Clouds in my Coffee

I know I promised the best installation of the Costa Rica stories would be the best, but I just can't seem to find the gumption to write about it.

It was the best part of my trip. Perhaps sometimes experiences are just meant to be that, experiences. Monteverde, I believe, is a place that needs to be experienced. Any attempt to recreate what I felt there is futile. You must journey yourself up the narrow winding dirt road not meant for the bus you are riding (barely, it seems, adequate for a horse and carriage). You must be patient as the bus ascends into the misty cloud forest, taking two hours to go a mere 20 km. Then, you must enjoy the walk in the light rain, 20 minutes further along the dirt road, to get to the Monteverde Coffee Coop Caf é, where the proprietor, a 40-ish woman, is more like a hostess welcoming guests into her living room than a café manager, chatting with equal ease and pleasantness in either English or Spanish (or a bit of both, as I like to do). Then, after some refreshment and a interview with a student working on a project in how to help farmers market their products and tours to tourists while supporting the environment of Costa Rica (she was from USF in Tampa, reminding the world is usually much smaller than we ever imagine), there is another long stroll to the Ecological Sanctuary. Along the way, you might wander into some shops and galleries. Then you will get an invite from the bookstore clerk for a concert there this evening. Of course, you must stop for a taste of the Monteverde cheese factory's coffee ice cream (flavored with Monteverde coffee, of course) – a luscious creamy delight. Finally, you get to the Ecological Sanctuary a bit early for the night hike and are rewarded with time for a warm cup of coffee and dinner time for the monkeys just outside the reception center. There is something about being in a forest at night. We see owls, majestic and mystical as they fly deeper into the forest when we approach. We see sleeping toucans. Still early, I head up to the concert, held in an outdoor concert shell. My dinner becomes coffee, pie, followed by a beer. A good vacation meal. Outside, I sit with the locals and expats as we listen to an eclectic group of musicians create atmospheric music, at once organic and electronic. It is not something I would listen to in my car or home, probably, but the energy is soothing and absorbing. The night air in the forest rejuvenates my body and soul.

That evening, the loudest cricket to ever live and some techno club near my hotel keep me up. I get a few hours of sleep before I head out early to catch the bus to the Monteverde reserve for the first morning tour. I am early again. This time there is no coffee and I am glad I grabbed the small cup before the bus. My earliness is rewarded as I get to sit in the hummingbird garden alone with the hungry birds. As soon as our tour starts we are rewarded with seeing the rare Quetzal. In between I continue to be astounded by the peacefulness, richness, and beauty of this the cloud forest. And the diversity. At the end, our tour closes with the eerie calls of howler monkeys and some up close sightings. My time is winding to a close here. I stop at the Caf é on the way back to town for lunch again. I finish my gift shopping there and at the adjacent women's art collective (CASEM). I pick up my bags and wait, now in the rain again, for the bus back to San Jose.

Back in San Jose, I get a single room at Hotel Aranjuez, supposedly sharing the bathroom, though I never seen anyone else use it. It is the best night sleep I have all vacation. I have no reason to wake up early the next day, though I do (I think being so close to the equator makes it difficult to sleep late). I have a leisurely breakfast, then head out to see some museums in San Jose and do a bit more gift shopping. I lunch in the Central Market with the working folks – always more interesting and usually better food than the restaurants for tourists. I tour the national theater, which just seems to be perfect for an opera, especially at $16 for a seat. When the rain threatens to descend upon the city, I head back to the hotel where I enjoy the veranda with coffee and a book. Finally, I meet up with my Spanish teacher for some beers and great conversation. A lovely way to end my stay in Costa Rica. It now feels like home again, or a home away from home. Relaxed from the company and the beer, I have another wonderful night's sleep, another leisurely morning breakfast, and, at last, I move on towards Florida and my family . . . with whom home truly resides.

too tired to blog

1. When playing Rummy 500, if the pile of cards from where you pick up if you can’t use the ones other cards players have discarded runs out, what do you do?

2. Recently I made some mix CDs for some friends. Now, I would never presume to have exceptional taste in music and, in fact, tend to get stuck on a few things I like if not forced to listen to new artists by friends. However, there when I feel compelled to share . . . in such cases, I do expect some sort of response, an acknowledgment if not an outright expression of appreciation. Now, even if the person hates it and destroys the CD, I want to know . . . I want to know it was heard . . . because really, much like when my blog is left uncommented upon (as it so often it is) there is that unsettled feeling of the unknown (and not the good, mysterious unknown that makes life so exciting). So, . . .you know who you are . . .

