Thursday, January 28, 2010
Serendipity
P.S. Apparently the word serendipity was recently listed by a U.K. translation company as one of the English language's 10 most difficult words to translate. Other words to make their list include several more favorite words of mine: gobbledegook, poppycock, whimsy, spam, and kitsch.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Role Models
Last night, our about-to-turn-80 Jewish friend Albert and his just-turned-50 Baptist bride Rhonda surprised us with the news that they're putting all their stuff in storage and leaving San Miguel for a year of travel. California, New Zealand, Australia, Bali, Indonesia and Southeast Asia.
Plan A had been to work full-time for a couple of years -- here or in the States -- to amass enough money for a Grande Tour of the world. Upon further reflection, and a sober assessment of health, age and money issues, they decided, "To hell with the luxury approach. If we travel on the cheap, we can skip the two years of hard work and follow our dreams right now." (Did I mention that Rhonda is an incredibly thorough and resourceful travel/event planner?) They've chosen places they love and/or know people. They'll visit each locale during its most desirable season. And they'll stay in each place for at least a month in order to make new friends and savor the local culture. An excellent Plan B as there ever was.
They'll travel light but enriched. They're buying a couple of Kindles and loading them up with reading material. They'll bring all their favorite music on iPods. And God love 'em, they're packing their copy of Kama Sutra 365, to ensure that no matter where they are, each day of their year-long trip will contain a new marital adventure. Rhonda, who's developed a passion for Yiddish, summed it up this way, "We're going to shtup our way around the world!"
As Karen and I this year each celebrate our 60th birthday, Albert & Rhonda have given us, by their example, an invaluable gift that will inspire, challenge and encourage us for years to come. Rock on, amigos, and thanks!
Great New Word for a Hopeful New Decade
My heart was gladdened by an official-looking sign in the Milwaukee airport, just beyond the TSA checkpoint, hanging over where you put your shoes and coat back on and stuff your laptop back in the case: The sign said, "Recombobulation Area."
As a recovering wordsmith, my heart was gladdened too.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Four Faces of San Miguel
The next morning, we awoke at six to walk the first 5 miles of a planned 9-day pilgrimage hundreds of devout Catholics engage in each January. The pilgrimage apparently celebrates the miraculous healing of a young virgin by a straw doll several centuries ago. (Or something like that.) We, and our Gringo compatriots, were participating as part of a fund-raising effort to help victims of domestic violence. Anyway, we met in the town square before dawn, fortified ourselves with coffee and beignets at our favorite New Orleans-style bar, and joined the procession of backpack-wearing, icon toting families of all ages; marching bands; indigenous dance troupes; and chanting abuelas with bullhorns. As we proceeded out of town, the streets were lined with well-wishers, offering free cups of atole (a hot corn-based beverage), bolillos (hard rolls), bottled water and tamales. It felt like a surreal reinterpretation of the peace marches we attended in the 60's. Along the way, we were passed by a fleet of large trucks toting the pilgrims' gear to their first overnight stop, most likely a church somewhere out in the countryside. As we walked back toward town, the pilgrims we passed typically gave us a "what the hell are you two doing out here on this cow path?" look, followed by a shy (if they were really poor) or cheery (if they were more middle class) "buenos dias!"
Later that afternoon, after a hot shower and an al fresco lunch with friends out in the country, we headed to a small, candle-lit Episcopal church, where, amid a standing room only crowd of mostly older folks, and seated inches from the harpsichord player, we were pretty much mesmerized by a 13-piece chamber group performing Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
We then ended up the weekend by walking over to our friend Roger's intimate little wings 'n beer place to watch the second half of the NFL Championship game, where we let our expat hair down, yelling expletives at the refs and throwing peanut shells on the floor.
What's San Miguel de Allende really like? And how to manage to keep busy? Y'all can draw your own conclusions.
Classic San Miguel Quote
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Martin Luther King
The nation remembers Martin Luther King on Monday, so let's take a look at three poems that highlight different aspects of the civil rights movement.
"I, Too, Sing America" by Langston Hughes--simple, direct, but emotionally powerful--is one of my favorite poems. It confronts the extreme race-based inequality that used to be the norm in America, and dramatizes Hughes' determination to overcome it. It's remarkable (at least for someone my age) to think that he wrote this just over 50 years ago.
