Zora Travels

Pitter patter

First, let me say that I love NPR.  These voices are the friends I've come to know on my long commute, and my weekend mornings as I stretch into the sunrise.  My "school-year 4:30 wake-up call" has now crept into my weekends.  No longer are my first blurry-eyed visions and yawns in company with Daniel; instead, these two furry faces greet me.

Max (left) and Sophie (right), have brought incredible joy to us in their first week.  It is such fun to hear their paws pitter patter across the hardwood floor.  To see their fuzzy faces waiting behind the window as you sit outside.  To feel their purring bellies and velveteen throats as they curl up on your lap.

Motor Max is the "Momma's Boy" and Sophie is "on the side of the business."  She wants to always be near you, in your business...just not on you or on your terms.  But it's this little shy girl who, when we allowed them to sleep with us last night, took up the offer and curled at our feet for the night.

Is it really the marriage, I wonder, that has created this strong urge to get an official dining table (thanks, Alexandra & Gilles), purchase matching placemats and napkins, start receiving Food and Wine magazine and studying their recipes with zeal, adopt two pets, and start grinding my own coffee beans?  It's a domestic transformation.  That young girl who used to toss any edible in saran wrap now searches with consternation for the perfectly sized tupperware.  Tubs without lids are no longer welcome.

We have become a family of four.  I want to be good to these pets.  Just because the years will age their faces, rough their fur, slow their hops, I want to still show them kindness and attention.  Pets sometimes slip into the shadows after children arrive.  Losing more and more glances and strokes until they diminish into a nuisance.

I whispered into both of their silken ears that I would take good care of them.  Even though one day (in the next few years) we hope that the pitter patter will not only be feline paws but baby feet.

***Yesterday, I listened to this radio story from a father who lost two sons on 9-11.  Tears streamed down my face and I felt such sadness and gratitude.  Sad that so many, near and far, have lost their lives in the intricate web of the attacks and aftermath.  Grateful that my life, my friends, and my family have not suffered directly in the tragic and heroic dust. 

I remember that morning eight years ago.  It was my first week of teaching in Compton.  A new Miles Davis cd, "Sketches of Spain," filled my classroom as I stood at the board.  It was the day to launch "Othello."  A colleague came by and asked if I'd heard "the news."  I turned from cd to radio and as I continued to flit about my room, another plane went down. 

What about "Othello"?

Irrelevant. I thought.

What would my students need? I wondered.

Would they even come to school?

A few did.  We spoke of the incident in every period.  They asked if the Compton Court would be a target.  They asked if the World Trade Center in Long Beach would be a target.  They asked why.  Of this, I knew nothing. 

All of us a little on edge, shocked, scared, and uncertain.  By the afternoon, I knew that we were "talked out."  So, I spoke, just for a few minutes, of a stage long ago, where all the actors were men, the scribe wrote in iambic-pentameter, and the heroes were flawed.  Of this, I knew a little.

That night I walked on the sidewalk and saw candles flickering in windows.  The only nation-wide solidarity that I'd ever seen.  And eight years later, our swords are unfortunately still bright.

"Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them."
Othello, 1. 2

Inauguration Day!

We have been stashing Obama odds and ends on top of our bookshelf for months.  A campaign poster picked up in Ellensburg, our ballot stubs with "I voted" stickers, the front page of the LA Times on November 5th.  I smile thinking that the only bushes at the White House tomorrow evening will be shivering outside in the ground.

I can't sleep tonight...hence this tryst on the computer that I shall surely regret tomorrow as I struggle to teach 11th graders rhetorical devices and shadow poetry.  Luckily, there is coffee.  It will be my savor.

Meanwhile, I kvetch about all things wedding.  How is it possible that for hours I've thought of little else?I try and read...but visions of handmade paper invitations dance in my head.  I knit a few rows of my neverending scarf (which is a good thing because it means I'm not eating)...and find myself considering what type of shawl my bridesmaids might like.  I chop vegetables for the soup...while thinking of how to haggle with the caterer for a lower price.  I watch a PBS special on India...and visions of henna swirls on our wedding cake come into mind.

