ASK Musings

No matter where you go, there you are.

Sunday

5

January 2025

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COMMENTS

Seventeen Days

Written by , Posted in Random

I haven’t been to work since 19 December. I mean, I haven’t been in the office since before then, but I mostly work from home, so at around 4PM on the 19th I turned off my work computer and managed to only think about it a couple of times. I didn’t travel – I didn’t even take a day trip (mostly thanks to the weather and the holidays).

So what did I do? I read like four books. I watched Christmas movies and baked. Austin and I sorted out some home repairs and admin (like finally taking a bunch of art to a framer so we can put things up on our very bare walls). I talked to friends on the phone, sent texts to group chats. I put all my photos in photo albums, uploaded ones that aren’t printed yet, and started the process of printing them, because I love looking at physical pictures.

I also started an intro to Buddhism course, which I am super excited about. I’ve taken meditation courses before, and read some books, but I’m specifically excited about taking the steps to actually learn about the Buddha and see if this spiritual tradition is one that resonates with me.

I wrote nearly every day, and posted essays that had been sitting in my drafts.

I played games and did puzzles with Austin. I watched TV shows and movies with him. I sat reading next to him while he played video games. I annoyed him with my need to do things before I could relax.

I CUDDLED THE KITTENS SO MUCH.

Every day I got up and stretched, then ran or did the elliptical, and then did my chores. Usually by mid-day I was done with what I wanted to do that day, and would just sit and read, or watch TV, or maybe go on a walk with Austin. Or bake something. It was delightful.

As always though, in the back of my mind was the reminder that at some point I’d have to go back to work, and back to my regularly scheduled life. And don’t get me wrong, I have a sweet life. Like, it’s really cushy. My partner and I ‘own’ our own home (well, like 25% of it), I have a decent job with a good enough salary and great boss and a schedule I set myself. I have friends and meaningful non-work activities. I have reasonably good health, and I’m very active.

But it did get me thinking, as I regularly do, about the decisions that have been made over the centuries that got us to this place. A place where, even with all the positives about my life, I was exhausted and pretty desperate for this time off. A place where so many folks have to work super hard at jobs they hate to be able to afford things that should just be available, like food, and water, and shelter. Even the phrase we commonly use to talk about working is to ‘earn a living,’ as though we need to earn the right to live. It’s fucking wild.

My job isn’t important, and a lot of jobs are not critical, though I do try to shift the perspective because otherwise I think I’d be miserable. Like, yes, some folks spend their days moving numbers around spreadsheets. But maybe that’s the spreadsheet that manages the production budget for a TV show or film that brings people joy. I do a lot of tasks that on their own seem menial, but they do help (very far down stream) students pursue their dreams of gaining knowledge or becoming doctors. That’s kind of cool.

And of course, behind all of this, was the turning of the calendar, and the assessment of where I am in life in general and what I value and want to focus on. I think there’s more work I need to do there, but this little break has shown me that I want more of this kind of time and space, I want more travel, and I want to find ways to help more people to be able to have what THEY want out of life.

Also more kitten cuddles.

Saturday

4

January 2025

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COMMENTS

Wicked Part 1

Written by , Posted in Reviews

4.5 Stars

I read the book Wicked is based on in 2018 and did not like it. But I’d heard some of the songs from the musical and so the next year for my birthday my partner got us tickets to go see the production in the West End, and I absolutely loved it.

When I heard about the film version being made, and that Ariana Grande had been cast, I had some doubts, because she was known to me mostly as a pop singer, and I was concerned someone who wasn’t primarily a musical theater actor wouldn’t be able to do the part justice. I didn’t have concerns about Cynthia Erivo being cast given her musical theater background. I had further doubts when I learned that the film was being split into two parts, and that the first part was going to be as long as the musical itself was. Why? Why was this necessary?

I’m thrilled that I was wrong to be skeptical about the casting decision and the choice to split the film in two. I’d known for awhile that I was wrong about Grande’s casting, because I am on TikTok and so had seen so much of her performance before being able to watch the film itself. Last night we finally were able to stream it at home, and it was absolutely spectacular. Yes, it was two and a half hours long, but I loved nearly every minute of it.

There were parts that dragged a little and could have been cut shorter, but I also think that the film’s storytelling helped make the different aspects of the plot and the characters much clearer than the stage musical. I mean, it makes sense – facial expressions are easier to read, and multiple takes mean you can get the best version of a scene before the viewers. But being able to linger on a scene a bit longer can help address one of the issues that I think so many musicals have – jumping from song to song without any character development in between. I also think the acting was incredible from both Erivo and Grande. Grande had me laughing out loud multiple times – and the choices she and Erivo made during the songs were incredible.

I loved the sets and costumes as well. I know some folks didn’t like the color choices or the lack of color saturation, but I think it really worked well. Some of the effects didn’t work so great (specifically the lion cub – I briefly thought I was watching the Lion King remake), but others were breathtaking. And the direction of the large production numbers was fantastic. I cannot imagine singing and dancing live while doing repeated takes of such athletic numbers.

Beyond the quality of the production itself, I think the story it tells is important. Selfishness, overconfidence, bullying, being an outcast, being taken advantage of, having values that are different from one’s friends (or at least having different lengths one is willing to go to in order to support those values) – all of these themes come into play, against the backdrop of such a fantastical world.

I’m happy we chose to buy and not rent it, because I’m looking forward to watching it again.

Friday

3

January 2025

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COMMENTS

The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie

Written by , Posted in Reviews

3 Stars

Best for:
Fans of the genre.

