Just Five: Redux

Last week I issued a challenge for you based on Stephanie Klein's recent post to come up with five characteristics that describe me. I gave you my five about myself: critical, sensitive, smart, impatient, honest.

Then, Ed and I hit the road for Easter in New Jersey and somewhere outside Hartford, Connecticut, I asked him if he wanted to play. We'd been rushing around and past each other all week between school and work, pausing only to say hello but not long enough for me to feel like we were us again. It's a symptom of law school and grad school that we're mostly adept at handling, but I'd be lying if I said that I never miss all the time we used to have together. So this game was something of a ruse, a way to get us back into the same universe and in sync again. Car trips are good for this, and this game was the golden ticket.

He surprised me by being really into it, shifting gears easily from stressing about term papers to keying in to what he really knows about me. It turns out that he seems to have a clearer image of me than I have of myself, and while this may not be terribly surprising considering he's on the outside looking in, it was a welcome reminder that he sees so much in me.

His words for me were: emotional, idealistic, extroverted, introspective and willful. Frankly, I like his list about me better than my own. Maybe it's because they're more kind or positive, but mostly I just think they're more accurate. He also listed five for himself (analytical, obsessive, introverted, pragmatic and open-minded), and I returned them in kind (even-keeled, intelligent, layered, supportive and timid). The caveat to our game was that we got to explain our choices, and this was my favorite part. It's hard to find exactly the right word, and it's harder to stick to just five.

Later that weekend, I challenged my mom to make her own list and follow up on her list about me. She says I am kind, idealistic, witty, outdoorsy and an activist. About herself, she says sensitive, honest, critical, friendly and funny. Coming up with words about her was the hardest part for me. She's my mom, and though I fancy myself some kind of adult, I think it might take a lifetime to finally see our parents for who they really are. It's an intricate relationship between mothers and daughters, impossible almost to separate one from the other and find two distinct beings. The point, maybe, is that we're linked more closely--biologically, even--than any two other beings on the planet. I wonder what my brother would say. So after hemming and hawing and trying to be accurate, I decided on five about my mom. I said determined, independent, energetic, private and an entertainer. I'm not settled on them; I think they still need work. But maybe that's what a lifetime is for.

We roped my dad into the ring and he, wordsmith that he is, rattled off five about my mom in seconds. I was curious to know what he'd say, interested in whether my perception of his view of her would be accurate or not. It's another complicated thing to see as the child, seeing perhaps more of their relationship than most people but probably knowing next to nothing about how they really relate. His words about her surprised me in a good way, and he said she is insightful, sociable, caring, creative and energetic. I think he sees her well; more clearly than I do, and maybe even more than she sees herself.

Later that weekend, Ed and I were mingling with his extended family and talking with his aunt. Whenever we visit, I always think she is incredibly fashionable; her hair and clothing always chic and modern, making me feel like a country mouse in comparison. Strangely, as we were saying goodbye she commented that I always looks so nice and am always so well put together, making her feel like a scattered mess in comparison. I was taken aback enough not to know how to respond. I stumbled through an ungracious thank-you as the wheels in my head started spinning. "Really?" I thought. "She thinks I am well put together?!"

It was nothing, really; just a simple comment. But it struck me as significant in light of these lists I'd been making. If the universe was trying to teach me something last week, it was to know that how other people see me is very often not how I see myself. It was a reminder to be kind to myself, and kinder to others, and it was a throwback to a quote from Anne Lamott I'd read earlier in the week which pretty much sums up everything I've ever needed to learn: Don't compare your insides to anyone else's outsides.

Now, if only reading it and knowing it were exactly the same thing.

Mockery

Yesterday I went to the dentist and received my first silver filling; the tooth was one of those way-back ones and the doc said silver would hold up better over time than one of those new-fangled enamel-colored fillings. This new addition to my mouth is something of a rite of passage for me; I feel like it means I'm getting old and starting to decay, but I'm probably overreacting.

Today, while running errands, I set off every metal detector and security device coming and going. Storekeepers searched my bag, shrugged their shoulders and sent me on my way.

