London, Day 2

Brent took me on a tour of the Google office this morning.  As expected, it is a playful space.  One floor has a “park” with a rowboat in it.  His floor has a bus:

When I left there to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum, I found out what happened to Jeeves after that Bertie Wooster thing and the Internet thing didn’t work out quite according to plan:

One deciding factor on what to do today was that there was an exhibit on wedding dresses at the V&A.  Every once in a while, the little girl I used to be who loved dress-ups and dolls emerges from my sweats-clad (no, I’m not wearing sweats today; I feel like I need to wear nice clothes and speak intelligently when traveling to other countries as an apology for my ignorant compatriots who behave in ugly and entitled ways) normal self and I want to play princesses.  I have a love-hate relationship with clothes.  The fashion industry is a major oppressor—of workers, who make the fabrics and sew the clothes, of the environment (cotton is one of the most heavily pesticide-intensive crops), of women, who attempt to conform to odd ideas about what our bodies should look like.  And yet—pretty things!  Many of the dresses I saw were truly works of art and art is its own reason for being.  I continue to live in this state of dissonance until the magic resolution comes.

The other special exhibit was fashion photography by Horst.  I knew nothing about him until today, but his photos are stunning, particularly the surreal ones.  I have no pictures to share from either of those exhibitions because photos were not allowed.

However, I took photos in the exhibit on Disobedient Objects.  Perhaps the gallery decided to allow them rather than have a bunch of protesters take photos anyway.  There were posters and objects from lots of movements, including Occupy, the movement to find the disappeared after the South American coups, the various LGBT movements, and one protesting cuts to education funding.  In that last one, students made Book Bloc Shields by following the directions below:

Students chose the book they wanted to protect and be protected by.  Is that awesome or what?

Finally, here is a picture of a Japanese bowl used in the tea ceremony.  It is here just to be beautiful and amazing:

London, Day 1

I have a new umbrella.  Of course I packed one, since I was coming to London, but I foolishly believed the weather report suggesting that there would be no rain today.  My new umbrella is a lovely color wheel, perfect for gray days.  I’ll figure out how to get it home later.

The umbrella came from the shop at the Tate Modern.  I keep going on about Mark Rothko.  He inspires me.  It is hard to capture the quality of his works in photos because there is a subtlety to the color that makes the paintings almost glow.  They have a whole room full of his works.  I found them to be like a series of doors or windows, opening onto possibilities.  Oddly enough, when I read the “official” interpretation, he intended the works to have a sense of windows bricked up, forcing introspection.  I like my interpretation better.

On my walk to the Tate, I saw another example of the architecture of anachronism (look!  I just invented a fancy term for my own concept!). I love how the pub cuddles in between the glass buildings.

The new Globe Theatre is a different sort of architectural anachronism.  It is a reconstruction of Shakespeare’s theater near the original site.  (The original site is covered in a block of flats put up in the 1830’s and thus untouchable.  An area of colored bricks in the car park marks the site of the archaeological dig that uncovered a small portion of the original foundation.  I did not go look at it.)

Scholars and historians and all sorts of people came together to create the reconstruction to be as faithful to the original construction as is compatible with modern safety standards.  There are fire sprinklers.  There are more than two exits.  The floor where the groundlings stand is concrete rather than a mixture of clinkers and hazelnut shells.  Also, pissing on the floor is no longer permitted.  Nor is throwing things at the actors.  So it is not quite an authentic Elizabethan theater, but close enough.

Spain Day 8 and on to London

El Rastro is a giant flea market.  I love wandering around through booths looking at the random collections of things—comic books in Spanish!  X-rated videos!  Underwear featuring Angry Birds!  Leather purses!  High-quality imported Guns ‘N Roses t-shirts!  Also religious medals, rusty keys, Guatemalan textiles, hemp goods, leather purses and belts, wind-up toys, and pretty much anything else I could think of.

It was a fairly long walk to get there.  We went early in the morning, so the streets were almost empty.

Because we were in a city, there are monuments and statues all over the place.  I liked this one:

And for fans of YoungFrankenstein, I offer this Nice Knocker:

I revived Brent with chocolate and churros before we hiked back to the hotel.  And then we left for the airport.  Our London flight was uneventful, which is the best kind of flight.  The British phase of the adventure begins tomorrow!