In a nutshell:
Jane Finn has some important war-related documents. Unfortunately, she has been missing for years, and even though The Great War is over, those documents are important. However, through a few seemingly random interactions, friends Tommy and Tuppence end up trying to track Jane down.

Worth quoting:
N/A

Why I chose it:
I’ve been enjoying her books and plays, and so placed holds on whatever the library had, and this was the first to become available.

Review:
I didn’t enjoy this as much as the The Unexpected Guest, but it was still an interesting read. I think one of the challenges for me was that there were quite a few characters that I had some trouble recalling exactly who was who, and how they were related to each other. I also knew I had to accept the premise of these important documents about the war, but it was hard to understand exactly why they mattered so much since the war was over, so the sort of … desperation everyone had to get a hold of them didn’t make tons of sense to me, but I have a feeling I just misunderstood or didn’t catch the part where it was explained.

As usual, there were a few twists in the book, but unfortunately one of the main one’s I had figured out very early on in the book. Probably just a lucky guess, but when it was eventually revealed, instead of feeling like ‘oooh, go me, I figured it out,’ I felt a bit disappointed. Not what one hopes for in a book. I did, however, enjoy the language. Most of the books I read are at most 20 years old, but this book was written over a century ago, so it’s interesting to hear the word choice and the style of speaking.

This was Christie’s second ever book, so I can see why it might not be one I enjoyed as much as others, but it was still worth the read.

Thursday

2

January 2025

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We’ll Prescribe You a Cat by Syou Ishida, Translated by E. Madison Shimoda

Written by , Posted in Reviews

4 Stars

Best for:
Cat lovers. Those who enjoy a slightly melancholy, but also hopeful, look at everyday life.

In a nutshell:
Five individuals seek assistance from a mysterious clinic.

Worth quoting:
N/A

Why I chose it:
My sister gave it to me for Christmas. She knows me well.

Review:
I read most of this book in one sitting – where I am, 2 January is also a holiday, and I enjoyed the return of sunny weather by sitting indoors devouring this sweet book.

The book is broken down into five stories, featuring six cats and five humans who are in need of some help in their lives. One hates his job and says he wants to know how he can just get on with it as he needs the work. Another is a sexist man who feels diminished at work and in his home. The third is a woman who is dismissive of her young child’s concerns. The fourth is a woman who runs her own company and is tired of being the only one who does everything the ‘right’ way. Finally, the last is a woman who has lost her own cat.

Each person finds their way to the clinic via recommendation, but not directly – it’s always a friend of a friend’s cousin or someone they run into at work who recommends the clinic. And the prescription is always the same – a cat, for a week or two. And the cats do help – but perhaps not in the expected ways.

Two days ago I celebrated the 13th anniversary of ‘gotcha’ day of our two rescue kittens. We moved them across the world with us, and they are the center of so much joy (the cuddles! The playfulness despite their age!) and frustration (the puke! The multiple visits to the vet each year!). They’ve been in my life for nearly a third of it, and it’s wild to even imagine them not being here. I love when a book like this can capture how important cats can be in the lives of their caretakers.

Wednesday

1

January 2025

0

COMMENTS

My Story by Lewis Hamilton

Written by , Posted in Reviews

2 Stars

Best for:
I cannot imagine anyone other than a new Lewis Hamilton fan finding this book interesting.

In a nutshell:
Lewis Hamilton shares his journey to Formula One, ending at the end of his very first season as a Formula 1 driver (so 1985-2007, essentially).

Worth quoting:
“But I do not want to be the Tiger Woods of motor racing – just being the Lewis Hamilton of motor racing will be cool enough for me.”

“It is mostly mental energy that you are losing; you must try not to empty ‘the bottle’ of your own energy to keep everyone else happy.”

Why I chose it:
This was my partner’s Christmas gift to me this year (we always just do a gift for the home, and then exchange one book on Christmas Eve) because I have somewhat recently gotten into F1, and my favorite driver is Hamilton.

Review:
It is unfortunate to start out with such a critical review for 2025, but I am still happy I read this book because I did learn some things about Hamilton. For those of you who aren’t aware, Lewis Hamilton is the 7-time World Driver Champion of Formula 1 (and should have been an 8-time champion, but that’s a whole other story). He’s also the only Black driver out of 20 on the grid, and the only Black driver in the history of the sport (out of 805 drivers). He’s outspoken about a lot of issues such as racism and LGBTQ+ rights. Of course, he’s also (now) a multi-millionaire.

Like a lot of folks, I came to know F1 via Drive to Survive, a documentary on Netflix. But I didn’t learn about the series until maybe its third or fourth season, and I didn’t start actually watching F1 in real earnest and following it until I think 2023, when we realized our Now TV subscription included live coverage of all the race weekends. Now, my partner and I are all in. As an early birthday present my partner gave me the giant LEGO Mercedes F1 car, which took awhile to build and is, frankly, so cool. We spend race weekends watching practice, qualifying, and of course the race. When my sister and her partner were visiting over the summer, we basically forced them to watch the British Grand Prix, which was especially amazing as Hamilton won it. I play football (soccer) on Sundays, so often I’ll miss the race and will come back to the changing rooms to see a play by play series of text messages so I still can experience it. And yes, I’m aware of the negatives of F1 – the sportswashing, the politics, the money.

With all that as preamble, this was the perfect book to get for me in theory, but unfortunately it is not a well-written book. I think the responsibility for this lies with the editors and the ghostwriter employed to tell Hamilton’s story, because it reads basically like a bunch of interviews strung together and edited only to remove any sense of drama from it. Hamilton was 22 at the time it was written, and he is not a writer. I’ve mostly only read sport autobiographies written by women (Megan Rapinoe, Hope Solo, Abbie Wambach, Caster Semenya) – but whether those were ghost-written or not, they were definitely better than this one. I even wondered if it was perhaps a young adult or even child’s edition but no, it seems to be just the standard copy that was printed.

