov 2009 10:12:29 +0000 Milo http://theyearzero.wordpress.com/2009/11/30/reliving-wuthering-heights/

This morning I left home at 7.15am to be instantly confronted by heavy, driving, squally rain – gigantic puddles and a cold, biting wind. This, in pitch black – the joys of living in Northern Europe in winter. It was a most unpleasant 12 minute power-walk to the station. It also became quite readily apparent that failure to add a scarf, gloves, hat and warm shoes to today’s apparel was a big mistake. I was, in short, not dressed for ‘Wuthering Heights’-type weather.

By the time I’d transited to the tube I was drenched (though yes, I had been wielding an umbrella). My black, Spanish leather shoes were soaked through, as were the lower part of my jeans. Lots of people had umbrellas blown inside out, mascara ran, painstakingly coiffed hair-dos were reduced to bedraggled messes. People dripped – like they’d just walked out of the sea.

Descending down into London’s labyrinthine underground was, for once, a blessed relief. A warm, comforting feeling; soporific. Like those who came before us who’d sought solace in the underground during the blitz. It felt a bit like that this morning, escaping down and down into the bowels of this dark, brooding, Dickensian city. The tube was a subterranean sanctuary 15 storeys below ground where this grim weather could not reach.

She was certainly not going to get on the back of a motorcycle and hold tightly to a stranger, as he negotiated through the traffic. The experience of riding the ojek was something she was more than eager to pass up. Riding the train, on the other hand, was something she was seriously taking into consideration. She was curious to see how Indonesia’s rail system functioned. Was it anything like Singapore’s Metro Rail transit that arrived every three minutes on the dot at each station, she wondered. Or was it anything like the train stations in Tokyo, Japan, where the conductors helped passengers get into the train by shoving them in, she mused further on.

It was a Friday morning, the day of Idul Adha for the Moslems hence a holiday in Indonesia, when she set out with her two friends to Jakarta. First stop was Carrefour for an errand –the heels of her Nine West stiletto boots needed repairing. Carrefour was teeming with shoppers packing their trolley with every imaginable item on sale or not on sale. The shoe repair shoe was not idle either. The four attendants in the tiny kiosk were busily sewing straps, buffing shoes, measuring and gluing soles.

“Total bill will be Rupiah63, 000,” said one of the attendants. “You can pay when you collect the shoes later.”

The train station was just next to the French hypermart, she was told. The trek to the train station, which she imagined would be orderly and nicely laid out, was a short walk on the uneven pavement parallel to the highway. Every now and then a gaping hole would open up from below; the entire slab of concrete apparently had collapsed into the sewer underneath. They passed an abandoned building and an ornamental twin-engine airplane.  Where was the train station, she wondered.

Down the steep staircase they went and deeper under the highway. An elderly Moslem lady sat on the narrow walkway separated by a high wire railing from the canal, her tiny plastic cup waiting for kind souls to drop in a few coins.  Deeper down into the tunnel, she imagined herself walking into the underground lair of a triad or the den of Hades.  The sun streamed through the other end of the underground tunnel, which opened up, on their side, to a nondescript ticket office and, across, the train stop with passengers travelling the opposite way.

The station was far from what she was used to in Singapore, which was well-lit, air-conditioned and fitted with signboards. The signboards and directory maps were nowhere to be found or the timing board telling the traveler how long before the train arrives. It was as if you had to negotiate through your senses, like your gut would tell you this is the train you’re to board. Or, when all else fails, you simply follow your companions who have done it before.

She was heading to Kota Jakarta and the 30-minute ride was a bargain at Rupiah1, 000 for a one-way ticket.

“A friend of ours used to go take the train so she could just buy cheap oranges,” he narrated with a chuckle.  “You can buy a lot of things of the train! Just you wait and see.”

“Remember the people holding a concert in the bus?” the other asked her. “Well, this time it’s almost like a choral group inside the train!”