Spain, Day 7

At El Museo de la Reina Sofia today, I saw Picasso’s Guernica.  I asked Brent if he had seen it and he said, yeah, that it was the big gray one that all the people were looking at, right?  It’s only, you know, a masterpiece.  I shouldn’t make fun, because I actually hit my limit on masterpieces.  My brain can only deal with so many in such a short period of time.  Also:  blisters.  Not on my brain.  On my feet.

On the way there, we passed this group having breakfast.  They were clearly some kind of spiffy soldier dress-up honor something-or-other.  But what do you do with the gun while you eat?  Lean it against the trash can, of course!

After the museum, we went to the Botanical Garden.  I can hear T.R. groaning from here.  Yes, I did it again.  I took lots of pictures of FLOWERS, like this one:

Here is a view down one of the walkways in the garden.

Not much is in bloom at this time of year besides the zillions of dahlias and a few late roses and some daisies.  Nonetheless, it was a lovely green and peaceful place.

Spain, Day 6

I think that one of the disadvantages of being American is a skewed sense of time.  We think of eras as separate and distinct.  It is jarring to see a modern roadway with cars from an arrow slit.  Unless that is just me.  I notice here in Europe that there is no issue putting the new next to the old; it’s just stuff here.  So I was amused at this sign poking fun at the whole traditional, long-standing establishment thing.

We walked from the hotel to the Plaza Mayor.  I liked this fountain because it has a fish.

We continued on to El Museo del Prado, where one is not allowed to take photos of the art.  Here is the outside:

There was an almost overwhelming amount of art in the museum.  The current exhibit is about El Greco and his influence on modern painters.  Quotation and allusion intrigue me in writing, so I enjoyed seeing the painterly equivalent, particularly since all the paintings involved are worth seeing in and of themselves.

My art education was pretty much nonexistent, so I didn’t have any reference in my mind for El Greco or Goya or Velazquez.  I was also totally surprised by Bosch.  Both The Garden of Earthly Delights and The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four LastThings knocked my figurative socks off.

One museum is never enough, right?  From El Prado, we ventured over to El Museo de arte Thyssen-Bornemisza.  Three more floors of art!  The collection is more eclectic, reflecting the taste of the family that collected the art in the first place.  There were plenty of Spaniards represented, including Picasso and Miro, but also a large group of American landscapes and a bunch of French Impressionists.  I was happy to see a Rothko there; I find something that feeds my soul in his color blocks.

I bought a zillion postcards because it is the cheapest way to collect art ever.  And after a nice siesta, we will forage for some paella.

Spain, Day 5

Today’s mission was simple:  get from Olmedo to Madrid.

I feel better about my frustration with the car.  Brent got frustrated with it, too.  It didn’t want to leave the parking spot for him, either.  Nonetheless, I have decided that I am going to learn to drive stick well when I get home.  I do not want my superhero powers to be limited by something as silly as a gearshift.

The next superhero power I want after that is the ability to read in a car without getting carsick.  As the navigator for the expedition, I needed to babysit the phone directions.  My opinion was not asked when Google Maps designed their application.  Personally, I like to know more in advance than the nice lady in the phone wants to tell me.  Yes, I know that I can get that information by pushing more buttons, but still.

The nice lady, who has a hilarious non-grasp of Spanish names, got us close to our hotel.  We missed the last turn, which was bad.  After a bunch of impossible directions (“Make a u-turn…”), even Brent had had enough.  We drove the car to the airport to turn it in and took a taxi to the hotel.

It is now nap time, since one does not eat dinner here until at least 9 p.m.

Spain, Day 4

On the ride back from Coca yesterday, I noticed el Museo de las Villas Romanas.  It sounded interesting, so I looked it up last night and decided to visit today.

I miss my light, comfortable bike.  Even my heavier bike is lighter than the one I rode today and yesterday.  However, any bike is better than no bike, even if my butt does hurt a lot after a mere 22 km today.  Probably more than anyone wanted to know.  Sorry.