Do you ever just get the feeling that the universe is mocking you?

Seattle: Day 3

Day three in Seattle and we wake to a slate sky and rain, finally. Seattle weather lives up to its reputation, and just in time for our time in the sleepless city to just about run out. We dress and eat the world's sweetest and most delicious grapefruit, then head out the door with collars pulled and rain drops splashing down.

We revisit Vivace, regulars now, and make friends with the barista over the welcome break we're having from all that sun. We wander down Broadway and hit a few more thrift stores before turning toward town and heading for Pike's Place again. We forgo our original idea of breakfast at the market and call it lunch an hour early. Ed breathes in the fragrant steam of a Sicilian sausage while I make good on a promise to myself to eat Seattle seafood before I go. A fresh haddock sandwich wrapped in foil warms my hands and my belly, and as we sit a couple of tourists approach us. "Are you from here?" they ask. They're looking for the stall with the best chowder, they say, and we smile wryly and apologize. "We're from away," we say, and they shrug with halfway smiles and continue on. We finish eating, wipe our hands on jeans dirty with city grit and find our way to the right pier to catch the ferry to Bainbridge Island.

Finally, I am close enough to the water to really feel it, the salty air and the breeze that's just colder and damper than on dry land. I wanted to feel it before we left; I didn't come all the way West not to get a dose of the Pacific, even if this is just the Puget Sound. The thick green line of trees that edges the island grows gradually closer, then greets us where we disembark. We find a lazy coffee & tea shop and lean into an oversized booth with steaming cups and heavy eyes. I scan the sky through the huge clear window, the clouds flattening evertything and stealing shadows from my view. My head falls back against the smooth wood of the booth and I am tired. Looking at Ed across from me, he looks how I feel and we sigh and smile, half asleep behind our eyes.

Bainbridge is startingly quaint and in stark contrast to the bustle of Seattle, and I feel like we're back East in Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard except it's winter, and the beaches are closed. With not much within walking distance of the docks, we snap a few photos in the harbor of sleepy boats and return to the ferry just as the captain calls. The wind on the water has turned fierce as the city skyline sinks behind steady rain and a layer of fog, nestling around the coast. We sit watching the drops race down the boat windows and I decide that this the way to travel. I am envious of those who commute this way and think how much different and more bearable life in the city would be with a boat ride on either end of my nine-to-five.

We hit land and wander back through the market where we'll meet Karl for coffee and tea, always more coffee and tea, and say our goodbyes. We'll board a plane in a few hours, and with friends like Karl it's not a sure thing we'll ever see him again. The stall keepers are brushing water from their shelves and the market is damp and cold. Tourists gather as the fish flingers of Pike Place Fish Co. are putting on a show. They're tossing giant, gilled creatures from one to the next, making ladies gasp and men chuckle. I look on as my head fills with the sounds of a local musician singing in Spanish to an island rhythm on his guitar, blowing mournful notes through the harmonica at his lips. My senses meld and Seattle is awash with the rain and the swirling, vibrant well of life, blurred at the edges and running down the sidewalks, into the drains and back to the Sound where it began.

Karl arrives and makes a presence of himself as we find couches near the back at Local Color, our favorite downtown cafe because we've been here long enough now to have one. Karl makes acquaintances wherever he goes, gathering numbers and names and making obtuse plans that, when you're Karl, might actually pan out. We stay too long, finding places where we overlap and then barely saying goodbye, as is his custom. We gratefully catch a bus back to Capitol Hill and meet Janna and Dan at home.

Dan has us sample his latest home brew, a spicy red with subtle citrus tones that I can't quite place, but he's a mysterious recipe master and won't share his secrets. He regales us with stories of last night's hip hop show, the one he attended alone while we slept, where he bobbed his head wearing flannel in good company among Seattle's predominantly white hip hop crowd. He loves this, and he does it well; his odd hobbies fit him better than most.

