Christmas L.A. Style

Well, this isn't exactly a blog about celebrating Christmas in L.A. so much as the way we new-to-L.A.-ers are spending our first Christmas here.

Which is to say, we're not. Can't get out of this armpit fast enough.

Now, in L.A.'s defense, we are ridiculously homesick. So criticizing L.A. has become a favorite past-time. Here's a conversation we had last weekend when we drove up to the Sequoia National Forest (imagine this as snarky and sarcastic as possible):

Matt: Oh, sure, we finally see a police car now that we're nowhere near the city.
Me: But God forbid a tree branch should fall near the road. Gotta put a dozen cones around it before someone complains.
Matt: Wouldn't want anyone to sue you, now, would you, L.A.?

We generally cut it out after about ten minutes, switching into Things We Will Miss About L.A. mode.

Nonetheless ... we're spending as little of the season here as possible.

Last weekend, we went fly fishing in the Kern River. We took lessons at a section wedged just north of a canyon so terrifyingly steep, we both had nightmares the night we came home. The river we stood in to cast was 39-degrees, and our feet instantly went numb. I couldn't gulp enough cold, Sequoia air.

And the weekend we just finished up? We spent it in Colorado visiting Joanna and Benjamin. Between stops at Noodles and Spooners, we went to the movies, tossed snowballs, opened Christmas presents, and, well, giggled. A Lot. And I downed great big heaps of clean, mile-high air.

This Sunday? We're flying to Amarillo. We're going to camp out with the McDaniel clan and let Mimi feed us until we pop (many runs and swims to go in the next five days so that the popping will take as long as possible). I expect we'll play endlessly with dogs and kids and fresh-out-of-the-box toys. I'm going to try to out-talk Dave (I think I have a shot at it, as I'm not teaching this week; warming up my vocal cords). After that, we head to Prosper for Baio time. We are ready for tea and scary movies in the man cave. I hope for some ping-pong, bowling, ice skating, shopping, and chocolate, too. And I just want to sit and stare at a big, old Christmas tree while football games blare on a flat-screen.

I love my family. And I love Matt's family.

And I love gallons and gallons of clean, clean air.

L.A., we'll see you in the New Year.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving ...

I'd like to say thank you to the City of Angeles. Forty times. Here goes:

1. Thank you for providing a home for my grandfather for over 50 years. He loved you.
2. Thank you for authentic churros on Olvera Street. Oh-my-gosh-yummy.
3. Thank you for public transportation. My husband loves riding your trains and busses. I love things my husband loves.
4. Thank you for being kind to vegetarians.
5. Thank you for being a place Walt Disney liked to do business. For that is why we are here.
6. Thank you for The Huntington. Your gardens and your library are like Chapstick on dry lips, like bananas at the end of a long run, like slippers at the end of a tough day, like ... (well, you get the idea).
7. Thank you for hiring me.
8. Thank you for free summer concerts at Memorial Park.
9. Thank you for Cafe Linda, the most wonderful Thai food ever. EVER.
10. Thank you for the Rose Bowl. It's just flat-out cool to live near the Rose Bowl.
11. Thank you for being home to the first year of our marriage.
12. Thank you that the young 'uns in our family like to visit us here. You're awesome that way.
13. Thank you for liking movies so much. We do, too.
14. Thank you for having a spring that lasts well into November.
15. Thank you for welcoming people from all over the world.
16. Thank you for Santa Monica, especially the bike trail. Wind and salt are two of our favorite things.
17. Thank you for playing hip-hop Christmas music in Chinatown.
18. Thank you for being in the Pacific Time Zone, specifically so that we can watch three football games every Sunday (and still go to bed before 9 p.m.).
19. Thank for having both a classical music station AND public radio.
20. Thank you for LACMA. You're worth the two trains and one bus. The third floor of the Ahmanson Building gives me chills.
21. Thank you Ralphs's for being two blocks away, which is helpful when I forget to buy a bell pepper for our beans and rice.
22. Thank you Europane for making scones Matt loves so much, he doesn't even bat an eye when we spend $20 on a dozen of them.
23. Thank you for your oranges. I love your oranges. I think I will go eat one of you right now.
24. Thank you for the Rio Hondo. You're not very pretty, but isn't that true of so many of life's best gifts?
25. Thank you for Lake Ave. You are a great host to our walks.
26. Thank you for adding non-stop flights to Shanghai.
27. Thank you for the LA Dodgers, especially Vince and his lore.
28. Thank you for Fuller's outdoor prayer room.
29.  Thank you for Mr. Vermeer for loaning your work to the Norton Simon.
30. Thank you Arclight for the personalized welcome and greetings as we recline in our pre-selected, squishy seat.
31. Thank you King Taco (aka Keeeeeng Taaaaah-koe) for being two blocks away from the Memorial Park train station.
32. Thank you Orange Grove for what Matt calls, "good planning and scale."
33. Thank you Chase for being warm and supportive and welcoming from day one.
34. Thank you for mock earthquake drills cleverly marketed as The Great Shakeout.
35. Thank you for thousands upon thousands of cute dogs we try to identify (which always gives us a pause to miss Zacch and appreciate Tori).
36. Thank you for Pacific-Asia Museum, especially the monks and their sand painting.
37. Thank you for Urth and the baby gorilla coffee (we WILL bring back the bags).
38. Thank you for gas appliances (especially the hot water for showers!).
39. Thank you for the perennials, annuals, and all manner of flora and fauna. We find a new growing something to love on pretty much every walk we take.
40. (Many of these were Matt-adds, this one in particular) Thank you for helping my mom and dad bring me into this world.

Pad Thai and Popcorn

Not exactly a typical Thanksgiving dinner ... but way fun.

Joanna is visiting us for the week, and since she loves animals as much as she loves breathing, we drove down to the San Diego Zoo. We reasoned (and we were right) that the traffic would be lighter and the park less crowded on Thanksgiving Day.

I had not been to this zoo in about 15 years, but as I remembered, it's possible to spend an entire day oohing and aahing over warthogs, guinea fowl, and koalas (turns out there's no "bear" in koala -- which Matt refused to believe and spent much of the day muttering "koala BEAR, koala BEAR"). The zoo has all the usual suspects, but also a lot of interesting, lesser known aviary and antelopey critters. We took the 45-minute bus tour to get the lay of the land, and that turns out to have been wise, as we saw a lot of animals on the move before their naps.

We also saw a lot of butt sniffing. And parts-checking.  And mating-attempts.  Goodness, gracious, animals can be so ... animalistic.

Now my peeps are watching the Macy's Day Parade, recorded from this morning. Matt says it's weird to see it after dark with no coffee cup in hand. I think it's just plain weird. What's with all the giant, creepy balloons and lip syncing? I'm mystified.

Tomorrow, one day late, we're making turkey and all the trimmings, so I'd better scoot out to the kitchen and inspect my bird.  Joanna named him Alcatraz.  Her love of animals does not apply to our dinner's honored guest.

Data driven instruction

"Data driven instruction" is one of those education-ese phrases that's been tossed around for at least eight years, which is how long I've been standing in front of kids in classrooms. I suspect it's been much longer. Honestly, before I came to L.A. I could talk-the-talk, but I didn't walk-the-walk. Now, an hour doesn't go by (not exaggerating) when I don't think about it.

Teachers who have been around a lot longer than I insist that data driven instruction is nothing more than a phase and that someday soon, we'll drop all this silliness and get back to a reasonable approach to teaching. I'm not so sure.

Data driven instruction works a lot like going to the doctor. You tell the nurse your symptoms, which he types into a computer. He takes your pulse, blood pressure, and temperature, and he probably weighs you, too. The doctor takes a peak at all of this and asks more questions, adding in her own observations. She probably also does some typing into the computer (or on her iPad if she's super cool). She then recommends more tests or a course of treatment.

This is like data driven instruction in that your doctor is basing her recommendations on data -- not her history of treating patients, her instincts, or her personal beliefs about what wellness means. At least, not if she wants insurance companies to pay for her treatment.

In like manner, we teachers test and observe kids to get a baseline. We compare that to what our state's department of education says students should know.  (In the case of my precious babies, there's a gap between the two that's too far to swim across without serious risk of drowning. Picture me frantically dog-paddling.)  And then we prepare instruction. And we assess, assess, assess (which is just a less scary word for "test").

And while all of that seems like a huge "DUH," it's actually not. Here's why: there's little place in a data-driven instruction classroom for a teacher's instincts or for the random neat idea. Before L.A., I used to have passing thoughts such as, "Gosh, this is great novel that I think my students will like," or "I think my kids might enjoy a creative writing exercise because I sure did when I was in high school," or "It would be interesting to see my students create an artistic piece interpreting this poem."

You won't see any of those activities in my classroom now. Know why? Because my students will never face a test question about them. And doing well on tests has become so incredibly necessary to their educational success that I can't possibly risk a moment not paying attention -- really close attention -- to exactly what they need to know to do well on them.

Of course, that doesn't mean that my classroom can't be interesting, engaging, or relevant. Subject-verb agreement? I made an interactive web quest. Analyzing argument types?  My kids wrote letters to our school's principal advocating for the abolition of school uniforms. (But I can assure you, they'll also get boring little multiple-choice quizzes, too, to make sure they have acquired these skills before THE big test.)

I'm kinda scared to talk too much about this stuff with my colleagues for fear of looking like an idiot. This is because, in Florida, I worked for folks who soundly believed in data driven instruction, but they didn't know how to enforce it or convert their teachers to believers. At Camino Nuevo High School, there's no way around it. I'm not complaining when I say this, but rather simply stating the truth: I have to prove to my administrators (including one-on-one conversations) that I'm using data to plan my instruction. They visit my classroom nearly daily. They talk to my kids. They look at the results of my tests.  They ask me how I know my students will do better next time.

