LA.

Stagnant, glowing monitor. Dust on plastic blinds. Clicking. Typing. Chatter.

My earbuds aptly in place, I have been working steadily since lunch. I have remained perfectly positioned for hours, poised in my office chair erect, eyes unwavering, face impassive. I have been listening to an arbitrary radio station chosen from a list of unfamiliar choices as my artistic motivations seem to weaken as the office day drudges forward.

Now.

"Please, please, don't stop loving me. For I couldn't live with you gone".

I recognize the voice, and I listen, resting my hands on the keyboard and looking out the window to see palm trees swaying in the violent winds uncharacteristic of this time of year. It's Dolly Parton. Her voice is sweet, softly soulful and flittering. I'm no diehard Dolly fan and couldn't easily name even one of her albums, however, this song is strangely affecting me. It is sending me somewhere else, and like a dream that is only pieced together sensibly after waking up, I am still listening to accurately identify the feeling, the memory, that is materializing.

The song continues, and I find the connection. My Mamaw. Betty Jean. She is in her home in Louisville, standing on the thick gray carpet next to a bar in the living room that I considered to be writ with glamour as a kid. Betty's hips are moving to the uncomplicated country beat, her head tilted upward, smiling slyly and proud. She is humming off tune, drinking white wine in the middle of a hot Kentucky summer day, wearing a silk suit and layers of gaudy beaded jewelry that rattle as she dances in oblivion. I watch from my orange leather bar seat made in the 60's, my feet dangling and kicking gently. She is mysterious, radiating life, and I am too young to consider her a flighty drunk.

Betty has the demeanor of a confident, vindictive black woman. She says things like, "he won't be sayin' that to me any time soon, I mean, let him try. just let him try". She is nearly 80 and carries a long stick whenever she takes a leisurely walk around her neighborhood which seems to have been landscaped by lovers of broke-down cars, couches and even toilets in yards. Her hair is dyed ruby red, so deep and rich that it is a force all it's own, existing outside any natural color scheme. She likes to tap her long fingernails on the glass kitchen tabletop as she shares stories with me into the night. She tells me that the boys followed her more than other girls. The men still follow. She has lived a lifetime as a woman pursued.

She sleeps with a white-handled pistol sitting cooly on the nightstand although I have no memory of her physically lying in bed. She seemed to always be wandering, dancing, talking. Her power emanates through the little brick house on Cinderella Court.

She is not exactly here now in this office, but I am there. I am sipping apple juice out of a highball glass, bringing it up to my face and feeling the cool, wet sensation against my cheek, watching attentively. The music is playing from a stereo on the far wall and she is swaying without rhythm or concern.

To you, Mamaw. From whom I learned soulfulness. You were beautiful. Always.

I'm experiencing one of those rare evenings one must endure from time to time. My eyes, my face, are tender as they have housed tears spawn from varying instigators. Today I have spoken, listened, sat silently and felt both rechid and hopeful. After such a day I am more myself. Here I am, now, swollen skin and beating heart. These sort of moments are welcomed, yes? Inexplicably, yes.

Gas problems? I'm not a doctor, but I can help!*

*Actual advertisement promoting a car dealership featuring vehicles boasting high gas milage and low emissions. Ad cleverly posted in rest stop bathroom stall in a forgettable town between Los angeles and San Francisco likely to be named something obscure like "Butterville" or "Los Banos".

Today I drove from my home in Santa Monica to San Francisco- a seven hour trip up the 5 freeway that takes one through California country resembling saturated oil painting scenes in the movie "What Dreams May Come". My mind wavered along with my small car fighting the blustering winds. Here are some of the profound musings produced while gazing out a significantly battered windshield (those who have seen it know this is a terrific understatement).

Have officially researched and documented the scientific, soul-enhancing benefits of singing favorite songs as loud as possible in the confines of one's vehicle. Effects vary pending participant's singing volume, attention to personal vocal liberties and impromptu hand gestures (including, but not limited to, fist pumps, pointing to the CD player while nodding as if to say "fuck yeah" and, of course, drumming on the steering wheel).

