You are here: at the intersection of Bourbon and Water Streets

Yes, I'm guilty of metaphoric mapmaking. I'm neither in New Orleans nor Providence. (But just now it occurs to me how polaristic those two places are, spatially and otherwise, if I did want to blog about the actual Bourbon or Water Street. And there are probably plenty of Water Streets, but the one I would write about is in Mr. Lovecraft's hometown and as I remember it has a coin laundry and a video store on it. Had. Are there still coin laundries and video stores?)

So back to the metaphoric intersection of Bourbon and Water. I received a message this afternoon and as a result I felt sad, frustrated, desperate and negative. It was just before a planned run that I got it. I ran anyway and only had to stop once to get my breathing under control. My face would screw up every now and then, and passersby probably thought, if they noticed at all, that it was due to the physical effort of running. It wasn't. I was running very slowly, sort of dejectedly shuffling along. I made a plan to bathe with a Bourbon on the rocks when I got home.

Normally when you plan to go to a specific destination you also have some idea of what you want to do there: see famous sites, visit a museum, eat a local specialty....I also had an agenda for my visit to Bourbon and Water,  and that was to cry. I wanted to sit in a hot bath, sip a cold Bourbon and bawl. While the first two conditions were easily met, I did not, unfortunately, have a bawl. My face screwed up like on the run every now and again, accompanied by a trickly tear or two, but mostly I just made strange noises. Sounded more like chuckling I think. Sometimes I let myself sort of moan. That probably sounded like I was pleasuring myself, had someone been listening at the door. And there were long pauses in between these outbursts, when I would kind of run out of breath. I would chuckle chuckle chuckle gasp. Pause. For a long time. Mooaaannn. I started to wonder about other people's experience with crying, specifically if they found it easy to "have a good cry." Haven't you heard people talk about that?

For a long time my attitude toward crying was mainly contemptuous. When done in the context of an argument I considered it an underhanded power play. Manipulative. I would get really angry at myself when I'd feel tears welling up out of anger or frustration. Now I think it's healthy to let yourself feel whatever emotion it is you're feeling. I'm in the Let It Out camp. I would just like to Let It Out a bit more effectively. Could be that I'm seeking to optimize inappropriately. Maybe everyone's experience at the intersection of Bourbon and Water Streets is a little different, but none better than any other. Maybe it's worth revisiting. Any thoughts on adult tears?

You are here: Olympic Stadium, Berlin

Second half-marathon, German capital. Put me in mind of seeing Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia films (1938 on the 1936 summer games)...undergrad? graduate school? I think it was at Harvard...I liked the pictures. And found the general message at the time not particularly propagandistic...I seem to recall frame after frame of German equestrians failing to clear a water obstacle. The effect was comic. But I don't really want to discuss her ideology. Suffice it to say I was there, I started running and 21.1 kilometers and two hours and 8 minutes later I was there again.

You are here: Carretta's on the Gulf

This is where I encountered the Crab Cake in its ideal, platonic form.  I'm sure of this because it did not allow itself to be photographed. It was cloud-like, puffy, cumulous, buttery and pure. It could have been served at Stuart Dybeck's Chinese laundry, or been a savory version of a Thiebaud painting. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Portico Quartet summon it out of thin air. As it was, I ate it. With infinite pleasure.

I ate a lot of other things there as well and recommend that you make reservations immediately. Two dinners and a brunch would be a good start. And the nice thing about Carretta's on the Gulf is there's a hotel handy (www.sandpearl.com), so you don't have to drive home between meals.

You are here: Clearwater Beach

I once knew a guy...let me start over. A guy I knew was charged with teaching college freshmen something about how to write. Position papers were part of the syllabus. In order to provoke them, this guy, I'll call him Philly, presented the hypothesis that some clothing catalogs were pornographic because by showing the clothes without people in them they suggested the people without clothes.

He expected, of course, vehement refutations. Instead he got papers that tried to advance the idea.

Thinking this over, I wonder if this guy's past (undergrad physics major turned writer) gave form to his "theory" in the first place. Something like the absence of one thing proving the presence of another. Thoughts, California?

