Lights in the Night: Part Four

Above the Arctic Circle

Page number 82 in my journal used to say zilch. Except for one small sentence at the bottom of the page, scribbled and smeared: “Show me Your lights.” I remember writing this sentence – a quiet prayer aboard an all night train to Kiruna, Sweden. A silent, one-way conversation with Him, or Her, or You, or the Spanish girl below me who kept passing me glasses of rum and coke all night long. Consumed with so much possibility – so much excitement to see the Northern Lights – that I nearly had to tie my legs to the sleeper couchette in order to keep from jumping straight onto the tracks and shouting it to the sky myself, words pushed and pleaded through hands cupped around an oval mouth.

“Can I get a pair of snake eyes!” More than a request, it’s like a crescendo exclamation, slow then fast, and you throw it out there only after shaking the dice in your little hand cave just long enough to help you think that your touch and your words will make some sort of difference. This is what our prayers are anyway, right? A gamble on a felt table, a howl into the night, a hope that what falls on the flop bodes well for the turn and better for the river. “C’mon Ace of Hearts!”

I am writing to report, and very happy to say, that page 82 is now complete. And so are pages 83, 84-87, and 88. Full of unexpected answers to an open-handed gamble and a blank page prayer.

**********

“Do you like chocolate, Christine?” Sara asks as she peeps her head into my bedroom. The sun pierces through the curtains that barely shade the room’s large picture window. It’s 9am and my eyes are crossed, but this is an easy question.

“Do I like chocolate?” I almost scoff. It’d be like asking me, “Christine, would you like to build a home out of, bathe in, or otherwise consume industrial quantities of chocolat noir, coffee (espresso, please), and/or red wine?” Umm… hello?! “Yes!”

“Good! Then today we have chocolate for breakfast,” she says. Like, today let’s play hooky and forget about homework, and Power Point, and office chit chat. Sara is an angel in mom clothes. She places a small tray in front of me with six different truffles arranged perfectly around a cup of coffee.

“I walked to the store this morning, while you were asleep,” she says, “and I hand picked some different pieces for you. The chocolates are made here in Kiruna, by an Austrian immigrant, with berries and other flavors from the north.” She points to one on the left. “This one is very special. I hope you’ll like it. It is filled with one of Sweden’s most famous and delicious fruits – the wild cloud berry.”

Popping the truffle in my mouth is the solidified version of Juan Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth – an everlasting, orange-yellow sweetness. It’s so special that you can’t hold it in; you have to open your mouth like “ahhh…” even before you’re done chewing. Take a sip of coffee. Add this to my life habit list: eat more chocolate for breakfast.

I could just as easily be standing outside this bedroom’s picture window, shivering from cold, watching myself – watching someone else – enjoy this moment. But the kindness the Westerberg family has lavished on a stranger keeps me warm and holds me inside.

Sara knows that I know. And she returns my silent expression of gratitude with a smile. Oh heavens, that smile. It’s not even nighttime, no stars in sight, but in this moment I catch my first glimpse. There it is. Right there across the curve of her lips, bright from inside, deep and heartfelt – a most perfect aurora borealis.

**********

There’s a special place by the Torne River – made of the river – in the Sami Village, Jukkasjärvi. The Ice Hotel is one of Kiruna’s most amazing gifts to the world. A 5-star igloo. The original Absolut Ice Bar. Twenty minutes outside of town. €340 to €600 nightly rate. Built from ice, and snow, and nothing else. Opens in January, closes in April (because it melts of course). And I arrive just in time. Just as some of the hotel’s custom-designed rooms begin to show signs of springtime. Dripping faucets from the ceiling freeze to hanging icicles at night.

Twenty years ago, the Jukkas Company (now Ice Hotel, Inc.) began pulling together artists from different countries to design and build a series of masterpiece suites. The only catch? Water – and all of its corresponding states – is the only building material permitted on the premises. Every summer, Ice Hotel receives applications from hundreds of architects and accepts only the best. They come together and start construction in early December, once the Torne has frozen thick. They pull ice from the river in huge, shack-size blocks. And they construct one of the coolest (literally) properties on the planet. They build a church. They build a bar. They build a palace fit for the Ice Queen herself.

And then it melts. Every May, the Ice Hotel flows back into the Torne. Recycles itself and leaves no trace behind. Something like an arctic sandcastle washed away by waves of sun. This is the 19^th time they’ve built the place and it changes every year. Lucky number 19! Hit me again. Today I’m going for Black Jack.

