Zora Travels

Ashes, ashes

Ashes float in the air, coat the car, and smudge the sidewalk.  Fires rage throughout the LA area, sending thick blankets of smoke into the sky and sprinkles of gray flakes.  It's an uncomfortably hot day, the air is still.

I feasted on stories of the Obamas this morning in the Times Op-Ed section and I'm about to feast on Mexican food at SuperMex.  My dear friend Kenny from the high school days at Wilson (the only one left) is arriving soon.  He'll immediately salt the chips, crack them with his fist, order a side of guacamole, and a Negro Modelo.  I've known his order ("2 tacos, beans and rice") since junior year of high school when we would go there after drama practice.  We were an odd couple of friends.  The brawny handsome cheerleader-dating lead actor and the barefooted, skirt with bell fringe, supporting actress girl.

***post-lunch photo--- mmmm....Mexican food.  Can you possibly beat the oozing goodness of beans and rice, slipped down with cold beer, and today's bonus....ashes on top.

Our first post-rehearsal drive went something like this.  Kenny sits in my Ford Festiva and immediately tries to tune my radio, I have no stations programmed. 

"What do you listen to?" he inquires.

"Well, I have Credence, Buffalo Springfield...and I think down there is some Janis Joplin," I respond.

"Umm, what about Paula Abdul?"

"Who's that?"

And so has gone many of our days together....but I love him.  He nourishes my soul with compliments and affirmation of all the goodness that I deserve.

My tummy rumbles and my tongue already tastes the salty, gooey, sinful dishes.  Adios!!!

***still no baby, or signs-o-baby in Mara-land...but my cell phone is on***

 

I just returned.  This is the "yes, I deleted it" photo from our lunch.  Retribution from months of never reading my blog.

 

 

The engine in the distance

Okay, it's jumping the gun.  I know it is.  But knowing this doesn't stop me from feeling it.  I'm blue, not a deep shade, just a light robin's egg.  I find myself stuffing my pockets with precious evenings of wine, cheese, laughter, yogurts, secrets, hopes, and desires.  I'm sharing myself, pealing back layers of doubt, picking at scabs of insecurity, and dishing frivolous wishes.  I'm bursting with stories and joy amidst new friends and old.  And all the while, I hear the groan of the moving truck's engine in the distance.  Sometimes the rattle of the heavy door clinking up into the roof is audible while I'm driving towards a fun evening.

Moving was a constant for many years of my childhood.  There was a bright decade of stability alongside a river Methow, albeit now slightly shadowed by knowing my parents were both unhappy. Then the move to Chelan, divorce, move to California and flip-flopping between the two.  I had boxes which stayed packed for years, clearly labeled with contents, just awaiting the next move.  My heart and mind felt perpetually in limbo between parents, loyalties, friendships and homes.  Romances came and went from my parents' lives; I jockeyed for a position in the midst of their post-divorce awakening.

Now, at a time when my profession, friendships, and family float along in a mellow stream, I confront and attempt to embrace the idea of moving once again.  Not moving down the street, or up the road...but perhaps across country.  Setting up our new home in New Haven, Ann Arbor, Austin, or Berkeley.  All of our options glimmer with the potential of new friends, new jobs, and new hobbies. 

Our relationship will be the one constant as the boxes are unpacked and my tension unwinds.  I am that girl that moves across country with her boyfriend so he can go to graduate school.  I never saw myself as "that girl."  What does "that girl" have at the end of this journey?  What does she feel when his friendships develop fast and easy in a grad. school cadre while she asserts her voice amidst teenagers at a new high school?  Catching mere glimpses of other adults at nutrition and lunch.

I touched Daniel's arm today during a back twist in yoga class.  Our flesh met for only an instant but I knew that it was those arms, those inhalations and exhalations, that move the man I love.  Those arms will carry most of our boxes, intermingled contents that have fuzzy ownership, and our mutual sacrifice will take us down this path...a path that currently holds so much uncertainty and anticipation.  On a day like today, it is easy for me to see only my sacrifice.  Loving friends and family fish for my true feelings on these impending changes. 