We pack for the airport but load into the car and drive to Ballard instead, toward the best Mexican food we may ever have. La Carta de Oaxaca is buzzing, loud, bright, packed to the brim with cheerful, hungry, laughing people at long white shiny tables. We stand in a corner near the bar waiting for a table, and I watch the bartender's forearms as they tense and flex, shaking margaritas over ice ten times in three minutes. I am entranced, overwhelmed, maybe, by the sensory overload of everything around me, and beyond exhausted by three days of city life.

We are all weary, hungry and tired so when they seat us we are ready, and order immediately. Our dishes arrive in what feels like seconds, and we are scooping steaming rice and beans right into our hands and eating ravenously and somehow this seems perfectly fitting, as if doing it any other way would be absurd. We are scooping sauces with fingers, salsa of all colors slipping through and landing on the table, splashing, hanging on to the corners of our mouths as we talk and laugh at the same time. We eat molé, the best molé in the entire world, and tamales, enchiladas, quesadillas and guacamole, oh the guacamole, until the plates are left lying utterly defeated in a messy pile before us. I'm sure our eyes are glittering as we commend our friends for the excellent dinner recommendation. They had promised us amazing Mexican food, and Oaxaca had delivered perfection.

We're out the door where the streets seem remarkably quiet after the din of the restaurant, and we're off down the highway as it sinks in how much more I have left to do before I can really, truly rest. We're staring down the barrel of a red eye flight with baggage check, security, two airplanes, three time zones and a car trip between us and our glorious, glorious bed. Before I can blink we are kissing our friends goodbye, waving as they drive away and as quickly speeding down the runway and launching into the air. I sleep or half-sleep the way we do in public places, somewhere between dreaming and listening to the engines roar, all the way to Cleveland. I barely wake as we board for Manchester and suddenly the sun is rising and it has become tomorrow.

My body is confused as we touch down in New Hampshire, where winter is still here and a new day is happening all around us. But we're wearing yesterday's clothes, and I can still taste Oaxaca on my lips. I lose all sense of time and space as we collect our bags and our car and head north on familiar highways, toward home again.

Just Five

While I gather up my memories from Day Three in Seattle, check this out for a sec. Over at her blog, Stephanie Klein asks readers, "Which five words would you use to describe yourself? Answer. Then ask those closest to you to describe YOU using only five words, and do the same for them." The idea is to gain insight into the similarities and differences in how we see ourselves, and how everyone else sees us. So, here are my five. I'd love to know which five YOU'd pick for me, so leave them in the comments if you want to play and I'll hit you back with five for you.

My five: Critical, sensitive, smart, impatient, honest.

Unfair

I had to go to traffic court this morning to contest a ticket that, to be honest, I fully deserved. I was indeed driving faster than the speed limit, and the dude nabbed me, no question. I decided to contest it because it was the first time I'd ever, ever been pulled over in more than eight years of driving, and because what the hell? Why not? My penalty was hefty enough to make friends and family raise an eyebrow...more than $120 in fines and three, THREE! points on my license. So when I arrived this morning I didn't have much of a case, but I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

I was hoping that he wouldn't, but the cop showed up-- a total wiener of a guy, not more than 21 years old and clearly fresh out of training. An older cop, presumably his mentor, sat nearby and observed, arms crossed, exactly as he had when I was handed my ticket on the side of the road four months ago. My cop and I had to conference about our little incident and try to come to an agreement before standing before the judge. He asked me what I wanted, I told him, and he basically told me sorry, but he could only budge so far. He dropped my points by one and didn't pin me with court fees, and while I wasn't thrilled, I couldn't really complain.

But you know what's unfair? You know what really gets my knickers in a twist and makes me want to curse the entire legal system? You know what makes me gnash my teeth more than anything about this entire incident?

I'll tell you what. I got dressed up all fancy to go to court this morning, and my cop friend couldn't even do the world the decency of brushing his teeth. Dude had the worst morning breath, the most foul-smelling noxious fumes pouring from his face that as he leaned in close to whisper about the details of our "case," (and seriously? Everyone here knows I am here for speeding. We can talk in normal voices, thanks.) I nearly keeled over. It was enough to make me want to be agreeable to his bargain, and fast.