Pondered several of life's plaguing questions such as,

1. What is the difference between 'beneath' and 'underneath'?

2. Doesn't the term 'Dust Bowl' refer to something that occurred at least 50 years ago?

3. What happened between the hours of 1:30 am and 2:30 am? Why did I wake up with a bruised knee?

Saw the land and the light evolve boldly as I traveled. Purple-gray trees in a militant line made me feel like a mythical knight, armor gleaming and sword drawn, riding bravely into battle then broad, squatty white hills blanketed by low clouds made me feel like a tiny molecule unable to touch or step on the ground and nearly crushed by the unforgiving weight of gravity. Spherical bodies of lambs huddled together and hummed the same tone as the engine, plastic model trees had been placed methodically on a distant hillside as the ground had been painstakingly painted vibrant greens and golds.

Drank a large cup of coffee after having virtually given up the robust, beloved drink for nearly three months. Enjoyed this immensely. Cursed every damn cup of green tea I have ever ingested.

While on the road, attempted to visualize this trip being an actual move, a complete change of location, from LA to San Francisco. Found the idea unsettling.

Upon arriving in city limits, driving past victorians and 1920's typography, felt entirely at home.

The End is (not so) Near:

Cat's Cradle in Costa Rica

Last weekend I traveled to Costa Rica for my step brother's much anticipated destination wedding in the small coastal city of Santa Teresa. Before leaving my LA apartment, I quickly skimmed my literature collection, passed up a few Oprah's Book Club paperbacks with a yawn and spotted a small brightly colored book tucked away amongst the classics: Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. I shamefully had no idea what it was about and with mild enthusiasm stashed it away in my purse, presumably to be given initial attention followed by disinterest and distraction. However, the book proved to be an integral component contributing to my travel experience and thus, this entry.

It turned out the TACA airlines flight from LAX to Guatemala offered little to no entertainment (which is, even amidst constant air travel cutbacks and frustrating fees such as lack of free peanuts, universally loathed baggage fees and $10 granola bars, unacceptable by modern standards). The only in-flight magazine was, understandably, written in Spanish and the audio/video system was "experiencing technical difficulties". After sleeping off my hangover for a few hours and discovering that my ipod earbuds had been conveniently left in my gym bag at home, I dug out Cat's Cradle and began reading.

What ensued was a courtship and love affair with Vonnegut's satirical, succinct voice. Unaware of the imminent "end of the world" ending (note: apologies to to all readers who have not read this book, but come on, you wouldn't admit to that anyway), I followed the main character, a writer researching the life of one of the scientists behind the making of the Hiroshima atomic bomb, on his part-reality, part-science fiction journey. The "journey", of course, resonated with me as I sat in the muggy, humming aircraft and breaked intermittently for wine-enduced naps, dreaming of tropical beaches ahead.

8 hours later I landed in Tambor, Costa Rica and toted my single piece of luggage, an 18-pound duffle bag, to the small adjacent airport and boarded what looked to be an advanced toy plane with small propellers and, at maximum, housing around 14 people including the pilots (who were, strangely and perfectly, terrifically small as well). As magnificent as the evolving scene was outside my window, I found it difficult not to read fervently after discovering Vonnegut's fictionally created religion of an island culture, Bokononism. The first quote referenced from one of the books of Bokonon is, "'All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies'". The main character follows by saying, "Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either". While I did not unquestionably agree, I certainly understood the feeling. I looked out the rattling window at the bluegreen water and fluffy-topped islands existing in unwavering unity and thought that it had all been here without me for so long. I felt both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.

Upon arriving at an even smaller airport in a remote coastal area, I deplaned (rather digressive note to reader: who the hell thought of that stupid word anyway? deplaned. could great minds come up with nothing better? if anything, I believe we should "deboard" as we have, in fact, participated in the initial act of boarding in the first place, thus, resulting in the counter action of "deboarding". who ever heard of "planing" an aircraft?) I found myself on a dusty piece of cleared land among hills laden with jungle thicket. Quite favorably, a grinning, sweating man held a sign reading "Jeff and Jen's wedding". He proceeded to drive me on many surfaces and precarious terrains, a small percentage being actual, viable street pavement, to the resort in Santa Teresa.

