I just biked home from work, and am now listening to my new Feist album and looking out the open window onto my breezy new street. I say breezy because really, even though that doesn't describe just my street in particular, that's the overall feeling of this neighborhood. So far in Berkeley it's been consistently 75 degrees, perfectly sunny, and breezy, ever since I got here. The biking is pleasant and somewhat hilly, which makes for a blood-pumping ride to work and an exhilarating, easy ride home.
I work at a used bookstore six blocks from home, as of yesterday. The people are chill and even the customers are a different breed from most retail - that is, bay area californians in a really cheap used bookstore two blocks from the uc-berkeley campus. I feel really, really in control of everything I'm doing lately. At least compared to my last job(s) working for the PIRGs. Never again. Now I'm doing yoga every day (one block from home!), working 8 hours a day instead of 17. Biking instead of driving. Dipping my toes into San Francisco every so often. Ducking into thrift stores every few blocks as I meander down Telegraph Avenue toward campus. Loving it.
One thing that does tug at me is the familiarity of Minneapolis, of course, like trekking to the Triple Rock to see friends play in a rock concert and run into old buddies and drink a beer or two, milling around with friends. I guess that will happen here eventually, and in fact even more so after a time, since the people here just seem more chill and open to random conversation. It'll be interesting.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
I AM DONE WITH COLLEGE.
I just finished the last sentence of the last page of my last paper in my last week of college! HA! What a breathless feeling. I'm just sitting quietly in the library, too, and because it's only the Sunday before finals week it would be rude to *really* celebrate without making people mad. I can't believe it! At this point last week I was slightly freaking out with all the work left to do, but turned out not to be bad at all. Now I get to spend the week going out to lunch and picnics, playing in the sun, galavanting to Iowa City, cooking, and anything I like. SO WEIRD. I kind of miss doing work already, and it's only been five minutes. I, um, kind of, uhh, can't wait to go to grad school. This is both a good and a bad thing. But taking a break from academics will be good for me, I think. Maybe. Or maybe I'll go to law school in a couple years and just not know how to work anymore...
Whatever, I am done and I just needed to reflect on that for a moment. This is so so so so crazy. Ahhhhhhhh.
Whatever, I am done and I just needed to reflect on that for a moment. This is so so so so crazy. Ahhhhhhhh.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
thunderstorms and enfleshed materialism
How unfortunate, to be "distracted" by thunderstorms, jazz, and coffee. This scene just feels so picturesque I couldn't resist thinking about it for a minute; besides, I'm nineteen pages into my philosophy paper, which is admirable enough for now. It's flowing pretty well. Like the inscriptive corporeal flows of enfleshed nomadic subjectivity, as my paper's overall synthesis would say.
Anyway, listening to Kings of Convenience, made all the more meaningful by the fact that it's wafting through Saint's Rest speakers just by chance. It's perfect rainstorm music. As ready as I am to get out of here, I really am going to miss the subtleties of Grinnell on days like this one; wherever you go you know you'll see friends, and you know which restaurants serve the best drinks and who will give you a discount at what time. A scone will always cost $1.25 because it's only available in one place. The town library, post office, and church are all across the street from both my apartment and the coffeeshop. With my bike, nothing is more than five minutes away. But maybe all of these things will be the case in Berkeley...who knows?
Anyway, listening to Kings of Convenience, made all the more meaningful by the fact that it's wafting through Saint's Rest speakers just by chance. It's perfect rainstorm music. As ready as I am to get out of here, I really am going to miss the subtleties of Grinnell on days like this one; wherever you go you know you'll see friends, and you know which restaurants serve the best drinks and who will give you a discount at what time. A scone will always cost $1.25 because it's only available in one place. The town library, post office, and church are all across the street from both my apartment and the coffeeshop. With my bike, nothing is more than five minutes away. But maybe all of these things will be the case in Berkeley...who knows?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
fog's rolling in...
Things are looking up. I'm looking up, actually, out through the skylight in the middle of the room, watching the rain. It's such a nice sound. I'm listening to Simon & Garfunkel, and I've finished my two big seminar presentations for the week. I talked to my mom, my sister, and Enoch. I just got a really good grade on an english paper, finally. And I just ate a cinnamon-raisin bagel, warm and gooey, soft and chewy. I've got about twenty-five things to worry about at the moment, but I don't have that sinking feeling I had a week or two ago, like I couldn't even imagine finishing everything. And, tonight I might get a good night's sleep, wake up with my homework done, and go running.