Seattle: Day 2

Somehow it is only day two in Seattle, but we are up with the morning and Janna eats breakfast while typing away on her laptop as we yawn our way into jeans and sweatshirts. The three of us hit a new coffee haven, Victrola this time, further up Capitol Hill. We sit in the window seat and examine local art hung on exposed brick walls and young urban professionals, telecommuting over lattes and casual business meetings. I drink spicy chai, the kind that sticks to your insides and coats your throat thick.

Janna is off to help her brother pack boxes to move, and Ed are I are on our own for the first time in the city. I breathe a sigh of relief, not because I don't love our friends and their company. But because when we're with everyone else, we're not really ourselves, not really at rest, and not really good at being together-together. We wait for the 49 bus toward University and I feel my brain unwind in coils. I am noticing out loud everything I see, and catching up on our near-constant banter of things we are doing and thinking and feeling as we're living them. It feels good to be just us again.

The bus makes us wait, but finally it comes and we wind through beautiful, hilly, flowering streets that peak over the Eastern edge of Seattle's big hill. I imagine as far east as I can, thinking of home in the far, far distance and seeing the Rockies, the plains and the Northeast corridor stretch out in between. We reach University, a district named for the U of Washington where young people overwhelm the streets and the local retail scene reflects it in kind. We catch a late brunch at the Greek place on the corner where I make the mistake of ordering the breakfast burrito. Did I really think the Greeks could do Mexican? But the guac is fresh enough and I am hungry, so I eat and we sit and I am glad.

The sidewalk greets us with another non-rainy day in Seattle, the second in a row if you're counting. We amble through spirited vintage clothing and costume shops, holding up the most gregarious and heinous items for each other to inspect. We also chance into some of the best thrift stores I've ever known, and luck out with designer shirts and jeans for pennies, just like Janna said we would. This place is an urban poseur's paradise where looking cool is simply the act of dropping a buck on someone else's washed up style. I think I could be fashionable this way, but then again, what does New Hampshire want with purple patent leather pumps? I decide against, and after another few deliciously cheap and stylish boutiques, we're on the bus again.

This time we're Ballard-bound, a neighborhood we'd heard somewhere along the way but once we arrive, we're not sure what for. There's little to see or do it seems, and only a few isolated quirky shops. We're the only ones on the street and the city is starting to feel far away on this side of the canal. With nothing else doing we turn to our trusty standby and order ice cream. Frozen yogurt, to be exact, and I want to be exact about this. This was the best fro-yo I've ever had, and the only that actually tastes like yogurt instead of some sad substitute for its richer, creamier cousin. I order mine Original style with blackberries, HUGE juicy berries that pop in my mouth and make me long for summer again.

We call it on Ballard and hit the bus stop again, headed over the bridge back to downtown where swankier boutiques call us in and spit us out offering only gorgeous goods and outrageous prices. We wander back to Pike's Place at the end of the work day where shops are closing for the night, though the day still seems bright in the sky. We leave the market and walk down toward a grassy park over the water where a movie set is in full action, make-up trailers and props scattered about on the closed-off frontage road. It takes more than a minute for us to piece together what's happening as we pick our way past cars that are being directed, airplane style, to maneuver around each other and line up just so. We mingle among other curious onlookers and don't notice until later that these are actually movie extras, standing here for a reason and not just nosy like us. At the foot of the block I notice a giant crane propped up on its two back tires and extending above the entire scene, a fire hose and sprinkler heads strung along it for, I soon realize, the purposes of making fake rain. You can't make a movie in Seattle without rain, we laugh to each other, and stand mystified at the elaborate ruse of it all. More outlandish to me, after staring at the same orange and red-leaved tree for more than five minutes it dawns on me that it is not autumn and that these leaves are fake, every single last one of them. I wonder how long it took some poor film underling to tie on all those leaves, and what will happen with them once this shot is done. A curious exercise in slight of hand, this movie business, and we walk away as the collection of extras extend umbrellas above their heads in preparation for the first take of action.