So here's some pornography. If you think I should get dressed already, tell me which one's your favorite.

You are here:  Between Ishin (Mittelstraße, Berlin)

and Stuart Dybeck's "Paper Lantern," whose "...words are a fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes." (Benedick, Much Ado about Nothing, II, 3):

"Here, there’s nothing of heaven and earth that can’t be consumed, nothing they haven’t found a way to turn into a delicacy: pine-nut porridge, cassia-blossom buns, fish-fragrance-sauced pigeon, swallow’s nest soup […] Sea urchin roe, pickled jellyfish, tripe with ginger and peppercorns, five-fragrance grouper cheeks, cloud ears, spun-sugar apple, ginko nuts and golden needles (which are the buds of lillies), purple seawood, bitter melon…"

Excerpted from “Paper Lantern” by Stuart Dybek, from The New Yorker magazine, reprinted in Best American Short Stories 1996, ed. Kennison, pp.113-125 of 363.

For the entire luscious story in audio (and just like Ishin, there's more to it than food...):

 http://huffduffer.com/Clampants/48152

You are here: Under the (influence of) Portico

Quartet. You are also at the Scheune, which tonight is a barn with a portico.

It's fun not to know what's coming next, like walking hay-bestrewn out of a barn and finding yourself under a portico. Or strolling along under a portico and becoming suddenly and pungently aware of livestock. In the middle of the next song your fingers are oily from melted mozzarella. Two songs on and you can smell kaluha and camels. Taste Newcastle. Contemplate the aesthetics of chipped nail polish (which I've decided is the only way to wear "It's khaki time!").

They've mastered synesthesia. They know the way to my heart and other parts is through my ears.

You are here: Dahlem

At a birthday party hosted by a goddess in a golden dress. Her legs are long, her skirt is short. She is a dangling earring. I covet the paintings on the walls. If I knew anything about them I'd post a link, all I can say is that they look very much like enlarged fashion photographs of the space between neck and breast. One clad in black, one in pink. The only false note--and here I'm reminded of poor Burger, Carrie Bradshaw's castrato--is the scrunchy on the gray-haired DJ. Male DJ. Does that make it better? Or worse? But I really don't want to write about any of that. What caught my attention was a semicolon of a man, mid-40s, pleated khakis, sports coat, maybe an ascot? As the evening matured I became mesmerized by his bouncing, snapping figure, his eyes locked on some nervously smiling, undancing companion. I could not look away. He stepped in rhythm, his body twitching from the neck down, his facial expression eager. It was St. Patrick's Day. He was dancing a jig. And just now it occurred to me that after some 35 years I may have been in the same room with Mr. Fig, an equally entrancing figure from, was it first grade? I've googled Mr. Fig (thought it might even have been Figg, somehow more dignified, no?) and he really does exist. And I was right about the tall green hat. A sort of mad hatter leprechaun. Mr. Fig dances a jig. But this one didn't have white hair. It was Dahlem after all. There you only really have to age if you choose to. Or decide to spend your money on something other than youth. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dahlem_%28Berlin%29 

https://www.google.de/search?q=dahlem+bilder&hl=de&client=firefox&hs=yXb&rls=com.yahoo:en-US:official&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=blF_T9GDCYPYtAaYh5zVBA&ved=0CCsQsAQ&biw=1280&bih=563 

http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Fig-Level-3-Pre-Primer/dp/0153305037


This whole connection may have been brought on by a conversation with Jesolo about figs. I'm dancing a jig of joy as I write and shout out to Baltimore, California and Utah.

You are here: in Richter's Atlas

I'm a bit of a glutton. Have a hard time not indulging myself. So of course when it came to my attention that there was more Richter to be had right here in Dresden I did not hesitate. I crawled right up into his attic and rolled around among his clippings and photographs and sketches and took gratuitous pleasure in spotting the sources of all the magnificent dishes I'd seen in Berlin. I'm sure I moaned. I may have howled. It's a tidy attic, everything laid out in orderly rows and columns, and it takes no work at all to find what you've looked at in its original form: the eggplant before the moussaka. It's a sort of miracle that you can eat the moussaka and then go view the eggplant it was made from. But then it was made by a titan holding the heavens on his shoulders. 

