“Yeah, no,” I muttered as I followed our guide down the makeshift ramp leading to a floating dock.
“Eight people will get on this zodiac,” he announced while pointing to what I would have more accurately called an inflatable raft.
I looked around at the other members of my tour to see if their expressions matched mine. I mean, I knew I had signed up for a less than luxurious experience. That indulgent yacht I had contemplated, the one with uniformed crew and polished brass would have never gotten away with transporting passengers in the kind of thing a seven year old paddles around a pool in.
“Paige?” the guide asked with an extended hand, his accented invitation interrupting my trance.
I cautiously stepped over the elevated nose, the toe of my foot almost getting ensnared in the twisted rope encasing the front to protect from wear. I let out a slight squeal of fear as I planted both feet on the floor of the zodiac and slowly lowered my ass onto the edge. Then, moving as if I were sliding across the narrow ledge of a skyscraper, I inched my way down the length of the side. When I finally reached the spot near the engine, I wrapped my white knuckled fist around a loosely dangling rope and prayed for the best.
“Eer,” the guy turning the throttle said as he tossed a damp life vest my way.
“Gracias,” I fibbed, the orange flap bouncing off my face because I refused to release a hand to deflect it.
Over the next four days, I spent more than a few hours in those dinghies. I eventually got the hang of entry and exit, though admittedly almost toppled the Captain when he helped me out one choppy morning. The boat was anchored out at sea and the whitecaps were thrashing against the dinghy as the crew member continuously revved the engine and rammed the nose against the platform. The dinghy rocked to the left. The boat swayed to the right. And in my attempt to keep me and my backpack out of the ocean, I sped forward with a rather steady momentum.
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I pulled myself off the Captain and straightened my bag on my shoulders.
“Es blah-oh si taco-blah cinquo blah-ita,” the Captain said.
I smiled and nodded my head, the universal response to something spoken in a foreign language.
“Si blah-ora es guacamole oh-blah manana blah-oh,” he continued with a silly grin.
My smile faded but I kept nodding assuming it was the safest response.
And then out of nowhere, I found myself swept up in the Captain’s arms as he twirled me around the deck. I let out a giggle. My sea legs carried me with him as best as possible before he had enough.
“Gracias,” I said with a girly grin.
“Blah-oh es princess,” he replied.
I curtsied, unsure if the comment was a compliment or an insult. The Captain reciprocated the gesture with a slight bow and a nod of the head. I had no idea what had just happened, what had been said and what it all meant. Maybe I had just agreed to be his bride and he was merely testing out the merchandise. Maybe he mistakenly thought I was graceful and wanted the chance to join me in motion. Or maybe the chef bet him $10 he couldn’t get the American girl to dance with him. No matter the explanation, I will say this much - it sure put a little skip in my step as I meandered down the exterior corridor en route to my cabin.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Letting Go
I settled in at the gate and glanced at my Swatch to confirm how many minutes I had until lift off for Quito. To my left sat a cluster of white bread missionaries, their presence defined by syrupy southern drawls and dangling crosses. Across from me was a group of smarty students heading south for one last hoorah before the start of classes. I pondered initiating a conversation with someone. Anyone. I leaned forward in my chair and inched closer to a stranger sitting across the aisle. I pressed my tongue against the bottom of my mouth and pursed my lips as I prepared to ask a question starting with a ‘w’ sound. Where are you heading? What are you doing in Ecuador? I lingered on the periphery waiting for a moment to interrupt, to fold my lonely self into a group of others. And then they announced the boarding of my flight.
Six hours and 2500 miles later, I stepped out into the waiting area of the Quito International Airport. It was a sea of Andean faces. Some held signs, some screamed Spanish words and all of them looked unfamiliar. Then I saw my name, my very American and very Jewish name, splashed across a sheet of paper supported by a clipboard. I pointed to the sign and nodded my head. The man swooped over, scooped up my bag and ushered me out to a van.
It was just past midnight when I crawled between the crisp white sheets of my hotel bed. Noises echoed off the street, the clatter knocking against my window as if to request entrance. Horns honked, people screamed and I turned the television louder. With the sheets pulled up to my chin and my head propped gently against the wall, I cried. I cried that the man on the television was so passionately in love with his wife. I cried that I wasn’t on the receiving end of such feelings. I cried that I was alone in a big bed in a foreign land. I got up and stood in front of the mirror across from the closets. With the television echoing in the background, I watched my face contort and my tears flow until I had nothing left. And then I got back into bed and fell asleep to the hum of the rattling city.
In the morning, I awoke and glanced around the room. I stepped out of bed and into the bathroom. I pressed my hip bones against the granite sink as I brushed my teeth. I stared down my puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. I pulled on pants that were too big and worked my way into a wrinkled t-shirt. With daytime essentials tucked into my backpack, I took one last glance in the mirror and descended to the lobby.
“Mauro?” I asked the woman sitting in an armchair just beyond the entrance.
“Non, non,” she said with a giggle before fetching a tall man standing at the front desk.
She quietly spoke Spanish words I didn’t understand and then he looked up and walked over to me.
“Paige? I am Mauro. You arrive okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, let’s start the day!” he excitedly suggested as he led me out to an idling SUV.
I slid into the front seat, clipped my belt and braced myself for the start of my adventure. The roads were bumpy. Pungent diesel fumes lifted off the streets and crawled through the vents. I peered over the dash and out over the nose of the truck. Mauro noted the relevance of a memorial on the hillside and the importance of a government building. He took me to historic streets, beautiful churches and up a windy road to a hilltop where under the gaze of an angel kids fly kites. I lingered on the grassy knoll and drifted off as delicate nylon figures tethered to taught strings floated against the azure sky.