Which grad. school? Which financial aid package? Which city? Which non-profit? Which job?  Which friendships will endure the distance?  And with all of these questions that swirl in my mind, I seek a gentle route towards the future but more importantly, a calm glow in the present.

I faintly hear the engine groan but louder still is the pull of my mind.  It tells me that down the street, in a quiet Italian cafe, lurks a frothy cappuccino.  I'm going to walk to Aroma di  Roma, sprinkle cinnamon atop the foam, stir in three packets of sugar, and settle into a nook with my book.  My cell phone is off.  This laptop is closing...

New friends and frozen yogurt!

On Sunday evening, Daniel and I wound ourselves into the nooks of Torrance to dine with Alexandra and Gilles.  Alexandra and I met several weeks ago, our toes bubbling at the nail salon, my mouth yammering on to Huney about our upcoming South American adventure.  Alexandra sweetly interrupted with her recommendation of an Andean community center in Peru ... and our friendship has grown from there amidst coffees and spicy dinners. 

Gilles' culinary skills were on full display with balti chicken served aside cardamom cinnamon rice and green beans.  After the main course came my favorite French tradition, the cheese course.  I noticed the gentle weight of their sharp knives, bone and metal mingled, French scrawled on the side.  Peppered goat, pungent blue, and aged brie smeared atop crusty bread and the dependable flow of luscious red wine...a consistent element of dining with all Europeans.  The wine, all of it good, just keeps splashing into your glass.

With bellies full of balti and brie, we sauntered to the couch and Gilles introduced us to his exciting array of metal ring puzzles.  As hot tea cooled and Swiss tiramasu chocolate warmed, we tinkered with the assorted rings as we discussed our philosophies of parenting (it's questionable whether one can actually have a philosophy without yet having children), the redemption of our country for choosing Barack, and the juxtaposition of cuckoo clocks and Peruvian weavings by Tino on their walls.

I love new friendships.  There is a similar anticipation just as in a romantic relationship, of hearing about their first hopes and fears.  The doors they swing open to reveal another layer of themselves.  You invite one another deeper into the caveats of your current, former, and future selves.  I have missed having girlfriends over the last few years.  Friends that have time to grab dinner, drinks, coffees, ride bikes and chat late into the night.

Today was a day filled with sunshine and a crisp fall breeze.  It unraveled along the ocean bike path, onto a porch for lunch overlooking the harbor, and finally to a bustling corner for frozen yogurt.  Whoever dreamt of FroGurtz is a genius!  Alyce, Nataly, Sara, Kalina, Graciela and I filled our own cups with different yogurts, all the while intermingling our own choice of plentiful toppings.  I could happen upon this place every day...and discover such happiness.

Tomorrow I will face a morning filled with slow coffee sipping, Times fingering, and an afternoon yoga class.  Not having a 9-5 job certainly has its good side.

Cheers!

It's not often that I enjoy cocktails during the week.  And not just one, mind you, but four...in the afternoon....on a Wednesday.  Sara had orchestrated a wee bit o' drinking at Tantalum in Long Beach.  This restaurant, although you are slightly aware they are trying, pulls off the Asian-fusion look with overt style.  Perched on the corner of two canals; luxury yachts anchor both sides; a striking sun bathed in red streaks, sets behind a miniature Indonesian fishing boat at the bar; and you nestle up to a table bedecked with bamboo candle holders and twig-like silverware.  Dark colors, accented with splashes of vibrant color, swirl within the tapestries, chairs, and food.  But best of all, tropical flowers float atop organic pear martinis and palm fronds dance out of hurricane glasses of sweet acai liquor cocktails. 

I felt very loved on my birthday.  I suppose I've never had an "unloved" birthday; but this one, cast in the middle of a ho-hum work week, was slated to be a "delayed" celebration-type day.  Instead, from my morning desk adorned with an orchid and bottle of wine, to the afternoon cocktails and gold-flecked cake, and finally to decadent cupcakes and ice-cream enjoyed at Mara's, I went to bed smiling and tipsy.  A sugar-induced coma and Daniel's kiss sent me to dream land within seconds.

The montage below has some snazzy photos of the fun day!

