something far away

The second time I visited Singapore, in 2006, I flew alone the twentysomething hours to meet with my husband who had been there for a week already, working. I had plans for our time together - botanical gardens, night art festival, tour of Christmas lights, visiting an old Catholic convent and Snow City, lots of eating & drinking & taking probiotics. We did all of those things, and they were wonderfully memorable (partly because of how much we sweated through every outing). But like with most vacations, the mundane can become the sublime, too, if you're paying attention. 

I wanted to wash some clothes during our stay and after an hour-long adventure in miscommunications with the hotel staff - plus one confusing trip to a restricted area - I realized there was actually no place in the building where I was allowed to do it on my own, and the hotel service would cost somewhere in the realm of the US national debt. So Stu & I took a cab with our two bags of sweat-soaked garments to the mall and handed them to the old woman at Washy Washy, an even hotter place than the sidewalk outside, where the only area not taken over by clothing was our space at the counter. It felt a little scary considering I had only the outfit I was wearing and maybe one more left in my suitcase at the hotel, but my husband had had good luck here the week before. The old woman smiled & nodded at Stu like they were old friends as she grabbed our bags, pulled at a few items on top, then tossed them to a corner full of other bags, shouting in less-smiley Chinese to a worker.  We had to prepay our 22SGD, which was so significantly cheaper than the hotel rate that I once more doubted I'd see my clothes again. 

We had lunch at the Hard Rock Café (because, Americans) then shopped along the main road. I considered replacing all of the clothing I'd just handed over to Washy Washy but settled on just one Esprit shirt and a cute long denim skirt that ended up being very difficult to walk in. 

I'm pretty sure I slept fitfully that night, worrying about whether I'd get my clothes back, if they'd be wearable (I had a feeling no one was looking at labels about dryer heat recommendations), if I would have to spend my teacher pay on a new wardrobe. But when we returned to the launderer, the old woman smiled & nodded in recognition and went right to our bags. Everything inside was clean and folded with care, nothing was missing or misshapen or shrunken; in my relief, I left an embarrassing tip. 

I tried many times to toss out the receipt for our laundry but something kept it in my wallet. Every time I saw it, I remembered how much I loved Singapore (despite the breathtaking heat) and I felt accomplished somehow. I felt like an adventurer, finding a way to get something done without taking the easier, expensive, tourist way. I realized later no one at Washy Washy had spoken English, yet we did great business together. 

I hope I can go back someday. 

reigning supreme: a very special rerun

Once upon a time, I wrote regularly and people liked me. THEY REALLY LIKED ME.

Today's prompt is about how I would run the world if I were in charge. Interestingly (because I am was am genius), I wrote something like this after my whirlwind 40th birthday trip to London, Paris, and Amsterdam. In case you missed it, or desperately want to reread it, here is the link again. I know, a little extra work on your part but I appreciate the effort.

Carry on.

bitten

I finally got to go to New York City, and it was better than I expected. I realize that might sound crazy to some because why wouldn't I expect NYC to be anything but amazing? But I am the kind of nut who is wary of hype & awe: I wouldn't watch Survivor until the second season; I didn't start reading Harry Potter until the 5th book was released; I still haven't seen The Avengers. I think it's a control freak thing - I'll do things when I choose, not when the mindless masses flock like sheep to them. Also maybe an elitist snob thing, too. Anyway.

When I applied to volunteer at BlogHer this year in New York I figured if the conference didn't rock my world, I could 'fall back' on tourism. Conversely, if I felt too overwhelmed to even begin sightseeing, the magnificence of workshops, swag, and guest speakers would make up for it. Yeah. It sounds dumb to me, too, now.