When all of the worthwhile spots of the city had been explored, we piled back in the car and departed Quito.
“Is this the equator?” I asked as the truck pulled off the road and onto a gravel path.
“No, this is a park. It costs one dollar,” Mauro said as he shifted the truck to neutral and coasted up to a gatehouse.
I quickly rifled through my bag and presented Mauro with a crinkled dollar bill. He passed it off through the open window to a man who looked suspiciously unofficial. He then pulled onto a grassy patch packed tight with donkeys and other vehicles. I slipped out of the truck and followed Mauro down an earthen path. Dust kicked up in little clouds around my feet. Aromas of frying pork drifted through the air as I passed a collection of tented shops. We stopped behind a group of tourists. I lifted my weight onto my tippy toes to see over the heads in front of me.
“Here,” Mauro said as he waived his arm and walked off to a narrow path.
A few paces behind, I followed my guide. With my eyes cast down to navigate the steep pitch on crumbling earth, I slowly walked away from the clutter of onlookers.
“Stand on this,” Mauro said, the toe of his battered boot directing me.
I steadied my feet on a large rock close to the edge of the path. Close to a drop off into tall reeds and twisted shrubs. And then I looked out.
“It is a crater,” Mauro began.
“Are those farms?” I asked.
“Yes. They live off the land. There are springs in the mountainside. Sometimes the people go to market but usually they stay down there,” he said.
“This is just,” I started before pausing with a sigh. “Beautiful,” I finished.
And there I teetered on a rock looking out at the world below me. I breathed in the clean air dipping off the side of the dormant volcano. I squinted my eyes against the summer sun beaming through the turquoise sky. I looked out at the pristine land and simple life these people lived. And all of the loneliness and sadness that had been dotting mine just melted away. Standing there under a summer sun in a foreign land, I let go of everything I knew and embraced everything I didn’t.
Six hours and 2500 miles later, I stepped out into the waiting area of the Quito International Airport. It was a sea of Andean faces. Some held signs, some screamed Spanish words and all of them looked unfamiliar. Then I saw my name, my very American and very Jewish name, splashed across a sheet of paper supported by a clipboard. I pointed to the sign and nodded my head. The man swooped over, scooped up my bag and ushered me out to a van.
It was just past midnight when I crawled between the crisp white sheets of my hotel bed. Noises echoed off the street, the clatter knocking against my window as if to request entrance. Horns honked, people screamed and I turned the television louder. With the sheets pulled up to my chin and my head propped gently against the wall, I cried. I cried that the man on the television was so passionately in love with his wife. I cried that I wasn’t on the receiving end of such feelings. I cried that I was alone in a big bed in a foreign land. I got up and stood in front of the mirror across from the closets. With the television echoing in the background, I watched my face contort and my tears flow until I had nothing left. And then I got back into bed and fell asleep to the hum of the rattling city.
In the morning, I awoke and glanced around the room. I stepped out of bed and into the bathroom. I pressed my hip bones against the granite sink as I brushed my teeth. I stared down my puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. I pulled on pants that were too big and worked my way into a wrinkled t-shirt. With daytime essentials tucked into my backpack, I took one last glance in the mirror and descended to the lobby.
“Mauro?” I asked the woman sitting in an armchair just beyond the entrance.
“Non, non,” she said with a giggle before fetching a tall man standing at the front desk.
She quietly spoke Spanish words I didn’t understand and then he looked up and walked over to me.
“Paige? I am Mauro. You arrive okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, let’s start the day!” he excitedly suggested as he led me out to an idling SUV.
I slid into the front seat, clipped my belt and braced myself for the start of my adventure. The roads were bumpy. Pungent diesel fumes lifted off the streets and crawled through the vents. I peered over the dash and out over the nose of the truck. Mauro noted the relevance of a memorial on the hillside and the importance of a government building. He took me to historic streets, beautiful churches and up a windy road to a hilltop where under the gaze of an angel kids fly kites. I lingered on the grassy knoll and drifted off as delicate nylon figures tethered to taught strings floated against the azure sky.
When all of the worthwhile spots of the city had been explored, we piled back in the car and departed Quito.
“Is this the equator?” I asked as the truck pulled off the road and onto a gravel path.
“No, this is a park. It costs one dollar,” Mauro said as he shifted the truck to neutral and coasted up to a gatehouse.
I quickly rifled through my bag and presented Mauro with a crinkled dollar bill. He passed it off through the open window to a man who looked suspiciously unofficial. He then pulled onto a grassy patch packed tight with donkeys and other vehicles. I slipped out of the truck and followed Mauro down an earthen path. Dust kicked up in little clouds around my feet. Aromas of frying pork drifted through the air as I passed a collection of tented shops. We stopped behind a group of tourists. I lifted my weight onto my tippy toes to see over the heads in front of me.
“Here,” Mauro said as he waived his arm and walked off to a narrow path.
A few paces behind, I followed my guide. With my eyes cast down to navigate the steep pitch on crumbling earth, I slowly walked away from the clutter of onlookers.
“Stand on this,” Mauro said, the toe of his battered boot directing me.
I steadied my feet on a large rock close to the edge of the path. Close to a drop off into tall reeds and twisted shrubs. And then I looked out.
“It is a crater,” Mauro began.
“Are those farms?” I asked.
“Yes. They live off the land. There are springs in the mountainside. Sometimes the people go to market but usually they stay down there,” he said.
“This is just,” I started before pausing with a sigh. “Beautiful,” I finished.