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Anti-balls

It's always exciting to be invited to a ball.  You get dressed up, sip wine, and socialize with other teachers who have also lost the frantic scurrying "bell's about to ring" look.  So, when our school district invited us to this year's ball at the bargain price of $300 per ticket, I chuckled and thought, "Hmmmm.... they must really hate teachers."  Which is unfortunate, since they rely so heavily upon our work. 

Weeks pass, not a single colleague claims to be attending the grand ball.  Is it possible that the $600 pricetag for us and our loved one is a bit much....during the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression, for three hours on a Monday night, with 200+ teenagers awaiting us the next morning?

"Special Invitation: ONLY $100 per ticket" read the second email.  Still a bit pricey but at least they're moving in the right direction.  Interesting that all the well-paid downtown bureaucrats are going for FREE.  (Meanwhile being a lowly sub, I've not been paid for six weeks.....yup, not since August!!!)

So, when your school district has turned into everything you thought you'd left behind... you have brilliant co-workers who plan an "Anti-ball."  A catered affair with an open bar, a light spirit, and all of the colleagues you wish to see after work (and even some of the ones you don't; however, you've been drinking and they've been drinking and you can see the red wine stains on their teeth and it makes you smile because you're drinking white wine and thus, have no stains...and then you play Taboo and they're not so bad after all).

  I wish I felt confident that at my next place of employment I would find the caliber of educators and friends that I have now.  Every day at lunch as we all rotate through the microwave, fridge, and doors...I am grateful for this brilliant group of women.  They have listened to my blather for years...they wait in nearly as much anticipation for "the question," they plan lovely birthday cocktails next week, and they always inspire me to be a better teacher.  Daniela brings spicy gourmet dishes, Sara enjoys gigantic tomatoes and bakes delectable treats, Alyce and I trade similar Trader Joe frozen tid bits, and Lorraine (not shown in the picture) shows solidarity with the uber-carb school lunch.

I know that next school year, I'll look at my mini-fridge, perhaps shared with no one, and long for our lunches again. 

P.s.  "Special Invitation: 30 FREE Tickets for the Ball" read the last email from downtown.  Bummer for the few teachers who actually bought tickets...and just think, they didn't even get to play Taboo.

Capsizing & chocolate dipping

On Saturday, I attended my first baby shower with dj's.  Thick pulsating reggae, hip-hop, soul, and funk shook the naked and faded blue wood floors at Mara's house.  Ginny's friends had come to celebrate the November arrival of her son.  This autumnal boy shall soon frolic in a vibrant home filled with carved Guinean statues, turn tables, crates of old records, and a cat named Bunny. 

So how does one throw a baby shower for a momma-to-be who's a reggae dj and a dancer?  Well, first, you pile gifts into Ethiopian-hued bags; red, yellow, and green tissue paper gush between binkies, towels, and tiny onesies.  Then, you invite people of both genders and all ages, to sip sangria and Red Stripe from green cups.  Filipino flan, lumpia, rice, and salmon jockey for position amidst pita chips, hummus, salad, and fruit.

And of course....you have a chocolate fountain.  I was thrilled for the second time in my life to put my fountain to use.  This little number was on super-sale just in time for my 30th birthday...and got pulled from the darkness of our garage for this occasion.  Skewers of dried fruit, marshmallows, creme puffs, and bananas bathed in creamy dark chocolate streams.  It was a big hit with both young and old.  I felt it my obligation to dip everything in...for quality assurance purposes.  Daniel seemed doubtful of my need for such thorough testing and somehow, at his every turn, I was forever wiping cocoa from the corner of my lips.

This celebration came on the heels of a morning spent in the bay kayaking.  We are taking a two week class and in the midst of our premier paddle through the serene canals of Naples, I challenged Daniel to a race.  We dug in and paddled wildly towards the next bridge...passing pirates, duffy boats, and luxurious homes.  A few feet away from certain defeat, I dug deeply on the right; I felt the kayak twist into the water...and spilled right out into the foulness.  Now, it's key to mention that this water is gnarly.  Boat bilge, suspicious foam bubbles, floating masses, and strong odors hover in the canal water.  Yet, there I was, dumped out, kayak filled with water, chapstick floating towards a dock.  I remembered my training from several years ago and managed to scamper back into my kayak after a few tries.