I was nervous about visiting the Big Apple. The City that Never Sleeps. The Empire City. City So Nice They Named It Twice. Gotham. Mainly because I was afraid I would call it one of these weird nicknames out loud and be instantly labeled a lame tourist [my Pacific Northwest non-accent and supersuburban hairdo and lack of dramatic makeup would not give me away, of course]. More honestly, my need-to-be-right-the-first-time mania caused me to worry about getting lost, wearing unfashionable outfits, getting lost, not knowing which Very Famous Landmark I'm looking at without consulting a guidebook, being randomly swindled in some way. And getting lost. So I mapped out my conference schedule and told myself "If I have time, I'll wander around." Three marginally useful sessions, one volunteer shift, and 9 hours later I hit the streets of ... Hymie Town? What? No.

In two & a half days and three nights, I :
Perused the gift shop and gazed longingly into the foyer of MoMa, sat at the Time-Life fountain across from Radio City Music hall amongst lunching real-life New Yorkers, stepped into the Ferrari store (to get a photo for my man + breathe delicious 60 degree air for a minute), ate a street vendor's delectable mustard-soaked hot dog in the shade of Park Tower, peeked through the closed doors of Carnegie Hall, enjoyed an early birthday dinner at Russian Tea Room, strolled around the Empire State Building at midnight.
and
Watched a traffic cop at work on 42nd Street, marveled at every.single.inch of the NY Public Library (except the room housing works of "Shelley and his circle" which I desperately wanted to see but was gently turned away from by the adorable monitor because people were actually doing research inside; what.ever), considered eating at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central but decided instead on Junior's [and the integrity of my children's college accounts], rode the subway after being kindly shown the right way to swipe my Metro card, walked an obscene distance in the wrong shoes, smelled Central Park Zoo, cabbed to the Met because I grossly misjudged its distance from the south end of the park, almost threw a punch at the first (and only) rude resident who I hope will soon be fired from her fantastic museum job for being a sassy-faced bitch, raced through Egypt, the Medieval room, & Contemporary Art, cabbed back to our hotel where I submerged my blistered feet in icy bath water while devouring Junior's cheesecake, trekked to Studio 54 to see Harvey, got scolded for taking a photo in the 'copywritten' theater, paid $13 for a 2-shot vodka/cranberry served in a sippy cup, strolled down Broadway, inhaled a late dinner at Sardi's amongst caricatured celebrities, wandered through Times Square where it appears to be daylight at all hours & people behave as though life is a constant cabaret.
and
Walked against running & cycling traffic through most of Central Park West, watched a few hits in a morning softball game where New Yawk accents were flying with the pitches, perused heartwarming & wrenching memorial benchplates, bought John Lennon pins from a park vendor & cried my eyes out from The Dakota past the Imagine mosaic, took dozens of photos of tangible serenity, listened to gospel singers and a tin pan alley trio, imagined Holden Caulfield, took the E line to World Trade Center, nearly melted from the sun-drenched line and unmanageable emotions, composed myself during a 9/11 survivor's stunningly beautiful story, found a tasty Philly cheesesteak in the Essex World Cafe where victims of the attack sought refuge for weeks, impulsively jumped off the subway to wander around Penn Station seeking the spirit of Holden again (not realizing until too late his version was demolished 45 years ago), discovered a lovely tribute to New Jersey poets in the train service hallway, got on the wrong subway in attempt to head back uptown but realized before we got to Queens, cabbed four blocks to our luggage, headed to JFK early enough to enjoy a leisurely dinner & series of chats with delightful waiter Duane before waiting 4 extra hours to take off due to lightning.

But it was all okay,
because I truly heart New York.

Want photos? Go here.

71/365 "recreation"

August trip-planning
Big Apple with bff
Getting obsessive

reboot

Once upon a time, I went to BlogHer.

It was a great trip though not exactly what I was looking for (I don't think I really knew what I was looking for). Now that I am older wiser over 40 and have been offered a BlogHership to attend the NYC conference as a volunteer this year, I have a feeling things will be different.

I could talk about all the ways I have changed as a person and a writer, how my expectations are different & my hopes aren't set high in the Popular Blogger sky, that I'm looking forward to the workshops on Technology in order to gain some knowledge I can use in teaching. But really? Free registration, a cheap flight with credit card points, a hotel room I can split at least 3 ways, and an August weekend in the heart of New effing York City.