And there I teetered on a rock looking out at the world below me. I breathed in the clean air dipping off the side of the dormant volcano. I squinted my eyes against the summer sun beaming through the turquoise sky. I looked out at the pristine land and simple life these people lived. And all of the loneliness and sadness that had been dotting mine just melted away. Standing there under a summer sun in a foreign land, I let go of everything I knew and embraced everything I didn’t.
PS: The Flickr box to the right will take you over to my photo album.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Post Pending
Highlights Include:
(1) Standing on a rocky path and looking out at a country where the green mountains push high into the blue sky, the valleys run deep into the craggy earth and the world I otherwise knew all but disappeared.
(2) Falling asleep on the black sandy shores of an island only to awake an hour later to find a sea lion had crawled up out of the water to snooze a few feet away.
(3) Starting an international journey alone and ending it with newfound friends who can make me laugh until my stomach aches and my eyes tear.
Lowlights Include:
(1) Being too intimidated by Frommer's exaggerated warnings of blatant thievery to venture out of the hotel the first night beyond 5pm. Apparently I am still a little bit like my mother (insert grumbling here).
(2) Awaking alone on a black sandy beach as my belly cramps made a surge for an exit. I curled up off my back, grabbed my knees and there with a sea lion snoring to my right, I wretched scrambled eggs and toast and marmalade.
(3) Standing in the crowded streets of the Otavalo market, spending ten minutes bartering with a native over the price of a backpack for my niece only to realize the change she returned to me matched the starting price, not the agreed upon price. It seems me flashing five fingers in quick succession did not translate.
There are some fun pictures and some funnier stories. But I am tired and my throat feels scratchy and my laundry bag is overflowing with filthy clothes. In other words, a traditional Paige post is pending.
(1) Standing on a rocky path and looking out at a country where the green mountains push high into the blue sky, the valleys run deep into the craggy earth and the world I otherwise knew all but disappeared.
(2) Falling asleep on the black sandy shores of an island only to awake an hour later to find a sea lion had crawled up out of the water to snooze a few feet away.
(3) Starting an international journey alone and ending it with newfound friends who can make me laugh until my stomach aches and my eyes tear.
Lowlights Include:
(1) Being too intimidated by Frommer's exaggerated warnings of blatant thievery to venture out of the hotel the first night beyond 5pm. Apparently I am still a little bit like my mother (insert grumbling here).
(2) Awaking alone on a black sandy beach as my belly cramps made a surge for an exit. I curled up off my back, grabbed my knees and there with a sea lion snoring to my right, I wretched scrambled eggs and toast and marmalade.
(3) Standing in the crowded streets of the Otavalo market, spending ten minutes bartering with a native over the price of a backpack for my niece only to realize the change she returned to me matched the starting price, not the agreed upon price. It seems me flashing five fingers in quick succession did not translate.
There are some fun pictures and some funnier stories. But I am tired and my throat feels scratchy and my laundry bag is overflowing with filthy clothes. In other words, a traditional Paige post is pending.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Up, Up and Away
I was standing in the diarrhea aisle at the CVS around the corner from Leslie's house when my phone rang.
"What?" I answered.
"They won't let me get a credit," Leslie grumbled. "Meaning I have to swap the shoes out for something else."
"Okay, well, it'll take me a while to collect all of the don't-drink-the-water medications I need for my trip so take your time," I instructed.
Leslie was quiet.
"Fine," I muttered with a hefty sigh. "I'm placing this nail buffing board and box of eye drops behind this pile of Preparation H and coming over there," I said, there being a discount clothing store located two doors down in the shopping center.
An hour later, with the credit spent and my travel meds purchased, we worked our way back to the house. A bag from CVS lingered by my feet and two newly purchased blazers lay flat across the backseat. Leslie fiddled with the radio and I tinkered with the air vents.
"Are you excited?" she asked as she settled on a Fergie song.
I let out a nervous giggle, one part excitement and one part uncertainty. I fell into a dream about hiking around Cotopaxi, the volcano and the verdant landscape engulfing me. And then I recalled the segment in my guidebook urging Quito tourists to walk only in the middle of the city streets once the sun sets to avoid being jumped by thieves lurking in doorways. I smiled big at the thought of tiptoeing across lands that are home to animals I'd never see tootling around Philadelphia. And then I thought about my decision to sidestep all suggested vaccinations, including rabies, due to a running tab in excess of a thousand dollars. With a visual of me flat on my back, foam pouring out of my mouth and a Blue Footed Boobie nibbling at my nose, Leslie asked her question again.
"Are you excited?"
"Yeah, I am, " I admitted with a grin. "I can't wait to get away for a stretch. And to add another stamp to my passport. It'll be so much fun just settling into another world for a little bit. A world of different people, amazing creatures and, well, a world without the drama that's been dominating mine."
"Here, here!" Leslie exclaimed.
And there you have it, kiddos. In just a few short hours, I'm slipping on my backpack and heading down a jetway for a Quito bound plane. I'll settle in for a few days of solo exploration before meeting up with some other people for a jaunt over to the Galapagos. The next five days will be spent bobbing on the ocean, island hopping and animal watching. Tucked into my bag is a pile of paperwork summarizing my itinerary, evidencing my international health insurance and listing emergency contact numbers. I have a tour book to point me in directions and a book with essential sentences in Spanish so I can ask how to get there. I have a stack of literature to entertain me, a journal to jot my thoughts and a snazzy new camera, courtesy of a boy in Alaska, to capture all of the things I see.
Oh. My. God.
My life fucking rocks!
"What?" I answered.
"They won't let me get a credit," Leslie grumbled. "Meaning I have to swap the shoes out for something else."