When will the constant list-making stop?...well, according to my just-opened account at The Knot...in 171 days.  That sounds like an eternity right now.  I envision dozens of afternoons sizzling my eyes on this computer screen looking at potential center pieces, online florists, and low carbon footprint invitations that are so expensive that the "green" approach loses it's pull.  I've looked at more fair trade handmade paper from cow dung, banana leaves, coffee plantation waste, mango leaves, and lokta fibers than anyone really ever should.

I am working on a wedding website, importing my guest list from Excel, researching ways to pay respect to Daniel's Filipino culture with traditions and Pampangan phrases and capiz shell candleholders.

And more than anything...tonight...I just wish I could sleep.  The alarm is set for 4:40am.  A final freeway commute with microwaved coffee, a cruel treadmill with blaring rap music, and bored teenagers with texting fingers await me tomorrow.

...just one more look at post-consumer recycled rice-straw paper from the Philippines.  That would be a nice touch, wouldn't it?

Loud and Clear

We have chosen our new president.  One that I respect.  Grant Park in Chicago swells with people (including Claire and Greg), flags wave for Barack Obama, McCain conceited, Palin looked like she would cry.  Mostly French people drank wine and champagne, consumed tarts and tres leche cake while we watched the announcement come onto the tv screen in Emmanuelle's living room...I soon raced home to see Daniel.

We danced in the living room.  We are celebrating our new American Hero.

I am so happy.

33 today

I'm 33 today.  Officially in my "mid-thirties."  I'm wearing a furry pink robe, sniffling from Santa Ana wind allergies, and listening to the wall clock above the wine rack steadily tick.  My father made me this card.  He actually rifled through boxes of old slides, had them developed, cut the images out, glued them down and then drove all around the Wenatchee Valley getting the signatures of my family.  When you open it, it plays a LOUD blues song.  I love imagining my father driving from house to house with my birthday card on the front seat or hunched over photographs, snipping away my brother's genitalia and replacing it with a star sticker. 

I hear a motorcycle wine up 4th street as my bloodshot eyes focus on the screen.  Last night, I was enthralled by the Obama/McCain Frontline episode.  As the time line of their dual lives unfolded,  I remembered back in 2000 when I respected McCain for his "mavericky" ways and for a brief moment forgot that he has chosen such an unqualified VP.

This election makes me nervous.  I want Obama to win.  I have these strong visions of seeing his family on the White House lawn on Easter Sunday, children scrambling between the shrubs for hidden eggs; their daughters in velvet dresses in front of the Christmas Tree; Barack saving the turkey on Thanksgiving and standing in front of wreaths on Memorial Day.  Foreign dignitaries embracing the Obamas on the porch of Camp David.  I realize that these visions don't touch on the issues.  And the issues are important to me; however, there is something about my own future as a mother of children with caramel skin that caused tears to flow when I watched Michelle speak and then be joined on stage by her daughters at the convention. 

I drink in the paper each day while on the elliptical trainer at the gym.  The economic articles intimidate me but I'm flowing at this point with "liquidity," "paper market," and "leveraging."  I think I lose some concentration on the text whilst juggling the weights, the handles, the ipod, the water bottle...but it is my retreat into current affairs each day.  A chunk of time that I crave.

Well, my day holds coffee, gym, half-day of work, lunch with friends, cocktails with friends (+Daniel), and finally Sara's cake at Mara's house.  I have cards and songs and photo albums for which I'm grateful...and incoming calls that will surely make me smile.

Blue Line/Red Line

I have always loved the subway.  These tracks, trains, tunnels that propel you towards exciting locals while you daydream, consider eliminating your accent, make mental notes on what not to do as a parent, imagine the noise level inside the walls of the homes you pass.  I almost always take pictures on the subway.  I feel like I'm in a movie, blurry scenes in the background, my pensive face musing about what the day holds (as this photo shows from my March trip to Chicago to visit Claire & Greg).

Today, after I nibble on leftover lasagna (Claire's vodka simple sauce recipe), finish my sun tea (nothing says summer like a pitcher of tea, tags and strings tangled on the outside, liquid caramelizing in the warmth of the driveway), and apply the dollop of sculpting mud into my air-dried friseur....we're going on an adventure.