3. Why must I return to LA rather than sleep in until 11am every morning in Florida? I think I am much better at that than teaching. Truly.

4. Why do the most inane and insignificant things make me cry at the most inopportune moments, like a simple question over dinner at Chili’s with my sister and nephew?

5. What is Quality? (Yes, I am reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, if you must know).

6. I suppose Guinness does make everything a little bit more fun and fortifies one for all types of situations, like cover bands at British Pubs in Dunedin, Florida, and eventually having to leave my family to return to my life in LA.

Coffee and Butterflies (not in my stomach)

The apartments of Aranjuez Hotel.

The receptionist seemed a bit apologetic about it as he directed us to the concrete building across the street. It did not hold the old home charm from the outside and did not seem to promise the lush courtyard gardens of the main hotel. We entered through the gated door into a sterile, modern lobby that looked more like a business office than an hotel. Upon entering the room through the red wood door, it was like walking back into the U.S. – and a fairly decent U.S. hotel at that. Definitely not a Motel 8. And the bathroom was all tile and definitely more posh and modern than my own LA bathroom. After the stormy days in Tortuguero Village, this bathroom looked like paradise. Really. A hot shower with good water pressure is a rare find in Costa Rica and probably my only complaint about the country. Ok, a centralized bus terminal with a centralized schedule would be nice, too.

After settling into the room and cleaning ourselves up, we decided to give ourselves a rest from the bus rides and stay in San Jose for a tour of the butterfly farm and Café Britt fields and factory. With one quick phone call I made reservations. Then, I headed back to the main hotel for a cup of coffee on the veranda. Not wanting to go far, we headed to a ‘soda’ down the street for a quick bite to eat and some beers. Despite the somewhat grungy appearance, our comical waitress brought us some wholesome food. Then we retreated back to the hotel for more coffee and veranda action, a quick check of the email (our telling American addiction) and then off to bed in our comfy ‘apartment’ room, complete with American style polyester bedspreads.
After a quick dash for the breakfast buffet, just as delicious as the first, we were picked up by the butterfly van and headed to the suburbs of San Jose.

And in fact, a bit to my surprise, this really is a butterfly farm. That is, it is not just a place for us to come and see the variety of butterfly species that thrive in Costa Rica’s vastly diverse environment, but they actually breed and raise butterflies to export to other countries. Apparently, as the government passed laws to discourage export crops not native to Costa Rica (often leading to rampant deforestation to accommodate these crops, including my beloved Costa Rican coffee), farmers needed to find new ways to make a living. Butterfly farming is an easy and low cost venture, thus it became popular among many of these farmers. So, if you want butterflies at your wedding or if you go to a butterfly farm in the U.S., it is likely those butterflies are bred in Costa Rica. Butterflies are very plant specific, and many of the plants butterflies prefer are able to be grown in Costa Rica.

Walking into the observation garden was like walking into some dream (except, perhaps, for the netting surrounding the garden). Beautiful flowers and colorful butterflies fluttered all around us. Some, like the famous Costa Rican blue morphos, were almost as large as my hand. Only when flying could you really see their vibrant colors. Then, when still and resting, folded, the browns and greens of the back of their wings hid the brighter beauty within. From the larvae to the butterfly, I never really comprehended what amazing and fascinating animals they are. The variety of larvae are even greater, perhaps, the colors and sizes. Some look exactly like leaves (some dead, some living), others like jewels or pendants or shells. All from an egg as tiny as a pinpoint on a leaf. Amazing.

We were awoken from the butterfly dream and carted off on another thirty minute drive to the Café Britt farm. One the largest and best known coffee producers in Costa Rica, no expense was spared to share with us the art of coffee and their many products for sale. I must say I was a bit sad now that I learned that all this wonderful coffee is at the expense of valuable forests, but, then, we had a welcoming cup of a taste of their frapaccino with a shot of the café britt liqueur. Delicious. We had some time to wander around the store and small garden before the massive tour started. Normally, I avoid days like this when traveling, but for various reasons, such as my addiction to coffee, was interested in learning more about the process of how it gets to my cupboard and coffee mug.