On the hour long taxi ride, legs outstretched and crossed in front of me, hot gusts of heavy air hitting me in the face, I sleepily gazed out the window, envisioning the fantastic greeting and celebration that awaited me. I imagined my mom standing anxiously in a sparkling lobby, her hands outstretched and her skirt delicately dancing in the soft tropical breeze. Other family members would be wondering about, smiling and wide-eyed, their faces radiant with the promise of heightened adventures to come aided by my presence. Wrong. I was promptly dropped off on a gravel pathway surrounded by hut-like structures seemingly uninhabited. Besides the scrambling lizards, not a soul in sight.

After the wandering around for a bit, I found and spoke with a tatooed woman in the main office smelling of pachouli and fish. She told me, in broken English, that everyone had gone snorkeling for the day and would not return until after dinnertime. It was 10 AM.

Normally I would have been quite alright in this sort of situation, perhaps even relieved, however, after enduring an arduous travel day and night, fighting a headache and reading about the end of the world, I felt indignation followed by sadness and abandonment. I searched the hotel room for a note from my mom, looked and listened outside on hotel grounds and found nothing. I sat on the bed and cried.

I'll admit, my reaction could perhaps be interpreted as the self-pitied actions of a spoiled premadonna. In truth, I sobbed far heavier and longer than should have been allowed and I even wondered during, "what the fuck is your problem, Sara? You're in fucking Costa Rica for God's sake! This sort of weeping is reserved for deaths, heartbreaks and speeding tickets". Ten minutes passed, then 20 and as the breakdown approached a half hour, I jumped in the shower and put on my bathing suit in an effort to emerge in vacation regalia. As it turned out, my bronzing mother was sitting contently at the hotel pool and, upon seeing me, wore the same expression I had projected she would. She, of course, felt terrible that I had been so upset and did her best to console me, deeply confused as to why I had reacted so strongly. Here lied a very poignant metaphor reflecting my self-generated familial separation. The pivotal phrase being "self-generated".

As expected, everyone else arrived that evening. The betrothed couple, her loquacious Manhattan family, friends of the bride and groom and my step family including three children belonging to my step sister, all under the age of 9.

The truth is, I hardly know my step brothers and sister- and, for that matter, my mother. Frankly, I felt guilty even being included in the whole wedding extravaganza as my step father organized and paid for everything. Prior to the trip, I was apprehensive knowing that I would be spending more than a few hours with these people. This was no obligatory Christmas dinner. This was a retreat.

The weekend ensued with no further bouts of uncontrollable crying and Cat's Cradle stayed by my side, keeping my company as I tackled cordial conversations with strangers and family members alike. I felt strangely stronger after reading of yet another Bokonon concept called a "karass". A karass is a thing. A noun. It relates to the people that we find ourselves connected to, however, "ignores national, institutional, occupational, familial, and class boundaries". It is described by Bokonon in a simple and abstract way, "'If you find your life tangled up with somebody else's life for no very logical reasons...that person may be a member of your karass'". I liked this concept instantaneously. It resonated with my general feelings of muddled family relations and catered to my resistance to claiming any real role in the step family. Perhaps some of the people at the wedding were part of my karass, and perhaps not. My inclination was to think that none of them really fit the criteria due to the documented, well-founded reasons we had all been brought together- years ago up until last weekend. There is family, there are friends, mentors, lovers- and there are those people that are part of our lives for unexplainable reasons. Those people share some sort of common thread, whether weak or strong, and they are a part of our existence. They are in our karass.

Flying back north over the same coastline I had just a few days prior, I reflected on these thoughts concerning my weekend and the family members who had shared the experience with me. We had laid lazily in hammocks, stood together on the rocky beach as Jeff and Jen were married, road ATV's on dusty paths, climbed up waterfalls and drank beer at night under cabanas, laughing freely while monkeys howled in the dark. I nodded to the stoic island mountains and luminescent sea and felt much more connected to them than I did before. Perhaps I had been intrinsically linked to the grandiose scene all along.