The book follows a linear time line after the introductory chapter, and gets into Hamilton’s young life and how he got into karting and then professional driving. There are interesting parts about his young life, his education, and his relationship with his family, given his parents divorced when he was so young. He credits his father with so much of his own success, but there are a lot of allusions to how hard his father was on him.

Because I wasn’t watching F1 during Hamilton’s start, I didn’t know much of anything that happened during his rookie year (like, th fact that he nearly won the World Driver Championship that year!), and that section of the book flowed a bit better. He covers most of the races, and addresses the ‘Ferrari issue’, which I didn’t know about and had to look up online before it was explained. I also wonder how Hamilton feels about some of the things he shares now that many more years have passed – talking about how cool it was to meet P Diddy (yikes), and giving over a paragraph to how much he enjoyed being on a talk show with David Cameron and how he wasn’t really into politics (double yikes). But also, like, what 39 year old would look back at every decision he made at 22 and think ‘yep, totally nailed it’? Certainly not me…

So far I’ve read two F1 books, and neither has really been great. I’m not sure if its the quality of the (ghost) writers, or if folks just haven’t figured out how to write a compelling motor sport book, but I think a biography would probably be more interesting to read than this memoir, at least while Hamilton is still a driver. If he decides to write a complete memoir after he retires, I will certainly read that, though hopefully he’ll work with a better ghostwriter and team.

Monday

30

December 2024

0

COMMENTS

My Year in Books 2024

Written by , Posted in What I'm Reading

Another successful Cannonball Read – 52 books this year.

I read quite a few mystery / thrillers, which was fun. I also relied more on audio books than usual and I think that genre lends itself well to the audio format. I do want to try to get back to more physical books this year, as I have loads of non-fiction books on my shelves begging to be read. And, as you’ll see with the graphics below, I left the Amazon-run GoodReads for the independent StoryGraph. So far I’m still getting used to it but I’m happy I made the switch.

I read books by Authors from ten nations: Australia, Denmark, Iceland, Ireland, Japan, South Africa, South Korea, Sweden, the UK, and the USA. Most of the books I read were written by white authors, so that’s something to work on for next year. I did read books by Asian, Black, and Indigenous authors as well. I also only read books by two trans or non-binary authors – again, something to focus on for next year. The vast majority of the books I read were written by cis women.

I was also apparently quite the busy reader in the autumn. I think that’s when I realized I was behind my reading goal. Not sure what happened in October…

I only rated five of the books I read this year as five star, and two of those were more visual books. My two favorites of the year are probably The Measure by Nikki Erlick, and Night Watching by Tracey Sierra. My two least favorites were I am a Hitman by Anonymous, and Women Without Kids by Ruby Warrington.

I’m in the middle of three books at the moment, which I hope to finish up this week. Given the weather where I am right now, I won’t be spending a lot of time outdoors any time soon, so perfect to get a head start on my goals for 2025, which include completing another Cannonball read.

Tuesday

24

December 2024

0

COMMENTS

Butter by Asako Yuzuki

Written by , Posted in Reviews

3 Stars

Best for:
People looking for a very long book to sink their teeth into; people who enjoy romantic descriptions of meals.

In a nutshell:
Journalist Rika is after an interview with Manako Kajii, who is about to undergo a retrial after being convicted of murder three former boyfriends. When she finally gets a meeting with Manako, her life takes a turn.

Worth quoting:
“A far more important question, she had come to understand, was how to enjoy this time to the fullest.”

(talking about someone being concerned that someone else had put on weight: “Being that upset about what happens to somebody else’s body! How can someone be so conscious of what shape another person takes, of the extent to which they’ve liberated their desires? It’s not normal to feel such anxiety about that. If you’re paying more attention to the form other people are assuming than what’s taking place inside yourself, it means something is seriously wrong with you.”

“It’s like we’re all being controlled, so that when you come across a person who’s shaken off that control you feel irritated.”

Why I chose it:
It looks so interesting, and I usually shy away from longer novels and so wanted to try this one out.

Review:
I am ambivalent about this book because I think it sets out to accomplish a lot of things and ends up watering down nearly all of them. The book deals with so many themes – the celebration and worship of high-profile criminals, patriarchy in Japan, work/life balance, romantic desires and their shaping by society, friendships, food culture. Yes, books can have many interlacing and related storylines, but this book felt a bit like a slog to get through, and I’m still not entirely sure how much of what was included was necessary. Is it a book exploring the Japanese desire for women to be extremely thin? Is it a thriller trying to determine if the convicted criminal did indeed commit the crime? Is it about a woman determining what she wants for her own life? I think yes, and I think it’s maybe a bit too much in one place.

I can’t speak to how much is accurate about Japanese culture, in terms of that particular flavor of patriarchy, but there were certain themes that did resonate with me. The idea that women need to be thin to be desirable is one that translates over to US and UK cultures, and reminded me of a discussion going on right now about semi-glutides (Ozempic et al). Lots of folks seem to be judgmental about the use of them to lose weight (similar to critics of bariatric surgery’s) primarily because they see it as ‘cheating.’ Because it isn’t actually about women being thin; it’s about women being obedient. Not eating ‘too much,’ exercising the ‘right’ way, eating the ‘right’ foods. If they get thin just by taking a shot every month, they aren’t conforming in the right way.