I suppose satisfaction and content is boring fodder for a post, but I don't mind. It's remarkable how much my attitude has changed in the last few months--I just don't really care about going to bed on time, wearing matching shades, putting myself out there in class even if my thought isn't totally formulated. It's working out quite well. And now I finally have a bike again, complete with a milk crate strapped to the back and a fancy headlight and new tires and a portable bike pump. Now I'm all set to be a faux-biker vegetable-eater campaign-organizer ocean-ogler washed-up californian. Yup. I'm ready to get out of here.
I suppose satisfaction and content is boring fodder for a post, but I don't mind. It's remarkable how much my attitude has changed in the last few months--I just don't really care about going to bed on time, wearing matching shades, putting myself out there in class even if my thought isn't totally formulated. It's working out quite well. And now I finally have a bike again, complete with a milk crate strapped to the back and a fancy headlight and new tires and a portable bike pump. Now I'm all set to be a faux-biker vegetable-eater campaign-organizer ocean-ogler washed-up californian. Yup. I'm ready to get out of here.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Cultural Capital in the Corner Café
This is a copy of my latest English assignment - to imitate an author's writing style, in my case Hemingway's. I guess I just thought it belonged here, and want to remember it. I really wish I could have kept writing:
All the noise came from below the street. Before I found that alley off the Plaza de Toledo there was always the smell of fresh tulips in the air, and suddenly there I was among the pashminas and the waffle vendors and dozens of children were pouring out of the candy shops into the street. I would walk past these shops every Sunday afternoon that semester, making sure to drop twenty cents into the hat of a lone guitarist, and I’d glance up from time to time once I reached the view at the top of the hill. Sometimes when I had only bought mandarins and a pair of earrings I would walk home afterward. If I walked enough in this city I might not need a map anymore, and anyway it didn’t matter where I walked in Madrid because I could lose myself among the ham shops and the fruit stands and the pickpockets so that there was always something to do in the afternoon.
At first I couldn’t help but think of my American friends back home and wonder what they might be doing, but then a paralyzing nostalgia would grip me around the neck and I would duck into a small boutique to forget about it. If not for that initial fear mixed with a sense of brash curiosity I would certainly not have found my hidden flamenco cafés or bookstores and I might not even have followed a city cat down her secret path to the riverbank. These were the unwritten pleasures of my semester in Spain, where I learned of the daily rhythms and the tortillas de patatas and all the slang words for “see you later.”
All students should abandon their routines and their comfort zones to travel somewhere in the world, to be adventurous, to learn from other people’s habits. We all need to get lost when we’re five thousand miles from home before we can really know what we’re capable of, and that’s a personal truth we can’t just find in novels.
Walking through the thick desert air with the sun pressing down on me was not a feeling I could read about. The invaluable companionship of my walking shoes could not reveal my joys and fears from the comfort of a classroom desk. On the day that I first put away my map of Madrid and stepped out onto its fresh familiar sidewalk I knew that the city had entered me, and no literature professor could have captured that feeling.
Only after you have been surrounded by beautiful and immaculately-dressed Spaniards for two months can you understand the logic of buying a pair of boots with a week’s worth of lunch money. In my case it was worth the eye-widening hunger to click down the street in confident brown leather, a conclusion I never would have come to in the lazy streets of small-town Iowa. When you’ve been weaving empty-bellied through crowds all day and finally submit to a city bench, there is no word to describe the satisfaction of a slow conversation with the weary señora sitting next to you.
At last, as you find yourself accustomed to the rapid-fire Spanish bartering of the Sunday afternoon market, you realize with indescribable emotion that you are about to leave this dream world and return home. When the caipirhinas at the bar and the old man on the library steps become commonplace, when the mobs of tourists ask you for directions, when you know that your favorite bakery is coming up on the left and you can already smell the dough, then you are ready to go back home and think about your next adventure from the unsettling comfort of your dorm room desk. There is never any ending to Spain and you will never know that about a city until you strap on your scuffed shoes and look for it.