That would be a sight indeed, she reflected.  Hardly anything surreal happens inside the trains in Singapore except perhaps for the vulgar seduction games of teenagers who destroy the sensual nature of seduction games.  No one sings inside the train. No one even smiles so count out singing and, most certainly, no selling of food stuff. You can’t even bring a bottle of water inside the train station.

The far-from-rickety train pulls up. She hopped onboard the car, distinctly an old Japanese train model shipped elsewhere for a second run. It was a hot Friday so the air conditioning was more than welcomed as well as the orange cushion seats.

“Err, this is new,” he uttered, looking completely puzzled. “Where are the vendors?”

He looked at him who was equally baffled. No modern day minstrels, no food-and-drink vendors and definitely no oranges on sale.

“They must be upgrading their trains. This wasn’t what we got onboard before,” he speculated, as uniformed employees walked up and down the cars.

Buildings, vast areas of lands and Jakarta’s monuments whizzed past the tinted windows. There were neither overhead announcements of the next train stop nor any sign at the train stop so alighting was tricky. Fortunately, they were heading towards the end of the line. The station was brimming with a throng of people when it pulled up at Kota Jakarta. Most were heading towards the exit cordoned off by two ticket attendees collecting stubs from arriving passengers. The rest were sitting on the benches waiting for their trains to pull up.

There was something different in the mien of the people at the station, she thought to herself. How would she describe it? Exhausted? Dazed? Reconciled to life’s trials and tribulations? The manner of dressing was different as well – nothing fancy, just something thrown together without thought of color co-ordination, occasion and whatever a fashionista would take note of.

She loved the metal cathedral-like ceiling of Kota Jakarta, reminding her of the architecture of King’s Cross Station in London. Outside, amidst the angkot-criers’ booming voices, there was a mad rush to board the angkot to various destinations.

It was back to the train station around mid-afternoon after walking around Mangga Dua, the Indonesian counterpart of Thailand’s weekend Chatuchak market. The ticket price was slightly higher. This time it was Rupiah1, 500 for the way back. And that’s when she finally experienced the train ride the two had been talking about after being told by the ticket conductor that they boarded the wrong train – they were on the Rupiah3, 000-train ride.  No histrionics – just matter-of-fact admonition to get off at the next stop and get on the next train.

She had a feeling of being stranded while waiting for their train to arrive. There was nowhere to go; the train was the only way out of the place. A train was berthed at the other side of the tracks, which had been turned into a lounge with a man moving up and down the train aisle with his plastic container-pushcart of neatly arranged fried tofu. Outside, on the platform, some peddled cold juice, water, and chocolate drinks while some hawked oranges. No singers inside and outside of the train though.

Our train finally arrived jam-packed with people. No air conditioning and still no singers.  No poles to hold on to either, and the straps too high for her to reach, she had to find her balance against the motion of the train.

“We need to stay close to the exit or we’d never get out,” he advised her, steering her towards the door.

 “That was what happened to him,” he continued. “He got stuck in the middle so we had to pull at his hand to get him out of the train. If we hadn’t, he’d have had to get off at the next stop.”

“The rose must re-become the bud born of its parent stem, before the parasite has eaten through its heart and drunk its life-sap.”
~HP Blavatsky

She had two choices – drop her luggage off at the hotel after landing at the airport or head straight to the exhibition after landing. Either way, she decided she’ll make her choice after the plane lands, as she sat at the departure lounge of AirAsia Indonesia. It was a full flight she mused to herself, staring at the steady stream of passengers making their way into the lounge. The lounge was already teeming with travelers. At the row of seats next to the departure door were three friends all lost in their own world. One whiled the time away playing his PSP; another fiddled with his iPod while the only woman in the group just sat quietly on her chair. In front of her were a mother and daughter, passports in hand, quietly waiting for boarding to commence. Beside her were another group of women chatting away.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the lady who sat next to her outside the departure lounge. She recognized the shawl, skinny jeans and black flats. She – lady in skinny jeans – was also flying off to Singapore. She learnt about that tidbit after accidentally glancing at her boarding slip. They had the same boarding gate, D4. She – lady in skinny jeans – was oblivious to the world, busily typing on her sleek Blackberry, with her legs tucked underneath her.