The obsession with the convicted woman that kicks off the plot of the book is another one that feels relateable – true crime is such a huge market for podcasts and documentaries and films these days. There are people who look at criminals and see someone irredeemable, someone who isn’t complex, someone evil. There are others who are interested in how the person got to the point of committing those crimes because they find it fascinating. And there are those who either believe in the innocence of the person, or believe they aren’t responsible for their actions. Rika – the journalist from whose perspective the story is told – is a journalist interested in the back story of this woman partially because she seems so uninterested in fitting society’s expectations of women. At least … initially.

There was a lot I found interesting about this book, and my assumption is that the author would say it was all necessary to the story she was trying to tell, but there were parts that felt a bit … too much. I’m not going to get into spoilers here, but there were a lot of stories that even though they were explored, I felt like we only scratched the surface on them. Maybe that was the point? Maybe that’s a sign of quality writing – that the author got me to care about the different stories even without more information. But also I found myself annoyed, especially at the ending. There is complexity here, and there isn’t necessarily an obvious conclusion (at least to me) of the primary storyline involving the convicted murdered, so perhaps that’s partly why I’m kind of meh on things?

As I say, I am truly ambivalent about this book. It might be a fantastic piece of literature, or it might not be.

What’s next for this book:
Probably donate it.

Monday

23

December 2024

0

COMMENTS

One of My Favorite Places on Earth

Written by , Posted in Adventures

You know how a song or scent can take you back in time? You catch a whiff of an ex’s cologne and suddenly you remember how poorly you handled that break-up. Or you hear ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls and suddenly you’re in the car with your friend Kelly, right after the welcome back dance to your senior year of high school, having just backed into your friend’s dad’s car? (No? Just me?) For me, I’ve also noticed that occasionally, a way I lay in bed will take me back somewhere. Not in that dramatic sit-up-straight from a dream ‘where am I’ kind of thing. Just, every once in awhile, I’ll be laying in bed, having just woken up, and be somewhere else. Usually a vacation. This morning it happened again, and for maybe five seconds, I was in the twin bed in the condo my parents used to have in Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

My whole life, until two years ago, my parents had this condo in Lake Tahoe. My mom, aunt, and grandmother went in on it together, but I only remember my immediate family using it. It has fixtures from the late 70s, a red Formica counter top in the kitchen, smoke damage from renters who didn’t open the flue when they used the fire place. I think it came furnished — if I recall correctly, it was the model for the line of 30 condos in the development, so my parents just kept the furniture, which includes this piece of ‘art’ over the green couch that looks like fireworks but I think are actually flowers? No clue. It’s three stories, with a tiny basement off the garage where we used to play dangerous games of marco polo, the kitchen / living area and a bathroom (with carpet – yikes) and laundry area, then three bedrooms upstairs. ‘My’ room had twin beds, my sister’s had a double bed (and at some point gained a GIANT R.E.M. poster that was there right until my folks sold the place), and a bathroom we shared, plus my parents’ room. The bathroom my sister and I share had a door connecting straight to her room, so she could lock the bathroom door, lock her door, and keep me out. In fact, we had one bruiser of a fight that led to that lock breaking.

The condo was pretty close to the middle of town, and about a mile from the beach. It was not anything like the giant mansions off the water – the walls were thin enough that you could hear anything going on in the other units. I’m pretty sure in the nearly 40 years that my parents owned it, it barely went up in value. It was not an investment, and it’s not some glamorous vacation spot. But man, were we lucky to have it growing up. We had a built-in place that we could go to whenever we wanted. It was a five hour drive away when I was younger (and needed to stop at least three times along the way), but now it maybe 3 and a half to four hours from the home I grew up in, where my parents still live. I’ve made that drive dozens of times in my life, usually in the summer, but also in the winter (I even removed the chains from the mini-van once), through the snow, thunderstorms. But no matter the time of year, there was always this moment, when we were making the drive from Truckee into King’s Beach, where we’d summit one of the mountains and the lake would come into view. Always this deep, deep blue.

(And no joke, that lake IS deep. Like, in the middle, something like 1700 feet deep. It’s bananas. There are petrified forests down there. It’s an alpine lake, so it’s really cold, especially in the bottom. Every so often, a body will surface that has died hundreds of years ago.)

All through elementary school, the day we go out of classes for the year, we would head up to Lake Tahoe for a week. I have one sister who I generally got along with (and who is a close friend now), four years older than me. We’d sit in the back of the car, sort of doing our own thing, I think. I don’t remember car games really being something, though I have a vague recollection of a travel Guess Who? game, so maybe we did? There was a rest stop near the start of the mountains, and there was also a McDonald’s in Auburn where we would get some food (in later years, we switched to In ‘N’ Out.)

After making our way through Truckee, we’d pull into King’s Beach, knowing we were only about ten minutes from Incline Village, where the condo was. We’d perk up from whatever naps we’d taken, turn off the music (inevitably the Dirty Dancing soundtrack or some Beatles or Rolling Stones tape) and drive along the water until we pulled into the spot in front of the condo. My dad would unlock the front door (in later years, using the silly golf bag key chain I got for him one father’s day, which had a functioning zipper that he kept a $20 in), and we’d race inside. That first day was for unpacking, then making the trip up to Raley’s.

Raley’s was the giant supermarket in town. It felt kind of like a superstore before I knew what that even was. We’d split up, getting everything we’d need for the week. Sandwich fixings, snacks, root beer for floats (we didn’t have soda usually, but got it in Tahoe), ice cream, sugary cereals (again, a vacation treat). We’d pile the groceries into the car, unpack them at home, and then … go to the Hacienda.