For a better view:

https://www.google.de/search?q=gerhard+richter+atlas&hl=de&client=firefox&hs=0Z8&rls=com.yahoo:en-US:official&prmd=imvnso&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=j_t5T7-TGMXJswbo6a3VBA&ved=0CEoQsAQ&biw=1280&bih=574

You are here: Berlinale

The flight may have been delayed, but now it's arrived...and I will definitely fly with this airline again. Tickets provided by Tegus

who chose brilliantly. Kauwboy and Kid-Thing, strange consonances, not only with the K's: both about blond kids androgynous in the way pre-pubescents are, both with eerie birthday party scenes, both with absent mothers/insufficient fathers....but at the same time completely different in texture. I wasn't surprised to see Richard Linklater's name associated with Kid-Thing, because the film's rhythms and silences reminded me of Slacker.

For more on Kauwboy:

http://www.berlinale.de/en/programm/berlinale_programm/datenblatt.php?film_id=20122113#id=20122113

For more on Kid-Thing:

http://www.berlinale.de/en/programm/berlinale_programm/datenblatt.php?film_id=20124644

Tegus will no doubt be in charge of ticketing next year, too. Now that I think about it, she was also responsible for our surprise evening of noses-in-basil-trees cocktails, ceviche, hip mullet-sporting German waiter-cum-crackers and cowgirl dancing. Yee-ha. At

You just need to ring the bell beside the unmarked door under the Friedrichstrasse station bridge and you're transported. Something like drinking from the bottle that says "drink me". We certainly did.

You are here: Beatpol

Yes, it's in Dresden but doesn't feel like it, and not only because it's hiding in a corner you'd normally never stumble upon. I don't know what it used to be, maybe a dance hall? It's like a vintage dress. There's a balcony/walkway around the main space and decorative molding on the ceiling, but some of the sequins are missing and one strap's unraveling. Precisely why you adore it. That, and when you wear it you expect and often experience, an adventure. Twice it worked for me: Kayo Dot and then a German band I can't remember the name of with a weird sister playing weird instruments. (That second evening continues to reverberate lusciously in spin-offs, but that's another tale). Unfortunately on Friday the strap broke and I had to stand around holding my dress up. Like the band that night, I was crippled. Sorry, Tennessee, if you ever read this, I lied: I didn't like it. That's why I was distracted and attracted by the smell of coffee brewing behind me and took a picture of it. Then I played a words with friends with follower number 1 (hey there, thanks for following! I need a geographical alias for you so I can mention you by name here. And since you're the first to join, you get to choose!) and texted follower number 2 (hey, there, thanks for following! I need a geographical alias for you so I can mention you by name here. And since you're the second to join, you get to choose!) and looked around in horror at the wild facial bush sprouting on the mostly male audience members. I'm still glad I wore the dress again, tho, and I'm sure I can repair the strap. Here's what it looks like:
http://www.beatpol.de/
And feels like sometimes:
http://www.kayodot.net
I'd love to remember the weird-sister band's name if anyone can help me. I think they were from Stuttgart?




 

You are here: London

I fell in love with London walking from my slip of a hotel room to a reception in Bloomsbury square on an early March evening that could have been May. Exuberance is the word for what I felt. I tend to be suspicious of love at first sight (why, actually?) so I hasten to say this was not my first encounter. I've spent many a page there with the likes of Mr. Dickens and Ms. Austen as well as one memorable winter weekend with my friend whom I'll call London here in honor of her much longer love affair with the city. This time, though, I fell hard. My literary memory merged with my reality--in this case a fine thing--and it was like the rush of the first paragraph of Mrs. Dalloway, except evening, not morning. Everything else I saw that weekend only intensified my crush. Little things like this sign:

And these trees:

Plus, I'm sure you've heard the tired saying that X city or country is great except for the Xers? Emphatically not the case in London. London and Londoners, a synergistic jackpot. I took Mr. Poe with me on a pub crawl (knew he would enjoy himself) and was charmed when he was mistaken for Mr. Whitman by some friendly folks at the Pineapple:

By the way, you can take your very own Poe out for a stroll:
 http://outofprintclothing.com/

And while I'm making endorsements, in London I also debuted the pink clutch (which crossed the Atlantic twice before landing in my sweaty palms--but that's another tale). Fabulous. The zipper pockets can be on the outside (for access) or inside (sleeker) and it hangs divinely from the wrist. Light as a feather.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/HomemadeBags

You are here: Gerhard Richter's Panorama

I remember a Wayne Thiebaud exhibition in Boston. It was all cakes. I loved it. Love cake. Could live on cake alone for days.  But this! It's the whole menu and more, and I wanted to eat it all and lick my fingers. I did, in fact, and was still hungry, so I brought some home in a doggy bag. Not the same as sitting at the table, but I'm willing to share my leftovers:

Not satisfied with the reheated version? Run don't walk:

www.gerhardrichterinberlin.org/

You are here: running in Verona

Not that you get the wrong idea. Running did occur, though the light was not as fantastic on race day. See proof of running below:

 I finished in 2 hours 4 minutes 37 seconds, chip time (the one that's important to me). I attribute my success to my excellent cheerleader, Ohio, who was liable to pop out from behind any corner, any time. She even took video! If I had it, I'd post it so you could appreciate her cheering talents--she might even be amenable to doing cheerleading gigs, I dunno. 
Another thing to clear up: I swallowed the gel, no prob, chased the second one down with warm tea (!) being handed out at a "water" table. I did not wear a wig (wasn't prepped on the dress code), but I did wear the sponge they gave me with my number (see below)--so glad my more experienced sister cleared up the mystery behind that one. Of course, to prevent chafing!

 

 yellow thing is a totally normal, square kitchen sponge

So, anyone want to meet me in Vienna to do the marathon there on April 15?? I mean as a relay team, I have no intention of doubling the Verona distance. Todd, the other American in the Verona race highly recommended it....I'll let you wear my sponge....?

You are here: Verona

Iconic.

 the light. the coffee.

Speaking of light: "But soft..." Oops, not a balcony.

You are here: sauna-temple

The problem is, I should be doing this every day.

Since Verona (and I haven't even blogged about that experience yet!) I've been in a few other places on the map, both literal and figurative/virtual. London, for example. And Upper Lusatia. That's where I experienced the following....and not for the first time...

Aufguss 
or Getting Naked and Very Hot with Strangers

As I was saying, I spent some time in Upper Lusatia recently (the English makes it sound sooo exotic) and enjoyed the pleasures of an extensive spa area or "wellness temple" as it was called in our hotel. In fact the central area was constructed to look like the Parthenon with a glassed-in central window. That was as far as the temple similarities went--unless you count the fireplace which maybe recalls eternal flames burning for some god or goddess or other. I may be wrong, but I don't think the temples of the ancient world were equipped with so many and varied upholstered surfaces for lolling about and recovering between rounds in the sauna. 

Avid sauneurs, we requested (or prayed to the gods for) an Aufguss. Our prayer was answered, and at the sound of a gong (really) we were summoned to the altar (Finnish sauna). So were some other people, the strangers I mentioned above. The "priest" (I don't know the word for the one who performs the "ceremony," but in my experience it has always been a man) was very young, a sort of Ganymede, his loins draped with a madras cloth. We, the worshipers, lounged on benches, loincloth-less. And then the fun began: Ganymede dips his ladle in citrus-scented water and sprinkles the sauna stones which sizzle and steam. He then whips out his....damp towel and wields it lasso-style above his head. I don't know what else he does with it because I've closed my eyes as steamy vapor descends on me in hot waves. I do know he then flaps the open towel multiple times in front of each of us--more hot-wave action--sending you into a full, pouring sweat. A bucket of crushed ice is passed around, rubbed on skin, held to the backs of necks and the whole procedure is repeated. After the second round we go out on the patio briefly for fresh air, then reenter the sauna for the third and last round. Followed up with a cool glass of citrus water. And a shower, of course. Cleansing. Delightful.