I, Too, Sing America
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
Contrast Hughes' quiet but challenging tone with the anger and violence in Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "Riot" below. So called "race riots" weren't uncommon in the late 60s, and a particularly ugly one (sadly) took place in Chicago in reaction to Dr. King's assassination. Brooks' blunt and brutal poem brings a riot to life, and focuses on a fictitious victim--a man named John Cabot--whom Brooks paints in a very unsympathetic light. Even though Cabot is ostensibly killed in the poem, one could argue that Brooks doesn't want us to see him as a victim at all.
Riot
A riot is the language of the unheard.
--Martin Luther King
John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe,
all whitebluerose below his golden hair,
wrapped richly in right linen and right wool,
almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff;
almost forgot Grandtully (which is The
Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost
forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray
and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim's,
the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.
Because the Negroes were coming down the street.
Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty
(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka)
and they were coming toward him in rough ranks.
In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud.
And not detainable. And not discreet.
Gross. Gross. "Que tu es grossier!" John Cabot
itched instantly beneath the nourished white
that told his story of glory to the World.
"Don't let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!" he whispered
to any handy angel in the sky.
But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove
and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath
the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili,
malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old
averted doubt jerked forward decently,
cried, "Cabot! John! You are a desperate man,
and the desperate die expensively today."
John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire
and broken glass and blood, and he cried "Lord!
Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do."
It's easy to imagine why some critics accused Brooks of celebrating violence here, though the poem is more complex than that. And notice how Brooks employs an epigraph from Dr. King: she uses a quote from a man committed to non-violence in a way that seems to justify violence. Don't blame the rioters too much for harming Cabot, the epigraph implies, they were "unheard" and needed a way to speak.
While "Riot" mined the anger underlying the civil rights movement and the violence that sprung up from it, Nikki Giovanni's "A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy" meditates on the grief born from the movement's losses. Bobby Kennedy was, of course, a key figure in the movement, and Giovanni probably had Dr. King--assassinated just two months before--in mind as well.
A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy
Trees are never felled . . . in summer . . . Not when the fruit . . .
is yet to be borne . . . Never before the promise . . . is fulfilled . . .
Not when their cooling shade . . . has yet to comfort . . .
Yet there are those . . . unheeding of nature . . . indifferent to
ecology . . . ignorant of need . . . who . . . with ax and sharpened
saw . . . would . . . in boots . . . step forth damaging . . .
Not the tree . . . for it falls . . . But those who would . . . in
summer's heat . . . or winter's cold . . . contemplate . . . the
beauty . . .
Friday, January 08, 2010
From a Recovering Copywriter
Rudnick said: "As a writer, I need an enormous amount of time alone. Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials. It's a matter of doing everything you can to avoid writing, until it is about four in the morning and you reach the point where you have to write. Having anybody watching that or attempting to share it with me would be grisly."
Who Knew? Once Again
I read on a recent The Writer's Almanac post that on this particular day in 2003 Marja Sergina, the last known speaker of the Akkala Sami language, died. Akkala Sami was spoken in villages on
But here's the thing I found most astounding: There are more than 6,000 languages spoken in the world, and on average, one goes extinct about every two weeks. Researchers estimate that from 50 to 90 percent of those languages will be extinct in 100 years.
And my brain cramps just trying to learn two languages!!
A Tale of Two Countries
Fast forward several weeks. I carefully extracted the lenses -- expensive progressives that turn dark in the sun -- and took them with me to California where I figured I could find a new frame for them... and see happily ever after. At Lenscrafters, where I expected a large selection and lower prices, the clerk claimed it was impossible to match old lenses to new frames. Her advice: I'd have to start from scratch if I wanted new glasses. Then she looked me up and down and asked, "Doesn't your insurance cover new glasses?" [Huh?????]
Thinking perhaps a big optical chain just isn't set up to handle special requests or do custom work, we went to a nearby optical boutique, where we expected higher prices, but a better selection of fashion frames. [Woo-hoo!!] After explaining my dilemma to the clerk, she brought out "the man in the white coat" to help me. His helpful advice: forget it; no can do. No frame other than the original would fit them exactly and trying to modify the lenses would destroy them. In fact, he further explained that in California it's against the law! to re-frame lenses. One MUST have an eye exam and a brand new prescription in order to buy glasses... no matter how good you think your old prescription is. At this point, my new-found Mexican tranquilo self transformed into my old red-faced, expletive-spouting self and we stormed out into the Mall.