The museum centers around an actual archaeological site.  Giant Quonset-type roofs cover a semi-enclosed pavilion over the foundations of a Roman villa.  The floors are mosaic, in various degrees of preservation.  I liked this one from one of the baths.

This one is the showpiece.  It depicts Pegasus, without his wings, with a bunch of nymphs.  The text had some more information about the myth, but my Spanish wasn’t up to the task.

Before the actual ruins, there is an interpretive center designed to orient the viewer to Roman culture.  I watched the introductory video and realized that I rely on seeing people’s faces when they speak to understand Spanish.  I do speak maps with arrows, though, and I gather that the Romans did fine here in Spain until they were overrun by, you guessed it, Goths, Visigoths, and Vandals.

I did better on the reading comprehension.  Much like ours, Roman society had the 1 percent at the top with all the wealth and power and then everyone else.  The more things change…

Spain, Day 3

There is nothing like confronting one’s fears.  And losing.  In theory, I can drive a car with a manual transmission.  I have done it before.  If my life depended on it, or someone else’s did, I’m sure I would figure it out.  But today, after stalling twice trying to get out of the parking spot, I panicked and surrendered.  I could pretend that none of that happened and say that I just decided it would be more fun to rent a bike instead, but that would be cheating.

Actually, it probably was more fun.  I rode about 60 km round trip from Olmedo to the castle in Coca:

In retrospect, I probably should have bought a Coke at the gas station and taken a photo of a Coca in Coca.  Oh well.  Next time.  The castle is quite lovely.  Much of it is no longer original, I think.  There was a large display of various tile patterns with what look to be original, damaged tiles in places on top to show what the restorers were working from.

I saw all the usual castle things:  chapel, armory, sentry walk, halls, dungeon, moat.  The very nice men at the ticket booth watched the bike while I roamed around, although they seemed to think I was slightly nutty for biking at all.  The very nice lady at the hotel, actually, thought I was slightly nutty for biking all the way to Coca, too.

The town of Coca also boasts a section of medieval wall.  Naturally, I climbed it:

I haven’t quite figured out how towns here are organized.  It was a challenge to find something for lunch.  I eventually stumbled around town long enough to find a butcher shop/deli sort of place where I bought some empanada filled with ham and pineapple.  I ate it in the park, defiantly sitting on the bench next to the sign that said that dogs, bikes, and playing on the grass were not allowed.

Spain, day 2

At breakfast, Brent and I decided what to do today.  Well, actually, I ate a bunch of spiffy cheeses and fancy Spanish cold cuts and membrillo and some torta espanola and some roasted vegetables and he leafed through the guide book to check out the places I thought might be fun to go.  After he chose “None of the Above,” I looked some more and suggested Segovia.  Off we went.

This is what the streetscape looks like:

The local castle, Alcazar, was the model for Sleeping Beauty’s castle in Disneyland. 

It is definitely a fairytale sort of place.  Unfortunately for Brent, there are lots of stairs there.  T.R. would approve because the spiral stairs to the tower twist the correct way for optimal tower defense.

After reviving Brent with some lunch, we hiked partway back up the hill to check out the Roman aqueduct. 

No mortar, folks, and still standing.  No water, either, but no complaints from me.  I am apparently addicted to climbing things that can be climbed and Brent is not.  Therefore, I saw the view from the top edge of the aqueduct and he did not.

Back at the hotel, we got massages (yay!) and then went in the “Claustro Termal.”  The hotel used to be a convent.  In what used to be the cloisters, there is now a spiffy mineral pool with toys.  Maybe they’re not supposed to be toys, but jets that shoot out of the floor onto the bottoms of my feet sure seem like toys to me, even if they are intended to balance my chi. I also like having the opportunity to say “burbujas” a lot.

He starts working tomorrow.  Me, not so much!

Spain, Day 1

This story has a moral, children, and I will tell it at the beginning.  While it is all right to have a glass of wine and then take one’s antidepressant medication, doing so on an airplane can have significant unpleasant results.  Like all good morals, I had to work this one out for myself from experience and aftermath.  I spent much of the flight from SFO to Heathrow lying on the cabin floor due to having thrown up in my sleep.  I can’t take me anywhere.