"Okay, well, it'll take me a while to collect all of the don't-drink-the-water medications I need for my trip so take your time," I instructed.
Leslie was quiet.
"Fine," I muttered with a hefty sigh. "I'm placing this nail buffing board and box of eye drops behind this pile of Preparation H and coming over there," I said, there being a discount clothing store located two doors down in the shopping center.
An hour later, with the credit spent and my travel meds purchased, we worked our way back to the house. A bag from CVS lingered by my feet and two newly purchased blazers lay flat across the backseat. Leslie fiddled with the radio and I tinkered with the air vents.
"Are you excited?" she asked as she settled on a Fergie song.
I let out a nervous giggle, one part excitement and one part uncertainty. I fell into a dream about hiking around Cotopaxi, the volcano and the verdant landscape engulfing me. And then I recalled the segment in my guidebook urging Quito tourists to walk only in the middle of the city streets once the sun sets to avoid being jumped by thieves lurking in doorways. I smiled big at the thought of tiptoeing across lands that are home to animals I'd never see tootling around Philadelphia. And then I thought about my decision to sidestep all suggested vaccinations, including rabies, due to a running tab in excess of a thousand dollars. With a visual of me flat on my back, foam pouring out of my mouth and a Blue Footed Boobie nibbling at my nose, Leslie asked her question again.
"Are you excited?"
"Yeah, I am, " I admitted with a grin. "I can't wait to get away for a stretch. And to add another stamp to my passport. It'll be so much fun just settling into another world for a little bit. A world of different people, amazing creatures and, well, a world without the drama that's been dominating mine."
"Here, here!" Leslie exclaimed.
And there you have it, kiddos. In just a few short hours, I'm slipping on my backpack and heading down a jetway for a Quito bound plane. I'll settle in for a few days of solo exploration before meeting up with some other people for a jaunt over to the Galapagos. The next five days will be spent bobbing on the ocean, island hopping and animal watching. Tucked into my bag is a pile of paperwork summarizing my itinerary, evidencing my international health insurance and listing emergency contact numbers. I have a tour book to point me in directions and a book with essential sentences in Spanish so I can ask how to get there. I have a stack of literature to entertain me, a journal to jot my thoughts and a snazzy new camera, courtesy of a boy in Alaska, to capture all of the things I see.
Oh. My. God.
My life fucking rocks!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Counting the Steps
“Where are you going now?” Rachel asked as she leaned over me and delicately applied some warmed wax on my exposed down there. The last time I was flat out on her table was the day before he was supposed to come visit. The day after he called to end it all. The last time she asked that question, I had to hold my breath. Not to offset the pain of the pending tug but to hold back the tears before answering the question with a simple nowhere.
“Alaska,” I confessed. Listen, I was naked from the waist down with one leg in the air. Vulnerability went out the window ten minutes earlier.
“Puhpuh,” she quietly sputtered. It’s a Russian thing. Or a Russian Jewish thing. I’m not sure of the actual translation but I am pretty sure it’s a supersticious gesture to protect against anything going wrong. She makes it only when I’m talking about something intimately hopeful.
A half hour later, with my down there properly prepped for potential exposure, I got dressed and rifled through my purse for the tip. As I extended a crinkled twenty dollar bill, Rachel pulled me in for a hug. She told me to be good. In her warm motherly embrace, she whispered in my ear - I just want you to be happy.
The next day I headed to the airport. Two planes and 5,000 miles later, I stepped out into the Anchorage terminal. I was hesitant. I was scared. I didn’t have any expectations but I had plenty of concerns. So I walked slowly. I leisurely stopped off in the bathroom to apply lipstick and tinker with my barrette. I strolled toward baggage claim as though I was window shopping in a mall. Ooh, a moose t-shirt. Cute.
He was there. Right where he was the last time I visited. Comfortably leaning against a pillar just beyond the immediate clutter of eager friends and parents waiting to greet their guests. I felt awkward. I wanted to run to him, but my legs kept scissoring at the assumed pace of casual indifference. I wanted to passionately kiss him, but my mouth parted only enough to exchange something polite and appropriate. I thought through my actions the same way I thought through the ballroom dance lessons I took a few years ago. A class where I spent the better part of the sessions watching the floor boards pass beneath my feet as I counted the steps and clumsily collided with other couples.
The next few days were nothing I expected but everything I needed. I finally understood what I was looking to get out of this journey. He finally shared thoughts and uncertainties he’d been silently tossing around. And at the end of a draining conversation, I leaned my back against the door frame of his kitchen and slid down to the floor. My body, my head and my heart were spent. I had nothing left. Not even the energy to remain standing.
There are details to everything. Like how we sprawled out with breakfast and the Sunday New York Times. Or meandered a path that edged the inlet and neighbored the airport. There were conversations and gestures and interactions. But those details are intimate. They are between me and him, not me and you. The most I can say is things are more settled but no more defined. I think I’m okay with it. Or at least I’m okay with it right now. I couldn’t have said that a few hours ago when I was curled up on my sofa with the phone pressed to my ear listening to Leslie talk me down from tears.
It’s funny the way love works. It makes you both hesitant and vulnerable. You try to wrap words and meaning around it to diminish the sense of absent control. But in the end, it’s just like the Waltz or Foxtrot - it only really works when you stop thinking and just let it go. When I got to the end of that ballroom class, I wasn’t entering any contests but I was confidently gliding across the room. With my chin high and my body in position, I let the music move me. Not the thoughts in my head. Not the steps in the chart. I just let go. I’m not letting go. Not yet. I’m still thinking it through and figuring it out. I’m still watching my steps and counting out the pace. I’m hesitant and uncertain as I stumble forward. Maybe over time, everything will just click and the thoughts will fall away. Or maybe not. Either way, for the time being, counting the steps will just have to do.