My body aching from the weekend's activities, I took a deep breath and let my muscles relax. My head leaned against the window and I read the last pages of Cat's Cradle. After the earth has been effectively destroyed by a deadly, frozen substance called ice-nine, the protagonist has succumbed to living underground with a few members of his karass- people that had little to no connection to his life prior to the events that sparked the Armageddon. He has found that his capability for love has all but disappeared as the people he had previously loved have all died. He is left to live a rather dire life surrounded by disjointed souls. Somewhat counteractively, I found solace in the promise of life that I felt when looking out at the Costa Rican coastline. I would go on and build upon my karass, picking up people as I went along, but perhaps nothing is as sacred as the people who are, for better or worse, inescapable. There are magic occurrences- the ones that make us feel alive and somewhat special- and then there are deep seeded hurt feelings, broken connections and there is tiredness. I felt tired. And I felt good.

This entry is dedicated to the unending, nameless country roads that cut through the hills and fields where I grew up. To you, keepers of the legacy of my youth, I humbly write from my tiny Los Angeles apartment flanked by palm trees and angry dump trucks. Here is my declaration of deep appreciation and reverence; here is what you have meant to me:

You were half-paved, half-gravel and you rarely took me anywhere without passing over a creek and its steady, earthy heartbeat. You never seemed to restrict yourself to simple ground travel, in fact, at times, your horizon merged with the Missouri sky and my car felt weightless.

You rescued me from houses, classrooms, gymnasiums, chapels, funeral homes- called on your kindred relationship with the infinite plains and sent me a world away in a moment's time. You never really spoke or asserted direction, you just graciously offered your non-imposing company and perhaps may have whispered on occasion, "you don't need to go back yet".

You embraced and showcased every season, but none so much as the hot, humid summers. After school completed each year and we traveled together, windows down, CD playing, gusts of wind hitting me in the face, there existed a limitless future. Fear dissipated into the thickness of the air made up of tiny darting bugs and sunlight and life extended forever. You taught me to sing, to explore, to rest while moving.

And I forgive you for holding captive my innocence along with, strangely enough, a sizable portion of my wisdom - because I have taken from you as well. I hold and treasure your hundreds of perfectly sculpted clouds, your water mills, your distant abandoned barns and your army of cows standing motionlessly without prowess or shame. I have kept these and many things for myself and to them I owe much of my character and spirit.

+ poster

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFsqDI5iRLg

Feb ??

Food log:

 (1) Breakfast across the street. Stewed vegetables, potatoes, saucy chicken and fruit. Perfection.

 (1) Shanghai fast food lunch/dinner (likely the local McDonalds counterpart). Chicken/peanut ensemble served with rice. Absolutely could not have been any better. My taste buds, my heart, aches.

Perhaps a shoddy food log today, but this American traveler could use a light day. The food obsession has taken me by surprise. I anticipated appreciating the cuisine, but it’s safe to say that I have eaten my way to Shanghai bliss. Every morsel has been indescribably pleasing and I fear I may have eaten one too many dumplings.

Since the last entry my dad has flown to a highly industrial town, Guancho, to visit a manufacturing plant for a couple days. This left me here at the hotel to resume my autonomous travels.

I initially planned on making a trip to the canal city of Zhouzhuang but learned it would be quite an undertaking as it is nearly two hours outside of the city. This would have meant a terribly long, presumably stressful cab ride with absolutely no driver/passenger conversation or a train ride in the middle of heavy travel season (due to Chinese New Year). I will admit, I toiled with tackling the obstacles, however, settled on staying in Shanghai. I mean, a city of 20 million, surely there would be more to see.

There was. I decided on randomly selecting one of the listed destinations on the hotel concierge card given to me at the beginning of my stay. In English, it said, “The Market”.  My taxi driver took me there in about 10 minutes after cheating death in an indeterminable amount of near collisions. Upon walking in the building I was swarmed with sellers, eagerly preying upon my wide-eyed Western ignorance. I successfully fought my way through the initial offensive strike and spent an hour or so wheeling and dealing for maddeningly cheap goods.  My indulgent (black market?) purchases include:

(1) North Face Jacket $10

(2) Marc Jacobs Purses $15 ea.