We scuttle away, snapping photos of the ferries coming and going and the clouds stacking up against distant mountains. The Olympics? We decide, then point our feet northeast toward the Space Needle for sunset. The elevator to the top is honestly a little thrilling, though it's not so tall nor terribly fast. I watch as the ground sinks briskly out from under us and soon we are perched above the city in a donut-shaped dome at the top of a toothpick. It doesn't feel like the Jetsons or even particularly space-age, but what can you do when other cities boast glass floors and over a hundred stories? We snap panoramics in sequence of the city in the round, then sit watching the clouds grow darker and the sky blink out as the city lights glitter on below. If the trip up was exhilarating the trip down is a total rush, our noses pressed to the glass and the ground flying fast as our stomachs drop and I'm sure we stagger dramatically from the elevator car as others look on in wonder. We have fun this way, don't we? We are silly, making tiny scenes that only we find hysterical anyway.

We mean to catch a bus home, we really do. But a few diagonal streets and two wrong turns later, we're trekking over the highway and through tunnels in woefully pedestrian-unfriendly parts of town. We stumble on Antioch Seattle where I stand on a street corner, by this time my feet aching, snapping photos to make the best of something. We untangle the map inside our heads and find the right cross street eventually, then wait, and wait, and wait for a bus that never comes. Janna and Dan hold dinner until they can't, and we decide finally to just start walking and hope a bus catches us somewhere along the way. The drivers on Denny must be on strike tonight, and twelve steep vertical blocks later we fall through the threshold of the glorious Roosevelt and my soul is crying and my back is broken and I vow to never, ever walk again.

Seattle: Day 1, Part II

(Read Part I)
We troop down the hill toward the water and Pike's Place Market, famed for fish-flinging and fruit stands--a tourists' and locals' paradise. The sun is bright off the water and with tulips and cherry trees blooming everywhere, my seasonal senses get entirely thrown. It is cold, 50 degrees maybe, but everything is screaming spring. It is windy and brisk, but it should be warmer to be this green. This is the trick of Seattle, of the temperate rainforest where it resides, and I'm not complaining, just scratching my head and tightening the scarf around my neck.

Pike's Place is alive with the buzz of freshness at every stand. The stench of fish is thick but is lifted by the sweetness of honey-scented blooms. The fruit, under yellow lights, glows and shines and just begs to be eaten. Janna leads us to her favorite stand where the vendor remembers her and urges us to try: samples of his ripest produce, plums, sugar peas and grapefruits, so we stand there eating with juice streaming down our fingers and the backs of our hands. We tell him of the roasted chicken stuffed with garlic and lemon we are planning for dinner, and he compliments our menu with the rarest purple asparagus, picked fresh, he says, from the only grower in the country. "The first of the season!" he beams. "Expensive, I admit, but worth it!" We fill a brown paper bag with the freshest treasures and wander down the row. We're on our way before I've had a chance to soak it all in, and I say to Ed, "We'll come here another day and buy those plums, and some bread and cheese and coffee, and we'll sit over the water and eat breakfast that way."

We find felafel and gyros and grape leaves for lunch, and I stand leaning in a sun beam against a pole feeling weary, ready to stop moving for longer than a second. It's hitting me now: I am in Seattle, and this is not at all what I had imagined. I don't have time to contemplate before Janna whisks us down a narrow alley and into another coffee shop. This time I order chamomile, longing for something calm and quiet while my brain buzzes and my lower back aches. I'm getting old, I think, then remember the time zones and airplanes and city streets between me and yesterday. We sit long enough for me to know that this is the best tea, accompanied by the best scone, I've ever had. Did you know that scones don't have to be dry and unbearably chalky? Did you know they can be deliciously good?

Soon we're out the door and headed for Pioneer Square where the architecture is older and things, we are told, grow seedy after dark. Luckily it's afternoon, and I tilt my head toward tall buildings that to me look dark and gothic here in this, the oldest part of the city. I imagine gargoyles leering down from precipices that may or may not be there. The sky draws in closer here and the sidewalks are cobbled with old brick. We reach Elliott Bay Books, a huge, expansive store with cathedral ceilings, hidden lofts and stairways leading to half-stories lined with shelves upon shelves of books. I peruse the maps, looking forward to tomorrow when Ed and I can find our own way, and our own pace, around the city. I think I could spend a lifetime here, wandering and scanning the titles, reading pages here and there, weaving my way into and out of one story or a million at a time. But today I am tired, and I sit on a wooden stair and wait for my friends who are soon ready to head back out the door.