All the noise came from below the street. Before I found that alley off the Plaza de Toledo there was always the smell of fresh tulips in the air, and suddenly there I was among the pashminas and the waffle vendors and dozens of children were pouring out of the candy shops into the street. I would walk past these shops every Sunday afternoon that semester, making sure to drop twenty cents into the hat of a lone guitarist, and I’d glance up from time to time once I reached the view at the top of the hill. Sometimes when I had only bought mandarins and a pair of earrings I would walk home afterward. If I walked enough in this city I might not need a map anymore, and anyway it didn’t matter where I walked in Madrid because I could lose myself among the ham shops and the fruit stands and the pickpockets so that there was always something to do in the afternoon.
At first I couldn’t help but think of my American friends back home and wonder what they might be doing, but then a paralyzing nostalgia would grip me around the neck and I would duck into a small boutique to forget about it. If not for that initial fear mixed with a sense of brash curiosity I would certainly not have found my hidden flamenco cafés or bookstores and I might not even have followed a city cat down her secret path to the riverbank. These were the unwritten pleasures of my semester in Spain, where I learned of the daily rhythms and the tortillas de patatas and all the slang words for “see you later.”
All students should abandon their routines and their comfort zones to travel somewhere in the world, to be adventurous, to learn from other people’s habits. We all need to get lost when we’re five thousand miles from home before we can really know what we’re capable of, and that’s a personal truth we can’t just find in novels.
Walking through the thick desert air with the sun pressing down on me was not a feeling I could read about. The invaluable companionship of my walking shoes could not reveal my joys and fears from the comfort of a classroom desk. On the day that I first put away my map of Madrid and stepped out onto its fresh familiar sidewalk I knew that the city had entered me, and no literature professor could have captured that feeling.
Only after you have been surrounded by beautiful and immaculately-dressed Spaniards for two months can you understand the logic of buying a pair of boots with a week’s worth of lunch money. In my case it was worth the eye-widening hunger to click down the street in confident brown leather, a conclusion I never would have come to in the lazy streets of small-town Iowa. When you’ve been weaving empty-bellied through crowds all day and finally submit to a city bench, there is no word to describe the satisfaction of a slow conversation with the weary señora sitting next to you.
At last, as you find yourself accustomed to the rapid-fire Spanish bartering of the Sunday afternoon market, you realize with indescribable emotion that you are about to leave this dream world and return home. When the caipirhinas at the bar and the old man on the library steps become commonplace, when the mobs of tourists ask you for directions, when you know that your favorite bakery is coming up on the left and you can already smell the dough, then you are ready to go back home and think about your next adventure from the unsettling comfort of your dorm room desk. There is never any ending to Spain and you will never know that about a city until you strap on your scuffed shoes and look for it.
Monday, April 9, 2007
eternally yours...
Quick passage of Deleuze in Nietzsche & Philosophy, page 187:
"The eternal return 'is the closest approximation of being and becoming', it affirms the one of the other; a second affirmation is still necessary in order to bring about this approximation. This is why the eternal return is itself a wedding ring. This is why the Dinoysian universe, the eternal cycle, is a wedding ring, a wedding mirror which awaits the soul (anima) capable of admiring itself there, but also of reflecting it in admiring itself. This is why Dionysus wants a fiancee: 'Is it me, me that you want? The whole of me?' (Here again it will be noticed that, depending on the point at which one is placed, the wedding changes sense or partners. For, according to the constituted eternal return, Zarathustra himself appears as the fiance and eternity as the woman loved. But according to the constitution of the eternal return Dionysus is the first affirmation, becoming and being, more precisely the becoming which is only being as the object of a second affirmation; Ariadne is this second affirmation, Ariadne is the fiancee, the loving feminine power)."
188: "But Dionysus teaches Ariadne his secret: the true labyrinth is Dionysus himself, the true thread is the thread of affirmation. 'I am your labyrinth.'" Cute.
"The eternal return 'is the closest approximation of being and becoming', it affirms the one of the other; a second affirmation is still necessary in order to bring about this approximation. This is why the eternal return is itself a wedding ring. This is why the Dinoysian universe, the eternal cycle, is a wedding ring, a wedding mirror which awaits the soul (anima) capable of admiring itself there, but also of reflecting it in admiring itself. This is why Dionysus wants a fiancee: 'Is it me, me that you want? The whole of me?' (Here again it will be noticed that, depending on the point at which one is placed, the wedding changes sense or partners. For, according to the constituted eternal return, Zarathustra himself appears as the fiance and eternity as the woman loved. But according to the constitution of the eternal return Dionysus is the first affirmation, becoming and being, more precisely the becoming which is only being as the object of a second affirmation; Ariadne is this second affirmation, Ariadne is the fiancee, the loving feminine power)."