(3) Gifts (the exact contents to be released at a later time)

(1) Pair Ray Ban Sunglasses $7

(1) Pair leather sandals $7

 The whole experience was far too thrilling. I followed the shopping up with some fast food next door which, thankfully, featured helpful pictures of each meal. I chose a chicken/peanut combination that turned out to be freakishly good. I then lugged my cargo through the streets surrounding the market, shooting video and wearing the shutter out on my DSLR.

Back at the hotel, I laid all of my spoils out on the couch and felt immediately ashamed of the size of my loot. I mean, did I really need another stupid purse? Did I need a damn thing at all? I assume these things will simply be set on a shelf in my apartment and take up residence amongst the many, many unnecessary possessions that infest my closet. Ah, me. I ended up remorsefully packing the items in my bag as I was not able to look at them any longer. (Note: Things are fairing much better for the author today as she is toting around town with one of her spanking new leather purses. She loves it and has told herself, “You might as well enjoy this silly thing. Taupe leather! Woo hoo!”)

Today I will once again aimlessly wander (a phrase which has been overused in this blog and may be losing its luster) and photograph the results. I believe my dad gets back tonight but I have no way of communicating with him to know when.

My plane for LA leaves tomorrow, Friday, and I will return on a Friday in the morning. The thought of simply loading onto a plane and waking up in Los Angeles is strange. I think I will have to stash some dumplings in my checked luggage. They surely won’t weigh too much.

 

Feb 2

3 PM

Well, I must say, have just returned from one of the best mornings I’ve had in the recent history of me. My dad ventured out into the big bad world of business today and left me to my own devices. Rather surprisingly, I was up at dawn and out the door by 8 am- camera, hat and list of properly written destinations in tow.

I began by taking on the massive breakfast buffet (once again) at the hotel. A sort of Zen-like single toned music played softly while I ate my fish and eggs and read the Chinese/English newspaper. I learned more about the controversial exchange of weaponry and aviation equipment between the US and Taiwan (angering the Chinese mainland), an incident in the city last week involving a scorned worker mowing over 12 people in his truck and, yes, Beyonce. I was most impacted by the story about the crazed truck driver and started thinking about how many people must die in this city every day. I mean, 20 million plus people, driving lanes fit for toy cars and bicyclists carting 10 times their weight in cargo. It’s frightening. To me.

After brekkie I planned to taxi over to the MOCA museum, which, according to Google, was located in a place called “People’s Park”. My taxi driver pulled to the side of the road and planted the front right tire comfortably up and over the curb. I paid him around 20 RMB and found myself in a bustling metropolis. It looked to be a major shopping and business area - much more developed than the areas we were in yesterday. The street was lined with massive, authoritative buildings, many at least 50 stories, and thousands of people busily passed by me and weaved precariously through moving traffic . I was immediately glued to the viewfinder of my camera and temporarily forgot about seeing the Museum.

The next few hours consisted of walking, snapping pictures and experiencing exhilaration at a compounding rate. I’m sure I was grinning like a sweet little American idiot - fascinated with just about everything I passed by. I made my way to what must be the biggest shopping center in the world (note: author is not an actual shopping center expert, and for that matter, ill-qualified to make almost any factual statement containing the words “in the world”), which consisted of massive buildings and hundreds - thousands - of stores. At one point a woman stopped me to practice her English and ended up asking to take a photo of me. I’m not entirely sure, but I think she kept repeating, “you have a big nose” as if it were some kind of compliment.

In time, I did actually make it to the museum, however, accidentally went to the Shanghai Museum rather than the originally intended destination: MOCA. The entire museum endeavor was mostly futile as MOCA ended up being closed and Shanghai Museum (by name sounding rather impressive) only displayed one exhibit, paintings and pen drawings. The only meaningful thoughts I had strolling past the mundane artwork were inquiries questioning the government’s role in the exhibition of artwork. How closely are these artists regulated and censored? How the hell does that work?