We turn for home, up, up, up the steep slope toward first avenue then second, and on through downtown and over the highway. My legs are wobbly and Ed comments: we don't normally walk this much. I think, how depressing. We drive everywhere these days, but I admit, I don't feel at all suited for city living. Does everyone feel like they're going to keel over after one day of pounding pavement, chasing down city blocks and crosswalks? I remember feeling this way in Boston and Chicago, whenever I ventured downtown.

We stop by the market for the chicken and some bread, and round the corner to the Roosevelt. Every apartment building in Seattle has a name, and we're staying stately with Franklin and Eleanor. Across the street is the Communist Coffee and Tattoo Parlor, and I snap a photo to bring home to Roma. Turning the key in the lock, we trudge in with paper bags hanging from wrists and heavy sighs, or maybe that's just me. I collapse for a minute, then get up and stretch, leaning this way and that and feeling my spine try to realign. Later, we cook dinner. I shuck 40 garlic cloves and we stuff them in the chicken then roast it, its savory perfume filling the house and watering in our mouths.

We eat, and drink wine, and this is maybe the worst idea since I am already past tired and have zero tolerance for alcohol in this state. But we have evening plans to meet Karl at Smith on the Hill, so I gather my senses and we head out into the mild evening and I relish the night as city lights blink on below us, and cherry blossoms still fragrance the air.

Smith is loud and dimly lit and Karl greets us with his usual flourish. He is a character actor for the everyday, everything dramatic and overstated. He is anything but mundane, a constant entertainer whose methods drive us sometimes mad. But we've missed him, and he smiles big enough to let us know he missed us too, though he'd never say it. We order a pitcher and he tells us stories of his move from the Windy City to the west. We get into politics and other topics of questionable intent. Dan argues with stern gusto while Janna's sharp tongue makes Karl cheer with pride. Ed is measured, as always, putting the final point on everything. I am happy to find myself in the presence of such excellent, interesting, passionate people and I am laughing unselfconsciously, feeling the warmth of good friends and good beer rise behind my eyes.

Later, we wander home through quiet streets and I think that this is a city where I could find a place to be. A the same time, I remember the day we've had the am overwhelmed to even consider the idea of living in a city again. With the time zones relentless, I think that maybe today we did too much, walked too far and too fast. I am a little lost in space, not sure when to sleep or eat and confused by the darkness and the light. We arrive home and I barely mutter goodnight before I reach the pillow and I am off.

Seattle: Day 1, Part I

"This is the best coffee ever," I say, eyes wide. And this is saying a lot because I don't drink coffee; caffeine makes me shake. But we're in Seattle, and though I may be the only one in the city drinking decaf this morning, it is worth it.

Janna has lured us toward Vivace, through Reservoir Park, past the community college and around the corner to this coffee shop with big windows where hipsters sit at round tables and window seats, typing away on laptops and sipping steaming lattes from big white mugs. The menu, arranged in rows on a blackboard above the counter, is a glittering collection of choices, too many to name. Cafe Nico catches my eye, and Janna urges me to try it. "Like cocaine," she says. And it is, or so I imagine. They only sell it in 8 oz. size, to protect us from its sheer overwhelming awesomeness. It's a shot of espresso infused with cinnamon and orange zest, topped with milk and foam and Seattle's signature leaf design. It is like nothing I've ever tasted. Not bitter or acidic, overly sweet or burnt. And as Dan informs us, this is no mistake.

Vivace, he says, is the brainchild of a former Boeing metrologist. "Metrologist?" I ask. And he explains: the science of measuring things. This guy spent most of his early career taking precise measurements for the purposes of aero-space engineering. He got fed up or needed a change or had a stroke of genius, and decided to take his expertise and redefine the art and science of coffee making. From the roasting to the grinding, brewing, steaming, swirling and pouring, he measured every process to the last millionth of a degree and perfected every step to create the most heavenly cup of joe in all the land. And I'm not the only one to think so. This place is revered across the city, and lucky us. We're staying only two blocks away.