188: "But Dionysus teaches Ariadne his secret: the true labyrinth is Dionysus himself, the true thread is the thread of affirmation. 'I am your labyrinth.'" Cute.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Intersectionality and coastal sunshine
I'm often confused by the names of certain degrees such as "Intersectionality Studies" or "American Studies" or even "Cultural Studies." Are they just an indication that higher education is trying to be more and more interdisciplinary and broad? Is there a danger in that? I know some philosophy majors at other schools who do philosophy by reading snippets of articles about a certain subject, for example, "aesthetics." Then they say that they "know" aesthetics. At Grinnell we study PHILOSOPHERS, sometimes grouped together into a course title like "Philosophy of Mind," but the seminars are always titled "Davidson" or "Foucault" or "Arendt" or "Habermas"...the list goes on. Always one philosopher. Is it better to be an expert in one tiny little sector, perhaps an impractical and useless one at that, or to know little bits of random ideas in a broad scope? Is there really that much value in an interdisciplinary approach? I think there is to some extent, like in the way that our Gender & Women's Studies degree is handled, but there's got to be a limit somewhere. What does it actually mean to say that you "study cultures"? Ugh.
I just returned to campus after spring break in Minneapolis--sure was exciting, I got my wisdom teeth out with impacted and highly invasive surgery from which I'm still recovering slowly. That's about it. Oh, and I got a job! And I accepted it! That's my main news for everyone.
I think it's interesting to record my initial feelings about it here, so that once I've been doing it for a while I can look back and see how I've changed. Obvious, but still. I'm nervous because I've never been all that passionate about recruiting people, and that will be my main focus as Campus Organizer at UC-Berkeley. I'm afraid I won't captivate people, or students won't care or be motivated to work with me, and I'll totally fail. But I guess judging by the current trends, that's not a likely possibility. What will it be like to work on a HUGE campus with thousands of students who are ridiculously smart and probably know more than me about what I'm working on?! Add to that the money and efforts of CalPIRG's opposition--oil company lobbyists, etc.--and I've got some serious challenges to face. I think I can probably handle it, though. I'm fundamentally driven by a challenge, and honestly, would I really feel fulfilled or happy about what I'm doing if I wasn't being seriously challenged?
I can't believe my luck with the location, though. I hadn't really considered Berkeley in a real way before the job possibility, I just happened to have put "bay area" on my top-four list of location preferences, and there was an opening. And of course I'm lucky with regards to timing, because I now have a LOT of interview experience under my belt and knew how to field Dany Katz's questions succinctly and ask some good ones of my own.
I'm a little worried about finding an apartment, but it always seems to work out, so I'm not really stressing yet. There are other things to worry about, like papers and meetings. I know I'll be missing that kind of stress after I graduate! Anyway, I'm trying to locate a place that's no more than a mile from the bay and ideally a few blocks from campus. I'd like to be able to walk to work in the morning, watching the buzz of activity in the streets around me and stopping for coffee and bread on my way. And then I'd like to be able to bike to the bay, even across the Bay Bridge, with Enoch. Fairly regularly.
I'd better go...it's weird, there's a tornado watch outside but it's mostly sunny and lovely out. We'll see what happens. Back to my casebook.
I just returned to campus after spring break in Minneapolis--sure was exciting, I got my wisdom teeth out with impacted and highly invasive surgery from which I'm still recovering slowly. That's about it. Oh, and I got a job! And I accepted it! That's my main news for everyone.
I think it's interesting to record my initial feelings about it here, so that once I've been doing it for a while I can look back and see how I've changed. Obvious, but still. I'm nervous because I've never been all that passionate about recruiting people, and that will be my main focus as Campus Organizer at UC-Berkeley. I'm afraid I won't captivate people, or students won't care or be motivated to work with me, and I'll totally fail. But I guess judging by the current trends, that's not a likely possibility. What will it be like to work on a HUGE campus with thousands of students who are ridiculously smart and probably know more than me about what I'm working on?! Add to that the money and efforts of CalPIRG's opposition--oil company lobbyists, etc.--and I've got some serious challenges to face. I think I can probably handle it, though. I'm fundamentally driven by a challenge, and honestly, would I really feel fulfilled or happy about what I'm doing if I wasn't being seriously challenged?