I'm torn about all of this. On the one hand, it sure takes the guessing game out of teaching. But on the other, there are times I want my students to know something that my instincts tell me they should know. I'm still navigating my way around that conflict.

My last thoughts on data driving instruction for tonight ... I am so grateful to Matt. The poor man listens to me talk about all of this constantly. I have no fear whatsoever that he ever thinks I'm an idiot (well, with a couple of exceptions that will remain within the sanctity of our marriage), plus he has many, many great ideas for me and my kids. And he is the master at comfort and love, at encouraging me to set this burden down now and again and marvel at the blessedness of a blanket and soft slippers.

Matt is a man who loves to sit and hold my hand. I am a woman who loves to have her hand held. No data needed.

This teaching gig

I have avoided writing about teaching in L.A. -- with the rather memorable exception of the day I saw cops with shotguns -- for two reasons:

1. It's surreal roller coaster. And I hate roller coasters.
2. I don't know where to begin.

Every day is a blur of emotions and images that leave me feeling inadequate and utterly spent. I wake up about 20 minutes before the alarm goes off, and I spend every second of that time praying that I don't have to teach ever again. By the time I get to school, I'm in a busy panic. Fifteen minutes into my first class, I'm relaxed and confident. At least once a day, I get the strong sensation that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, like angels are standing behind me and my students, and they are cheering.  But about an hour before school lets out for the day, I'm back to panic, this time because I realize I have to do this again tomorrow (plus I'm now mentally replaying every mistake I made -- and there are many to choose from). During the afternoon, a student or two will stop by to chat, ask questions, or bring me a cupcake (yes, this happens), and a peace comes over me. I start grading papers, making photocopies, and saying nice things to myself.

I go home and have dinner with Matt. I manage keep thoughts of school at what feels like a safe distance, even as I continue to lesson plan and grade. All feels well in my corner of Pasadena.

That is, until the alarm goes off the next morning.

Here's the thing: on my best, best, BEST days of teaching at Apopka High School, firing on all cylinders and doing a bang-up job challenging young minds, I wasn't good enough for this school. Not by a mile. Even though the hours were excruciating and the work load never-ending, my APK kids spoke English as their first language, lived above the poverty line, had not lost a friend to gang violence or deportation, had social security numbers, and (mostly) did not have drug- or alcohol-addicted parents.

One of the things I do at this school -- a lot -- is cry.

I'm getting the hang of it. Kids don't hate me, but they do hate feeling unsuccessful at school (and they've had bellyfuls of that). Sometimes their anger and what looks like illogical choices gets fired in my direction. I'm learning to live with that.  On good days, I even understand it. I'm learning to make the material accessible without dumbing it down. I'm learning to use data and standards to drive my instruction. I'm learning to work super, super closely with colleagues who are smart, young, and dedicated. And I'm learning that when I'm inadequate, God is not.

Most of all, I'm learning to love these kids.

You want an Advil with that?

This morning, as I started making plans for our day, Craig said, "Uh-oh, Melissa's making plans. We're gonna need Advil."

Now, in my defense, hiking up to the Hollywood sign seemed pretty much like an awesome idea. I mean, seriously, what better way to see the Hollywood sign than from 20 feet away, not to mention, gorgeous views of L.A. clear out to the Pacific Ocean? And a six-mile hike did not seem like a big deal for a man who swims 12,000 meters a week and a  nineteen year-old who works out more often than he eats (although after having him visit us the last three days, I can verify that there is a strong correlation between his trips to the gym and his food intake).

But, back to me and my awesome plans ...

So, here's the deal. L.A. has its fair share of smog. I'd been wanting to go to Griffith Park, as Wikipedia (clearly, a reliable source of information) touts its 4,300 acres of untamed wilderness as one of the best parks in the country. I was just flat out ready for deep breaths of clean air. However, the part of the Griffith Park description I failed to recognize was that several of the key observatories sit on this-or-that slope of this-or-that mountain. Specifically, the Hollywood sign sits on the summit of Hollywood Mountain. Did you catch that? Mountain. Alas, I did not.

Twenty minutes into our hike, I realized I hate my shoes. Forty minutes in, and I was desperately looking for a bush. An hour in and we realized that, although it was only 11:30, there was a very good chance we were going to miss lunch, shopping, and the 2:00 opening of Iris.

At several points along the hike, Matt or Craig would point 90 degrees up and make a comment such as, "Wow, I'm glad we don't have to go way up there." Hah.

Dodging the enormous horse plops was a challenge. The closer we'd get to each summit, the bigger the plops. My theory? The horses knew they'd never make it unless they lightened their load.

My men would have to admit, the views from the top of Mount Hollywood are beautiful. And the skid down took half the time as the hike up, plus it was oh-so-fun to make snide, breathless comments about the folks we passed. "Oh, a walking stick. Now there's an idea,"or "Yeah, they're gonna cry before they make it half way," or "Pink flip-flops. Are you kidding me?" By then, we were so delirious, we played a game called, "Which part of you hurts the worst?" Good times.

Next time we go (yes, I think there will be a next time), we won't tell our "guest" that the ascent is over 1,000 feet in under three miles. We'll pack better snacks. And we won't go to Cirque du Soleil the same day. Although we made it to our seats before the conductor lifted his baton, we slept soundly through most of the first act.

Just for the record, today we went to Santa Monica and enjoyed a leisurely bike ride from the pier to Venice beach. I swear I heard Craig say, more than once, "Today was so much better than yesterday."

Harumph.

Wheel! Of! Fortune!

I may have mentioned, once or twice, that there's a boatload of amazingly cool things to do in L.A. Every single weekend, Matt and I lament all the fun stuff we're missing out on when we make a decision about which museum, garden, concert, or outdoorsy thing to check out. It goes something like this ...

Me: "Oh, The Huntington is having a gardening open house!"
Matt: "But we wanted to go see the Tim Burton exhibit at the LACMA."
Me: "And there's a cool farmer's market in Santa Monica."
Matt: "We also talked about heading down to Urth Cafe to stock up on organic coffee ..."
Me: "Waaaah!"

So when our nephew Craig, the nineteen-year old cutie from Dallas decided to visit, we knew there would be no shortage of ways to keep him entertained. But after about 30 seconds of chatting with him about his sightseeing requests, Matt and I realized that we are 1) old, and 2) boring.

Game show tapings?  Hollywood?  Muscle beach?  Rrrruh?

Being the super cool aunt that I am, though, I scored free tickets to a taping of Wheel of Fortune (not as exciting as The Price is Right, to be sure, but Vanna's dresses are awfully pretty [my observation, not Craig's]). Off we trotted to Culver City on this fine November day. And here are my observations, in addition to the prettiness of Vanna's teal green, hot pink, and black lace dresses -- which have to be changed out after each 30-minute segment:

1. Weird people go to mid-day game show tapings. Mostly women with thick makeup and too much gold jewelry.

2. Weird people work at mid-day game show tapings. Mostly men with comb overs and too much gold jewelry.

3. The set is tiny. I mean, tiny! How do they make it look so big on television? I bet that darn wheel isn't five feet across.

4. Unlike the size of the set, Vanna White and Pat Sajak have very large heads. I mean that literally, not figuratively. (I cannot speak to the figurative largeness of their heads, but since Vanna sat down after every single round of "Big money, c'mon big money!" I suspect it's large-ish.)

5. I'm better at solving puzzles in person than when I watch the show on television. Unfortunately, that did not get me either a bobble-head or a dollar.

The tapings we watched will air on December 19, 20, and 21. And yes, we will watch them and say, "Oh, yes, I remember that hot pink dress. And my goodness, Vanna looks much thinner in person."

Tomorrow? Hollywood. Sunday? Muscle beach. After all, I am a super cool aunt. But I confess, I made Craig sprint through The Huntington so we could hit the desert garden and bonsai court at twilight. And he would confess, he liked them both.

Princess Melissa

When I was little, my brother Mike's favorite nickname for me was Miss Priss.  I can't imagine where he got such an idea. I never put my hands on my hips and bossed people around. Really. Never.

Many years later, I lamented one day to my other brother Matt (yes, we are the Alliterative Sibs) that I hoped to be a princess in my next life. "Are you kidding me?" he barked. "You're a princess in this one!"

Two realizations from my little stroll down memory lane: first, boys are stupid. Second, my princess days are officially over.  Here's my story:

In the midst of moving to southern California, I missed my six-month checkup at the dentist. Then I went to Africa, then Matt went to China, then I got a job, then I got super busy ... and suddenly, I was pretty overdue for bite wings and a prophy. I did what any reasonable person would do: I called my new insurance company and got the address for a dentist on my plan. I picked one close to our home, reasoning that since we live in a nice neighborhood, the practice would probably be reputable.

Now, I should back up and say that I've been spoiled for many years with amazing dentists. I liked my childhood dentist so much, I went to work for him as soon as I old enough to get a W-2. When he had the nerve to move to North Carolina, I landed at a wonderful practice in Maitland where my hygienist and I discussed our fitness routines and haircare products. Plus, she reminded me of my niece. Plus, Dr. Curly was just so nice.

So on Monday, when I was curtly shown to a gray chair in a gray room with cracked gray linoleum floors, it's no wonder I felt a bit adrift. What, no garden? No television set to the channel of my choice? No cute pictures on the ceiling to help me relax?

Most shocking of all ... my new dentist did not compliment me on my excellent flossing practices. And the final blow: no little baggie of dental goodies as my parting thank-you gift.

Matt's reaction to my woes?

"Huh."

Pause.

"Did you get a good cleaning?"

Boys are stupid. (And maybe I am still a princess.)

Thank you

One of my favorite people at Camino Nuevo is Ismael. He wears black pants, a thin white dress shirt unbuttoned about half way down his chest, and a heavy gold chain with a cross hanging from it. He speaks almost no English, but his English skills are far superior to my nearly non-existant Spanish ones.