We finish our coffee as the sunny sky turns bright and reflective with silver clouds and opens up for a five-minute rain shower. By the time we leave the sun is out again, and it stays that way for the rest of the day and the following one too. The myths of foreboding Seattle weather are greatly exaggerated, if you ask me. We were prepared for non-stop rain and were nearly disappointed entirely until our final day, but we'll get there later on. We leave Vivace and head for Volunteer Park, through quiet neighborhoods with tiny front yards and flowering trees, up narrow streets that could be Boston or Brookline, save the lush greenness of everything and the seafaring quality in the sky. What strikes me is the way it doesn't feel like a city at all; cars crawl by at a lazy pace and yield to one another. People wander without the fierceness of other city dwellers and actually wait at crosswalks for the light to change. We learn later that this is partially due to a vigilant police force relentless in curbing jaywalkers, but I find everyone's patience at intersections a very fortunate consequence. It forces me to pause, take a breath, and look around at every corner rather than playing chicken with oncoming cars and racing everywhere like I do in other cities. This may be one of my favorite things about Seattle.

Volunteer Park stretches across the top of Capitol Hill and overlooks the city, the Space Needle in the distance and the Sound beyond. We wander through the Conservatory greenhouses where there is more life and more spring than I have seen in months. Plants tower overhead and flower underfoot while the dampness and trickling sounds of flowing water infiltrate the air. I am charmed by the intricate simplicity of it all and want to sit for days beneath the giant birds of paradise and soak it all in but we have bigger plans, and a full day ahead.

Seattle: Day 0

It doesn't feel like we're on vacation or going anywhere because we're working right up to the last second, and then cramming things into carry-ons and running out the door.

We catch a plane and land in glorious Detroit, then wait at the gate for Seattle. I resist the urge to ask everyone I see if they're going to Seattle too. I am a little giddy now that it's sinking in. "I'm going to Seattle," I want to tell everyone. "I've never been there before."

The flight is uneventful but long. Did you know that Seattle is a million miles away? We're seated in a row of three with a woman who knows what she wants, bamboozles us into switching seats with her so she can have the window. She is funny all the way there, leaning over to tell me repeatedly that we are almost there though we've only been airborne one hour. She is exasperated every time we lose an hour to the time zones and by hour three is shaking her head in utter confusion. Where do these hours keep going?

We descend for landing and I grip the arm rest, as I always do, as the plane bobs and hops down the runway until we are gliding into the gate. We wait at baggage claim with the appropriate amount of anxiety: did our bags make it? They didn't come spinning down the shoot on the first pass, and we wait. Others collect their suitcases and wander away while we wait and our eyes dart along the conveyor belt and we are beginning to curse maybe, under our breath, come on oh man come on. And then they are there, perfect and unbroken as when we left them six hours ago.

We wind our way outside to public transit and wait, misguided by our absent-minded host who has told us in advance to hold out for the 194 bus. Which, as it would happen, does not run past 6pm. So we are lucky when at half-past nine, a 174 arrives and we board, lug our bags to the back where we sit and barely say a word to each other, communicating mostly through weary groans and nervous glances. We are tired, trying to regain our city legs and not be too conspicuous.

A drunk man near the middle of the bus starts talking, then shouting, to himself and anyone who will listen. He pulls a half-empty bottle of wine from his bag, drinks from it and passes it across the aisle to a dude who looks otherwise normal but, inexplicably, accepts and takes a long swig. I watch, wondering how this guy is different from me, how different I would need to be to drink unself-consciously from the dirty bottle of a strange man. And I am a little shaken to remember that I often assume that most people are like me, but that this is not even remotely true. The bus driver sees the bottle and pulls the bus to the curb, shouting, forcing the drunken man to get off. The drunken man makes a scene before stepping down to the street and curses us, shaking his fist, as we drive away.