Oh god, the Hacienda. It closed a couple of years back, and is now some sort of brew pub, which, fine. But the Hacienda was the shit. The salsa was amazing, the chips were perfect, their virgin Strawberry and Raspberry daiquiris were amazing. When I was eating meat, I’d get their albondigas soup, and a taco; later it was all about the cheese enchiladas. My parents would get margaritas, and meeting up with my parents’ good friends, Karen and John McAdams, was usually on the list that first night. After dinner, we’d order fried ice cream, the likes of which I’ve never found since. It was perfection, served in this giant sugary fried tortilla. Even though it was maybe a ten minute walk from our house, it wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I think we would walk there for dinner.

Shit, now I’m hungry. Hold on.

As a kid, our days were pretty much the same. Wake up fairly early. Make lunch – tuna sandwiches, some snacks – and always, always, a thermos of either crystal light lemonade or iced tea. Pour on the sunblock. We’d drive down to the beach, with the rafts (including one with oars), and stake our claim. Almost all the way to the west side of the beach, where there was shade from the giant evergreen trees, and picnic table where my parents and the McAdams would play cards in the afternoon. As an adult, I’m not the biggest fan of beach vacations, but as a kid, I loved it. Racing to the water, trying not to burn the soles of my feet. Jumping in even though it was FREEZING. Scoping out the clear water, making sure there was nothing I was going to step on (I have a fear of things in the water, but it didn’t keep me from swimming, because that beach had pure sand and was so clear). We’d take out one of the rafts, or get in the blow-up boat with my dad, and go out the buoys that marked the edge of the swimming area.

In some years, as the drought set in and I got taller, I could almost walk all the way out to the buoys. That was weird. My dad and John were both over 6’6” and would sometimes try to walk the perimeter of the swimming area. Usually they’d be underwater in one place, but in particularly bad years, they could make it.

We didn’t play a ton of games at the beach – at one point a velcro ball and paddles appeared, but that was about it. After lunch, sometimes I’d lay on my towel for a nap, underneath the upturned blow-up boat. We also usually got a dollar or two to visit the beach snack bar and get laffy taffy, or red rope, or sometimes warheads.

Tired from the sun, we’d eventually pack up, go home, and shower. Dinner, followed by my parents going to the Hyatt to gamble. That was their hobby – and still is. They wouldn’t spend lots of money or anything, but it was fun for them. When we were younger, we’d have a babysitter, but by the time my sister was old enough to look after me, the evening would just be us, hanging out.

After that week, we’d come back home for the summer, but then return for three weeks in August (my dad used to have a LOT of vacation time). More of the same, although we didn’t go to the beach EVERY day. Sometimes we went to a different beach that had a pool. A few times we went to the California side to raft down the Truckee river.

We’d also spend the occasional day in King’s Beach, at Mr. Boburg’s mini golf. There’s a theory that the voice that tells you you didn’t get a hole in one (and thus a free game) on the last hole is my mother’s. Seriously, it sounds JUST like her. We played hundreds of rounds of mini golf there, followed by take-out from Kentucky Friend Chicken next door.

As we got older, we could invite friends up for a visit. Their parents would meet us half way in Auburn so we didn’t have to drive all the way back down. Jen was the one who usually came up with me, from when were pretty small through high school. One summer we watched Wayne’s World every day for a week. We went to the Hacienda ourselves and flirted with the bus boys. When I made some friends up there, all of us would hang out together.

At one point I decided that I wanted to work when we were there, so for three summers, my mom and I basically lived in Tahoe for two months, with my dad and sister (who by then was in college) coming to visit. For four summers (the first one was only a couple of weeks) I worked in the beach snack bar. 9:30-5:30 every day, with free lunch and as much soda as we wanted (it’s why I like Diet Pepsi more than diet Coke). Charlotte worked the grill, and she’d been there for a long time. I want to say she was in her 60s, but I was a teenager, so she was probably younger than that. Each evening I came home smelling like fried food – it was awhile before I ate mozzarella sticks again.

My second summer working there I met a VERY cute lifeguard. It feels very Saved by the Bell: Summer edition, but we did end up dating for a bit the next year. As much as a couple of 16-year-olds can date. We’d go to the bowling ally in town and bowl or play air hockey, or sneak into the beach and hang out. I became friends with his good friend, and even after the lifeguard and I stopped hanging out, I stayed friends with that guy. Like, for years. So weird.

My last summer there I worked at the snack bar during the day and then a couple of nights a week I hostessed and bussed tables at a local restaurant. I got people their drinks, made their salads, brought them bread. And left each night with a bunch of cash. Two things stand out to me: The rolls were heated in this sort of drawer oven, that we just reached into and grabbed, and the butter was in this giant tub that we kept in a sink surrounded by ice, and we’d use an ice cream scoop to get it out.

We did also visit in the winter sometimes, though I was the only one who engaged in winter sports regularly. When we were little, we’d go sledding. But actually in winters if we went to Tahoe we’d stay at the local hotel. I think it was because it was less of a pain in the ass to not have to shovel snow and such. I skied every winter from 5th grade until early high school, but then stopped. It was a lot and I didn’t love it.

Once I went to college I didn’t make it up to visit much anymore. I think we spent one Christmas and few New Year’s Eve’s up there, and I’ve gone back for the 4th of July, which is as small town America as it gets – pancake breakfast fundraiser at the fire station, parade, fireworks over the lake. I love that time. I took my partner up, but only once.

And now, as I’m living 6,000 miles away, I think about how fucking great those times were. How lucky I was, having this special place, with these consistent, lovely memories. It’s bananas how great it was.