However, I now feel entirely better and morally superior from the lesson.  Even better, we have arrived in Spain.  The airport in Madrid looks swoopy:

Signs, of course, fascinate me.  I sincerely hope that the arrows on this sign point to two different places that happen to lie in the same direction:

I also like the idea of soliciting a train:

I did not take any photos of the long drive from Madrid to Olmedo, but the landscape looks much like home, golden hills, scattered trees, encircling mountains.  Tomorrow Brent and I will investigate more.

Syd excels at getting people to go outside.  Today we hiked at Mt.Diablo Regional Park.

As you can see in the pictures, it was beautiful.  You can’t see that it was hot, but it was.  We saw squirrels, horses, dogs, fire ants, dragonflies, and a bird that was probably a vulture, but we weren’t close enough to see its head to be sure.

The conversation, per usual, ranged as widely as the terrain.  We talked about insects, physics, The Muppet Movie, leg muscles, Australia, and food.  T.R. applied mountain goat mechanics to hills.  Syd pretended to need to rest when I did.

I am a lucky person to have such amazing kids.

Matt Ruff’s book Sewer, Gas & Electric made me laugh out loud.  What is not to like about a book with a mutant shark, a polka-dot submarine, and a lamp with the personality of Ayn Rand?  The plot can be summarized with one of my favorite phrases:  chaos ensues.

Amidst all the hijinks, important stuff gets said.  I offer the following:

“…you don’t disprove someone’s pessimism by adding up good and evil on a desert napkin to see which is the greater total.  Hope’s a choice, not a sum; you can have as much of it as you damn well feel like having, regardless of actual circumstances.  But if you try to explain that straight out to someone when they’re in a bad mood, they’ll assume you’re being patronizing and may even throw something at you.  It’s better to use a little finesse.”

I will keep the book and have already threatened to make several people read it, so two thumbs up.

I am not good at waiting.  I fidget.  I invent disaster scenarios—Giant Ant Invasion?  Tornado?  Worldwide shortage of chocolate?  I read or wander around or do puzzles or pretty much anything to reduce the number of times I check in on whatever it is I am waiting for:  Is it done yet?  Is it time yet?  How about now?

Sometimes this is useful.  Chores get done while I wait for breakfast to cook.  I do most of my reading in the car waiting for T. to get out of school.

Unfortunately, some things take whatever time they take.  As challenging as it was to wait for the babies to come, I did know they would show up eventually.  Clarity may or may not ever show up.  Some messages never get answers.  Some problems await solutions indefinitely.

Pass the crosswords, please.

Big Gulp

I’ve joked before that my basic religious affiliation is membership in the Church of 7-Eleven.  My attendance there has been more regular than anywhere else.  The liturgical plastic cup runneth over with caffeine and sugar.

I’ve kicked the habit before.  I am an expert at it.  I know that within a week I can taper down my caffeine dependence and begin the process of replenishing all the sleep I’ve been missing.  Excedrin is my friend, or at least my version of methadone.

It’s not just a habit, however.  The Big Gulp, the crack habit, is more than just an unfortunate dietary choice codified into normality.  It’s a ritual.  I found, just now, that one aspect of ritual, according to the experts, is that it is intended as a method of coping with anxiety.

No wonder I have been such a faithful servant.  I have a black belt in anxiety, I’m afraid.  Even the times when I have rebelled against the ritual have had their own ritual significance as controlled expressions of discontent that ultimately reinforce the status quo:  I always returned from my little health vacations convinced that maybe in a perfect world I could do without the cup, but in real life not so much.

I’ve had enough.  This particular religion oppresses me, keeps me from growing.  Apostasy, in this case, is good for health, environmental preservation, and economic stability.

And then I will need to leave the Church of Monday Night Football.

Back to blogging

Forklifts are dangerous to my people. Both my father and my grandmother had run-ins with them. It seems best to avoid them, or at least up close and personal contact with them.

Writing has its own dangers. I mean, paper cuts hurt. So does truth, from time to time. Writing, for me, does the heavy lifting for figuring out and sharing my truth. It's time to grow again.