Slightly embarrassed and really wet, I paddled for another hour.  Enjoying the serenity of slicing a feathered paddle into the water, cutting along the surface with a smooth sun glistening overhead.  It was a beautiful morning filled with laughter, surprises, and a well-deserved hot shower upon returning home.

On Sunday, I found myself focusing on mindfulness and breathing in another of Sasha's yoga/meditation workshops.  Mara had gifted me a lovely afternoon of peace and reflection for my upcoming birthday.

And so it is....I slid into my week.  A week that holds anti-balls, Daniel's flight to visit Berkeley, dinners with Claire's girls, wedding celebrations for the Boose's, and perhaps a Rolling Stone documentary viewing at my mom's.

***Below is a photo montage from Ginny's baby shower.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Horizon looks bright

Although my temptation was to pretend this haircut never happened, I know one day I'll laugh.  When I remember my 24 hours of feeling like I was wearing the hair of someone else, someone with a gigantic personality, who walks into a room, owns it, gives strangers the stink eye or a high five, and eventually gets covered in tattoos.

My evening ended as it had the night before...in Joseph's chair.  He said he wasn't surprised to see me, although I was surprised to have called him.  I had never before asked for a hair "re-do" but he simply smiled and chopped, making everything pixie, and even...slashing the silly tails and swoops.

I danced a little Irish jig yesterday after leaving Number Nine.  I had dropped off my fancy "food service" resume and ended up chatting with Peter for a few minutes.  He's a fellow worker bee at the noodle house with a derby hat, salt-and-pepper beard and a mega-watt smile.  He said that Marta, the owner with blond hair piled high like Marilyn Monroe and ruby red lips, asked him to put stars all over the resumes of people he liked.  He put stars on top of mine.  We shook hands, I struggled with the door, heart beating, excitement surging....and jig dancing as I bounced off the curb.  We'll see what happens!  My real interview may be within a few days.  I want this job.  I want to wake up, saunter 10 minutes down the street in a funky little outfit, hair waxed, dark lipstick, and serve people bowls of pho and noodle salads.  I want to ask, "Would you like regular or jasmine-lychee iced tea?"   

Another unexpected bonus yesterday...my substitute teaching account was easily reactivated in Long Beach.  I then spoke with a good friend who is a vice-principal and will email out my pin number to all of her colleagues for their "preferred sub" lists.

So, although my current job yields no pay since the end of August...my horizon looks bright.  This weekend shall host myriad adventures with kayaking class, musical baby showers, meditation/yoga workshops, and a hunt for our Spanish adventure...and perhaps an interview that lands me the job at the hipster noodle joint.  Things are looking up around here!

Bastard Elephants and Number Nine

I feel like a gigantic orange-haired tarantula is perched on my head.  My friends say, "Your hair looks nice."  Students say, "I like your hair, Miss"...but I feel that the brassy patches are too much of a contrast.  I love my mother for being willing to dye my hair.  I am the one that stood in front of the mirror and beckoned for more lilac-hued peroxide swipes.  I lost sight of the whimsical wisps shown on the box photo...and went full tilt into lavender swaths.  Now, I think that an orange arachnid is napping on my noggin.

Besides a wee dabble of hair color in front of a ginormous television (with cable...mmmmm....Food Network), my mother's house also offers the always memorable exchanges with my step-father, John (shown here with Fadi).  This is a man who delights in looking at all things under a microscope, mistakes my rock bookends as an actual gift (when they were merely serving as a weight deception for a gift card), and gets bit on the lip from a snarly aged cat into whose face he is puffing.  A man whose eyes radiate warmth and whose mind offers a spigot of creativity and thought.  A man whose hands and heart have never once failed to be there when I need them.

This past weekend's most memorable John-quote:  "Did you know that there over 10 people killed EVERY week from wild elephants?  They have lost their fathers and are hyper-aggressive."

It's important you imagine this quote being said with purposeful emphasis, passion, and true concern.  This current pachyderm theme fits nicely with the wild pigs and disappearing honey-bee anxiety of the past, the pending invasion of killer African bees, and the danger of rhinos.  I am quite convinced that if I ever said I was going on an African safari, he would develop a heart murmur.