Every afternoon, when he comes into my classroom from the side door, he acts genuinely surprised to see me. Startled is more like it. Then he asks, with all the proper charm of Fitzwilliam Darcy, "Is okay I come in?"

Ismael asks my permission to clean my classroom. My permission to clean.  I always say, "Yes, of course, come in, Ismael, how are you today?" We banter back and forth for a minute or two as he starts in on the enormous glass wall covered in handprints and the floor littered with pencil erasures, food wrappers, and discarded pencils. He wears gloves for this process.

Two things move me about Ismael. First, he treats my classroom like it is a sanctuary. He is as thoughtful, careful, and reverent about his job as any person I've ever met. Second, the man works like a dog. There are nights when I stay on campus pretty late, but I'm never the last person to leave. That would be Ismael. Once dark sets in, I see him trundling enormous garbage bins across the courtyard. He is unrelentingly polite to me when I go, despite the fact that I'm headed home, while he's elbow deep in teen-generated trash.

Thank you, Ismael. You are kind and uncomplaining in world that sees precious little of these characteristics. I am honored to work with you.

At 11:35 a.m. today ...

This morning, I was trying to think of topics for my journalism students to write about. That was a huge mistake, much like praying for patience. I got an idea, all right, but it sure wasn't what I'd had in mind.

Let me back up ... approximately one-and-a-half of the 30 students in my journalism class don't mind being there (Ana waffles a bit). The other 28-ish pretty much hate it and loudly offer their views with frequent  honesty. A typical evaluation of the course : "Miss, why does this class have to suck so much?"

In my defense, my journalism class doesn't have the actual responsiblity of producing the school newspaper. Or the yearbook. Those honors go to other classes on campus. No, my journalism class is a thinly disguised attempt to help struggling readers and writers improve their scores on standardized tests. At the beginning of the year, when I was bright-eyed and idealistic, I thought this a fine idea. Now, I join my seventh period students in their indignation. In the world of education speak, the course lacks relevance and authenticity.

Nonetheless, I gotta teach it, and I sincerely want the kids to learn. So I slave over lessons that go largely unappreciated. I've stopped taking that personally. Now, at the end of the 90 minute block on Mondays and Thursdays, I feel pretty good if I have any voice left, and my students were the only peeps in the room cussing. I've entirely given up on enforcing school rules such as no headphones or gum; instead, I think the day was a success if I don't want to quit my job immediately after the last student bangs a table into the wall as he sprints out the door.

So, imagine my shock when, just three days ago, well over half the class completed an assignment to write a personality profile. That may not seem all that stellar, but seriously? Two weeks ago, I could not get the class to sit down. I attribute this success entirely to snacks and trips to the toy basket. Judge if you will, but keep in mind ... over half the class just wrote a newspaper story.

All of this is to say, I realized with no small amount of panic, that if my students were actually going to write newspaper stories, they'd need something to write about. And for a school with exactly two sports teams (neither of which are season), disaster was looming. 

Fast forward to today at 11:35 a.m. I was helping keep order in the lunch line (my school is so minimalist, there is no cafeteria, but only a portable awning where 500 kids queue up to get their plate of food and then find a spot of shade). Suddenly the kids got very quiet, which is not typical of Camino students, and they stared out our heavy, chain-linked fence that separates our campus from a busy street. I turned around to check it out. Not 30 feet away, six police officers had a guy spread-eagled and face-down in the middle of the street, and additional cops were closing the road. That didn't rattle me -- but the rifles and helicopters that suddenly appeared did. Administrators and the handful of teachers outside began screaming to get kids into classrooms for a lockdown.

We got the all-clear about 10 minutes later. The kids queued back up to get their hotdogs and carrot sticks. By the end of lunch, our principal was in the work room regaling us with stories of the time he break danced at a school talent show.

But this old lady was still ruffled. And more than a little scared.

I realize I haven't had a lot of wonderful to say about Los Angeles recently. I really like Pasadena. And living in a city with world-class museums and entertainment pretty much rocks. Our church makes me happy. And I can picture being here for a quite some time. Most days.

The upside of what I later discovered was a drug bust? My journalism students had something to write about. And they all completed the assignment.

The downside? Marlo, one of my boys, told me he didn't understand why I was upset about what had happened. He said, "It's only scary, Miss, when they start shooting."

Rio Hondo - Parte Tres

On our bike ride yesterday, I picked up a flat. That's Matt's expression for getting a flat tire. I like how he says that, as though I was meandering down the trail when I noticed something sparkly peeking out from the scrub, so I stopped and picked it up. "Oh, look," I might say. "It's a flat!"

That's my alternate reality. What really happened is, I ran over an ugly thorn in just the precise way, so that it lodged its ugly thorniness all the way through my tire and into the tube.

Because I married Macgyver, Jr., Matt had my tube replaced in five minutes flat (get it? flat?), and we were back on our way.

The interruption in our ride got me thinking about all the flats we pick up in the course of a day, those irritations that force us to stop, assess, and correct before continuing on our way. I'm not one of those chirpy gals who looks for the good in every situation, but I do wonder about the sweetness we miss when we constantly push onward and upward.

I know a very fine man who puts it this way: "Time does not contain God. He exists in the past, present, and future. However, we humans can only exist in the present. So the present is the only place where we can meet God."

Most of the time, I have one eye balefully analyzing all that happened yesterday, last year, or ten minutes ago ... and the other concerned about what might happen tomorrow, next year, or in the next ten minutes. What would  my life look like if I kept my gaze gently in the right here, right now?

I suspect I'd start seeing a lot of sparkling somethings calling out to me from the scrub.

Rio Hondo - Parte Dos

I think the sights, sounds, and smells of the Rio Hondo call for a poem. Now, I'm not actually a poet in any sense of the word, but when I think of the Rio Hondo, I experience such a blur of images and smells and emotions that it seems only a poem could rightly capture it.

Alas, when I showed Matt my attempt at Rio Hondo poetry, he looked at me quizzically and said, "Are those your notes for writing sentences?"

Ahem.

Nonetheless, I'm going to brave - as brave as I have to be to bike in L.A. - and hurl my poem into the great blogger unknown. Here 'tis:

Deep River

Thirty-four miles
Round trip
But not so much round as up and down.
Down under multitudes of highways
Back up the other side.
Dodging dogs not on leashes
Breathing in horse sweat
Breathing out the dry dust of thirsty sunflowers.
Shift down, down, down to creep up, up, up the
Steep rise to see, heart bursting
The dam closed, still.

Heaving old concrete cradles smooth
Black paving,
Hidden graffiti.

Bikers, walkers, strollers, bladers, borders, drinkers, sleepers.
Roosters and chickens screaming in morning joy,
Silent by noon,
One happily calling back err-err-rrrr.
And the girl swiftly pedaling, mama right behind,
Papa a yard ahead,
Her army green helmet sprinkled with rhinestones.

A knowing smile between the newlyweds,
Who found a trail.
In L.A.

Rio Hondo - Parte Uno

My sweet new husband and I finally found our bike trail. Our first few weeks here, we experimented with various rides in and around Pasadena, as well as along the L.A. "river" (a deep, concrete gully with super steep concrete "banks"), but we couldn't find a ride that was long enough, safe enough, or at all conducive to conversation. Matt spent the whole ride worrying about my safety. And I, well ... I, too, spent the whole ride worrying about my safety. In the absence of dedicated bike lines, neither of us was confident our helmets would protect us from, say, a truck driver with no interest in slowing down for a couple of middle-aged biker s - or a headlong dive into the "river."

One Sunday evening, as we waited for the train at North Hollywood, Matt discovered a giant map under plexiglass that detailed all of the bike trails in L.A. We'd never seen such a map, but I promise, it wasn't for lack of trying. We'd asked the pros at bike shops, we'd queried co-workers who had the biker whiff about them, and we'd even stopped strangers during their own bike rides. No one referred to such a map, and no one suggested the Rio Hondo. No matter. We found it, and we are happy.

Here's what we like about the Rio Hondo bike trail:

1. It's 34-miles round trip. Good workout.

2. Other than one intersection, there are no cars. None, nada, zippo.

3.  We bike side by side the entire ride. Who needs marriage counseling? Three hours of sweaty pedaling keeps our communication about as open as it can possibly get.

4. There's a lovely park near the half way point that makes for a great break. We bust out the trail mix and baby wipes and watch toddlers, dogs, and geese battle it out for the best Sunday sprint. There is nothing as much fun as watching a chihuahua kick a goose's butt.

5. The other bikers don't take themselves too seriously. We see a lot of families out for a Sunday toodle. There are serious roadies, too, but they ding-ding their bells and yell, "On yer left!" It's cool.

Here's what we don't like about the Rio Hondo bike trail:

1. "Rio hondo" means deep river. I don't understand how Californians define river. When I hear the word, I think flowing water, perhaps some trees, maybe a bed of rocks with water burbling over and through it and the sun glinting off the surface, even a fish or two to liven up the action. Well, here in the great state of California (or, at least the L.A. part), "river" seems to mean "miles and miles of deep concrete lined with stray shopping carts, abandoned baby strollers, and pigeon poo." And these miles and miles of concrete have no guard rail. So I spend the first 20 minutes or so of our ride trying desperately not to picture either of us pitching down the banks of the Rio Hondo, leaving important body parts along the way. After a while, I relax and enjoy the ride. Really, I do.

2. The shooting range. Nope, not such a big fan of the shooting range.

3. There's a long stretch of ride that takes us through sections of the city that make me sad. We see freshly tarred over graffiti, men gathered around picnic tables holding near empty bottles of cheap beer, and a ratty chicken farm that we can hear (and smell!) from a half mile away.