“Alaska,” I confessed. Listen, I was naked from the waist down with one leg in the air. Vulnerability went out the window ten minutes earlier.
“Puhpuh,” she quietly sputtered. It’s a Russian thing. Or a Russian Jewish thing. I’m not sure of the actual translation but I am pretty sure it’s a supersticious gesture to protect against anything going wrong. She makes it only when I’m talking about something intimately hopeful.
A half hour later, with my down there properly prepped for potential exposure, I got dressed and rifled through my purse for the tip. As I extended a crinkled twenty dollar bill, Rachel pulled me in for a hug. She told me to be good. In her warm motherly embrace, she whispered in my ear - I just want you to be happy.
The next day I headed to the airport. Two planes and 5,000 miles later, I stepped out into the Anchorage terminal. I was hesitant. I was scared. I didn’t have any expectations but I had plenty of concerns. So I walked slowly. I leisurely stopped off in the bathroom to apply lipstick and tinker with my barrette. I strolled toward baggage claim as though I was window shopping in a mall. Ooh, a moose t-shirt. Cute.
He was there. Right where he was the last time I visited. Comfortably leaning against a pillar just beyond the immediate clutter of eager friends and parents waiting to greet their guests. I felt awkward. I wanted to run to him, but my legs kept scissoring at the assumed pace of casual indifference. I wanted to passionately kiss him, but my mouth parted only enough to exchange something polite and appropriate. I thought through my actions the same way I thought through the ballroom dance lessons I took a few years ago. A class where I spent the better part of the sessions watching the floor boards pass beneath my feet as I counted the steps and clumsily collided with other couples.
The next few days were nothing I expected but everything I needed. I finally understood what I was looking to get out of this journey. He finally shared thoughts and uncertainties he’d been silently tossing around. And at the end of a draining conversation, I leaned my back against the door frame of his kitchen and slid down to the floor. My body, my head and my heart were spent. I had nothing left. Not even the energy to remain standing.
There are details to everything. Like how we sprawled out with breakfast and the Sunday New York Times. Or meandered a path that edged the inlet and neighbored the airport. There were conversations and gestures and interactions. But those details are intimate. They are between me and him, not me and you. The most I can say is things are more settled but no more defined. I think I’m okay with it. Or at least I’m okay with it right now. I couldn’t have said that a few hours ago when I was curled up on my sofa with the phone pressed to my ear listening to Leslie talk me down from tears.
It’s funny the way love works. It makes you both hesitant and vulnerable. You try to wrap words and meaning around it to diminish the sense of absent control. But in the end, it’s just like the Waltz or Foxtrot - it only really works when you stop thinking and just let it go. When I got to the end of that ballroom class, I wasn’t entering any contests but I was confidently gliding across the room. With my chin high and my body in position, I let the music move me. Not the thoughts in my head. Not the steps in the chart. I just let go. I’m not letting go. Not yet. I’m still thinking it through and figuring it out. I’m still watching my steps and counting out the pace. I’m hesitant and uncertain as I stumble forward. Maybe over time, everything will just click and the thoughts will fall away. Or maybe not. Either way, for the time being, counting the steps will just have to do.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
No Regrets
When I was thirteen, my mom cut off all communication with her family. She simply didn’t agree with something her crazy sisters were pushing my grandmother to do and in all honesty, it was completely ridiculous. Anyway, shortly after cutting the chord, my mother asked I do the same. And without a second thought, I did. I never called my grandmother to say hello. I never sent notes to thank her for my birthday checks. I didn’t do a single thing. At least not until many years later when Leslie suggested the two of us spend a weekend in Old Saybrook reconnecting with everyone. I don’t regret going against my mother and salvaging the relationships she instructed me to cease but I do regret not extending myself for the fifteen years prior.
In the fall of 1996, I enrolled in law school. I hated my first year. Kids who couldn’t conjugate verbs made law review while I struggled to write a memo, quite possibly the most tedious piece of literature known to man. I desperately wanted out after the first year. But I kept going at the urging of onlookers. At the end of my second year, my grades faltering and my passion nonexistent, I departed law school for greener pastures. I don’t regret the $40,000 in loans I took out to pay for two thirds of a degree. I regret not listening to my gut instinct to withdraw sooner.
Three and half years ago, I met Ex in Baltimore for our first date, a little get together over lunch to test the chemistry. Lunch turned into coffee which turned into cocktails sipped alongside dueling pianos. I found his awkwardness endearing and his humor entertaining. We went out again and again, the relationship blossoming over the next two years. Sure there were bumps. And there were humps. There were times I strongly questioned why we were together. A question that came to a head when one sticky summer morning he told me I was never thin enough for him. I don’t regret standing there calmly while being told to my face that he found me unattractive. No, what I do regret is not believing in myself enough to walk away right then and there.
This past May, I took a writing class. I submitted two essays to a classroom full of writers and received both valuable feedback and not so valuable feedback. The professor suggested places where I should submit my writing. Students commended me for being forthright about my frustration with figuring out my niche. Perhaps I should have taken the short story class instead. Even still, I worked my way through the ten week class and ended it with a thick binder full of notes and two nicely evolved essays. I don’t regret forking over $500 and two and a half months of my life to take a class that maybe wasn’t the best fit. I regret not using the experience as a stepping stone from which to take a literary leap.