This was no ordinary tour, but had a touch of Disney-esque inspiration. It was soon apparent that show might be a better word. The ‘guides’ were more actors and the ‘tour’ was obviously scripted for our entertainment and to seamlessly convey all the information in both English and Spanish to the crowd of about fifty tourists. There was much joking and even the occasional flirtatious innuendo to keep give the adults a few hearty laughs as we stood in the coffee field and learned about how to pick, sort, and process the coffee. Then, we proceeded to the factory where, being Saturday, we got to stare into some empty roasters. At this time, we were also given a sample bag of coffee. Next, we moved to the Café Britt theater (where real concerts and plays are performed in the evenings) to learn about the history of coffee and to receive a lesson about how to choose good coffee.

Finally we retired to the café where we received an amazing lunch, with free coffee drinks afterward. I chatted a bit with two sisters who were traveling, one who had retired just outside of San Jose. Funny, because they looked like they would fit in with the Florida crowd, though their enthusiasm for Monteverde betrayed their sense of adventure that would rarely be found in Florida early bird special crowds.

The café is conveniently located adjacent to the gift store where you could buy anything Café Britt. Identical stores are also found in the airport.

All this in half a day. Maybe the tourist packages aren’t so bad after all? I did begin to lose the sense of vacation and being in another country and looked forward to my return to Monteverde. Thus, I asked the van to drop us off at the bus ticket counter for the Monteverde bus rather than our hotel. This terminal is closer to the main Coca-Cola terminal (called so because it is where the old Coca-Cola factory used to be, not because of sponsorship), and has the same amount of charm, which is zero, unless you find the seediest parts of a Central American city charming. So, we quickly walked through the central market and the few blocks to downtown San Jose. In the center of this is a promenade that reminds me a bit of Jamaica Queens – always bustling with the locals doing their shopping in second-rate fashion stores with small electronics and appliance shops tucked in between. It is a place you find almost everything you could need but usually at a quality slightly less than you want.

Except, in our case, an ATM that would accept both of our cards. For whatever reason, every ATM had enormous lines, all of which we stood in for some time.

In the meantime, the afternoon rain started.

ATM lines and rain. Finally, with cash in our pockets, we ducked into a bookstore for some reprieve, then found a café for a bit of a rest. Finally, we caught a cab back to our hotel, where we were returned back to our original room in the main hotel. The rain continued so we stayed in to read, take advantage of the free unlimited internet access, and re-pack for the rest of the trip.

(Final installment in progress . . . saving the best for last, I hope.)

Zen and the Art of Caring

"When you want to hurry something, that means you no longer care about it and want to get on to other things." -- Robert M. Pirsig

I want to hurry this summer. Get on with other things. Get back to the rhythm of my life as it was a few months ago. Good, smooth, making progress (or so it seems from my current perspective).

Now, I sit and look through old photos again. At once precious memories and more clutter in this world. Pictures to preserve something that is fleeting. I look at my parents, before I existed, before they knew they would be parents of me, of my sister. Before they knew each other. My mother with piercing eyes, neatly waved blond hair, in her chic 60's minis or self-designed cocktail dresses, posing on loungers vacationing with her girlfriends. My father, smoking cigarettes in the trenches of Korea or sunbathing in Hawaii. Who are these people, carefree and fun and free and beautiful? How did I come from them? Then the engagement, the marriage, the first apartment. Flirtatious gazes into the camera meant not for me, but for my father, holding the camera. So happy. I don’t remember when I last saw my mother genuinely happy like that. Probably not since my father died.

"I want to have that picture of my mother in her Sunday dress blown up and framed so she can be on the wall with everyone else before I die," my mother insists from her chair. "She must be so insulted. Do you have black and white in your apartment? Maybe you would like the black and white pictures." She makes plans for life and death in one thought, gazing at a cluster of black and white photos on her wall of all of us when we are younger. And of a winter scene of Central Park. So we spend the whole afternoon going through boxes of photos. The remembering and the sorting and the dissection of my past and future exhaust me. We do not find the photo she remembers seeing. Though maybe she remembers it just as she remembers the nurse’s aide’s name– incorrectly. (Later, I find it tucked into the frame of her bedroom mirror, in plain sight, like most of the things we seek in life).