4. A hill I affectionately call Mr. Nasty. It's smack in the middle of our ride. It looks friendly enough, and I swear, I've tackled more intense ones. But about half way up this sucker, I feel like my lungs might actually come out of my nose. The ONLY reason I keep going is that finishing it impresses my husband. And I love to impress my husband.

Now ... onto Rio Hondo - Parte Dos

Sample post for my students

(This is a sample post for the CNHS class of 2013.)

One of the sample student memoirs that caught my attention is entitled "Ten Thousand Steps," written by Emily W, age 16. (Her memoir can be found at http://teacher.scholastic.com/writeit/readpoem.asp?id=635&genre=Memoir&Page=5&sortBy=).

The imagery that she uses in this memoir takes my breath away. I can tell that she didn't stick in fancy phrases just to fill the space, but rather she chose images that fit her beloved grandfather. For example, she describes his wrinkles as, "Deep creases [that] enwrap his eyes, like crevasses filled with unknown secrets." Not only can I easily picture those deep creases, but I also want to know more about her grandfather's secrets. And she does tell!

I also love this memoir because she writes about her grandfather with such dignity and respect. Although she does not write about a personal challenge (as my eleventh graders do), she tells about a time in her life that touched her deeply -- and I can tell from the forshadowing in the conclusion that her personal challenge is coming soon.

Good Day

Today, my journalism students established writing teams, set short term and long term project goals, and made press passes.

F-bombs were minimal. So was yelling and desk banging.

I only saw one item go air born (it was a highlighter, which I think is a huge improvement over pushpins or the stapler).

I didn't hear a single drug reference. Not one.

Best of all, when my kids left for the day, I did not cry. Instead I did a couple of air fist-pumps and then went air born myself.

Good day.

Mosaic

Matt and I have been going to a church called Mosaic. We asked about a dozen people back home and here in L.A. for a church recommendation, and the only answer we got was "Mosaic." Although I usually dismiss all things popular (I swear, I held out for as long as possible on choosing Pasadena for our relocation city, reasoning that if everyone liked it, it must be terrible -- I acknowledge this makes absolutely no sense), but when it comes to God, I'm not an idiot. Unanimous church recommendations seemed like a pretty easy call.

I spent the first several weeks picking apart the sermons, comparing them to Isaac's, and finding them wanting. Matt spent the first few weeks picking apart the band, comparing it to Summit's, and finding it wanting. He knew I wasn't loving the church, and he'd glance over at me during sermons with a worried look on his face. And as we walked into the sanctuary each week, I'd bet him we'd know at least one song (a bet I lost more often than not).

About three weeks ago, we decided we needed to hit the reset button. So, we picked up our self-pity, stuck it in our backpack, and headed to the Mosaic campus in Hollywood. The first trip did not bode well (refer to "Whiny Darth" blog post). The second was worse; three women and a man got into a screaming and slapping match on the train that was scary enough, we moved to another car, but alas, so did the screaming slappers. Plus, all in, the round-trip church experience takes four hours. FOUR HOURS.

But we think we've arrived on Planet It's Worth It. First, the band. Although the electric guitarists are so intense my eyelids vibrate, their talent is unrivaled. I am mesmerized just watching them (which I think is a fine way to worship). This Sunday, one of them actually slid a violin bow back and forth across the guitar strings, creating a sound that just about shattered my soul.

The lead singer looks a lot like one of my all-time favorite students ("you're awesome, Joshy Singer!"), so I automatically love him. Plus, he's fantastic. Matt says the band sounds like Pink Floyd. I say U-2. Come visit us and vote!

Our senior pastor, Erwin MacManus, brings his A-game to Hollywood. A few of his recent breath-stoppers:

• Relationships build bridges that ideas cannot.
• In matters of love, you have to go yourself. 
• One of the most damaging aspects of American society is religion.
• We are designed to care deeply.

He's smart, often shocking, frequently funny, and unafraid of tough topics. And he's a Jesus follower. I'm in.

Perhaps this is goofy, but the final "we've arrived" sense came when we first walked into Mosaic Hollywood. It's so like The Plaza on Bumby (minus the stale popcorn aroma), that we both said, right at the same moment, "Ohhhh ...."

Last week, I did not miss Isaac's sermon or the worship band at the Plaza. Instead, I found myself wondering if we're home.

Our 40th President

Yesterday, Matt and I drove to Simi Valley to visit the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum. First, two words about thriftiness. We're thrifty! We packed our lunch, coasted on the downhills, used his employee discount, and flashed my AAA membership. Whole day cost us $10. No lie. (Well, not counting the trip to Office Depot afterwards to stock up on supplies for my journalism students. That part was less thrifty.)

The museum is excellent. We set aside the politics and just soaked in the beauty of the setting, the wonder of the memorabilia, and most of all, the magnitude of a life well lived.

My take-away: The best years of our lives are yet ahead of us.

Matt's take-away: Say what you want about Ronald Reagan, but two things are inarguable. The man loved America. And the man loved his wife.

Then he said some other stuff that was lovely and touching ... and that made me hope this honeymoon bubble we're floating in lasts forever.

Gangsta Teacha

On Thursday, I had this conversation with two of my students:

Student 1: I like you, Miss. You're G.

Me: G?

Student 2: You know, the sixth letter of the alphabet?

Me: Umm, the sixth letter of the alphabet is F.

Feathers, feathers everwhere

One of the things that continues to surprise me about this city is the abundance of bird feathers. Yep, you read that right: bird feathers. They are everywhere.

You'd think, yes, perhaps in a popular migration destination, like some western Canadian lake that fat, noisy geese call home, or maybe at a pristine beach on the west coast of Florida where you have to carefully guard your Cheez-Its from seagull theft (I swear, they really do say, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"). I have not seen the likes of bird feathers anywhere else in the world such as right here in downtown Los Angeles.  There are a bajillion bird feathers.

I have a theory. It is this: pigeons love Carl, Jr.'s and del Taco. And since Los Angeles must surely be the highest density in the world of those fine food establishments, word is out among earth's pigeon populations: "Hey, guys, ya gotta move to L.A.! You won't believe the amazing food!"

Where there are pigeon feathers, there is also pigeon you-know-what. During one pretty scary bike ride, Matt and I hopped off our bikes to walk them through a heavily-trafficked tunnel. We sloshed through such thick pigeon guano, I seriously considering throwing away our shoes when we got home.

Echoes of Julie Andrews singing, "Feed the birds, tuppence a bag" do not at all romantize these chubby gluttons. In the aviary world, I think pigeons would ride the short bus. Which is also why, I suppose, we see a lot of pigeon carcasses (but not for long, as Los Angeles is also home to a significant coyote population -- but that's another blog).

I Am From

I teach a class called iConnect.  Twenty girls and I tackled topics such as sex, substance abuse, nutrition, social issues, relationships -- you name it, it's all fair game.

During the first week of school, my girls wrote "I Am From ..." poems. Here are some excerpts that touched me:

---

From the story of how my mom came to the U.S.
and how she suffered here to get where she is now

---

I am from graffiti on the corner of
     my street, spray can, art of
     West Hollywood.
I am from palm trees and brushes,
     blowing fresh air to refresh me
     from the sun.

---

The handsome, sweet uncle who chose
my name while carrying me with a big
smile on his face at the hospital.

---

I am from cooking and going out
From cleaning my room and doing
good at school
I'm from going to church every
Sunday

---

     I'm from East Los Angeles, Mexico and Spain,
Enchiladas, tamales, from the crazy uncle who made bad
choices and got into trouble. The grandpa who would tell stories
to his grandchildren. The boxes with photo memories and our hearts,
most important to not forget the ones we love.

---

The dad I haven't seen in years
pictures I have saved from the good memories left of him
Keeping them in a box where only I see them
to remind me he was once there for me.

---

I'm from the quiet mornings and lonely games.
From "Brush your hair" and "Wash your face"
I'm from churchless Sundays, and prayers at night
I'm from the country of cultures.
Sunday night carne asada, famous wings on Melrose
From the home where a father carried a
Sick newborn, and handled soiled diapers
The frame of a fragile body battling cancer
The box in a storage closet.
The memories that can never be relived.

---

I'm from posole
and tajadas here and there
from mama lupe and papa
ramon I'm from Quinceneras
and parties every weekend
I'm from Catholics and
Christian prayers.
I'm from days of hunger and
no where to sleep, where all
my both parents had was
tortillas and avacate from
the loud loving family
strong as a rock and
united forever.

The Intersection

Every morning, rain or shine (hah! it hasn't rained in this desert even once since we moved here), Matt and I sit on our itsy-bitsy patio. He reads the paper. I move as the mood strikes: read a devotional, stalk my friends on Facebook, grade papers, text with Juan, fold laundry, update my calendar, plan lessons, clip coupons, catch up on email ...

Meanwhile, Matt reads the paper. Every morning, rain or shine. And there are two gifts I receive from his consistency: my busy, what-should-I-do-next self calms down. There's a scene in The Last Samurai in which the main actor dude (the tall Asian guy) gazes at a cherry tree and says, "Some men spend their whole lives in search of the perfect cherry blossom." He pauses for a moment and then turns his gaze to Tom Cruise, and says, "Such a life would not be a waste."

That's the sensation I get when I watch Matt read the paper. Suddenly, nothing is as important as sitting very still.

The other super cool thing about Matt's daily dive into the papers is that he discovers unexpectedly sweet things to do. Yesterday was such a day. We were within minutes of walking to our Tai Chi lesson when he pointed to a little article and said, "We should go see that." What 'that' turned out to be was an intricate sand painting on display at the same museum where we take our lessons. A handful of Tibetan monks spent the last several days painstakingly creating what looks like a huge, beaded medallion out of brightly-colored, fine sand. Today, as soon as they are finished, they will sweep their art away. And although the action of sweeping it away is a comment on the Buddhist belief in the transience of beauty, I prefer to think the beauty is swept out into the universe where it will join other moments of beauty. (I know -- the sand will actually end up in a Hefty bag in a dumpster behind the Asian Pacific Museum, but let me have the dream.)