Blissed out.

So, look for me to post more frequently so people might know who the hell I am this summer.

ambassadors

It is unfair to judge a nation solely on the people it allows abroad, but everyone unwittingly (I hope it's unwitting) does this. Think of the Asian Traveler as represented in every lame movie - carrying a camera, smiling & bowing, eating only noodles. David Sedaris observed American tourists' tendency to "visit another country dressed as if you've come to mow its lawns." Stereotypes exist because somewhere, someone has behaved that way; essentially prejudging people helps us to be prepared for an interaction. For example, when I braced myself for Parisians to despise me, I was surprised and relieved by their acceptance and immediately decided I could live there.

I have been concerned that, as generally congenial as the British tend to be, our family will be viewed as the Griswolds on their European vacation; I restrain myself from walking ahead and announcing WE ARE NOT STUPID AMERICANS wherever we go but that would obviously be counterproductive. I step out of our group to see us as Londoners might, if they slowed down long enough to actually look at us. I don't think we look like we've come to mow their lawns, mainly because I oversaw all packing of clothing. My boy, with his preteen slouch & scowl and the tendency to stroll 50 paces behind us rolling his eyes, probably resembles most 12-year old boys in the UK but then ruins the effect when he starts talking [loudly] in generalizations about how Everyone Here does This or No One Here knows That. Paige has a funky Andie-from Pretty in Pink thrift store style going on so, aside from her occasional panics about one of our party being missing from the group, blends the best. And as much as I like to imagine Stu & I looking sweet and sophisticated like Ben Affleck & Jennifer Garner on holiday with their charming children, I'm pretty sure we come off as benignly beleaguered characters from Desperate Housewives.

Regardless, we quickly schooled the kids on staying to the left when walking & to the right when standing on an escalator, plus implore them to try appreciating art & architecture and refrain from shouting references to Harry Potter wherever we go.

Instead we whisper them, giddily.

Cheers.

of vegas and bunions

In the past ten days, I have lived two wildly different lives. 

Jetsetter

Stu & I stayed here, in a junior suite (our first regular-people room smelled strongly of smoke, and because I did not do a Lindsay-style rant when I brought it to their attention we were rewarded). I took this picture from ghostbar, where supposedly fabulous people hang out inside for $400 per table. We hung out outside for free, standing.

Before heading up to this hot spot, we joined friends for dinner at N9ne downstairs. With our cocktails, onion ring appetizer, and Mediterranean salad & Oscar filet mignon entrees, the bill was something along the lines of a portion of our children's college savings so far. But that is how we gamble - on food, which turned out sublime; I find that far more satisfying than dropping cash into slot machines or onto card tables where I am only guaranteed a watered-down drink and visions of life in a cramped apartment with Nicolas Cage.

Later we went to Rain where, as you can see, NO DRUGS OR NUDITY were allowed. Just in case we forgot. Our common sense.

I stood in line while Stu ran up to our room to drop off souvenirs from our evening at Crazy Horse Paris (which I have been wanting to see for years - we tried to get tickets in Singapore and when we were actually in Paris but no go. We shared our tiny stageside table with the darling groom-to-be Dirk and his friend Dustin from Boise, who I believe were impressed that people as old and married as we could be funny and even kind of interesting). During my brief-but-felt-like-eternal wait on the Rain line, I met the implausibly named [and coiffed] Demarius. He began our interaction with "That is a very unique tattoo" breathed on my neck in his Antonio Banderas accent. I managed to maintain a respectable conversation despite such diversions as "I am sure your students have crushes on you" and "You are a very hot mom" and the capper, "So...You do not so much party as you just have a cocktail or some wine?" After five hours of my dodging innuendo, Stu reappeared and jokingly asked Demarius if I was bothering him. Then we escaped into the mania of the nightclub. It was 2 a.m.