 

(Courtesy of Google maps, our condo was the second window from the right, with the entrance right behand that giant rock in the middle.)

Sunday

22

December 2024

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Pure Joy

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There are so many different types of joy. There are achievements that bring joy, like completing a degree or writing a book. There are milestone moments, like getting married or, (I’m told) having a child. There are times when you see others experience those moments, and you share in their joy. And then there are moments that are so fun and unselfconscious that one just can’t help but feel joy.

Twenty five years ago, I felt that joy on a regular basis, when a song would come together, or a performance would click. Every school day I’d get an hour of singing (and two hours during my senior year!), and while not every day was full of joy, so many moments were. My high school time was absolutely fine. It wasn’t torture, it wasn’t the best time of my life. It was just a good four years where I made some great friends, learned things (both academic and practical), had some hard times.

But by far the strongest and most joyful memories I have are of my time in choir. I joined the beginner’s choir – Womens Ensemble – my freshman year. I didn’t have the strongest voice, but I could read music, and I was a hard worker. My second year I moved into the intermediate choir, for women only again, called Treble Clef. I spent two great years there, which included going on a singing tour in San Diego. And my senior year I was lucky enough to be in the mixed choir Concert Choir as well as the advanced smaller Chamber Singers. Again, I didn’t have the best voice out there – the only solos I ever had were in a musical, and playing Belle for like a minute during our pops concert. But I learned the music and worked hard.

And I had an amazing director in Ken Abrams. So amazing in fact that he took the Concert Choir on its first European tour the summer after I graduated, which meant my first time leaving North America was to sing in Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Czechia. Like, who DOES that? Who gets to hang out for two weeks with friend, singing in cathedrals and castles? It was life affirming, singing beautiful music in beautiful settings. And Abrams was exactly what one needs in a choir director: he was honest and any frustration or things that might be viewed as challenging were to make us better singers, the choir stronger, and that translated, I think, into making us better people.

 

(Apparently pointing at something off camera was my ‘thing’ during that trip? Look, I don’t know. I was 18 in Europe without my parents.)

Once I left high school, I didn’t really think about singing anymore. I missed it, but I had university, a new city, and just other things I was interested in. But I did remember that joy, especially when I’d be belting out along to a song on the radio. Singing is joy.

– – –

At my 20 year high school reunion, Abrams was there, which was a delightful treat, as I hadn’t seen him in about that long. A few years after that, I got an email from some people from my class about a retirement weekend for Abrams, where people were coming back to sing, and tell Abrams what he had meant to them. Because of other travel I had to the US I wasn’t able to go, but I did submit a short video for the documentary about him, talking about how the trip to Europe made such a huge impact on me. At that event there were apparently rumblings of an alumni tour, and when I received the email to determine interest, I knew I was in.

– – –

After confirming that we were a go for Portugal and Spain, Abrams put together a Google group and did a ton of work to make sure we could all learn the music. There were performance recording, rehearsal recordings, and recordings for each part. I bought my sheet music as well as a tiny keyboard so I could reactive that part of my brain.

And then we rehearsed. I learned the songs slowly, probably starting with the wrong ones, and spending time every two or three days. By Christmas it was every other day, then every day for the last couple of months. Plus there were the monthly ‘in person’ rehearsals, where I would call in via Zoom, usually at 8PM (I watched the ones that started in the middle of the night my time on replay). It was great to be conducted by Abrams again, even if it wasn’t quite the same. I did wonder how I was doing – I learned the songs and the notes and even the tones, but still, without anyone else hearing me, or me hearing the choir together, I had no real idea what I was in for. I even had a few stress dreams in the lead up to the trip. One of the things I like about choir is the community, and the remoteness of this definitely was a downside.

– – –

I have traveled on my own before. I do it nearly every month to go down to London for work, and in my 20s I took a couple of solo trips to Ireland and the UK. But this was my first time traveling somewhere without English as a main language by myself. Luckily I feel comfortable in cities, and I’d actually been to Lisbon five years earlier, so things were familiar. I got myself on the metro and to the hotel, and checked into an excellent room. And exciting, one of the people I knew from the tour was already there! I stopped in the hotel restaurant to see one of the people who I sang with in high school, went to get some snacks, and then got dinner at the hotel. The music was loud, the food was good, and I suspect the COVID was in the air …

– – –

The first morning there, we went on a visit to Belem Tower, and Abrams did what he always does – had us sing. This was the first time all of us were together, in person, and going to sing together. We sang Ride the Chariot and Ainna That Good News and it felt amazing. It was like a day hadn’t passed since I last sang in Europe. We then went inside to the top of the tower and sang Rorando Coeli, which is an echo song, and it sounded so, so cool. We were singing in a place built over 500 years ago. Who gets to say they’ve done that???

After a visit to the monastery we had our long rehearsal – over two hours of working through the set list. Ah, it was fantastic being back under Abrams’ direction, making beautiful music. The people in my section, most of whom I’d never sung with before, were so friendly, and sang so beautifully. I felt that joy again – I’d forgotten what it really felt like to work hard to make gorgeous sounds.

– – –

The afternoon of our first performance (which ended up being my only one), we had a rehearsal at the venue and it was already magical. A basilica with amazing architecture. Folks coming in off the street to look ended up watching us sing about one page of each of our songs. We returned in the evening and were given a space to warm up. I was quite nervous as again, it had been 26 years since I last sang with a choir. After watching the basilica choir sing some beautiful songs, we were up.