So after Tai Chi, we watched the monks don their prayer robes and then listened to them pray and chant for over 30 minutes to prepare themselves for the offering of their work. (What might our world look like if we all started our day in such a way as this?) And then, they "painted" by pouring minute amounts of sand into long, gold tubes and then breathing each particle into place.

As we walked back to our apartment, we ran into a friend from church, which was a huge gift. This was the first time we've run into anyone we know in this big, noisy city. The meeting occurred, of course, at a big, noisy intersection ... but we were so grateful for the unexpectedness of it. And for the gift of the Tibetan monks and their art.

I like to think this is the beauty of life -- spending day after day patiently engaging in each and every moment.  Then one day, in the midst of it all, there it is:

The perfect cherry blossom.

Whiny Darth?

Matt and I have been going to a church called Mosaic. There are several campuses, and we've been hitting up the one in Pasadena because, well, that makes sense being that we live in Pasadena and all.  This past Sunday, though, we decided to visit the campus in Hollywood.  Off we went -- Metro Gold to Union Station, Metro Red to somewhere in North Hollywood.

As it happened, our stop dumped us right in the heart of the most touristy section of Hollywood. We cruised up the escalator and landed smack in the middle of a crowd of thousands of people taking pictures of their feet (you know -- the Hollywood stars) right in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater.

My favorite part was this ... as we headed west toward church, we found ourselves following Darth Vadar and Elmo. That was enough all by itself to get me giggling, but, oh no, the best was yet to come. Here's the conversation between them:

Darth: Dammit (insert more colorful explicative), I just spent 10 friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) minutes with that family, posing with every single one of them, and what do I get?

Elmo: Rrrr?

Darth: A dollar! One friggin' (insert more colorful explicative) dollar!

Elmo: (nodding sympathetically)

Darth: And the old man didn't even act straight up about it! Oh, no, he tried to be all smooth and fold it, so I couldn't see it was just a lousy, friggin' (you know what to do) dollar.

Elmo: Brrrr ...

--

What?! Really, Lord Vadar?!  Shouldn't you just lift the guy up by his wind pipe and cut off his airways until he gives you his entire wallet and thanks you for not annihilating him? Oh, Darth, you may be insidious, you may be cunning, you may be heartless ... but you may not be whiny.

Proof positive that not every aspiring actor in Hollywood is destined for greatness. If we see Darth again on Sunday, I think I may just invite him to church. But I'll keep a close eye on him when they pass the basket.

PD

At Camino Nuevo High School, they're big into something called PD. They also talk a lot about ESLRs, CD, R-FEP'd, RSP, DD, and a bunch of other acronyms I'm struggling to catch. My English language learners are not the only people in the building with furrowed brows.

Back to the PD; this is an acronym for "professional development." Researchers in the field of education have spent the last few years looking for ways to fix our school systems (and that they need fixing is a given). One of their solutions proposes that teachers need more time to learn how to be good teachers (also a given). What is a surprise is that Camino Nuevo takes this idea seriously. So during the five days of pre-planning when I would typically have been making bulletin boards and photo copying hand-outs, I was, instead, learning how to provide support to students with autism, how to emphasize academic vocabulary instruction for kids who are bi-lingual, how to ensure every student is constantly thinking and engaged ... and so on.

And on and on and on.

I'll admit, I was simultaneously excited ... and stressed. At the end of the week of PD, Matt and I went to the school, where I spent a couple of hours doing nothing more than creating a filing system for all of the materials I'd gotten (while Matt built a bookshelf, and yes, he is THE coolest dude).

Anyhow ... during this week of intensive teacher training, we also participated in a number of team building activities. I mention this because, one, I don't like team building activities, and two, the team building activities are what really stood out for me. When I consider the week of training, it's not only the Kagan structures that resonated, but also standing in the middle of the soccer field with 20 young teachers, a jump rope, and the frustratingly elusive instructions, "Turn on the machine." I'd have to look up the spectrum of behaviors to consider for my special needs kids, but I can easily recall why David was blind-folded while holding three whiffle balls ... and how quickly Peter and Marisol came to his aid.

All this is to say, I still need to make photo copies and bulletin boards. And I'm woefully under-prepared for my first day of instruction in a practical sense. But two things are absolutely true:

I'm professionally developed.

Teams matter.

Now ... off to the copy machine.

Red Dot the Smurfbakes

When Matt and I like something a lot, we yell, "Green dot!" And when we don't, we quietly say, "Red dot," and hope for no more.  Dinner on a park bench at Levitt Pavilion while we try to name the breeds of the canine visitors and their walkers who drift through? Green dot!  Tip-toeing through the grass to avoid deposits left by those visitors? Red dot.

Evidently there's a natural disaster that sometimes strikes this here state, and we're so scared of it, we don't call it by its actual name. It's sort of like the students at Hogwarts referring to "He-who-shall-not-be-named" for fear of invoking Lord Voldemort's wrath.  Matt refers to these natural disasters as hurricanes because we know how to deal with those (stock up on non-perishables, bottled water, and crossword puzzles).

I call these California oddities smurfbakes. I considered mirthfakes, because it's true that there's nothing funny about them, or worthcakes, but that seems too yummy. Plus, I've never liked Smurfs. They're just weird.

We do have a plan. If a smurfbake hits and we're home, we know to make a nose dive under the desk or dining room table. If we're not, I think we're supposed to get outside and away from buildings.  With this being L.A. and all, I'm not quite sure how to manage that one.  Maybe we can count on being at Leavitt Park on our bench.

That's it. That's our plan.  Plus, the frequent invocation of "Red dot the smurbakes."

Oot and Uh-Boot

I was going to call this blog "Out and About," but everything in my head is in a Canadian accent, so "Oot and Uh-Boot" it is. Matt got home from work really late last night, so I resorted to watching television to entertain myself. (Okay, so there's this show called Property Virgins on a network called DIY [I'm guessing, Do-It-Yourself?], and in each 30-minute episode, we viewers watch first-time buyers choose a home. Last night, Vishnu and blond lady [I never caught her name, probably because I was so enraptured with the name Vishnu] plunked down $349,000 for a teeny-tiny, run-down row house in Toronto -- hence the Canadian accents in my head.  I so wanted to say to Vishnu and blond lady, "Nooooo! Don't do it! In Orlando, you can get a washroom big enough to turn around in! Plus, no snow! And Disney World!" All of this is to say, my general avoidance of television is a wise plan.)

Back to "Out and About" ...

Over the last couple of days, I've been tootling around more on my own. My comfort with the trains and my general sense that we live somewhere northeast of L.A. has solidified sufficiently such that I don't need to obsessively consult Google Maps every time I set out. Releasing my stranglehold on my phone and my little print-outs means I am more aware of my surroundings, specifically the people in them.

So, here's the obvious thing ... there are thousands and thousands and thousands of homeless people in L.A.

Here's the less obvious thing ... what am I to do about this?

In the absence of a coherent plan, I'm blogging.  That's a lame response, but at the moment, it's the only one I've got.

Yesterday, in front of Target, a elderly lady in super short shorts asked me for a dollar. I gave her one. She coldly turned away from me and picked her lit cigarette back up off the bus bench. I was more baffled than irritated. And then I was irritated with my irritation. After all, I have an address.

On my way to the train station, a homeless man on the opposite side of the intersection smiled at me and waved. As I waited for the walk signal, I thought, "Just smile and say 'good morning.'" When I got within earshot, he asked, "Hey, have you got a cigarette?" I thought, really? A cigarette? Not a twenty or a burrito? I shook my head, smiled, and said, "Good morning."

I had to fill out some paperwork at my school. There was a man asleep on the sidewalk out front. His butt was pretty much hanging out of his pants. I distinctly remember thinking, "Oh, he's gonna have such a sunburn."

Later in the day, I had to go to a public clinic for a TB test. The clinic is in MacArthur Park, an area of town I've been warned to avoid. In fact, as I was leaving her office to head to the clinic, my new HR director put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Please. Be careful." But after my accidental stroll through skid row last week, I figured it couldn't possibly be too bad in broad daylight. And I was right. There were a ton of homeless folks, but they all seemed rather cheerful. In fact, there was a spirit of industry there that fascinated me. On just about every corner (and even in the lobby of the clinic), a person sold odds and ends to make a little cash: bags of peanuts, gum, cheap toys. One incredibly inventive lady had set up a grocery cart and a cooler at the corner of Alvarado and Wilshire. A griddle was straddled across the top of the cart, and she was frying up hot corn cakes on it -- and, oh my goodness, the aroma made me light-headed. Under the griddle, I could see her few personal possessions and a square-ish thing that must have been her source of electricity. Tomorrow, when I go back to the clinic to get my TB results, I just might queue up in the long line to buy a corn cake.

There was a young man in a shiny blue suit and aviator sunglasses at the MacArthur Park metro stop. He stood at the top of the escalator and asked passers-by, the ones who looked homeless, if they needed a job. My instinct was to hurl him down the escalator. It's not that he seemed evil, exactly, but still ... I had a very strong urge to protect people from him.

There are days when the sheer volume of homeless people in this city depresses and overwhelms me, and others when they are barely a blip on my radar. Neither response is helpful. Buying corn cakes and dolling out sunscreen don't seem like much.

As I go out and about, I think about this: There's only "out and about" for a homeless person. "Out" is all the time, even in a sleeping bag on skid row. "In" might look like watching DIY for a few minutes at Best Buy before the manager asks you to leave, or a quick doze between train stops on the days the police aren't checking for tickets.