So, it was with a tarantula head and a mind contemplating bastard elephants, that I headed over to my cousin's house.  We dolloped Halloween decor around the porch and postponed putting out the headstones and skull lights.  We then took on the dreary task of clearing out the closet, folding shirts, bagging pants, and seeking immediate refuge in the laughter of the children.  Their uncle arrived carrying the familiar (and yet heartbreaking) swagger, the stubbled cheeks and brown eyes, the laughter and cool that resonates from the men in that family.  Teighler and Trent flocked to his SUV and sat upon the roof as the safari tent was born.  I tried to just smile...to enjoy the sounds of their laughter as they scampered onto the desert camouflage mattress.  As their mom climbed up and the entire family disappeared under the flap, I blinked back tears.  It is such bullshit that Steve is gone.  He should be here.  Swatting Trent's butt as he climbs up the ladder, telling Teighler to hike up her blue pants before she falls on her ass.  I get angry sometimes.  I miss him.  Other days I forget him...and knowing that I forget hurts just as much as trying to always remember.  It sucks.

I ended my Sunday with a nice angular bowl of Vietnamese glass noodles, spiced chicken, and an egg roll.  The ultra-hip noodle house down the street filled my bruised heart with tasty morsels doused in sweet sauce, spring rolls dipped in peanut sauce, and a creme brulee infused with ginger.  Sara and Alyce vibrantly spread their energy and I soaked in their shadows until I could create my own light.  Daniela soon joined us at Portfolio and we moseyed down Retro Row.  The nearly-complete "Lunchin' Ladies" crew from work had ressembled in Long Beach.  I was thrilled.  Our destination was the block of 4th street between Junipero and Cherry that oozes with an independent string of rockabilly, retro, vintage, and antique stores.  Employees are tattooed, pierced and uninterested...not because they are trying to slight you...but because they really look like they have cooler things to do besides watching you finger their wares.  I don't have the guts to sport 99.9% of either the clothes or accessories they sell (not to mention the antiquated body sizes)...but something about just being in these stores makes me more brave.  I slurp up "hipster" on the sly.

I found the weekend ending with an emotion-splashed canvas.  Oranges, the blues, and cherry red swirled together.  I am going to start working on my resume.  I will apply to work at Number Nine...and if they'll hire me for only the few months I have left in my beloved Long Beach...I shall sell lychee-infused tea and ginger-bespeckled creme brulee with unbridled passion. 

My wheelie cart and the American baker

Every Friday, I wheel my cart really fast across campus and slip into my car for the drive home.  My cart is already partially packed as the last few minutes come to an end.  The bell rings, they funnel out the door, I grab a handful of animal crackers and flick off the lights...but this past Friday, at the door, with cart in motion, lights off, blinds pulled...I was stopped by an irate parent. 

Now, sometimes you have to play politics.  You ask yourself these questions:  Is this parent connected?  How much resistance will I get in asking them to make an appointment?  Is it worth the drama to insist on going home at this moment?  And with this parent, the school photographer and a mother who emailed all teachers at the beginning of the year an epic novel about her son's special ADHD needs (albeit not official), the answer was a definite "no."  The cart was tilted back to the floor, the lights were turned on, my face slightly sour.  And thus began a 20 minute conversation of her son's lies, "We only watched a movie," an overview of the quiz and upcoming essay, and soon a screaming mother was climbing deep into the hinterland of her son.  She was a real spelunker.

After she stopped yelling, I raced my cart towards the parking lot, stopping briefly in a pocket of mud to tell a student to attend office hours, he threw a pear core at my feet, it lodged in the mud.  He picked it up, upon being asked, and launched it onto the roof.  I dislodged my sandal from the mud, wiped my foot on the grass, my face slightly sour. 

I am now only 25 feet from popping my trunk when a police cruiser drives up.  Two officers jump out and ask for the office.  Another teacher says that a girl had been cutting herself in class.  Nothing like two officers, oh...wait, there's another two...nothing like four burly police officers hovering over you when you've been cutting yourself.

I wheel my cart slowly, purposefully towards my car.  I sit down, sip some water, and dig out a stick of gum.  My face slightly sour.