So I guess over time, I’ve come to embrace all that I’ve done no matter how stupid or how inane. Doing is learning. Doing is experiencing. Doing is the act of trying something instead of assuming it isn’t worth trying at all. The only time I ever have regrets is when I don’t do something. When I linger on the periphery and wade in self doubt. Not doing is an act of cowardice. Not doing is the behavior of someone driven by fear and uncertainty and lacking confidence. If I’m going to live my life not doing, I might as well not bother getting out of bed.
And that, that’s why later this morning I’m stepping onto a plane bound for Alaska. Because I’d rather have no regrets than regret doing nothing.
In the fall of 1996, I enrolled in law school. I hated my first year. Kids who couldn’t conjugate verbs made law review while I struggled to write a memo, quite possibly the most tedious piece of literature known to man. I desperately wanted out after the first year. But I kept going at the urging of onlookers. At the end of my second year, my grades faltering and my passion nonexistent, I departed law school for greener pastures. I don’t regret the $40,000 in loans I took out to pay for two thirds of a degree. I regret not listening to my gut instinct to withdraw sooner.
Three and half years ago, I met Ex in Baltimore for our first date, a little get together over lunch to test the chemistry. Lunch turned into coffee which turned into cocktails sipped alongside dueling pianos. I found his awkwardness endearing and his humor entertaining. We went out again and again, the relationship blossoming over the next two years. Sure there were bumps. And there were humps. There were times I strongly questioned why we were together. A question that came to a head when one sticky summer morning he told me I was never thin enough for him. I don’t regret standing there calmly while being told to my face that he found me unattractive. No, what I do regret is not believing in myself enough to walk away right then and there.
This past May, I took a writing class. I submitted two essays to a classroom full of writers and received both valuable feedback and not so valuable feedback. The professor suggested places where I should submit my writing. Students commended me for being forthright about my frustration with figuring out my niche. Perhaps I should have taken the short story class instead. Even still, I worked my way through the ten week class and ended it with a thick binder full of notes and two nicely evolved essays. I don’t regret forking over $500 and two and a half months of my life to take a class that maybe wasn’t the best fit. I regret not using the experience as a stepping stone from which to take a literary leap.
So I guess over time, I’ve come to embrace all that I’ve done no matter how stupid or how inane. Doing is learning. Doing is experiencing. Doing is the act of trying something instead of assuming it isn’t worth trying at all. The only time I ever have regrets is when I don’t do something. When I linger on the periphery and wade in self doubt. Not doing is an act of cowardice. Not doing is the behavior of someone driven by fear and uncertainty and lacking confidence. If I’m going to live my life not doing, I might as well not bother getting out of bed.
And that, that’s why later this morning I’m stepping onto a plane bound for Alaska. Because I’d rather have no regrets than regret doing nothing.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Blogging 201
A few years ago, I got wrangled into attending a scrapbooking social. I was naive. I was ignorant. I was lured by the promise of iced pound cake. Anyway, when I sat down at the table with a bunch of other women, I had no idea what this cut and paste world was all about. Four hours later, with glue in my hair and a slew of paper cuts on my fingers, I found myself clutching my creation, a lopsided picture frame my four year old nephew could have constructed. I immediately concluded there wasn’t enough pound cake in the world to balance out the sheer torture of adult craft time.
“What class are you going to next?” the blogger sitting to my right asked as I popped a cookie in my mouth.
“Crafting. You?”
“The business one.”
“Oh yeah, that one has potential. But no, I’m going to crafting. I hate that artsy shit but I adore Amy Sedaris and she’s on the panel.”
I dusted the crumbs off my lap, gathered my things and headed up to the classroom. As I secured a seat in the last row, I saw Amie lingering in the doorway looking to partake in a little celeb ogling. A few seconds later, Amy Sedaris decked out in a full skirt, large horn rimmed glasses and a sloppy ponytail trotted past. Trailing in her wake was an enormous suitcase on wheels. Amie watched the guest speaker settle in at the front of the room before glancing at an attendee knitting something shapeless and gray. Then she looked at me, threw her arms up in defeat and grabbed the empty seat to my left. The chatter quieted and the panel began.
Crafty Chica talked first, telling us all about how she segued into the world of glue guns and glitter. She gabbed about needing to pay the electric bill and how she went to Michael’s with her husband and exchanged a twenty dollar bill for a bagful of stuff. They went home, did something crafty and netted $200 for their creations. That was years ago. Now she is the author of multiple books and just got picked up to create a product line for Michael’s. She giggled with glee. She admitted she got tiles stuck in her hair. She was just the crazy gal I could down a bottle of wine with. And just as I started to think about picking this hobby up simply for the sake of rubbing elbows with this fun crafty gang, two other girls on the panel introduced themselves.
“I wanted to find a purpose for left over scraps. Of fabric. Because it’s important to use everything. I like to take zigzag scissors and make patches,” one lady said, her monotone delivery perfectly matching her mousy brown hair.
“I was so excited when I realized I could marry my two passions of writing and crafting. I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” another gal swooned as she held up a ball of twine and a craft magazine she writes for.
Yeah, sure, you glue eating freak.
The last person on the panel to speak was Ms. Sedaris who introduced herself by noting an interest in baking cupcakes she randomly sells at a coffee shop in the Village. When she isn’t baking, she’s making wands. The old fashion kind with long stems and golden stars glued to the end. And since she isn’t sure how to determine an accurate price for a magic wand, multiple tip jars litter her residence.
With introductions complete, the class began. Attendees hit the ground running asking questions. Like how do you copyright a sewing pattern. Or what formula do you use to calculate the value of your product. And what is the best way to ensure people won’t steal your ideas. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t take notes. I merely sat in my seat, randomly jabbed Amie in the ribs and giggled myself to tears.