I look at them so happy, my mom and all her girlfriends, healthy and laughing. They still call every week. I am suddenly convinced I am doing something wrong. My mother’s temple leans on my father’s cheek. The engagement. Forever was not expected to be so short They are so sure, so confident, so peaceful. My own confidence seems an illusion, my own independence an excuse to deny my fear and inadequacies. What happened to my sister and I? My loft apartment with my Ikea furnishings now seem cheap and lifeless, another example of my inability to commit to one thing, one place, to put down roots, to build a community. Like all else, it is fleeting. The only thing I sustain and cling to is impermanence – in homes, in relationships, in jobs, in beliefs.

My mother’s home is the one place that is truly home, my constant. No matter where she lives, everything seems to stay more or less the same. The picture by the door, the tea cups, the china, the Hungarian plates, the piles of cut out news articles – a home that is meant to welcome and comfort. And my mother, always waiting to welcome me home with love and pampering.
"What pieces of furniture do you want?" She asks as though this alone could preserve what will be lost.

All of it, I think. But then, what is it worth to me. Five thousand miles away, I cannot live in her house, cannot recreate it in my home. It is these details that seem to overwhelm and drive home how dire the situation is. My mother seems otherwise herself: moody, self-depreciating, tired and not wanting to be taken care of. She does not look weaker or more emaciated than my last visit. I realize it is the painkillers that probably create the illusion.

"She sleeps a lot during the day."
"Yes, the doctor mentioned that," my sister nods.
"What do you mean?"
"I asked how we could tell she is getting worse, her lungs are weakening. The doctor said she would be more tired and sleep more, and that is ok."
We step into the boat at Weeki Wachee, take photos of manatees, herons, and egrets before the storm comes.

I realize it is all an illusion that we have created, a physical manifestation of the idea of home and family and love that underlies each place we live and meet, each argument, each meal, each moment of laughter and tears. Like the furniture, I cannot ship this to Los Angeles and it is valueless without her presence.

Turtle Wisdom -- A lesson from a Dinosaur

Costa Rica: a country without an army; biodiversity, unique to the global health, threatened with extinction; pure living is the national motto; holds a treaty of friendship with every nation; where butterfly farming replaced coffee and banana farming to increase exports of native crops; yet still, only 5% of the forests remain intact. Of 4 million people, 3 million live in San Jose, the capital. San Jose, in the center of the country, and in the center of the city is the National Theater. The National Theater was the first place in the country to have electric lights; San Jose was the third city, after Paris and New York, to have electric lights. This is not your typical image of Central America. It is a place both foreign and yet not so different than home. More of a place for a journey into myself and my own world than a vacation, I realize, often wondering why I bother to travel at all.

I entered and left Costa Rica a bit exhausted, and bit anxious. Getting to Florida to see my mother was a constant preoccupation from weeks before I left, trying to condense my vacation into a few days. If there is one thing you can never have too much of in Costa Rica, it is extra time. Costa Ricans are fairly laid back, and outside of San Jose the country is laced with narrow windy roads leading to ecological wonders of rainforests, cloud forests past the formerly forested areas converted for export crops of bananas or coffee. (Later, I would learn the coveted coffee of Costa Rica – as many of you know, my top choice for coffee – comes at the expense of the precious forests of Costa Rica.) Thus, reaching your destination often takes several hours on a bus in humidity, heat, and often rain. All trips start and end in San Jose. Consequently, there is no quick trip in Costa Rica (if you want to avoid the tourist packages) and perhaps is a way to keep people coming back as there is always something you didn't get to see.

We exit the airport through TV crews waiting for the arriving football team. Behind them I spot the Interbus sign with my name on it. The friendliness and relaxed attitude of the Interbus service employees is a sharp contrast to the SuperShuttle driver in LA who passed us twice on the corner when picking us up at 4:30am and grumpily insisted paying by credit card would take thirty minutes. The Costa Rican welcome continues at Hotel Aranjuez, a place that would become my home-base for the next week. We are shown through lovely verandas to our humble but clean and comfortable room. Free coffee and internet service awaits us as the lush garden drips with fresh rain. I am a bit sad that we will be leaving early the next morning to start our week's adventures.