I don't know why there are so many homeless people here. And I don't exactly know how a person becomes homeless in the first place. Sure, I've heard lots of reasons, some of which make a little sense, and many of which are a horrible clanging in my ears.  In the space between the poles of blaming victims and blaming government or capitalism lies a vast territory of people with shopping carts and ill-fitting shoes. People who have faces and stories and hopes and hurts and families and irritations and good days and bad. People who have all of these things, like me, but yet, do not have a home.

I still don't know what to do.

Ten Cool Things about the USS Abraham Lincoln

10. It was docked in the Port of Los Angeles, which meant we had the opportunity to visit it. With our mouths hanging open.

9. Crew members Cat and Adam, two of the nicest people on Earth (I'm not exaggerating) were on the last leg of our journey there. Matt struck up a conversation with them. They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were all like, oh, we found out the lines were too long, they closed it for tours, we're just gonna see it from shore ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" We were like, oh, you're busy, it's okay, we're having fun just riding the bus ... They said, "You want to see the ship?" At that point, I think I pinched Matt. And then myself.

8. Every known condiment to man is on the tables in the mess decks. Securely fastened to the tables, of course.

7. The elevators carry fighter jets, helicopters, and really big, cool other stuff. We got to ride them. Twice!

6. These nifty patrol boats circle the ship and whenever a civilian vessel gets too close, they charge it like mosquitoes going after my legs in the summertime, in all of their buzzing, blood-sucking aggression. I think I said, out loud, "Take that, civilian vessel!" (It was probably more like, "Ohhh, bad move, little boat.")

5. In the berths, the mattresses are four inches thick and are rolled up to head of the bed during non-sleeping time. Crew members sleep in stacks of three, and their storage space consists of a series of shallow trays beneath their mattress.  We've been griping about our 650 feet of living space? The enlisted crew members might get 64 inches. Total.

4. The top three observation decks are for the Commanding Officer, the Captain, and the Admiral of the fleet. They each get one. What, they can't share?

3. Adam said, "When a fighter jet takes off, you hear it." I bet!

2. In the communications room, Matt noticed that the electrical cords had to be coiled up off the floor. Cat said, "Yeah, nothing on the ship can be grounded." I yelped, "Right! The entire ship is a Faraday box!" I never suspected my MLS degree would come in handy on an aircraft carrier.

1. The USS Abraham Lincoln's motto is, "We shall not perish." It should be, "We restore youth to middle-aged men." Matt is still grinning like a school boy.

Super Slow Stretchy Dancing

That's about the best way I know how to describe Tai Chi. Take two good stretch routines, one warm up and the other cool down, insert dance steps at every bend and turn, and do the whole thing as slowly as possible. And name it something obscure like Form 24.

Tai Chi!

I also call this Tai Cheeseburger, which is what I was craving about half way through our session. In fact, I got so locked on the "Tai" part of Tai Chi that we ended up having Pad Thai for dinner last night. But I digress ...

Last Christmas, Matt got me a membership to the Orlando Museum of Art, and added on a deal-ee-oh called North American Reciprocal. What that means is that we flash our OMA cards at participating museums (and there are hundreds) and we are ushered right in like VIPs. Such was the case when we walked into the Asian Pacific Museum. The building itself is a gorgeous specimen of Japanese architecture, and in the center, a wonderfully serene garden complete with a pond of lotus of flowers. Standing in the midst of this courtyard, you forget that there's a California Pizza Kitchen and a Starbucks right outside.

Every Saturday morning, Michael, Irwin, and Jane host a Tai Chi class in this garden. Beginners are welcome, thank goodness. So a motley crew of 15 of us assembled there yesterday morning, many for the first time. The leaders are beautifully skilled in the crafts of dipping, weaving, and stretching their bodies into lovely postures with poetic names, such as Play the Lute, Single Whip, and (my favorite) Stroke the Peacock's Tail.

One of the leaders told us early on to turn off our minds and let our bodies just follow the rhythms. Nice. But totally unrealistic. My head went into overdrive as I tried to match all of the dipping, weaving, and stretching.  Many times, I realized that although I'd gotten the arm motions correct, my feet were nowhere to be found.

Thank goodness for You Tube. I'll doing a lot of lute playing and peacock stroking in prep for next week. Perhaps there's a book called Tai Chi for Morons -- or better yet, Tai Chi For Type A Personalities. After all, Tai Chi literally means "supreme ultimate fist," which sounds far more like something you'd see on reality television than experience in a Chinese garden.  Proponents insist that it's designed to balance the body into meditative relaxation. Today, my forearms and thighs do not feel either meditative or relaxed -- but I do feel a supreme, ultimate need to tackle Form 24.

Lean Back

One day when I was in Africa, our hosts took us to Lake Malawi. Part of the chain of Great African Lakes, this deep, skinny body of water is bordered by Lake Malawi, Mozambique, and Tanzania (and, in fact, there are disputes as to who "owns" various parts of the water). Although I tend to think of Malawi as a completely poverty-stricken land, the lake reminds me that there are flourishing resorts in the country, many of them populated by wealthy tourists from all over the world. In fact, during our visit, the cast and crew of the reality show Amazing Race were there filming the 2011 season.

But that's another story.

By some accounts, Lake Malawi contains the richest variety of life of any body of water on Earth. One such species is a fish called either chombo or chomba (I forget which, but it's an important difference because one of those words means marijuana -- so I let our hosts order my lunch).

Our visit to took place on our last day in Malawi. My team was tired. Although they'd found our work incredibly fulfilling, they'd been stretched into spiritual shapes beyond their imagination. Plus, I think they were craving dairy and the faces of their families. So when I suggested they spend 30 minutes in silence with their journal, I got looks that said, "Yep, mmm-hmmm, I'll get right on that."

I found a shady spot where I could lean against a stone wall, spread out my chitenje, and opened my journal. I looked up and down the beach, noting that one group of my peeps were rock climbing, another dipping their toes in the water, and a few stragglers had collapsed in chairs nearest the resort and were sound asleep.

What caught my attention next left echoes that I've heard every day since. A young man was trying to wind surf. He had all the right equipment: a surf board with an enormous pink sail attached, friends who loaded him back onto the board every time he fell into the water, and plenty of wind.

The young man was strong. And tenacious. I watched him for a long, long time.  He climbed onto the board, carefully placed his feet at just the right spots, gripped the sail, pointed into the wind -- and pitched headlong into the water. His friends stayed with him. Yet despite all of his efforts, he never sailed for more than a few feet.

It took me a while to figure out what was wrong. Instead of leaning back into the wind, the man hunched forward over the sail.

He clung to what he could see rather than trusting what he could not.

So as I continue to look for a job and find my place in this city, I'm trying to figure out what it means to lean back into the wind. Now and again, I think I've got the right idea -- just before I fall face first into the water.

My teacher is patient, and my friends are many.

This really is an amazing race.

Pink Parasol

I stand corrected.

Evidently, even a pink parasol can possess Fish Kill Quality (not to mention alliteration). Clearly, I haven't a clue what Fish Kill Quality actually means ... but I'm on it.  I don't think it's related to movies, although the topic often comes up in conjunction with them (as in, "That was a fish kill movie!" which, incidentally, was not stated after Jane Eyre or Julie and Julia).  Plants, pumpkins, and pets can have Fish Kill Quality (Matt's spitfire cat -- yes, but my cuddly dog -- no).  Clothes, too, including pink parasols.  I'm stumped for an exact definition, or even a vague one, but I'm not giving up.  My next question is, Does Pasadena have Fish Kill Quality? I'm betting certain aspects such as the Metro, Rose Bowl, and The Huntington Botanical Gardens and Library will be a hearty YES, but tiny parking spaces and our ever-empty mailbox will get a sad shake of the head.

More news at 11:00 ...

Watch your cork!

Last week, Matt and I took Joanna to Longboat Key for a few days. Seems we've spent the majority of our time since we moved to California in time zones nowhere near Pasadena. But no matter.  We continue to learn that home is a place we pack up and take with us.

The highlight of the trip was trout fishing in St. Petersburg. Our friend Captain Tim, whom we've fished with many times before, has never let us down, and this time was no exception. Every time I think I've mastered fishing with Tim, he teaches me something new. The first time we went out, we fished for Spanish mackerel, and that meant, as soon as I felt a little buzz on the line, I had to snap up the pole to do something called "set the hook." The next time we went out with Tim, I was all set to do some serious pole snapping and hook setting, when instead, he taught me how to use lures rather than live bait. That involved him injecting something into the rubbery bait look-alike that I called fish goo (I still don't know what the stuff is actually called because Tim was too busy laughing at "fish goo" to tell me). That day was all about fishing in mangroves for reds and trout -- reds off the stern and trout off the bow. So the third time we went fishing with Tim, I figured I'd either be pole snapping or dealing in fish goo ... but alas, I should have known. Instead, we fished with shrimp and tiny weights attached to the line. The trick was to let the bait settle on the floor of the bay and every once in a while, give the line a little twitch. Although this yielded very few fish for me, I learned a great deal of patience, not to mention I had the biggest catch of the trip. That day, I rightfully became known as Fish Killer (not to be confused with Matt's designation of an activity possessing Fish Kill Quality -- which I think means "sufficiently manly").

So last week, off we went with Tim for another fishing adventure. All morning, Tim said three words over and over: "Watch your cork." After a lot of "Huh?" "Cork?" and "Watch it do what?", I finally got the gist. Tim would cast my line about 40 feet off the port side of his boat, and the bright orange ping-pong ball sized float he'd attached about three feet north of the hook would, after a moment or two, give a little bob. I felt nothing. So I did nothing. But after the millionth, "Watch your cork," I figured it out. What Tim should have said was, "Reel, woman, reel!"