Angelica Patomella is a Kiruna native and bartends full-time at the Ice Hotel. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend (see the pattern?) who has offered to get me into the Ice Suites for a free tour. Show me her favorite rooms (a special just-for-me sneak peek), and spend the day teaching me about Kiruna, and Jukkasjärvi, and her life above the Arctic Circle.

It’s her first day off in lord knows how long and here she is, picking me up, taking me to lunch (you guessed it! The most delicious salmon and reindeer meat buffet – free of charge for Ice Hotel employees and their guests), and introducing me to her little chihuahua, Gucci.

“I’m just happy to be able to help you with this project you’re working on,” she says as I crunch down into the passenger seat of her 1970’s Saab. Project is an interesting way to put it, but I guess that’s sort of what it is. Some might call throwing yourself across an ocean on a blue pill whim something closer to an overdose, but naming it a project sounds much more civilized. I’ll make that my story. And stick to it.

Inside the Ice Hotel, I don’t know where to begin. The lobby is a great and long hall. And a beautiful receptionist, clothed in reindeer fur and capes and white says hello and come on in. But it’s more like fly on up because it’s a whole other world. Full of ice columns that look like glass and five huge ice chandeliers that twinkle like crystals (of course they have to run waterproof wiring throughout the structure. What’s an igloo without electricity?).

And then passageways that lead you here and there. I’m afraid to step too hard for fear I’ll break it or make the snow ceiling cave (impossible actually, this thing is frozen solid). But it’s all so alien. Maybe I can find Kryptonite here, locked up in a secret room.

The ice glows blue, then green. Colors of the ocean made transparent then opaque with snow pushed into the otherwise clear and shiny surfaces. And the effect it has on me is silent. The walls pull my speech into their cold embrace. And the hotel quiets me. And then I’m in a Japanese architect’s room (made to look like a mine explosion) and then I’m in a Bulgarian architect’s room (made to look like all of the walls are covered with the underside of giant fungi – get it? Mush-Room?).

The Ice Hotel is a giant treasure chest (to catch a whiff of gold, please see footnote J). “Before the season’s out,” Angelica begins to confess, “I will stay in the Mush-Room. It’s my favorite. It just makes me feel so soft and cushioned when I’m in there,” she says. As if she were telling me about her first crush or her latest kiss.

Though the Ice Hotel offers “normal” accommodation as well (what’s normal when you’re on top of the world anyway? Up is down and down is up), guests who want to sleep in an Ice Room will have to snug into a sleeping bag made for -40°C on top of reindeer pelts thrown across a bed of ice. Inevitably some guests will become overwhelmed by the experience and wake up in the heated section of the building, on top of one of the available sleeping cots. Others will get too drunk at the Ice Bar and end up puking in their Ice Suite (you don’t want to know how much the cleaning charge for that is… imagine scraping vomit from a snow floor!).

And then we turn a corner and I’m in the most amazing suite. It’s a split-level room. The first level is an ice maze. You weave in and out and around the corners and just when you think it’s going to end, it keeps going. And then you reach a door that takes you up a ramp of snow. And the ramp of snow leads you to the bed that spreads on top of the maze. Like catching a moment’s rest only after a hard day’s work.

I’m lost in the maze. And I actually start to panic rather quickly inside the thin passages, surrounded by thick walls of ice. Angelica calls for me to keep coming. “Just keep walking!” she says. And I’m following her but she’s turning corners and then I lose her again.

“I can’t see you,” I shout ahead, toward the last break where I swear I saw the back of her red jacket.

“Don’t worry!” she shouts in reply. “Just follow the Lights!”

Follow them and keep going…

And in a flash, I catch another glimpse – right in the middle of this tight ice maze. When I least expect to experience the force of their beauty, the Lights glow bright around Angelica’s frame. “Thank you,” I say, “for helping me to see You now.”

**********

I see them again when Anders comes home from his fishing trip with a bucket full of arctic salmon on ice. He teaches me to dress those little guys, chop their heads off, pull the bones out, salt them just right, and tsss! Fry them until they’re warm inside. “Dinner!” Anders says as he points to the long, pink filets in the pan. Oil pop, hop, poppin’.

And the Lights’ wavy brightness appears again as Sara and I enjoy watching Bad Company while sipping on a Famous Grouse. We clamp fruit chew candies between our teeth and pull the whisky through for an added touch of sweetness.

And a final time when the Westerbergs take me back to the train station. “We sure have enjoyed having you stay with us,” they say. They send me on my way with the pair of Sami mittens I’d been using to snow mobile and dog sled, packed snug into my bag. “It’s just a shame that you never got to see the Lights you were looking for,” Sara says with her hand between my shoulder blades.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say. Because the truth is that I totally did.