Bubbles were the most innocuous part of the entertainment. There were flames above our heads, bungee acrobats and a suspended ribbon dancer, go-go waifs gyrating on platforms, and performance artists sending sparks over the dance floor by grinding on each other's metal outfits. Like with an actual grinding tool.

Couchsitter

Last week, I had my second bunion removed and have been spending most of my hot mom life sleeping or perusing trashy magazines. Like the first time, surgery went fine despite my high anxiety, and recovery is going alright despite my OCD. Luckily I have a husband & friends who understand my insane way of asking for help, which is to not ask, and just do stuff for me. Even the crazy stuff, like helping me into regular clothes though it doesn't make sense at 7 p.m., or setting up my vast reading station though I'm just going to fall asleep within five minutes of sitting down.

To shake things up Vegas-style, I did have some exciting drama Thursday when I passed out in the morning and threw up twice, prompting a 6-hour ER stay to determine the cause. But alas, the SW Washington ER is not nearly as thrilling as the George Clooney TV version; no one there looked remotely like precious Carter, nobody rushed in bleeding or cursing or shooting up the place, not a bit of dramatic music played during any of my myriad tests. However, on the positive side, I was not diagnosed with a rare & mysterious illness - just plain old low blood sugar/low blood pressure + stupidity on my part. 

Though I am not [yet] back to drinking raspberry lemon drops by the gallon or dancing under fire until 3 a.m., I have brazenly worn my tight Merlotte's t-shirt to Blockbuster and chatted extensively with my secret boyfriend. WILD.

I know.

hit it

Whidbey Island, 2009
photo by me

where are you going?

make a move - forward is best

enjoy the journey

released

Outside Harrod's, London

photo by me, 2008

Wordless Wednesday

the indignity

Rembrandtplein, Amsterdam

photo by me, 2008

Ich bin ein Wordless Wednesday-er

P.S. I know I just used German and people in Amsterdam speak Dutch, which is different than German. It fits with the 'indignity' title. And now I've gone and become wordy. Sigh.

eye spy

London, summer 2008

photo by me

Look, up in the cybersky!
It's...It's...Wordless Wednesday

seriously, no soliciting

A charming door in Amsterdam

photo by Johnnnnny Stu, 2008

Knock, knock. Who's there?
Wordless Wednesday.

mon dieu

Hand-drawn on a Metro station wall, Paris

photo by moi, 2008

J'aime Wordless Mercredi

vantage point

Aboard the Cathlamet ferry

photo by intrepid me, 2009

Smooth sailing at Wordless Wednesday

away

Highway 20 south on my island

Boarding the ferry

Neighbors



Just in case...?

This is where I'll head in an emergency

Passing by

Back down
[Side note: If ever you want to witness OCD nuttiness in action, watch me on the ferry - I get out of the car as fast as I can, wander around in a state of glee mixed with agitation for 20 minutes then anxiously hurry back to my car where I sit for 10 minutes before actually having to leave]

Land, ho

Into Seattle

My baby takes the ... afternoon ... train

So good to see you again

Dragons on lampposts, it's what Seattle does

Chinatown meets King Street Station

Starbucks is watching you

Shipyards & Space Needle

Taking some end-of-Spring-Break hours to ourselves while the kids overdose on grandparent time (and TV). Back tomorrow with scenes from our life with other grown-ups.

say fromage

Me & Mona Lisa
at the Louvre, summer 2008

Wordless Wednesday, no fooling

delicious

Amsterdam

photo by me, 2008

looking forward and back

Century Park, Shanghai

photo by me, 2005

Wordless Wednesday world views

brightness within

Parson's house, Tower of London

photo by me, 2008

Wordless Wednesday

thinking hard

What you get for a post when I have exhausted my brain during the week:

Men playing chess at Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris

photo by Stu (#shot 457*), 2008

*Seriously, he spent about 15 minutes of our European vacation stalking these dudes for the perfect lighting, angle, background, texture...I thought they might come over and tell us to cassez-vous, but the game was apparently that intense; they didn't seem to notice. Lucky; I think Pink Shirt could have taken both of us.