Fast forward another six weeks. I'm back home in San Miguel. I take the same set of lenses to a local optical place and tell my same sad story. The clerk takes my name, takes my lenses and tells me she'll see what she can do. A couple days later I get a call from her "man in the white coat" who tells me to stop by, he thinks he's found something that might work for me. I come by, try on the frames he suggested and like them. He explains that he'll have to shave a little bit off the sides of my old lenses to make them fit perfectly, but that he can have the thing done in five days. Total cost: $1,000 pesos (about $75usd).
I LOVE this place!
Turning 60
"Everybody looks good at the starting line."
I'll admit it. At this juncture, I'm obviously sensitized to older guy stuff that appears on my cultural radar screen. But in the past month, I've seen three very different, but very excellent films exploring the relationship of an older guy with a younger woman. (No, I'm not having a tawdry mid-life affair.) Anyway, I'd recommend them all... if you haven't seen them already.
Venus, with Peter O'Toole
10 Items or Less, a cute independent film starring Morgan Freeman
Up In The Air, with George Clooney
So I'm now 60. As I approached this chronological milestone, I expected a little angst, trauma, depression, whatever. But here I am. I feel great. I feel happy. l feel incredibly blessed and grateful to be me. Onward!! Bring on the new decade. Let's party!
English Major
When I told him I had a major in English, he said, too bad for you this is America & he started me out at the bottom.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The Kitchen
When we were back in California for Thanksgiving, Karen's brother and sister-in-law treated us to a special dinner out as their Christmas gift to us. Dinner out in Sacramento. "Sacramento," I thought to myself. "Hmmmm..." They explained it would be a 4-course, prix fixe tasting menu at a place called The Kitchen. Foodie that I pretend to be, I've been lucky enough to enjoy a lot of memorable tasting menus over the years, prepared by the likes of Charlie Trotter, Thomas Keller and Paul Prudhomme. But I'll tell you straight out, the evening we spent at The Kitchen was perhaps the most enjoyable restaurant experience I've ever had. They have one seating per night -- 50 guests only. You arrive at 6:30 to a welcome glass (or two or three) of champagne, are shown to your table, but invited to wander around... anywhere, anytime. I spent half the evening eating and half the evening in the kitchen, watching the kitchen staff work and chatting with chefs.
The focal point of the room is a large semi-circular bar that surrounds a demonstration kitchen space where the Chef de Cuisine Noah Zonca cooks and acts Master of Ceremonies. He laid the groundwork for the evening with a monologue that would make Jay Leno smile. As you'd expect, he provided a lively overview of the dishes we'd be eating, but made it abundantly clear that we were all there to relax and have fun. He said it was our evening; we were in charge. If we had dietary restrictions or didn't care for something on the menu, let our server know, they'd change it. He took a special little dig at vegetarians. "We might make fun of you, but we'll cook whatever you want." He told jokes. He introduced his staff... with obvious pride but a lot of humor. No Temple of Gastronomy here.
They offered paired wines, too, either a full glass with each course or a half glass (if couples preferred to "share.") And amazingly, Chef invited us to ask for seconds if we wanted them! (We didn't, but when I asked him about an obscure, Italian cheese he used in one course, he came by our table later in the evening with a container of it for all of us to see and sample.)
After the first two courses, they had an intermission of sorts, inviting us out to a back patio (where a wood fire was blazing) to enjoy trays of fresh sushi, sashimi & tempura... along with a glass of sake (priced extra), if we wished. Then we returned to the dining room for the "entree" courses and dessert. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we took photos, and wandered around talking with other diners... for about five hours. And left, filled with a lot of good food yes, but also filled with some seriously fine memories. Let me publicly say it: Thanks Dale & Bonnie. You the best!
Sure, experience Charlie Trotter and Thomas Keller if you get the chance. But if you're gonna be in Northern California, put The Kitchen on your list of "must try" restaurants.