 

 

 

Footnote J: Inside the Ice Chapel, Dutch architects have carved a message into the wall, just before the first pew. Their hope for your experience:

Step into a mysterious entryway of organic formations and luxurious overgrowth, which leads to a welcoming, peaceful space that offers security and clarity.

On the days that seem like they’ll never end, I revisit the private prayer nook in the church. Carved into the wall. It’s just big enough to let your shoulders pass through. Little block bench, take a seat. The ice envelops you and cuts you off from the rest of the world. Silence breeds deep breaths and a moment of Arctic solitude.

**********

One of my favorite Ice Suites is called “Whirling Stairs.” It’s a room full of topsy-turvy staircases. Some point to the bed, others connect the floor to the ceiling. One staircase has fallen onto its side. The room is disorienting (where’s the elevator, please?) and then I read the architect’s message to visitors:

The steps that you take in "Whirling Stairs" may not always lead up, but, just like a walk on the stairs of life, you will eventually get to where you need to be.

In that case, I think I’ll just keep climbing…

**********

I can see You now. I knew You were here. The Ice Suite titled “Sur Real Stage,” shows me the greatest treasure of all. A giant, man-sized monarch butterfly made of ice. It’s wings spread across the bed of reindeer pelts, and almost move for me, almost blow me away.

“How’d you get here?” I ask the sculpture. “How’d you find me?” All the way from Monterrey. You’ve made quite the journey, little one.

The English architect describes his work:

In “Sur Real Stage” dreams intertwine with reality, and you won't know where you got on or how to get off…

Hold on tight, precious butterfly, and fly with me through the night.

Lights in the Night: Part Two

Above the Arctic Circle

“G’morning! This is Stockholm calling!” It’s Andreas. He’s phoning to check that I’ve arrived safely and to let me know that he’s been in touch with half of Kiruna. And that half of Kiruna is ready to find me and take me skiing, and to their homes, and later for lunch.

“But first,” he says, “my dad wants to take you snowmobiling. And it needs to be before he goes ice fishing with a friend over the weekend,” Andreas explains. “Dad called me this morning to have me translate since Mom is at work. He’s ready as soon as you have some breakfast – deli meat, cheese, and toast (with fish paste). And coffee. ‘Cause you’re going to need to be very awake.”

I hang up with Andreas, and as Anders takes the phone from my hand, his face says everything I need to know. It’s a comic book, and a thousand-page novel, and the exact same grin I saw from his son just days before. It’s a semicircle keyhole to a world of happy thoughts, harmless pranks, and good ol’ fashioned fun.

I’m already dressed, but Anders begins to toss me new clothes, Sara’s I presume, and points to the bedroom. Special windproof ski pants, three pairs of very heavy wool socks, a fleece pullover and a windproof Helly Hansen shell to wear on top.  Plus thick leather, Sami mittens that reach the middle of my forearms (fingers need to work off each other’s heat – in this way, gloves are counterproductive). And a big motorcycle helmet. And a pair of boots that feel more like moon shoes. Like extraterrestrial footwear that is about to help me defy this earth’s hold on everything. Up, up, up and away!

Anders rents a 3x2 meter space in a large warehouse to park his snowmobile. It costs about $260 for a one-year lease. Before mounting the vehicle, he revs its engine in order to pull the traction band and front-runners onto the snow. He motions for me to put the helmet on, pull the face shield down, and climb on behind him. Grab the heated passenger bar. And try not to let go.

In Kiruna, you are never farther than five meters from a snowmobile path. They run parallel to every major road, and operate their own tundra traffic system, with underpasses, stop signs, intersections, and everything. From the warehouse, we ride just a couple of meters and we’re in the woods. The snow is perfect for making our own trail today. And then Anders kicks the engine a little harder, and I’m pulled back into my seat, trying to see, but I’m laughing so hard that it fogs my face shield and I’m dewing my chin and cheeks with drops of spittle. Happy, rabid spittle.

A moment later, Anders pulls off the gas for just a second. He turns halfway around, takes one hand off the handle, and draws a fast circle with his forearm in the air. We are co-stars in a Los Angeles western and Anders’ only line comes easy as pie.

 “Just like Texas!” he yells. Let it all out now, “Yeeeehawwww!”

Oh, I am totally not in Texas. But I am galloping across the wild frontier. And so I think silently to myself, cowgirl let’s go hogwild, and then I think less silently to the world, one arm over my head, “Yeah!” Again. “Yeeeehawwww!”