I remember a lot about the 30 minutes or so we were up there, mostly feeling confident in every song (except Shenandoah, when I just couldn’t find the note and so lip synced along until about halfway through) and enjoying seeing the smiles of the people in the audience. They seemed to be enjoying the music, and I was absolutely loving singing it. If you’re interested, you can view the whole performance here.

– – –

I was a bit anxious about the trip because I was traveling on my own, and had chosen to have my own room. I get overwhelmed in big groups for long periods of time, and need unscheduled downtime regularly. There were some people I knew, but not anyone I’d say was a friend.

Oh boy do I feel like that has changed. I reconnected with Beth, someone I knew when I was a little kid playing soccer together. I made new friendships with Catherine and Bryan and Charles. I felt like I could join up with any random group that was wandering around. I had lunches with folks I didn’t know before. I know I didn’t end up talking to everyone in depth – sometimes I did just get overwhelmed with the newness of so many people, but literally every singer and partner on the trip was a delight. I got to see some absolutely gorgeous architecture, take walking tours, and just enjoy being around people and places I’m not usually around.

– – –

I was feeling very run down for much of the trip, but assumed it was because of the travel and activities. I woke up in Seville feeling like a cold was coming on, so I masked up for the short bus tour and the longer walking tour, but by mid-day decided to take a nap as we had our second performance that night. I kept feeling more and more tired and just blech, so I thought I should double check I didn’t have COVID, since COVID doesn’t exactly mix with singing. I saw that black line appear and was immediately heartbroken, because my tour was over. I stayed an extra day in Seville after my fever broke, then took a (very well masked) train to Granada to rejoin the group for a night so I could catch my flight home.

– – –

Even with the devastation I felt at having my performance time cut short, that experience was still pure joy. Wonderful people, wonderful music. Working hard for months leading up to it, singing some easy and some really hard songs in my little office. I remembered what that particular type of joy felt like, and while I know part of it was down to the specific experience of having Abrams as a conductor, I also know that singing as part of a choir is something I love. So I found one here, in Glasgow! I only made a few rehearsals this autumn, but in 2025 I hope to commit to attending every week so I can have that specific type of joy in my life on a regular basis. This new choir purely sings pop songs, so no 16th century church songs, but rocking out to a mix of rock hits from the 1990s? Also fun.

And pure joy.

Saturday

21

December 2024

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A Love Letter to Cities

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If you asked, I wouldn’t describe myself as a romantic, hopeless or otherwise. I’m not a fan of grand gestures; I’m more a fan of someone who shows their love every day, in small ways, like doing the chore I hate the most, or remembering my favorite drink. However, when it comes to cities? Buildings older than the U.S. constitution? I find them endlessly romantic.

I grew up in a fairly generic suburban California area. We lived just about a mile from my elementary school but never walked; cars were just how you got around. It wasn’t that long ago that I realized how close we lived to the town center (maybe 25 minute walk), and am sad we didn’t spend more time getting around on foot. But even if we had, the area, while set against some lovely hills (at least in non-drought years), trafficked heavily in McMansions. Aesthetically, it was just not my thing.

I nearly went to college in New York City, but went with Seattle because I thought I’d get more of a college feel. I lived near campus, which was fairly suburban, but I enjoyed traveling downtown and taking in the the sights of Seattle. The buildings weren’t particularly old or storied, but it was a city, and my university campus was (mostly) gorgeous — the quad is still a place I visit when in town and in need of inspiration.

After college I moved to Los Angeles. HOO BOY. Talk about a city that isn’t really a city to me. I still went on walks, at times taking the bus up to the Getty museum to have some remove from it all, but everything felt sad to me. I had a car, and if I wanted to go to other parts of the sprawling metropolis, I needed the car. I remember going to a U2 concert after work one day. We left work at 5. The venue was 10 miles away. It took us 2.5 hours to get there. Ridiculous. I could have run there is less time.

Between the architecture and the need for a car, I wanted a change. I wanted to finally make the big move to the city that was always there, in the back of my mind. The one I’d only visited twice before, but fell in love with.

New York had been, for the first 22 years of my life, the end game. The ultimate goal. I wanted to be there. Not because I imagined a particularly bustling or glamorous life for myself, but because it was a proper city. Eight million people. A functioning (ish) transit system. And buildings that were older and taller than any I’d lived near before. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say that I became enamored of it because of Stacey in The Baby-Sitter’s Club, but screw that. I loved those books, and something about Stacey’s character and living in a city seemed so fascinating. I didn’t even really process that kids lived in big cities (ah, the sheltered suburban life). But I knew that I wanted to go there.

I can still picture the first time I took the subway by myself — the A C E up towards Central Park. I was doing it! I took my grad school reading and a towel and sprawled out in the grass in Sheep’s Meadow in September. I looked at the tall apartment buildings peeking over the trees on Park Avenue and Central Park West. I was here. I had, at 22, fulfilled what at that point in my life was my biggest dream. I was living in not just any city but, for me, THE city. The only one that mattered.

I started out living in the Village, in graduate student housing. The neighborhood was amazing, and like nothing I’d ever experienced. There was a kind of odd restaurant called Fuel Ray right on the corner, where we’d go for late night snacks (including amazing s’mores). There was a delicious burrito place — Harry’s, I think — that I frequented weekly if not more. I’d walk down to SoHo (literally a block from my apartment), and spend hours wandering around the different neighborhoods. I’d get lost (this was pre-smartphone) and have to consult my Not for Tourists guide to make sure I knew where I was. Every neighborhood was different, the architecture was amazing, and I could be around loads of people without having to talk to anyone.