I pushed myself to walk around in the cold drizzle as long as possible and eventually caught a cab back to the hotel. I am continuously astounded with the low cost of cab transport. I mean, I believe that stupid Starbucks green tea latte cost more than most of the taxi rides I have taken.

11 PM

Food log

(1) Breakfast, yet again, at the hotel. Too magnificent to pass up. Today I chose sautéed mushrooms, leaks, olives, grilled fish, egg whites, swiss cheese and pears. I dare any Santa Monica restaurant to come up with something so pleasing.

(2-4) Green Teas. Losing count.

(1) Leftover funky fish bone soup. Might sound questionable but was actually quite good. Saved in hotel refrigerator and warmed up in the tea hotpot. Clever, yes?

(.75) Package of peanut butter/crackers. Shame…

(1) Dinner out consisting of a shared portion of chicken and broccoli, white rice and the best mushroom dish I have ever seen and/or tasted. I just cannot accept that I’ll never have the very same meal again. I may have to go back this week.

Not much to report. An inevitable bout of jetlag sat in after the last entry, ensuing a 1-2 hour nap. My dad was able to come back to the hotel earlier than expected and, (lucky me), took me to dinner. Our energy levels greatly depleted, we decided on walking to nearby restaurant rather than venturing out into the unknown. The decision ended up fairing well as we found a spot that immediately felt like a nice place to be in. The tables, chairs and walls were white while simple, sleek red accents like small lamps and delicate artwork garnished the scene. There were just enough people there- around 40% capacity - and they all seemed to treat the space as a place they had been many times, laughing and speaking casually with the staff. I liked it all very much.

After dinner my dad and I did one last drink at the bar upstairs, catching a less than entertaining Jazz ensemble. While the entirety of the setting was utterly fantastic (red lights, cigar smoke, women sipping red wine and ignoring their dates) the music was totally bad. Strange covers of songs like “What a Wonderful World” and some sort of 80’s catalogue that I am not familiar with. My lovable father leaned over to me and said, “isn’t that singer great?” I simply nodded. We’re in China.

Feb 1.  8:30 AM.

Food log (thus far)

(2) Airplane finely packaged meals. Strange fish variety served with white rice, cantaloupe and a cold rice/cucumber salad. Mostly delicious. 

(1) Airplane small sandwich containing what was labeled as chicken. Gooey brown substance that smelled much better than it tasted.

(3) Cups of tea throughout the day. No idea what kind as each was labeled in Chinese.

(1) Delectable Chinese meal at a restaurant close to hotel advertising “Gourmet Dinners”. Curry hot pot with mushroom, spinach, vegetable dumplings and noodles. Waitress demanded that my father retract his original attempt at giving a tip.

I have decided to briefly blog this week during my travels rather than writing collectively after the trip. While the food log may be rather uninteresting to many, I’m happy to simply document the items being consumed as I expect the cuisine to both delight and disturb me. So far? Delighted.

I have made it through the 14 hour China Eastern flight, arrived in Shanghai around 6 pm Sunday evening and successfully slept through the night. It is now 8:30 Monday morning and I am far too comfortable in the Hilton Hotel in a yet to be determined part of Shanghai. The only geographic certainties are as follows: many, many towering buildings lit up like Vegas casinos lining a series of historic wood beam and mortar apartments that are about three stories tall and sit within mere feet of each other. The hotels feels a little bit like a 1940’s movie musical set, complete with grandiose ballroom staircase, white marble floors and gold-plated cigarette dispensers. I have, thus far, counted approximately 5 in-hotel bars and witnessed the after party of a Chinese wedding (nearly run over by a presumable member of the bridal party, yelling erratically and smelling of whiskey).  After dinner across the street, my dad and I took the elevator to the top floor to discover yet another bar/lounge- a space which I had painted in my mind long before coming. Much like the movie “Lost in Translation”, patrons sat in dark leather booths looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the blue, orange, pink and green lights of the pulsing city. The corner stage lit in red perfectly complimented the clinking of highball glasses and the laughter of businessmen. I was immediately enamored.