I can't believe my luck with the location, though. I hadn't really considered Berkeley in a real way before the job possibility, I just happened to have put "bay area" on my top-four list of location preferences, and there was an opening. And of course I'm lucky with regards to timing, because I now have a LOT of interview experience under my belt and knew how to field Dany Katz's questions succinctly and ask some good ones of my own.
I'm a little worried about finding an apartment, but it always seems to work out, so I'm not really stressing yet. There are other things to worry about, like papers and meetings. I know I'll be missing that kind of stress after I graduate! Anyway, I'm trying to locate a place that's no more than a mile from the bay and ideally a few blocks from campus. I'd like to be able to walk to work in the morning, watching the buzz of activity in the streets around me and stopping for coffee and bread on my way. And then I'd like to be able to bike to the bay, even across the Bay Bridge, with Enoch. Fairly regularly.
I'd better go...it's weird, there's a tornado watch outside but it's mostly sunny and lovely out. We'll see what happens. Back to my casebook.
Friday, March 9, 2007
competition in the non-profit world?
Yes, it exists. There is competition between progressive, open-minded, change-seeking organizations that don't even work for profit, and it exists in many forms. I was thinking about this yesterday as I walked through the evening drizzle on Broad Street. Not only are there the minor-tizzy incidents like canvassers competing for turf or towns on a given night, but potential directors are lured every which way by different and desperate organizations. Capitalism?
I'm experiencing the latter phenomenon as I struggle to keep up on my academic work amidst jobs, activities, the usual. Now I've got two--potentially three--non-profit groups after me. What to do? Do I take capitalism to heart and request pay increases to stiffen competition? Or is there something fundamentally wrong with that in the job sector I'm dealing with? I mean, we environmentalists can't just stop heating our homes, driving our cars, and taking showers. In some respects we have to "use" the "man" to "beat" 'im. Sorry for the scare quotes, but you know. I'm a philosophy major at a liberal arts college.
The funny thing about it is that all three groups essentially stem from the same source, and work together, and use similar methods to get things done. Can I just say, though, that if in the end I'm given the straightforward choice of directing in Minneapolis and then directing for the other group in Portland in August, I would be profoundly happy. I really do want to show off my experience and knowledge in the Minneapolis office, especially with the local reps and my neighborhood "expertise." But it might not be quite so straightforward, which isn't quite fair, but we'll see what happens. There are things happening behind the curtains.
This is boring, but it's been on my mind. I also need to remind myself about the larger picture, and the tasks that follow--law school and recommendation requests--which could take us to any of a number of places around the country. I wish there were American law schools in Europe, though, so I could leave for a while but still come back and be useful.
Ugh, this argument I'm writing for my English class is making me feel stale, so my writing is flat. That's probably bad for the effectiveness of the argument. I should probably stop. It's weird to make life decisions that are ACTUAL decisions and not just speculations.
I'm experiencing the latter phenomenon as I struggle to keep up on my academic work amidst jobs, activities, the usual. Now I've got two--potentially three--non-profit groups after me. What to do? Do I take capitalism to heart and request pay increases to stiffen competition? Or is there something fundamentally wrong with that in the job sector I'm dealing with? I mean, we environmentalists can't just stop heating our homes, driving our cars, and taking showers. In some respects we have to "use" the "man" to "beat" 'im. Sorry for the scare quotes, but you know. I'm a philosophy major at a liberal arts college.
The funny thing about it is that all three groups essentially stem from the same source, and work together, and use similar methods to get things done. Can I just say, though, that if in the end I'm given the straightforward choice of directing in Minneapolis and then directing for the other group in Portland in August, I would be profoundly happy. I really do want to show off my experience and knowledge in the Minneapolis office, especially with the local reps and my neighborhood "expertise." But it might not be quite so straightforward, which isn't quite fair, but we'll see what happens. There are things happening behind the curtains.
This is boring, but it's been on my mind. I also need to remind myself about the larger picture, and the tasks that follow--law school and recommendation requests--which could take us to any of a number of places around the country. I wish there were American law schools in Europe, though, so I could leave for a while but still come back and be useful.