We caught 50 or so trout. We're vegetarians (well, Joanna is more like a pescaphile), so 49 of them survived. Number 50 was snatched up by an osprey who was so delighted by his catch that he made a victory lap around the bay before wolfing that sucker down. Fish Killer indeed.

As we got near the end of the bait, I sat down in the back of the boat and turned my face to the sun. Tim asked, "Don't you want to fish anymore?" I gestured to Matt and Joanna, standing side by side on the fore deck of the boat, both of them gazing intently at their lines, sweat running down their calves, and their heads tilted to the right at exactly the same angle. The moment did not have Fish Kill Quality ... but it filled me with peace.

I said, "Tim, I'd much rather watch those two than my cork." He smiled. And, for a moment, turned his face to the sun, too.

Just a typical weekend in Los Angeles ...

Matt got home from China on Thursday night. I thought he'd be comatose most of the weekend, and I'd be a little emailin' and bloggin' fool. Er, not so much.

Friday went like this ... we watched the Tour de France. I'm learning all about the Pelaton and the mules and the sprinters and the mountain climbers and the jerseys. Mr. Forbes, his brother, his sister-in-law, and I are considering watching a bit of it in person in 2017, so I figure it's not too soon to get smart about the race. Plus, anything that puts me in France is oui-oui.  Next up, we went to the Los Angeles County Museum of Arts (affectionately known as LACMA, and affectionately pronounced as LOCK-muh). We are now members of four area museums, and let me just say, they are not getting a good deal on us.  In the continuing theme of France, we closely inspected a visiting exhibit called the Tomb Sculptures from the Court of Burgundy, listened in on a talk about a half dozen Monets (wait ... I'm detecting more Francophilia), and sat for a lecture about two incredibly impressive Greek sculptures (oops ... France au revoir).  We also strolled by the La Brea Tar bits. Umm ... they are pits of tar. They smell like pits of tar. Did I mention, there's a lot of tar? But a really funny thing across the street ... a long, long line of food trucks, each one food- or ethnically-themed. Too bad we'd just had a picnic, or I would have made a deposit at the peanut butter truck, for sure.  Next time ...

So Friday night, Matt was actually up for a concert at Memorial Park. We took our fifth train ride of the day (I still don't get why trains make him so happy, but I'm in) to see March Forth.

Oh.
My.
Goodness.

This band ... okay, imagine a post-apocalyptic future, a la Hunger Games or The Book of Eli or The Road. Now imagine a marching band got lost in that future ... until they came across trunks full of circus clothes and sheet music ... in New Orleans. That will give you some feel for their hellish cheerfulness.  They were seriously bizarre ... but free! Oui-oui! And they had a crowd of several hundred folks of all ages clapping and dancing, including the man who'd just returned from China.

And that was just Friday. More about Saturday and Sunday later. Right now, it's time for a cup of tea and lemon cake.

Nine thousand, one hundred, and twenty-six

That's how many days my dear friends Sunni and Dan have been married. In celebration of their joy, here is Elizabeth Barrett-Browning's Sonnet 43 from her collection Sonnets from the Portuguese:


I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


And in other numbers ... Matt and I have been married for 40 days today. Not quite enough to make a full sonnet, but maybe a couplet? Here's Shakespeare's closing couplet from Sonnet 23 (and in the words of Hogget to Babe, "That'll do, pig; that'll do"):


For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Ambient Light

A friend asked me today if my trip to Malawi had changed me. When I opened my mouth to answer her, my throat closed and nothing came out. And then this memory came ...

One evening, Jackie and I spent some time with the girls at House of Purity, the home of a pretty typical group of teens.  As my friend Dallas would say, they were looking for themselves in a window rather than a mirror. After sharing devotions with them, we walked back to our guest house for our team's evening debrief. No one else had arrived yet, and since Adam had the key, we wandered about in the yard, arms linked, and looked up.

The stars in Africa ... well, let's just say, they appear so dense and close, the only way to respond is to reach up and try to touch them. It's as though God pushed the sky right down to our faces, and said, "Look!" I know different stars are visible in the southern hemisphere than in the north; the thinking side of my brain registered that, but the feeling side of my brain wanted to stick out my tongue and lick their sweetness. They were that close.

One of the Chiwengo guards stepped off the dark porch of the house and asked why there are fewer stars in America. I asked, "Oh, do all the American visitors oooh and ahhh over the stars here?" He said yes, and affirmed how blessed Africans were to have more stars than Americans. And then in his rich, beautiful, broken English, he gave Jackie and me an astronomy lesson.

I've thought a lot about the guard, Jackie, and the cold night the three of us spent with our chins pointed up. What I could not explain to our African friend (although I tried) was the concept of ambient light. It's not that we have fewer stars, I wanted to say.  It's just that we can't see them.

And this is one of the many, many ways Africa changed me.  Just as surely as it's tougher to see the stars here in America, it's tougher to see God. The ambient light (also known as "distractions") makes it difficult to reach out and touch him as closely as I could in Africa. There, materialism, competition,  and insecurities were rare. Without those getting in the way, his presence shimmered -- in the dancing of widows and the sweat of men building a school and the mud of the floor of a hut, carefully applied by the worn hands of a woman making a home for her family.

God is here, too. I think I saw him yesterday in the leopard skin tattoo inked down the leg of a woman named Yazmine. I had to look a little harder, but I think I saw him again when I was choosing from among a pile of pineapples; rather than seeking the one, I gave thanks for the many. I know for sure I'll see him again tomorrow in my husband's precious smile.

God is surely here. All I have to do is stick out my tongue and taste the sweetness.

My hair smells yummy

I think it's a combination of lavender, eucalyptus, and something else that seems expensive, like maybe French perfume.  In any case, I can't stop pulling clumps of it to my nose to sniff.  Yep, just did it again. Mmmmm ...

I was long overdue for a haircut, and the water in Africa (in addition to giving some of my team mates cholera) wasn't exactly nurturing. About the best I could muster up was a 'do Robyn calls a "snot knot," which is when you pull all of your hair up to the top of your head and twist it into a not-so-smooth scrunchie ... and then quickly walk away from the mirror.

Here was my other clue it was time for sharp scissors and salon-quality products. One evening last week, as we scarfed down big plates of pasta out on our tiny patio, Matt asked, "Are you getting your hair done next week?" I chose to think he was simply expressing interest in my schedule.

So today I went to see Vanessa at the Orpheum Salon, and experienced a morning I will affectionately refer to hereafter as Orpheum Bliss (on second thought, that sounds like an inappropriate film set in ancient Greece). Whatever.  I love the way my hair smells.  And the provencal decor of the salon, too -- boudoir chandeliers, enormous mirrors framed in ash-colored oak, and turn-of-the-century pharmaceutical cabinetry. Charmant.

And Vanessa?  I want to go over to her house and bake cookies. She has tremendously thick, curly hair, and she blogs about being organized. To commemorate the royal wedding, once a week, she writes Monarch Mondays.  I took one look at her blue toenail polish and knew I'd found a friend.

Never mind that I spent $6 on parking to be pampered for a couple of hours.  When Matt gets home on Thursday, he'll say something sweet about my hair. I will say, "Thank you."

And we'll leave it at that.

Learning each other ...

Sometimes I forget that I've only known Matt for 28 months. As we settle into our new world together, we're still very much learning each other.  Surprises for me: the depth of Matt's love of classical music and his commitment to keeping farmer's hours regardless of the previous night's bed time. Perhaps my favorite is this: when he opens his eyes every morning, he looks genuinely astonished to see me. And quite pleased.

A couple of days ago, Matt saw a side of his wife that was new to him, too. Every morning, some time between 4:30 and 5:00, we walk down to the lobby to get the newspapers. He reads the Pasadena Star News first, as he is completely charmed by all things local. On this particular morning, I glanced around his elbow to see the words "Vermeer," "on loan," and "Simon Norton Museum" on the front page. Well, let me tell you, he didn't get that newspaper back until I was finished devouring the story and had moved on to the Internet to learn more.

Yesterday, Johannes Vermeer's Girl with Lute was installed in the Norton Simon's 17th century European Paintings gallery. She'll be there for the summer, and I plan to visit her often. In fact, I went yesterday to hear Dr. Walter Lietdke, the Met's Dutch and Flemish curator, speak about the role of women in Vermeer's world, and today, Girl and I spent a bit of time together -- both of us contemplating the whereabouts of our men in distant lands.

I don't remember when I became a Vermeer groupie, but I'm sure it was long before The Girl with Pearl Earring craze. I think it was Matt (brother, not husband) who turned me on to his extraordinary treatment of light and his preoccupation with the middle ground.  Something about Vermeer's paintings stops me in my tracks and insists I look.  In person.  If there's a Vermeer anywhere near, I completely commandeer the conversation of everyone within earshot until plans are settled for a visit. A few years ago, I was in Edinburgh with a teacher friend; when I discovered there was a Vermeer at the National Gallery, my poor friend's plans to visit Sir Walter Scott's and Robert Louis Stevenson's homes were indefinitely put on hold. She was really kind about that (as well as my obsession with Charlotte Bronte -- God forbid a Vermeer should ever show up in Yorkshire).

All this is to say, Matt saw a new side of his wife, one who inexplicably adores the three dozen or so paintings by a seventeenth century Dutch dude. And I saw a side of him that is not new to me but makes me smile -- he made sure I knew how to get to the museum by public transportation.

Only in L.A.

Okay, this place is just WEIRD! You won't see this in Orlando, my friends ...

1. Many places have preferred parking for vehicles with low emissions. And, of course, the spots are super compact.

2. There are restaurants that serve nothing but boba milk tea. Boba, it seems, are little tapioca balls suspended at the bottom of the tea cup.