I lived on the Upper East Side twice, which was a bit of a trip. Lots of rich people and super fancy brownstones. I had a doorman for the first (and only) time in my life. I didn’t take taxis often, relying instead on the subway and the bus. I went to Central Park as often as I could, not because I wanted to escape the city, but because it was such a part of the city, being able to see the buildings and hear the traffic while still totally enveloped in nature.

I lived in Brooklyn twice — once in a brownstone with a nightmare roommate (who owned the place), and once on my own in an extremely tiny studio apartment. I loved that I had gotten to a point where I could support myself in my own place in a gorgeous part of the city — Park Slope. I was a block from Prospect park, but a subway ride away from Manhattan. Again I would just go wandering, exploring. I’d spend Saturday afternoons window shopping, reading in the park, or going to a tiny old movie theatre (showing blockbusters – I’m not THAT interesting). I dated a few odd dudes, earned a graduate degree, and worked for a major private company and for the City. It was fantastic.

I loved that city, but after seven years, it was time to move on. I’m not sure why — I’d probably live there again, actually, but I applied to grad school in London, another world-class city. And one much, much older than New York. I moved into grad student housing in a converted women’s boarding house. I didn’t (couldn’t) work, and treated school like a job as much as possible: class and study M-F; take weekends and Wednesday afternoons off to really experience the city.

I had started running a year prior, so used my training runs as an excuse to see more of the city on foot. I ran across Tower Bridge almost daily, marveling at the architecture. I ran along the Thames, weaving around tourists and office workers. I visited museums on my own, wandered streets and neighborhoods that were unfamiliar to me. This is what I wanted. It was New York, but bigger. Better? Unclear. But so much of London seemed to be working well – more transit, free museums, TONS of parks.

But it ended, and I returned to Seattle. I was sad, depressed even. No more underground to rapidly get me where I wanted to go — buses took an hour or more from the suburban house I was staying in. No more free museums. No buildings more than 200 years old. It was a hard adjustment. But it got better. After seven months in a poorly managed apartment, my partner and I moved into a place in the heart of Capitol Hill. We could walk everywhere – even to work. I felt more connected to the city. We even bought a townhome a mile away, just on the edge of the neighborhood but still a mere block from the grocery store.

And then … We moved to London. I didn’t think I’d ever be back, but the opportunity arose, and even though I was settled in Seattle, and loving the city, it felt right to come back. We first lived in a 200+ year old building, with two underground stations a 12-minute walk away, a bus stop in front of us. I didn’t have a full-time job for the first 11 months we were there, so I could explore. I walked miles every day, and eventually found a job I could walk to.

After six years, we made yet another move – this time buying a flat in a tenement in Glasgow. Our neighborhood is south of the city center, but right in the middle of glorious architecture (including our own building), loads of parks, and even a bit of a country in the form of a herd of highland cows within walking distance. This will be our home for years, if not forever, and I love that it is in a city but also in a highly walkable neighborhood.

– – –

I know I love the buildings and infrastructure, the ease to get around. But I think what I love most is walking. Sidewalks and paths that make it safer for me. A small grocery store two blocks away; a large one 20 minutes’ walk. A movie theatre and multiple shops nearby, and buses or the tube available to take me to another neighborhood with delightful architecture, unique shops, and restaurants.

For me, cities mean walkability and freedom, but I know that some cities don’t fit that description.

I remember the second time I visited Houston. The first time was for a conference and I stayed downtown. The second time was also for work, but it was a smaller affair — a two-day training at a government office. I didn’t rent a car because I booked a hotel that was maybe 1/2 mile from the office. It may as well have been a nation away. There were sidewalks, but I might have been the first person to use them. The front desk staff seemed surprised that I didn’t need to park there. And in the evening, after the training ended, I assumed I’d go for a walk and explore the area. Just across the road was a big shopping center, after all.

Or so the online maps said.

However, that ‘road’ was a giant highway, and the only way to the other side was to walk beyond the office (maybe a mile in total), then find a functioning crosswalk signal (I eventually gave up and just froggered my way across) to get to an underpass and to the other side. Took 45 minutes when a well-designed (for pedestrians) rout would have been maybe 15? 20?

And look, the hotel, office, and shopping center weren’t in the middle of nowhere. If sidewalks and crosswalks and overpasses were designed with the walker — or wheelchair user — in mind, more people could take advantage of the businesses without getting into their cars. With the set up as it was, to be safer, one would drive, which deprives people of some exercise and some time outside. It’s a shame.

My sister used to live in Tampa, in a little development on an eight lane arterial. In one direction I could find a neighborhood in which to safely go for a run. But crossing the highway was like blood sport — drivers turning right paid no attention to the crossing signal and would get pissed if they almost hit the pedestrian who dared be out in the wold sans auto.

Tampa is a city, and so is Houston, but those areas clearly wanted to be more like the suburbs, the ones that don’t even bother with sidewalks, because who is walking anywhere?

This is another reason why I love the densely populated areas of cities. Old cities are not as accessible for people with mobility aids, but they usually at least have cobblestones or pavements connecting everyone. You’re mean to see the world there slowly. The grocery store is nearby, as is the doctor, and school.

Whenever we visit a new country that is small, or a city that is really a town, I wonder — could I live here? We spent one Christmas on the Isle of Lewis, in the Hebrides, and it was stunning. Open air, loads of sheep, beaches, the works. I ran my best times there. But if we needed pasta, or tampons, we needed the car. There was a bus, and it came once or twice an hour, so with some planning it could work. And maybe with a cycle (something I’ve had for a few years now, and use to get further afield, to football training and choir rehearsals) it might work, but I do wonder if I would be truly happy in a place where I couldn’t walk everywhere I needed to go.