Her thoughts shifted to the announcements overhead.

“Calling all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia heading to Ho Chi Minh City – please proceed to the lounge on your left. The lounge on your right is for the passengers of flight QZ7790 heading for Singapore. Thank you for your attention,” boomed the ground crew’s voice.

“To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia heading for Ho Chi Ming City – please approach the counter for your free snacks. Thank you for your attention,” she broadcast through the air.

“To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia QZ7790 – your aircraft has just landed and we’ll need 10 minutes to get everything prepared for your flight. Thank you for waiting.”

She had never flown AirAsia before but, despite the horror stories heard from friends, couldn’t pass up on the promo airfare for a weekend sojourn to the red dot. She wasn’t about to complain about the delay although she wanted to. After all, flying budget has its “perks”.

And yet another announcement: “To all passengers of AirAsia Indonesia QZ7790 – your flight is ready for boarding. We are now boarding passengers seated from rows 1 to 5. Kindly proceed to the departure gate at the end of the lounge.”

And she remembered why her friends wouldn’t fly AirAsia. The cabin crew stationed at the gate hardly looked at the boarding pass as she slipped through. The queue was virtually non-existent, it was simply pro forma. A throng of people circled the glass door and, in baby steps, maneuvered their way through the glass door, pass the cabin crew and down the tunnel to the plane.

However, AirAsia has certainly taken off, she mused, as she perused the in-flight catalogue of souvenirs – from shirts to Swiss adaptors – and the a la carte meals. The face of the budget airline’s CEO flashed through her mind suddenly. Tony Fernandez was not your archetypal stiff, staid and somber CEO running a major company. He was so casual in his attire of jeans, long-sleeved shirt and a red cap touting the AirAsia brand while his counterparts were garbed in the traditional corporate attire for the annual aviation conference when she first – and last – saw him. She gathered her wits, walked towards him, introduced herself (she was working as an editor for a travel magazine back then) and they exchanged cards.

Skeptics were just waiting their turn to have a go at the music man –turned – maverick airline CEO at one of the conference rooms of the then Swissotel The Stamford Hotel (now known as Fairmont Singapore). However, Tony was far from nonplussed at the jibes hurled his way. In fact, he humbly admitted that his credentials – he was formerly with Sony – did not state anything remotely connected to the aviation industry yet he pushed through with his plans of running his own airline. His wife was slightly cynical about the whole venture but backed him up nonetheless. Tony, undoubtedly, was facing difficulties in getting landing rights in Singapore at that time, which he took in stride, openly announcing that he wished Singapore would reconsider his nth application for landing rights. That was several years ago and AirAsia is regularly berthing its fleet of aircraft at Singapore Changi Airport.

Before she knew it, in less than two hours, she was landing at Singapore Changi, and that’s when she felt the coldness in the air, the queasy feeling in the tummy and the heaviness in spirit. But she brushed them aside and hurried to the taxi stand. She barely had enough time to hail a cab and hightail it to Artesan Gallery on Bukit Timah Road. Crossing her fingers, she hoped traffic would be smooth and the driver the silent type. She was certainly not in the mood for idle chatter. Her luck hadn’t run out that evening and she managed to make it to the gallery for her sister’s first solo exhibition in Singapore. There were a few guests left but at least she made it.

It was four months ago when she packed her bags to start anew, to collect her shattered soul in the suburbs of Bekasi. Now she was back in the red dot flummoxed by the sea of emotions – anger, sadness, desperation, hope, betrayal, pining away for a lost love – rushing towards her. There has to be an end to this endless wave of misery she thought to herself, as she waited for the taxi attendant to hail her a cab.

“Welcome to Singapore. Berth number 3 ma’am,” cut through the air. She mumbled a thank you and rolled her bag to the boot of the waiting cab.

 Traffic was smooth. She glanced at her watch – she still had more than 30 minutes before the Nessun Dorma: New Works by Lyra Garcellano closed at 10.

 Her thoughts continued to meander: will the ghosts of the past let her be or will none let her sleep tonight in the red dot?