3. A huge block of the 110 was shut down today for a police investigation. Seems that during a high speed chase, a gun was thrown out of a car window. Three arrests followed.  The upshot (no pun intended) was that it took me over two hours to get Matt to the airport, which is only 15 miles from our apartment.

4. It's often impossible to make a right hand turn in downtown Pasadena because of the throngs of pedestrians. When Matt says, "Hey, why don't you just head down Colorado ...," he gets a look from me and then says, "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Bad idea."

5. Grocery stores have entire refrigerator sections dedicated to organic Greek yogurt.

6. Matt and I are almost always the only white people on the train or bus. I don't get it.

7. I can't seem to get out of the grocery store for less than $200 a pop, but free concerts, plays, tours, and lectures abound.  That gets the Forbes stamp of approval.

8. Magnolias and jasmine are blooming in July. JULY!

9. You can get a ginormous lunch at pretty much any Mexican restaurant for about $5 (assuming you can read enough Spanish to order with confidence). The food tastes incredible, and you leave wishing you had a second stomach.

Totally unrelated note ... I saw a hummingbird this morning during my run. He hovered over my head for a few seconds before heading up the hill. Another goosebump moment.

The Story of A Fierce Bad Rabbit

Yesterday, I was perfectly content to sleep and sleep and sleep.  While this may have been understandable, it wasn't terribly helpful. So my sweet husband offered a carrot he knew I could not resist -- an outdoor children's play.

During summer months, there are free concerts and events at the Leavitt Pavillion in Memorial Park, a one-stop train ride from our apartment. Last night, hundreds and hundreds of children gathered in the park to see two Beatrix Potter stories animated through live puppetry. Oh, my goodness, giggles for everyone! First, we watched Jemima Puddleduck narrowly escape being made into a stew by the crafty fox. And next, we saw The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit. I was still in the Africa fog, so I wasn't quite certain what was happening, other than the toddler in front of me had a fierce, bad desire to drink out of her mama's cup, and the bad rabbit, for reasons that are still unclear, kept losing his tail (I choose not to consider the potential symbolism of this event).

Today, Pacific Standard Time and I are playing together nicely.  I'm going to spend the day looking for a job -- and hope not to lose my tail in the process.

Crash Landing

What do organic coffee, the F-bomb, and a heat wave have in common?  They all figured prominently in my return to Los Angeles, this our new home.

Okay, so LA is nine hours (NINE!) behind Malawi, which means that 2:00 a.m. seems like a great time to make waffles, and 6:00 p.m. renders me barely conscious. That meant a lot of false starts yesterday, punctuated by naps and big-eyed staring out the window.

When the room stopped spinning, my man took me to Urth Cafe for some Baby Gorilla coffee and hand-holding. Getting there involved a train ride to Little Tokyo, sketchy-looking alley-ways, and a rather unsettling number of junkies and homeless folks who thought it fitting to shout obscenities as we passed. At one point, I looked up at Matt and wailed, "Where are you taking me???"

The original location of Urth Cafe (now a small chain) is housed in a super-chic brick loft a block away from the California Department of Social Services (hence the local flavor). We'd been to the Urth in Santa Monica a couple of times on the recommendation of a dear friend of Matt's, and just adored it. It's a wonderful breakfast-lunch-brunch place that uses only organic products and draws a funky crowd of road bikers, yuppy families, cops, and beatniks. A little slice of heaven. But we're already ruling out places to visit based on location, as the rumors you hear about the traffic are too true. "Better to drive north or take the train than brave anything in or below downtown."(That's our new motto. I know, it needs work.) So rather than drive to Santa Monica, we checked out the original Urth in Little Tokyo.

After Matt recovered from the shock of spending $52 on breakfast and a pound of coffee, we had a lovely, lovely day. We later walked all over South Pasadena, catching each other up on the hundreds of moments that touched us during our separation -- and sweat like the Floridians that we are in the heat wave that has struck southern California. I kid you not; temps reached the upper 90s yesterday.

Now for some LA reflecting ... Springfield, Illinois this place ain't. We've both been smacked squarely between the eyes by the reality of our new home. Millions and millions of people live here, and let's just say, it's not easy to love every single one of them (or even a half dozen). So we just keep holding hands, talking about how we feel, and looking for joy in each moment.

And the next place I'm sure to find it is in the percolator. Time for some Baby Gorilla.

All this for me?

As Matt drove me home last night, we headed north on the 5 to the 110. Two thoughts struck me: one, that all these highway numbers as multiples of five do not bode well for my ability to successfully navigate LA, and two, "Gosh, are all these for me?" We saw hundreds (nope, not exaggerating) of phenomenal, expansive, over-the-top fireworks displays. I felt like I was floating in the center of a fishbowl, and all around us, both near and far, burst thousands of lights silently singing their welcome.

It was a goosebump moment, only the most recent in an avalanche.

There's something of a fireworks display going on in my mind right now. No sooner do I register an "Oooh, ahhh" moment, than another memory flashes in to replace it.  I feel as if I look too closely at one image, I'll miss the next one ... and the next, and the next.  They're all bringing tears.

For now, all I can say for certain is this: my heart is full to bustin'. If God gives me one more blessing, even a tiny one, I will have to acknowledge, once and for all, that heaven is not someday. It is now.

Home

I'm leaving tonight for Orlando ... and then on Sunday, headed to D.C. ... and then on Monday, on to Ethiopia ... and then on Tuesday, Malawi.  I will be home on July 4.

Funny, as I typed "I will be home," I thought about what home means. For over 30 years, "home" has been Orlando. Although I miss my friends and my routines and my church and my comfort zone very much, now home means something entirely different to me. It's not yet Pasadena, for sure. Heck, I'm still looking for the right grocery store!

Home, I'm finding, is a place inside of myself. It's a present kind of peace. I find it with Matt, riding a bike, listening to birds, praying, eating mint chip ice cream, dozing off on the sofa, seeing a snail on the storm drain ...

I hope I find some home in Malawi. If not, I've got plenty to take with me.

(Matt will post here to let you know I arrived safely in Malawi. Back to California Dreamin' soon!)

Things I was thinking ...

Seems Matt and I can pack up our lives into 12 boxes. Talk about traveling light! Various thoughts as I unloaded them ...

Clever woman! Umbrellas!

Hello, Mr. Turtle Towels!

Really? Ski gloves?!

Wonder how much stuff I can cram above the dryer?

Hearth cricket!

Goodness, gracious, I have too many clothes ...

Ruh-roh ... no water bottles?

This apartment officially looks like a campground. 

Really? Knives?!

This afternoon, all 800 pounds of our personal belongings will arrive in a Suddath van. I am SO excited that our stuff is almost here! Matt and I very carefully chose what to pack for our trip, partly to keep within the relocation budget, and partly because we knew our apartment in Pasadena would be tiny. Some items were completely non-negotiable (anything with the word "bike" in front of it -- bike pump, bike bag, bike lock ... you get the idea), but other choices were less obvious. I distinctly recall wondering if I'd want a second set of measuring spoons (yes) or a third scarf (nah), or whether there would be room in the closet  for my hiking boots (mighty doubtful).

In the last seven days, the items that I've missed the most -- many, many times a day -- are our good knives. Slicing Matt's fruit for his breakfast or chopping up onions to make enchiladas is NOT a good time with dull knives, and for this clumsy chick, a serious safely hazard. I'll be saying a hearty welcome home to my garlic press, too. And just wait until my super cute Animal Crackers mugs hold our coffee tomorrow morning. I practically have goosebumps just thinking about it.

Isn't it funny how attached we humans get to our stuff? Just before we moved, Matt and I had to consolidate two houses into one, and then decide which of our belongings were so essential that we could not do without them for a year. Turns out, I care deeply for the framed photographs of my family members and friends. And my sheep slippers. But my overstock of costume jewelry? Eh, not so much.

Now, got to go find more inches in that closet before the van gets here ...

Three Karens and a Dora

I was tootling around on the City of Pasadena's web site yesterday (Matthew wanted to know what concerts were scheduled at Memorial Park). While I didn't find my man any concerts, I DID find a literature discussion group at the Lamanda Branch Public Library scheduled for 11:00 today. To-DAY! Sorry Mr. Matt ...

So off I went, mostly unsure what to expect. I admit, my motivation was one-part: talk to someone other than the cashier at Target, and two-parts: find a contact that might lead to a job. Not only did I succeed in both goals, but I had a really nice time to boot.

I didn't know what book would be discussed, but I knew the odds were good I'd already read it (correct -- The Book Thief). Given the time of the meeting, I also thought perhaps the attendees might be retirees and young mothers (99% correct -- 12 retirees and one young mother). And I also hoped that people who discuss literature for fun might have some connection to education and teaching (correct -- one retired principal, one retired teacher, and one teacher's mama).

The meeting was just plain old fun. The group is 100 pages into the novel, which is a fantastically clever, highly readable work about a young girl in Nazi Germany. Although the setting is not new, Death as a sarcastic-yet-kind narrator is wholly original. The members' insights were super interesting and covered a wide range of issues I had not thought of in connection with this novel. Some seriously try to address literary issues; others don't give a crap. The second group was more fun.

Everyone was crazy nice to the new lady. They sought my opinion and warmly invited me out for coffee at Ralph's for the meeting after the meeting. Really great bunch of folks. While I'm in Africa, I'll miss all three Karens, Dora, Kathy, Jim, Joan, Paul, Mr. I-Don't-Have-A-Name-Card, the young mother who came late, Dennis, and the extremely sassy (and therefore terribly admirable) leader Fred.

Their advice about getting a teaching job was not encouraging ("You might find some substitute work in a wealthy school district ..."), but I had a fantastic time anyway.

One of the Karens almost backed into me in the parking lot. We waved. We smiled.

And we'll be reading The Book Thief ...