But not before enjoying the feast of a breakfast on the patio. Just as presented on the website, the morning greets us with platters of homemade baked goods, juicy tropical fruits, pinto de gallo, coffee, fresh juices, and various other scrumptious treats. We eat quickly then catch our cab to the bus station for a bus to Cariari. This station is cleaner and safer than the ones I am used to in the Coca-cola district. Painted a bright yellow, it is already bustling at 8 a.m. We get our tickets, rest, purchase a pair of nail clippers I forgot to pack, then get to the bus about 10 minutes before leaving, obviously the tourists who don't know any better as the bus is full and the only 'seats' are on the back steps. It is only a two hour ride and standing, I get a better view standing and my achy back is more comfortable as I am able to move around and stretch. The bus passes the outskirts of San Jose, the Denny's and American Hotel enclaves, then climbs into misty mountains before descending again into hotter and more humid lowlands. We finally end up in Cariari, an obvious transit town where tourists only pass through to get somewhere else. In the midday heat we have to transfer ourselves and bags five blocks to the local bus station. After sipping some coca-cola out of cool sweating glass bottles, a sensation that reminds me of similar hot days the first summer I visited Hungary when I was five, we cross back to the station just before the afternoon downpour begins. The bus windows fog as the heat fills the bus. The rain slows enough as we depart to allow people to open the windows. After a short while, the bus turns onto a narrow, bumpy dirt road. Sitting in the back affords another great view of the mostly banana fields along with way, but, with each bump, my head is tossed against the window frame, to be avoided only by bracing my hand as a cushion on the frame or by leaning forward. An hour later, we reach the now muddy path to the boat. I am lucky to get a seat in front. Until about five minutes into the ride when the rain begins again, my face like the windshield of a moving car in the rain. On and off, the rain follows us down the hour and a half ride through the Tortuguero rain forest depositing us into the even muddier Tortuguero Village, an island on the Carribean Coast.

With ominous clouds above and gusty winds, we navigate our way to our hotel. Walking paths replace what would be streets in any other town. In fact, the only vehicles we see on the island are ATVs. Our hotel is located only a few hundred feet from the opposite coast of the island. This could be an ideal location if not for the hurricane looking sky blowing foam from the caps of the waves onto the black sand beach. Since we are not Costa Ricans, but tourists, we have our schedule and head off to book our tour for the turtles that evening. Now with time to kills, we enjoy a lovely fish lunch, shower and rest.

In the stormy dark of night, we head follow Daryl, our guide, out onto the beach of the Tortuguero National Park to hopefully find a turtle that has come ashore to lay her eggs. Though used to night hikes in Griffith Park, there is no city light pollution here and, this night, no light from stars and moon thanks to the thick cloud coverage. Walking behind our guide, I follow tiny phosphorescent spots released by the sand with each of his steps. Though windy, the humidity keeps the night air fairly warm. We do not have to walk far before finding a turtle. The next 30 minutes, though, are mostly just waiting on the beach as Daryl tells us all he knows about the turtles and their mating and reproductive habits. Meanwhile, the turtle is off digging her hole where she will lay the eggs. We cannot watch or she might leave. I guess once the hole is done and she is laying the eggs, even throngs of humans gawking will not cause her to scurry back into the ocean. I marvel at the oddness of this habit of this strange animal, the human, and wonder how we would react to turtles coming to 'observe' us giving birth. Then, our turn comes to go and see the eggs dropping into the nest, like liquid golf balls. More fascinating is watching the turtle use her hind flippers to bury the eggs. This is as maternal as she will become. At some point, a rain cloud passes by, leaving us drenched. We stay, loyal to the turtle, loyal to our investment in this spectacle. Besides, any of us would be lost to navigate the dark beach without our guide. Particularly because a power outage has left the village as black as the rest of the island. Here we are with our turtle, a ritual practiced for millions or billions of years. A living dinosaur, as Daryl glossed on about the mysteries of these creatures. I came all this way to see this, but wonder, really, how it changes me and my view of the world. That night, the wind keeps me awake allowing me to dwell on my feeling that I should be in Florida with my mother, not gawking at a mother turtle who leaves her young to fend for themselves on the beach. In the next bed is my travel partner who seems to be as far away as my home in Los Angeles and my mother in Florida. Perhaps, this is preparation for the impending loneliness I fear, a loneliness I thought I had conquered, this upcoming year.

"I would be surprised if she lasted a year," the doctor said that one day when I finally spoke to her on the phone. The truth I needed to hear. How could I make all wrongs right in one year?

Turtles will lay four to five thousand eggs in their lifetime and only about two will survive to be reproducing adult turtles. Their survival is up to them alone and somewhat luck and fate. And then, they always come back to this beach. They always come home, even if just for a few nights a year. That is natural for them. I wonder about how many turtles survive into non-reproducing adults and what their function is in the turtle world.