You are here: my kitchen

This is the latest incarnation of my wildly popular blog. Let's have a contest and see who can spot what's new first! Or maybe that's not such a good idea, might cause the whole blogosphere to become jammed...I'll point it out myself, the whole endeavor needs some direction anyway. And that's why I changed the description to "all over the map" from "on the map"--that's what it is, completely lacking in precise coordinates. I really don't know what to focus on, but here's a start: my plan to run a race in every European country. I'm gonna be all over the European map.

First stop: Verona, Italy half marathon, February 19, 2012

Got the confirmation of my registration today. 3 days before the event. I have a sheet of paper to wave in front of people's faces in case they doubt me or my resolve. I am armed with two berry-flavored gel packs and have been warned that they will first stimulate my gag reflex before lending me wings. Another tip: consume them before water stands so as to be able to rinse out your mouth. And I have been doubly encouraged to try them out before the race. But I'm going to throw caution to the wind on that one. I'll let all of you out there know how it turns out.

The real reason for my trip is to meet up with Ohio. (I'm Virginia--state of origin, hence...) Ohio lives in Austria now but she used to live here, under the same roof. In fact, in the room where I'm typing this. But that's a couple of addresses in the past for her. We'll be the Two Gentlewomen of Verona. Actually, I wouldn't describe myself as a gentlewoman. And we're not from there, so I guess we're more like the Two Women in Verona. Has absolutely no ring to it. Just my attempt to shift attention away from the other play set in the city, the one with the balcony and double suicide and all.

Standing still

I've cleared out my Thursdays for myself, but so far this year I've only had one really great one, totally dedicated to me. I did a lot of stuff I love to do, including buying myself fresh flowers. And I cooked for myself and served it up on my good china. But the part that sticks in my mind was chopping up the carrots (it was pasta with brown lentils, carrots, radicchio, also some shallots in there) listening to Derek Bailey's Ballads. Perfect chopping music. Highly recommend it--but it should probably be done solo. I find certain kinds of music more suitable for solitary than group listening. I think I might even say you could categorize songs or albums according to the ideal number of people that should listen together. Erik Satie's early works for piano: two people, entwined, one blowing smoke rings. I guess that's a lot more specific than necessary.

You are here: European airport

So I went down the rabbit hole, passed through the wardrobe, climbed down the highway emergency ladder on a Tokyo highway--choose your literary allusion--and now I'm here. Haven't noticed any talking animals or a multiplication of moons, but there are observable differences between this part of the map and that one, differences which, contrary to popular opinion, are even perceptible in airports. Empty an airport of its flora and fauna, and I might be persuaded by the anonymity argument, but I've only ever experienced one with people in it, and people give flavor to the otherwise tasteless. Upon landing Here, just for fun, this is what I chose to observe: taller trees! (Trees, figuratively speaking. Gotta love a big, strong, healthy oak.) And evidence of what I venture to suggest is a philosophical divide. I posit that Here there is a consciousness of spatial limitation, a clear and present sense of borders and a corresponding acceptance of certain other, less concrete restrictions. On the other hand, There is dominated by the idea of abundance, infinite expansion, the proliferation of possibility. It's simple geography. What does this have to do with airports? Especially with what I chose to observe during my most recent visits? Ok: It seems to me that a person who is keenly aware of his context (where he ends and others begin) has a different attitude toward his appearance than one who is primarily concerned with questions of individuality, even personal sovereignty. The former will dress for style, the latter for comfort.

You are here: Wilmington NC

I think quite a bit about location. Relocation. Dislocation. Locus. Loci. I am now located in Wilmington, North Carolina, but tomorrow I won't be. Tomorrow (today) I'll be in Philadelphia, then over the rainbow for awhile, and ultimately in Germany. Home, I guess, although when I left there a few weeks ago I also said "I'm going home." Maybe it should be comforting to be able to say that no matter where I'm going: I'm going home.

On hairpin.com today there was a funny piece called "Sometimes a state coin..." For North Carolina, whose coin features a Wright-brothers plane taking off while a man in the foreground watches it depart,  it read "Sometimes a state coin takes so long to get through security it misses its flight."