Ugh, this argument I'm writing for my English class is making me feel stale, so my writing is flat. That's probably bad for the effectiveness of the argument. I should probably stop. It's weird to make life decisions that are ACTUAL decisions and not just speculations.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
La musica mueve el corazon
Why does certain music always pull at my "heart strings"? Music, more than a lot of other sensory modes, triggers unpredicated memories for me. Right now I'm listening to the soundtrack from El Laberinto del Fauno, which has me constantly on the verge of tears. It's almost as if I can only listen to it when I'm feeling particularly sentimental and just want to give in and have a good cry. Part of the reason this is happening is the associations I have with the experiences of that movie--first in Spain, where I just saw it randomly with Roberto and had no expectations and was blown away; in that instance, of course, I was thinking in Spanish, living, breathing in Spanish. It just had a different feeling. Then there's the actual power of the story, of the images, acting, music, all that. It's so beautiful. So, then I saw it again a couple of weeks ago with Enoch, Mom, and John...of course, there were subtitles. There were members of my family. There were giant buckets of popcorn everywhere and people blathering in English all around me. So the set-up was different, but as soon as I settled into the movie I was back in Spain, thinking in Spanish, loving those characters, all of it. And something about the music...Guillermo del Toro just knew where to put the right type of music to make me shudder with sobs. It sounds terrible, perhaps, but anyway. It just felt so inexplicably good to cry like that, to not be able to control my breathing and feel that swell in my throat and just have all the feeling squeezed out of me until I'm exhausted. I miss Spain. I miss playing music, too. And I kind of wish that this country had a rich, terrible, overwhelming history the way Spain does, with its hidden twists and periods of unrecorded mystery.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
collapsing memory
I think a good direction for this blog-ish thing is to sketch out my interjected traces of memory: those random points amidst an activity that suddenly remind one of a memory, and the reason for it can't quite be pinpointed. Whether or not it's a procrastination device for my unconscious, it still seems like a valid thing to record.
I say this because I'm in the middle of Part Three to Thus Spoke Zarathustra, reading about the great city that the "foolish ape" of Zarathustra is trying to dissuade him from entering:
"Here all the blood flows putrid and lukewarm and spumy through all the veins; spit on the great city which is the great swill room where all the swill spumes together. Spit on the city of compressed souls and narrow chests, of popeyes and sticky fingers--on the city of the obtrusive, the impudent, the scribble- and scream-throats, the overheated ambitious-conceited--where everything infirm, infamous, lustful, dusky, overmusty, pussy, and plotting putrefies together: spit on the great city and turn back!"
I've yet to witness Zarathustra's response, but that isn't the point. The memory that popped into my head somehow emerged out of the thick haze of that passage, combined with the Sufjan Stevens wafting through the room, I suppose.
The memory:
I just emerged from my Spanish Theatre final on a weekday in mid-December. It's a Thursday, so all I have left in terms of obligations for the semester is my Spanish final the next day, and I've already studied plenty. Because I don't have an unlimited Metro pass this month, I'm trying to conserve my tickets and walk as much as possible, and today is one of those now-rare days of Spanish-style Indian summer; the juxtaposition of the singing birds and green grass with the lavish Christmas street decorations is a strange one, tempered by the soothing, crisp freshness of the winter air. Since I've finished the exam early, in less than an hour, I think I'll walk home. I'm on a(n odd) mission: to find THE chuches store. ("Chuches" = spanish gummy candies.) It's the store by Lorena's house, that we went to back in the days before I was able to put all my observations and experiences down into returnable memory, so I have this vague feeling of the neighborhood and the street and the storefront. I just want those chocolate-filled bear cookies. And maybe some chuches for my family.
I emerge into the bright sunlight, assess my corner-torn map briefly, and set off down the Calle Princesa and the Avenida de Reyes Catolicos. I decide to take the most direct, yet the most weaving, route across the northwest corner of the city from campus toward the Quevedo area. What music am I listening to? I don't remember. It doesn't matter. I walk down tree-lined streets I've never seen before, occasionally checking my map to see that I'm going the right way. My stride is at its most confident; after all, I've been working up to this all semester long. Roasted chestnuts magazine stands cafe con leche, all whirring by as I take each step. Finally I get to "the neighborhood," but there are six streets branching off the Plaza! Which one is it?! I decide to try each one, going a block down and doubling back up the other side. TONS of "tiendas de alimentacion" and even "frutas secas" but no chucherias and certainly not the one I'm looking for. Should I just get on the Metro and go home? What have I got to do today, anyway?