A 7th street bus.  A blue line ride to downtown.  Transfer to the red line.  Inhaling the scents of ginseng and herbs at Wing Hop Fung.  Wandering the stalls at Pershing Square Market.  Pondering the musical feats at Walt Disney Hall.

Our backpack holds snacks and water, sunblock and books, Daniel's notes, my minty SPF chapstick, a pen, and my camera.

Now that I write in a "blob" (that's what my Grandma Deanne called it yesterday), I'll soak in the textures and lavish in the sounds more deeply.  Before, my observations, unless in a foreign country often found space hastily in my journal pages, time-lined but void of character.

Ah, Daniel's getting restless.  This "blob" is to be continued....

The Cobra Blues

The Summer Special at Yoga World is unlimited classes for two weeks for $30.  I have been lusciously gobbling up classes almost daily.  One of my favorite postures is cobra.  It feels like such a gentle release and although my chest barely lifts off the floor....it's getting easier.

There is another COBRA that arrived yesterday in the mail.  This one did not provide release and instead injected much anxiety into my day.  Daniel, as always, takes it all in stride, simply smiles and says, "It will be okay."  I stress out and need to immediately return for another yoga class.  Much to our amazement and confusion Daniel's health insurance has been cancelled.  And due to the wonders of current politics and policy, it ended on June 30th and the piles of paperwork arrived on Saturday.

So, what can you do?  I can get angry, depressed, and mope around bitterly cursing at the Dotted HR people who didn't properly process or explain the policy.  I can get resentful and then guilty of being resentful that insurance costs us so much and is so vital with his pre-existing condition.  How can they charge so much for one person, a healthy person, to just want some peace of mind?  How is it fair that when a sickness comes you are forever burdened and punished by your past in the minds of all of the insurance companies?  Why is it that the HR people don't slow down and truly understand the ramifications of their hustled emails and explanations when you inquire about the future?  Why can't we be like the French where the "sicker you are, the less you pay."

It seems like everything right now in my life is in flux.  I know that I should celebrate change, take comfort in the horizon of an unknown sky; however, a little lump stirs in my chest.  It is anxiety, uncertainty, and discomfort...ever so slowly gathering its form and shape to rumble around my chest.  Starting this November, nothing is certain.  I can sit calmly next to Daniel with maps of South America, read about another couple's adventure walking in the markets of Bolivia, and discuss our possible route through the continent but when I go to refill my iced tea...my breath snags on anxiety...and then the mail arrives. 

Despite having a plan, we are venturing into a year accented with question marks.  Will I be able to sub enough in November and December? Where will we go January through June?  How will we get insurance?  What will we do with the cars? Which school will accept Daniel?  Will we be moving to Michigan, New York, just up to Berkeley?  What type of work or graduate school should I pursue?  Do I want to teach 3rd grade or get a Master's in German and teach at a junior college?  The possibilities seem endless and that is unsettling. 

When is another yoga class?

Tonight at 5:30pm with Ramona.

Sabrina's Crepes and the Russian Tortoise

Last night, while a welcome breeze zipped up the porch at Haydar's, I stirred my Grey Goose pear vodka with a finger and delighted at my summer vacation.  At a large inviting table amidst new friends we discussed gay marriage and foreign adoption. The two Italians debated the playboy addage "scolatura bella di natura" (grazie, Saverio) as the last drip from a bottle fell.  When will Sasha at Yoga World finally return from her retreat?  And does Ziem the chortling Siamese cat really need more catnip?

Sabrina, the ravishingly intelligent art historian, plated Spanish crepes stuffed with spinach and ricotta which we then adorned with mixed greens bursting with edible flowers and Haydar's baked figs with gorgonzola and walnuts.  Wine glasses could have clinked with toasts in Italian, Norwegian, Spanish, Farsi, Arabic, French, and German; however, we tended to just laugh and splash wine into any neglected glass within reach.

Daniel and I walked home slightly tipsy (yet again) down 5th street with the sultry note of dark chocolate and afterburn of vodka still melting my palatte.  I relished his hand in mine as we passed the first house that I lived in when we moved to Long Beach in '87 and we noted that the Russian tortoise is still missing.