So, that's the beginning of my weekend.  A Friday that would eventually end with a ho-hum exchange between Obama and McCain and then a dinner party to celebrate Lionel's naturalization.  After eighteen years, Kozak has become a US citizen.  This allowed for many photographs with the plastic coated American flag embedded in a melting cheesecake...and for some reason, the Chinese flag taped to a water bottle of bootleg French aperitif.  Cheesy gratin, fruit tarts, Comte cheese, toasted bread, and nutmeg spiced fruit filled our bellies as French filled the air.  I am reminded, on at least a monthly basis, that had I chosen French as my foreign language of choice, I would be fluent by now.  There is no other foreign tongue that I hear so often, no group of ex-pats cobbled together so regularly as the Frenchies who gather at Mara's. 

After sixteen years, I can; however, have the following conversation in Francaise.  "Hello.  How are you?  Good to meet you.  Tart yours?  She's good. Where France you?  Thank you.  You're welcome.  Me too.  You finished?  Excuse me.  Sheep balls.  Owie on your head.  Sorry little one. Goodbye."

It's an impressive exchange, I know. 

Alexis, the talented and unusually kind teenage son, displayed his musical talent on Friday.  Daniel and I were ushered into his pristine room to hear him play guitar.  Now, his is a room of complete minimalism in a house of utter chaos.  With five other siblings and the normal female clutter and toys that accompany such a large brood, Alexis has managed to create and maintain a spotless oasis.  A bed that hosts only a blanket, a desk that holds only a computer and speakers.  He strummed Bob Marley, Wheezer, and Red Hot Chili Peppers.  And soon, the notes and our off-key singing attracted Graciela to join the fun.  We held hands and danced.  Alexis' braces glimmered and his guitar played on long after his parents had said goodnight.  Their parties always leave guests sprinkled throughout the house and dolloped on the porch...still drinking, smoking, dancing, and singing long after the American baker and super-mom (of soon seven) have gone to bed.

Until the Canaries or the wedding!

By now, Fadi has crossed the Atlantic, landed in Frankfurt and taken the speed train to Cologne.  Her olive cheeks, at last resting in her own bed, have long since dried of yesterday's morning tears at LAX. 

Water rattles in the tea kettle.  It is my first morning to etch out this year's routine.  My years cycle through a school calendar, thus, my new year has recently begun.  In lieu of the meditation-yoga- blog-gym routine, I have often opted over the last month to frolic too late, waking groggy and stumbling blog-less onto the freeway, finally reaching work in desperate need for caffeine.  My body kindly requests respite from the Krispy Kreme, "Sexy Girl" sushi rolls (shown here), Kinder chocolate, and sparse exercise.

The most magnificent flavor to recently dance an Irish jig in my mouth was the Cuban cake on Sunday.  Along the bay side of the Peninsula, my Aunt Barbara, set up a blue canopy and invited family down for her birthday.  Holes were dug, strong margaritas were sipped, and after a chilly romp in the murky (slightly questionable) bay water, a Cuban sweet tostada was served.  Imagine a gigantic tortoise-sized tostada shell made of a dark chocolate-pecan encrusted waffle cone.  Layered inside is moist white cake, vanilla flanish-type pudding, pears, peaches, raspberries, and strawberries.  It was divine, not only the cake, but the company, the sand beneath my feet, the berry hue on my face, and the sun slurping up droplets on my skin.

Last night, as we headed to bed, Daniel asked mournfully, "Where's our Fadi?"  I felt a little pull in my chest and I remembered her lilac lips and wet cheeks from our early morning goodbye.  "We will see each other soon," we sniffed.  A Canary Island rendezvous or the one-day wedding of yours truly (no, we're not engaged).  Some event will find us again with red kerchiefs, laughter, and late-night chats.

My porch bench looks lonely.  Her last two crushed cigarettes lie in the blue Croatian ashtray.  Several near-empty bottles of German face wash and body wash sit alone on the bathroom shelf...the wooden earrings she left (or gave?) are on the counter.  Crickets chirp...the paper lands on the scrubby grass...and I know it will be a while until I have marathon discussions with a close girlfriend again.  My friendship circle is lovely; however, with babies, distance, pregnancy, and city life...talk is quickly milked from the udders of already crowded lives.