Walking is better. Cheaper. My one-euro walk, it has value. I turn down the Calle de la Castellana, the historic artery of the west side, covered with holiday dazzle and sculpted parks. Down there on the left, there's my internship, that I'll never see again. Swanky boutiques, hole-in-the-wall cafeterias, streetside benches deep in conversation, I weave through them all to get to Juan Bravo, which will lead me straight home. Little do I know that I have to go under the Castellana bridge, through an open-air sculpture garden that I've never seen, in order to emerge on the other side, familiar territory. Stores of every kind whiz by, I'm wearing my conspicuous large white-framed sunglasses that are by now broken, and of course my flats. My legs are happily burning and buzzing in activity, and I want to stop on every corner to buy that dress, that coat, those boots...but I'm out of money, and I don't have chuches, what do I do? (I stop at the Alonso Martinez metro chucheria later that night, that's what I do! What a relief.)
I walk through my apartment door: Keats is just waking up. Complaining about her work, her internship assignment, her slothness. Well, after a two-hour tour of the city, I eat clementines. Three. And then? I leave again. I'll be gone in three days, who knows when I'll be back, I can't just leave the city there unexplored. A more than slightly mundane story, but vivid and fresh-smelling. That memory will probably never be as fresh as the first time it re-enters my being.
Was that really my life? How do these segments of time, these moments, create a continous line of existence?
I say this because I'm in the middle of Part Three to Thus Spoke Zarathustra, reading about the great city that the "foolish ape" of Zarathustra is trying to dissuade him from entering:
"Here all the blood flows putrid and lukewarm and spumy through all the veins; spit on the great city which is the great swill room where all the swill spumes together. Spit on the city of compressed souls and narrow chests, of popeyes and sticky fingers--on the city of the obtrusive, the impudent, the scribble- and scream-throats, the overheated ambitious-conceited--where everything infirm, infamous, lustful, dusky, overmusty, pussy, and plotting putrefies together: spit on the great city and turn back!"
I've yet to witness Zarathustra's response, but that isn't the point. The memory that popped into my head somehow emerged out of the thick haze of that passage, combined with the Sufjan Stevens wafting through the room, I suppose.
The memory:
I just emerged from my Spanish Theatre final on a weekday in mid-December. It's a Thursday, so all I have left in terms of obligations for the semester is my Spanish final the next day, and I've already studied plenty. Because I don't have an unlimited Metro pass this month, I'm trying to conserve my tickets and walk as much as possible, and today is one of those now-rare days of Spanish-style Indian summer; the juxtaposition of the singing birds and green grass with the lavish Christmas street decorations is a strange one, tempered by the soothing, crisp freshness of the winter air. Since I've finished the exam early, in less than an hour, I think I'll walk home. I'm on a(n odd) mission: to find THE chuches store. ("Chuches" = spanish gummy candies.) It's the store by Lorena's house, that we went to back in the days before I was able to put all my observations and experiences down into returnable memory, so I have this vague feeling of the neighborhood and the street and the storefront. I just want those chocolate-filled bear cookies. And maybe some chuches for my family.
I emerge into the bright sunlight, assess my corner-torn map briefly, and set off down the Calle Princesa and the Avenida de Reyes Catolicos. I decide to take the most direct, yet the most weaving, route across the northwest corner of the city from campus toward the Quevedo area. What music am I listening to? I don't remember. It doesn't matter. I walk down tree-lined streets I've never seen before, occasionally checking my map to see that I'm going the right way. My stride is at its most confident; after all, I've been working up to this all semester long. Roasted chestnuts magazine stands cafe con leche, all whirring by as I take each step. Finally I get to "the neighborhood," but there are six streets branching off the Plaza! Which one is it?! I decide to try each one, going a block down and doubling back up the other side. TONS of "tiendas de alimentacion" and even "frutas secas" but no chucherias and certainly not the one I'm looking for. Should I just get on the Metro and go home? What have I got to do today, anyway?