Today we tour around a rain soaked Shanghai. It is around 50 degrees Fahrenheit and feels a little bit like a chilly San Francisco day. This will be my only day accompanied by my dear dad and I expect that we will do some habitual shopping, see the Shanghai gardens and possibly have dinner in the Bund area. Armed with my camera and my red coat, I’ll set forth. I will feel a small sense of victory if I am able to, at minimum, double my Chinese vocabulary which now consists of the words for “thank you” and “how do you do?”.  

6 PM

(1) Sensationally pleasing breakfast, which was ultimately photographed in its prolificacy. Egg whites/olives, stir-fried lettuce and bok choy, oranges, nut bread, grilled fish and green tea. And yes, that’s for one.

(1) Mid-day tea (more aptly described below)

(1) Bean and tofu soup to-go and eaten in hotel room. Outrageously good. Only complaint lying in the surprising discovery of a fish bone or two. No worries.

Back from my first official trek around the city.  Here goes it:

My dad and I decided upon taxing over to the Shanghai Railway Station which proved to be an authentic nationals-only spot. With the Chinese New Year just a couple weeks away, the station was flooded with travelers carrying everything but actual, certifiable luggage- plastic bags, burlap sacks, wheeled carts- likely traveling to visit family for the holiday. The thrill of cultural immersion pushed me along as I weaved through the determined crowd. I thought about the places they will go to and the people waiting anxiously for their arrival.  Tucked away in a corner and gripping the arm of a young woman, an elderly woman let out an unrestrained sob and wiped away tears. It was a moment of communicative clarity amidst the writhing Chinese chatter.

After the train station we wandered aimlessly, discovering a myriad of banks, stores, highways, cabs and the most KFC restaurants that I have ever seen in a relatively small section of the planet. Our aimless endeavors led us to the Jing’an Temple which contained a silver Buddha the size of a 3-story house. The grounds of the temple smelt like sweet incense and people devoutly knelt on pillows. As my mind churned uncomfortably with thoughts of diverse gods spread across the globe and living in the hearts of humans everywhere I shamefully picked up a Starbucks and immediately felt Western guilt.  That said, I was undeniably soothed by the interior of the coffee shop and its lack of customers. It may be the only empty space in Shanghai.

Another cab (18 RMB, around $3) took us to the Yu Garden located in the “Old City”. The mind-warped, theme-parked, strip-malled American in me whispered dubious inferences in my ear, saying, “This isn’t authentic. It can’t be authentic. Look at these pointy buildings with their so-called Chinese architecture and their silly lanterns hanging from the red shingles. Who are they kidding?” But they were real! The beef hanging in windows, the red rooftops and arched doorways, the shanty scaffolding made mostly out of bamboo- it was no movie set or Six Flags experience- it was right there, in China, and I was a toddler with little understanding of what she was seeing.

We spent a great deal of time trying to locate the gardens amidst the historic center. After asking at least 5 people who spoke little to no English and being massively misdirected, I finally realized that we must ask an adolescent as they would surely speak adequate English. Thus, we found a group of 12-13 year old boys who happily agreed to physically usher us to the Yu Garden. Following behind them, I noticed that one of the boys’ jackets said “happy boy” in yellow letters. I liked that.

The garden was cathartic and beautiful. It was built in the 1500’s under the Ming Dynasty containing cave-like rock structures and green ponds laden with coy fish. I became obsessed with taking the perfect photo of a Willow tree touching the sun-reflected water, however, produced a poor to mediocre end result. Typical.

Other observations of note include: cigarette smoking in any and all places, toilets on the floor causing a girl to recall and utilize her “squatting in the woods” knowledge, heart twisting driving behavior, large green tea containers toting around with everyone, and, yes, peace signs. Lots of peace signs.

+ poster

+ Harsh Chemicals

As a long weekend made up of music, wine, and far too many meaningless conversations with well-dressed, good looking people came to a close I decided to spend Sunday evening cozied up alone with my version of the indulgent, serotonin-inducing romantic comedy: the latest fad-documentary out on video, “No Impact Man”.