Our bonus for the evening was watching the CCC (a conservation group dedicated to protecting the turtles) came to tag and measure our turtle.

The next morning we are up early again for a tour of the national park through the canals. On this tour we are told one type of bird mates for life. I forget which it is. For up to thirty years, they could be together. But, the tour guide adds, they only are together for a few months a year, then go their own way the rest. Thus, again, in nature, aloneness seems to be a natural state and need, even in lifelong partnerships. Balance and acceptance of both seem to be the key.

We finish off the tour, grab breakfast, pack up our belongings and then prepare for our half day trip back to San Jose and cozy Hotel Aranjuez, where will be staying in the 'apartments' across the street.

Mermaids and Tiki Bars

I've learned in visiting Florida to not resist being sucked into the inevitable black hole of anti-culture and any indication of the slightest liberal tendencies in the country. Welcome to the land of Wal-mart strip malls, cranking air conditioners (where you do need a winter wardrobe to be comfortable indoors), wayward pedestrians, big SUV's and amazing ecology that goes mostly ignored. No, I will ignore of all that (except maybe the cool surroundings of pelicans and dolphins and lush greenery) in order to remember that I am here for quality family time.

That is why today I got up early to meet my sister, my nephew, my sister's boyfriend and his son to head up to the Florida treasure of Weeki Wachee and Buccaneer Bay, infamous home of the mermaids. There is actually a natural spring there, 72 degrees all year long, flowing clear and clean. Unfortunately, built around this well of purity and calm around is theme park kitsch done without a Disney-esque budget. Surrounding the 'beach' area are several water slides. Across the river is a DJ blasting various mixes of 80's music and rock (80's music rules in this area of Florida -- it is as if the radios froze while I was in high school and college here in Florida). Only if you rent one of the single, double, or triple innertubes are you able to float down the 'lazy river' extending about 50 feet beyond the beach swimming area. Sadly, this is the most peaceful part of the river, where the dj's music is a little bit less intrusive and the splashing kids are a bit farther away. Whereas I would prefer to float down the river without all the 'benefits' of the theme park, I can see how for a family all the energy sucking activities for the kids is a welcome relief. The boys were non-stop up and down the slides, in and out of the water, on and off the innertubes, snorkeling, and then back to the slides. The excitement was non-stop. Now, for us adults, usually the difference is we want to create a little less excitement of the energy draining sort on our days off, we want to escape. Or I do.

So, I convinced my sister to escape to the boat tour further down the river. We even stopped for a beer at the Tiki bar on the way over. I would regret this later in the evening when my headache and probably a bit of dehydration set in (how, I still wonder, do you get dehydrated sitting in a spring all afternoon). We climbed into the boat and our 'captain' was a woman probably close to retirement. In fact, like in many places in Florida, she was probably one of the part-time retirees who wanted a little extra side job (versus, like in most places, where you find high school kids working for a bit of extra cash). So, she chattered on in her Florida drawl about not a whole lot (quite the contrast to the Costa Rican tour guides who are all college educated in biology/ecology of Costa Rica) as we cruised down the river at a fairly rapid pace. We did see some manatees and beautiful herons and egrets. The alcohol, though, was settling in my empty stomach and well, I ended the trip feeling ready for a nap.

The rain clouds were moving in. My sister noted how lightening strikes often outside the storm, preceding the actual rain and clouds. I did not know this. I should also mention, for those who do not know, that Tampa Bay area is the lightening capital of the world. Yes, it is true. In fact, a few nights ago, someone died of lightening in the area. It makes for quite a spectacular show, though. Anyway, it took a bit of work to round up the boys, then several false starts to the exit. I was anxious to get into the boyfriends big pick-up truck (a Tundra that I would probably curse if I had to park next to it in one of the many CA compact car spots) and take my nap on the way home. I was feeling exhausted and even the boys noisy chatter would keep me awake. In fact, I was out pretty much until we stopped at Toys R Us. I staying in the car for five minutes of silence, the first since I got out of bed. Ah.

Next, we stopped at the Pizza Country Inn for, well, Pizza. It was freezing inside, but we enjoyed a lovely, huge Greek Salad and typical Florida Pizza (round but sliced in squares rather than triangle slices -- a sign, to me, of inauthentic pizza making and eating).