Walking is better. Cheaper. My one-euro walk, it has value. I turn down the Calle de la Castellana, the historic artery of the west side, covered with holiday dazzle and sculpted parks. Down there on the left, there's my internship, that I'll never see again. Swanky boutiques, hole-in-the-wall cafeterias, streetside benches deep in conversation, I weave through them all to get to Juan Bravo, which will lead me straight home. Little do I know that I have to go under the Castellana bridge, through an open-air sculpture garden that I've never seen, in order to emerge on the other side, familiar territory. Stores of every kind whiz by, I'm wearing my conspicuous large white-framed sunglasses that are by now broken, and of course my flats. My legs are happily burning and buzzing in activity, and I want to stop on every corner to buy that dress, that coat, those boots...but I'm out of money, and I don't have chuches, what do I do? (I stop at the Alonso Martinez metro chucheria later that night, that's what I do! What a relief.)
I walk through my apartment door: Keats is just waking up. Complaining about her work, her internship assignment, her slothness. Well, after a two-hour tour of the city, I eat clementines. Three. And then? I leave again. I'll be gone in three days, who knows when I'll be back, I can't just leave the city there unexplored. A more than slightly mundane story, but vivid and fresh-smelling. That memory will probably never be as fresh as the first time it re-enters my being.
Was that really my life? How do these segments of time, these moments, create a continous line of existence?
Saturday, February 3, 2007
The smell of fresh bread and flowers
After settling back into the grind that is Grinnell, I'm still noticing this strange void that permeates everything I do here. I don't want to slap some senioritis excuse onto it, or blame Iowa for anything. But I'm quite sure that it comes from the rude juxtaposition of Europe and America (can you believe it?). In Madrid, as well as in London, Amsterdam, Paris, and all the places I've gone across the pond, of course there's that element of excitement that sparks the air and every step I take; after all, these are big, cosmopolitan, and famous cities. But something about the grand buildings and the ridiculously maze-like streets combined with the air of compassionate indifference imbued in its people make Europe a very sensorially-indulgent place. There are so many scents flying around everywhere, people rushing by in a whirlwind of conversation, pockets of grungy cafeterias and swanky bistros, ornate hotels next to worn-down wrought-iron gates. I like the interplay of old and new, of chic and modest, of buzzingly fast-paced and yogic calmness. It provides people-watching at its best, especially on those days when I decide to walk down Alcala in Madrid and stop for a cafe con leche at a little corner cafe, where everyone stands at the bar with their coffee and the door is constantly revolving. I can stare out the window at the matronly housewives taking their sweatered dogs around town, or I can sit back and listen to the daily buzz of people's lives around me. Then I can duck down a little avenue and run into a tienda de jamon, a leg-of-ham shop, where the attendant scrambles around weighing kilos of cured pig for women in white sunglasses and lace-up boots. On a Thursday, I might take a night train to Cuenca or Sevilla, wander around another new town for a day, run into some crazy twentysomethings outside a club and join them for flamenco and caipirhinis. After class on Monday, I bid my petite and model-featured brunette friend goodbye as she throws on her helmet and jets down the street in her Vespa. My confident walk and icy stare shoot down, yet appreciate, the blunt honesty of the men I walk by on the way to my office. I grab a sandwich of tortilla de patatas, linger at Loewe's new wedding-gown display, and head upstairs to translate a project proposal and join a lunch meeting.
Things I wish I had done:
1. Kept a travel blog. I wrote in my journal constantly, but I should have also created a space just for my observations and experiences.
2. Mixed it up over a summer or two during college--I feel like my resume and academic background lacks variety that would bode well for grad school aspirations.
3. Taken more leadership initiative at the beginning of college, like joined student government or ftp.
Anyway, it's not the end of the world. And it's a real eye-opener to have my peers, some of whom also majored in philosophy, had a steady job, and just generally did well academically, are now getting into Columbia and Berkeley law schools. I guess there's something to be said for Grinnell after all. Nothing wrong with a little quaint rigor.
Things I wish I had done:
1. Kept a travel blog. I wrote in my journal constantly, but I should have also created a space just for my observations and experiences.
2. Mixed it up over a summer or two during college--I feel like my resume and academic background lacks variety that would bode well for grad school aspirations.
3. Taken more leadership initiative at the beginning of college, like joined student government or ftp.
Anyway, it's not the end of the world. And it's a real eye-opener to have my peers, some of whom also majored in philosophy, had a steady job, and just generally did well academically, are now getting into Columbia and Berkeley law schools. I guess there's something to be said for Grinnell after all. Nothing wrong with a little quaint rigor.
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