I am beyond exhausted as we drive from the airport through the ghetto: pawn shop liquor store pawn shop repeat, on our way to the city. Everything is a little blurry as the time zones begin catching up with me and I my anticipation of Seattle catches up with its reality. I register that when imagining Seattle, I had not seen it in my mind as a city at all. I had seen only the lush green and quirky retail storefronts, coffee shops and avenues on a small scale, and without the much less appealing parts integral to any city. I had not even thought of tall buildings, or sprawl, or city lights, and so had been a little shocked to descend from our flight into a glowing stretch of utterly urban landscape. As we ride into town, through the ugly and the dirty streets and broken down storefronts, I realize that Seattle got stuck in some small-town Utopian mold I had created for it. I was not prepared for the ghetto, or the way it so quickly turned from run down to up scale, high rise, downtown.

Everything seems larger than life as the bus drops us at the foot of Pine in the heart of the commercial shopping district. The buildings, blocky and stark, feel cartoonish in scale, like the Mario BIG level or something out of Honey...I Shrunk the Kids. We catch a bus up the hill and the wind off the water pushes us into Capitol Hill.

We arrive to a flurry of greeting with J & D and the grand tour of their south-facing one-bedroom where we promptly collapse on the futon in the living room and do not stir, sleep like the dead, for the next eight hours.

Rilke Wisdom

This is my favorite quote, the one that helps me survive when I can't see a way out or a way in to anything. It's the one that lightens the world when things get too heavy to hold. I remember reading it for the first time in college and feeling like nothing had ever been so true, or so wise.

It's awful, thinking of all the sad stuff people deal with all the time, the stuff that happens when no one's looking, when the world is outside and we're stuck spinning inside our heads. It's not the loud traumatic stuff that gets me, but the quiet, insidious questions that eat at our hearts and tear holes in our minds. I think this quote is the perfect antidote, the ideal, the goal and the journey itself. I thought I'd share it in case anyone out there needs a little wisdom.

"Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."
-Rainer Maria Rilke

Gender Matters

Ed pointed me to a fantastic article in today's New York Times Magazine that got my brain churning at a million miles a minute, reminding me that, in fact, I have chosen my Master's degree wisely. As it turns out, education is one of my favorite topics ever.

The article examines the many-sided issue that is same-sex education: whether it works or not, whether it's discriminatory, feminist, fair, effective, feasible, "American," or not. It does a great job of getting at the heart of what I see as some very complicated questions. And it's encouraging to think that no matter what side of the issue all these voices are on, they believe what they do for the sake of doing what's best for our kids. Pretty neat, eh?

You can find the article here.

And here are just a few (okay, more than a few...this article really made me think!) of the points I found most salient...

• One school has found that girls and boys perform differently in different physical environments--girls do better in warmer classrooms, boys can focus more clearly in rooms with strong colors.

• The first positive thing I've ever heard about No Child Left Behind--it actually makes it easier for public schools to establish same-sex classrooms. But some would say this isn't a good thing at all.

• The ACLU strongly opposes same-sex education on the basis that it "violates Title IX which outlaws discrimination in education on the basis of gender."

• One educator asks, "What kind of message does it send to tell boys and girls that they are different?"...I would ask, what kind of message does it send to tell kids they are all the same?

• At one school that has implemented same-sex classroom options, enrollment has tripled in the first three years of the program.

• Opponents to same-sex education ask whether you can really generalize based on gender to design an educational approach that will work for all boys and all girls. This is a great question. Are all boys and all girls really the same? What about our more "atypical" kids?

• Scholarly studies comparing same-sex to co-ed education are ambivalent, overall.

• One proponent of same-sex education suggests, "We need to stop teaching content, and start teaching context." I like this idea.

• The final paragraph of the article challenges our definition of the role of public school, asking, "Isn't the job of public schools to teach commonality, tolerance, and what it means to be American? And don't we lose some of this by segregating on any basis?" Good question.

Anyway, check it out, and post a comment here to let me know what you think. It's a bit long but totally worth it if you're someone who is interested in education, has kids in school, has ever gone to school yourself, lives in America, is a boy, is a girl, or cares about the future of things. So, you know, that means you.