When the class ended, people scurried in different directions. Some women packed up their knitting needles while others exchanged sewing suggestions. I headed for the door. I didn’t have anything to say or contribute to the topic at hand. These days, the closest I come to being crafty is presenting my dry cleaner with something that needs to be shortened. Shit, I can’t even sew a button on. But as I sat in that room nestled shoulder to shoulder with crafty women I would have otherwise written off, I found myself appreciating this quirky demographic. Or maybe it wasn’t that I appreciated them but that they opened their arms and welcomed me into their clique. And after being bombarded left and right by those breeder bloggers who engage only those with kids, it was refreshing to know not all cliques are exclusive.
“What class are you going to next?” the blogger sitting to my right asked as I popped a cookie in my mouth.
“Crafting. You?”
“The business one.”
“Oh yeah, that one has potential. But no, I’m going to crafting. I hate that artsy shit but I adore Amy Sedaris and she’s on the panel.”
I dusted the crumbs off my lap, gathered my things and headed up to the classroom. As I secured a seat in the last row, I saw Amie lingering in the doorway looking to partake in a little celeb ogling. A few seconds later, Amy Sedaris decked out in a full skirt, large horn rimmed glasses and a sloppy ponytail trotted past. Trailing in her wake was an enormous suitcase on wheels. Amie watched the guest speaker settle in at the front of the room before glancing at an attendee knitting something shapeless and gray. Then she looked at me, threw her arms up in defeat and grabbed the empty seat to my left. The chatter quieted and the panel began.
Crafty Chica talked first, telling us all about how she segued into the world of glue guns and glitter. She gabbed about needing to pay the electric bill and how she went to Michael’s with her husband and exchanged a twenty dollar bill for a bagful of stuff. They went home, did something crafty and netted $200 for their creations. That was years ago. Now she is the author of multiple books and just got picked up to create a product line for Michael’s. She giggled with glee. She admitted she got tiles stuck in her hair. She was just the crazy gal I could down a bottle of wine with. And just as I started to think about picking this hobby up simply for the sake of rubbing elbows with this fun crafty gang, two other girls on the panel introduced themselves.
“I wanted to find a purpose for left over scraps. Of fabric. Because it’s important to use everything. I like to take zigzag scissors and make patches,” one lady said, her monotone delivery perfectly matching her mousy brown hair.
“I was so excited when I realized I could marry my two passions of writing and crafting. I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” another gal swooned as she held up a ball of twine and a craft magazine she writes for.
Yeah, sure, you glue eating freak.
The last person on the panel to speak was Ms. Sedaris who introduced herself by noting an interest in baking cupcakes she randomly sells at a coffee shop in the Village. When she isn’t baking, she’s making wands. The old fashion kind with long stems and golden stars glued to the end. And since she isn’t sure how to determine an accurate price for a magic wand, multiple tip jars litter her residence.
With introductions complete, the class began. Attendees hit the ground running asking questions. Like how do you copyright a sewing pattern. Or what formula do you use to calculate the value of your product. And what is the best way to ensure people won’t steal your ideas. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t take notes. I merely sat in my seat, randomly jabbed Amie in the ribs and giggled myself to tears.
When the class ended, people scurried in different directions. Some women packed up their knitting needles while others exchanged sewing suggestions. I headed for the door. I didn’t have anything to say or contribute to the topic at hand. These days, the closest I come to being crafty is presenting my dry cleaner with something that needs to be shortened. Shit, I can’t even sew a button on. But as I sat in that room nestled shoulder to shoulder with crafty women I would have otherwise written off, I found myself appreciating this quirky demographic. Or maybe it wasn’t that I appreciated them but that they opened their arms and welcomed me into their clique. And after being bombarded left and right by those breeder bloggers who engage only those with kids, it was refreshing to know not all cliques are exclusive.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Blogging 101
With my name badge clipped to my shirt, I walked into the grand ballroom, poured some orange juice into a glass and found a spot at a table.
“Hi, I’m Paige,” I said to the woman seated to my right.
“Oh, hi! I’m Beth,” she answered while shoving a business card in my extended hand.
Shit.
“I don’t have a card. I mean, I have a business card but it’s for my day job. In insurance. And it doesn’t note my blog or my blog contact information. Though I guess I could jot it on the back of the card. I mean, if you even want it.”
“What do you write about?” she politely asked before returning her attention to the laptop perched open in front of her. I was officially less interesting than Statcounter.
“Um, life,” I said, my answer sounding empty and generic. “About my life,” I elaborated. Even I was rolling my eyes. “How about you?”
“The value of organic and locally grown food. My kids have allergies so it’s about food limitations with a mommy slant, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” I mimicked. Fucking breeders.
After a few introductions and a welcome speech from the founders of the organization, I headed off to my first class. It was a panel of three women discussing blog branding and how it directly determines success or failure. A few rows of tables with power strips underneath to support computer usage stretched across the front of the room. Each and every chair was already occupied with super strivers. With a big old humph, I plopped into a seat in the back right next to the union worker grumpily managing the audio.
There on the periphery of a hundred or so curious bloggers, I listened to suggestions. Like don’t just be a mommy blogger. You need to be more specific like a mommy blogger who writes only about diapers. Half of the room hastily noted the word diapers. Or don’t create a tag line that is generic and lacking specificity. You need to pen something catchy and short like a quick jab in a sparring match. An innocent attendee looking for guidance was told point blank that her tag line sucked. I slinked deeper into my seat. This hour long session was like reliving my Wellesley rejection letter all over again.