After following a family of three through their eco-extreme journey in the urban trenches of Manhattan, I found myself adversely affected. Rather than evaluating the green and not-so-green choices that mark my life, I was left haunted by the over-arching, philosophical concept guiding the characters- that of going without- period.

After succumbing to the harsh stipulations of Colin Beavan’s no meat, no cars, no waste, (and eventually, no electricity), no impact project guidelines, Colin’s wife, Michelle, decides to go ahead and give up additional elements of her routine that, she feels, hinder her quality of life and tend to garner time/energy that could be expended in more productive, meaningful ways. These obstacles, while not directly related to Colin’s liberal, rather abruptly discovered tree-hugging convictions, have plagued Michelle for years and she bravely opts to give up vanity shopping and watching television for the documented 1-year period.  While these acts may seem to trivial to some, I greatly admired Michelle’s commitment to confronting addictions and her ability to critically self-evaluate her mind and heart while supporting her husband’s planet-friendly crusades.

Not to knock the chosen one, Colin. I certainly harbored a great deal of respect for his dedication to seeking out locally grown, locally distributed food products, his undying efforts to self-transport and even his less than masculine, at times splintered, speaking voice. Beyond Beavan’s demure charms, I was left with the impression that the film seemed to speak more about Americans’ undying obsession with consuming and wanting beyond our basic needs and simple pleasures than it did green awareness. Perhaps the two are one in the same, but I have a feeling Beavan stumbled upon this critique, which seemed to be more philosophical than practical or eco-enhancing. I found Michelle’s radical change from Prada-toting, taxi-hailing New York businesswoman to introspective, candle-burning hippie to be nothing less than thought provoking.

Following the film's conclusion, I sat in my Santa Monica apartment filled with what I have considered to be lovely, life-enhancing things and thought, “when will it ever be enough?” As I often am these days, I was suddenly struck with a mind-numbing fear. I challenged myself to concentrate on the wanting part of me, any and every tiny fragment of my being that wishes for something different, something better, and to tried my best at visualizing its presence being wiped away- even for a moment.  Then I sat in stillness and desperately searched for what would be left. What would be left?

Alright, so I have certainly grappled with similar self-assessments before. I have frequently scoured my closet for moth dwelling items suitable for Goodwill and I have even volunteered my time and efforts at great length for the good of humanity (or something like that), but something in me really snapped this time; it was an aimless anger that overcame me and furiously exploded, only to hastily be crippled with frustration, as I am not prepared nor willing to give up so many things that enable this endless cycle of desire and consumerism. I want to live in sunny California and want to enjoy the silly fruits of the city such as Acai-blended smoothies, yoga classes at the foot of a canyon and an endless buffet of professional opportunities to sample. I want to, one day, live in a bigger home and perhaps have a bigger bank account that will allow me to travel and see things I have never seen that are likely to be wantable as well. I want to be a better person. I want to create. I want to do it all. I want to finish this digressing blog entry.

Alas, I believe one of the points Colin and his wife wished to convey was that of personal lifestyle evaluation.  Yeah, yeah, there was all that no toilet paper crap (pun, yes, intended), but we must look our lives just as Michelle put it, “what do I want the next half of my life to look like?” I can ask a similar question, “what don’t I want my life to look like?” and find serious fault with several aspects of my routine comparable to Michelle’s vices including television (hulu counts as well), shopping for clothes and household trinkets,  and habitually vying for that white and green godlike cylindrical vessel containing some form of the coffee bean. I don’t want my life to be driven by these things. I don’t want to wake up each morning hoping to get a little taste of these or any other things that induce momentary pleasure. Simply put, I don’t want to find happiness and life-fulfillment in perishable things or in grandiose hopes.  I need to investigate the simple ways I can dilute the unnecessary and get down to the grass-roots of an existence that could possibly do without more than this 25-year old, Mac-toting, purse-collecting, silver spoon-fed girl could ever imagine. An even scarier proposition: letting go of the delusional goals that will never quite satisfy an empty appetite. I may need to address the hunger rather than gather and hunt for the food.

Quite an impact, no?

 

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