On the way home, I had first stop to put air in my mom's tires, deflating like my energy and mood. Suddenly, everything seemed overwhelming and too much. To go home to spend time with my mom or to hang out with my sister and her crew to watch a movie? Life is just too short for such decisions. Especially when I am feeling dehydrated and under-caffeinated. Then, every air dispenser in Palm Harbor seemed to have a line. After that, I had to stop at the grocery store. How it makes me long for LA and Trader Joes. The stores here are all huge and badly organized. Why, for instance, would I put the bread aisle about 10 aisles down from things like coffee and breakfast cereals, separating these connected food items with household cleaners and toilet paper and hardware products. Another hour later, I finally made it home, my head pounding and ready to pass out.

I am ready for my vacation from my vacation.

Security Blanket

I look around my place and am overwhelmed by the desire to never
leave. My womb, my home, my sanctuary. Vacations always come at the
time when I feel most not like leaving. Or maybe the prospect of
leaving inspires the desire for security.

Security. Sure, safe, solid. Intangible, illusory, eluding us
when we think we need it most.

I find the desire for security squelches the importance of living and
often leads us to make the most insecure decisions.

A desire for security leads us to forsake our mission, to forget our
purpose for being, all in trying to achieve that guarantee. Enough
money in the bank and all my worries will be gone. Security for any
crisis any disaster. Security so disaster does not happen to me.
Security so my lover does not lie or my mother will never die. And
that will be found when everything is in its place . . . each book,
each glass, each pillow . . . security so tight that no one will
disturb it because by the time I find it no one will be there. The
ability to love, to live, to laugh will be gone . . . and yet,
security is still not really, well, secure. Insecure and alone.

As I lie here, exhausted and exhilarated and elated, I see, in
seeking security, trying to hold on to what I had in one moment but
had no need for the next I lost something what was to come next. Or
not? . . . Beyond security . . . sure or not . . . no
guarantee . . . then life will wrap itself around me, like a
favorite blanket -- warm, worn, some days too hot, some too cold, new
holes, fading, softening, stretching, new from one moment to the
next, but always there . . . .

My Vista Escape

The Vista Theater in Los Feliz -- hands down my favorite theater in
LA, if not the country (and perhaps, the world). Street parking is
usually fairly readily found, if you are willing to walk a few blocks
(though probably not further than the parking garage of other
theaters, without the endless circling to find a spot and, later, to
escape the concrete maze). The quaint exterior, with lighted marquee
and the one-person ticket booth brings out nostalgia for a time
before mine or my own days sitting in the box at the Enzian theater
in Winter Park, FL. Inside, the Egyptian murals and sculptures
distinguish this theater from the megaplexes that have taken over.
Finally, the leg room. My theory is it was an old theater with no
leg room so they just took out every other row. Anyway, I am pretty
sure, though I never tested it out, that I could lay my 5'5" self
down between the rows without need for contortions. The screen is
beautiful and clear. The sound is crisp.

Unlike most indie theaters, it is a great place to see a earth
shaking movie like Superman, which is exactly where I brought myself
on my Friday night date with myself to celebrate the end of school.
A horrid day it was, despite the shortened schedule and the absence
of students. The bureaucratic idiocy is beyond retelling without a
lot of whining, ranting, raving, and mumbo jumbo. So, trust me, it
backed up like bad plumbing to be spewed on the teachers the last
minute so we could carry the stink of the administration with us
through the vacation. Great way to raise morale for next year. I
needed to restore my faith in "truth, justice, and all that other
stuff . . . ." I needed Superman.

Like all good things (except maybe sex . . . ) I do find that absence
makes the heart grow fonder. Since I rarely see movies or watch TV,
the sensationalism of the big screen has regained its magic. Many
times I jumped in my seat at sudden attacks, crashes, and floor
shaking special effects. The sight of Superman effortlessly pulling
Lois and others out of the grips of death mesmerized me, wide-eyed as
I let my imagination return to the innocence of my childhood.
Everything about this movie invoked my willingness to suspend my
disbelief. For instance, no matter what calamity befell her, Lois
always emerged without a hair displaced. Except for the exhilarating
flight in Superman's arms (yes, you know the scene is in there, so
really, don't say I am ruining anything for you). The
cinematography is beautiful and playful. Much like the characters
and plot. Yet, the filmmakers also manage to give Superman depth.
He is more than a hero and more than a boy from a Kansas farm. He is
a model for what we all strive to be: passionate, true, and aware.