Dear Paige Jennifer,
You don't belong here
Sincerely,
People Laughing
With a few notes scribbled across the back of a map, uh, because I forgot to bring a notepad, I gathered my things. I let out a sigh. My shoulders slumped forward. I wanted nothing more than to retreat from this world that felt foreign and unwelcome.
I dragged my deflated ego out to the hallway, a stretch of convention center carpeting cluttered with eager chatter and smiling faces. With a few minutes to spare before my next class, I wandered into the room where a blogirl I adore had just finished conducting a panel. Yeah, she was invited to be a guest speaker to help peons like me learn the ropes.
I lingered sheepishly in the corner, questioning if I should even bother introducing myself. I alternated the weight of my body from my right foot to my left. I thrust my hands in my pockets until I realized I looked nervous so I pulled them out and rested them on my hips. Which made me look like a five year old mimicking a model pose. So I folded my arms until I realized it made me appear standoffish and unapproachable. Confused and feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, I pushed my hands back in my pockets and just waited for the fans to clear away from the table.
“Hi, Kris. It’s Paige,” I said while dorkily pointing to my name tag.
“Oh my GOD, get over here!” she squealed as she hurdled a swag bag to give me a hug. “I’m so excited you’re here! Stacy! Stacy! Paige is here!”
I wanted to say something like, um, I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m just a boring blogirl from Philly who has a teeny tiny following, apparently because she doesn't have business cards or a specific theme to her writing.
“We are so hanging. I totally need a drink. And can I just say I love your writing.”
I smiled while shaking my head as if to wake me up from this hazy fog of unexpected and genuine interest. She knew me only from my blog. She knew me only from my writing. And yet all of that was why she was interested in meeting me. I was confused. Listen, I know I have some word skills but my writing life is oftentimes dotted with insecurity and frustration. But as I stood there being bombarded with excited praise from a woman I’d technically label as brilliant, I felt just a little less like a silly girl with a generic templated webpage and a little more like a blogger.
“Hi, I’m Paige,” I said to the woman seated to my right.
“Oh, hi! I’m Beth,” she answered while shoving a business card in my extended hand.
Shit.
“I don’t have a card. I mean, I have a business card but it’s for my day job. In insurance. And it doesn’t note my blog or my blog contact information. Though I guess I could jot it on the back of the card. I mean, if you even want it.”
“What do you write about?” she politely asked before returning her attention to the laptop perched open in front of her. I was officially less interesting than Statcounter.
“Um, life,” I said, my answer sounding empty and generic. “About my life,” I elaborated. Even I was rolling my eyes. “How about you?”
“The value of organic and locally grown food. My kids have allergies so it’s about food limitations with a mommy slant, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” I mimicked. Fucking breeders.
After a few introductions and a welcome speech from the founders of the organization, I headed off to my first class. It was a panel of three women discussing blog branding and how it directly determines success or failure. A few rows of tables with power strips underneath to support computer usage stretched across the front of the room. Each and every chair was already occupied with super strivers. With a big old humph, I plopped into a seat in the back right next to the union worker grumpily managing the audio.
There on the periphery of a hundred or so curious bloggers, I listened to suggestions. Like don’t just be a mommy blogger. You need to be more specific like a mommy blogger who writes only about diapers. Half of the room hastily noted the word diapers. Or don’t create a tag line that is generic and lacking specificity. You need to pen something catchy and short like a quick jab in a sparring match. An innocent attendee looking for guidance was told point blank that her tag line sucked. I slinked deeper into my seat. This hour long session was like reliving my Wellesley rejection letter all over again.
Dear Paige Jennifer,
You don't belong here
Sincerely,
People Laughing
With a few notes scribbled across the back of a map, uh, because I forgot to bring a notepad, I gathered my things. I let out a sigh. My shoulders slumped forward. I wanted nothing more than to retreat from this world that felt foreign and unwelcome.
I dragged my deflated ego out to the hallway, a stretch of convention center carpeting cluttered with eager chatter and smiling faces. With a few minutes to spare before my next class, I wandered into the room where a blogirl I adore had just finished conducting a panel. Yeah, she was invited to be a guest speaker to help peons like me learn the ropes.
I lingered sheepishly in the corner, questioning if I should even bother introducing myself. I alternated the weight of my body from my right foot to my left. I thrust my hands in my pockets until I realized I looked nervous so I pulled them out and rested them on my hips. Which made me look like a five year old mimicking a model pose. So I folded my arms until I realized it made me appear standoffish and unapproachable. Confused and feeling like the biggest loser on the planet, I pushed my hands back in my pockets and just waited for the fans to clear away from the table.
“Hi, Kris. It’s Paige,” I said while dorkily pointing to my name tag.
“Oh my GOD, get over here!” she squealed as she hurdled a swag bag to give me a hug. “I’m so excited you’re here! Stacy! Stacy! Paige is here!”
I wanted to say something like, um, I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m just a boring blogirl from Philly who has a teeny tiny following, apparently because she doesn't have business cards or a specific theme to her writing.
“We are so hanging. I totally need a drink. And can I just say I love your writing.”
I smiled while shaking my head as if to wake me up from this hazy fog of unexpected and genuine interest. She knew me only from my blog. She knew me only from my writing. And yet all of that was why she was interested in meeting me. I was confused. Listen, I know I have some word skills but my writing life is oftentimes dotted with insecurity and frustration. But as I stood there being bombarded with excited praise from a woman I’d technically label as brilliant, I felt just a little less like a silly girl with a generic templated webpage and a little more like a blogger.
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