Woah baby. We’re zipping left and right. I bend my body like a cardboard poster, leaning into the curves so that I don’t fall against this tree or that shrub. So much snow. And in just five minutes I can’t see anything. No sign of civilization. Nothing, except exposed bushes that look like treetops, buried trunks, and yellow stains from the sled dogs. We whiz past an occasional red tag tied around a tree branch to mark the different paths. Then I see a sign. This way to Finland. This way to Norway. And this way to Russia?! It’s true. I’m so far north, that I can look over the edge of the world and almost see you in your kitchen. This way to Kiruna. This way to whatever it is you're looking for.

When even the trees disappear, Anders speeds up. 90 kph. 100. 110. We reach 115, and I’m heaving with laughter between the “Oh my gosh’s” and the “We’re gonna die’s!” And once we’re in the middle, right in the middle of this white wide-open space, Anders drifts to a stop.

“Ok,” I say. Then I tap Anders on his shoulder and ask, “Now what?” still laughing.

“Now you go,” Anders says with an expression that is amusingly stiff from the cold, like someone has locally anesthetitized his jaw and lips. He pushes himself off his seat and helps me to slide forward. “I wait,” he says. His face, though red and weathered from 55 years in the arctic tundra, sparkles brighter than the snow beneath us, like, go get ‘em girl. Here’s the gas. Here’s the brake.

Nothing to lose, I realize, because Anders has brought me to a place where it’s impossible for me to crash. He has put me on top of a giant, snow-covered lake. You’d never know though, because frozen water and solid ground blend seamlessly together in the arctic. One minute you’re on earth, the next you’re not, and the only way to know is by listening to the trees’ whisper, or absence thereof, around you.

Driving a snowmobile is like managing a wave runner, only much more stable. It’s like handling a car, only much more wobbly. It’s like testing the temperature of anything before you eat it, accelerate just a little, now a little more, and voom! I’m flying (but without the jet fuel), and it feels like an earthquake, and giant waves, and good vibrations. I drive in big circles. On lap three, Anders is far away, out of sight, and I am totally alone at the North Pole. I see sun-stained mountains in the distance and pull the throttle just a little tighter, push myself and this bike, I mean scooter, I mean snow horse just a little harder. And then, in the middle of no man’s land I’m surrounded.

I’m racing the final stretch and they’re all here to cheer me on. My parents are waving their arms like maniacs, screaming and shouting and telling me to go! Go! Go! And my sister is laughing from her belly and her lower back and running and pushing me from behind. And Gabriel is on the megaphone to assure me that I’m almost there. Everyone – the Westerbergs, my friends in Stockholm, my friends from Mexico, they’re all jumping and hoot-hoot hollering with water in case I get thirsty, and blankets in case I get cold. Yes! Two milliseconds pass… and swoosh! I’m crossing the finish line.

Of course – this isn’t the end. Nor is it the beginning. It’s just one more stitch in the pattern, one more patch for today's sewing project. I know I won’t earn any blue ribbons here (thank God elimination charges are irrelevant as well). Because like always, I’m somewhere in the middle. Of an arctic lake. Of something bigger than me that I’ll never really understand. However, it feels like a victory. A small one, but important nonetheless. And Lord, it’s sweet. So, so sweet.

 

 

 

Footnote I: Don’t worry! I didn’t leave Anders behind…

For three hours we weave our way through the arctic forest. And then we’re on another lake. And then I’m the driver, he’s the passenger. And now we’ve reached a place where men are cutting huge blocks of thick blue ice from the river. And then we’re behind a dog sled and Anders tells me, “Go slow now,” (take it down a notch to show your respect for the dogs and keep a safe distance – these huskies are very special).

By the time we finish, my face is swollen and my eyes are puffy. I haven’t even realized, but my temples are stained with tear tracks from the cold wind (I may have forgotten to wear my face shield while driving). I’m exhausted. When I finally step off the snowmobile, my legs start to shake. Like I’ve spent all day galloping on a horse, or skating with rollerblades.

Anders struggles a bit to get snow mobile back into the warehouse. I watch him and understand how the simple freedom of racing through the forest on this machine (catch me if you can!) could keep a person happy despite such wild winters.

I am so grateful for this day. I want to tell Anders. I want to thank him for his time and for helping me to cross the finish line. Also for his big Texas “Yeeeehawwww!” and for helping me create a day, a memory that I will have for the rest of my life. I offer to pay for the gas we used and he lifts both his hands in the air. As he throws his palms down (like, ah! It’s nothing!) he pulls a smile up. And you know what he says? Seriously, I’m dying to tell you… he says:

“You happy?”

“So happy!” I say. Arms spread wide to show just how much.

“Good,” Anders says, shiny as the sun storm I’ll look for tonight. “Then I’m happy too.”

Traveling Trinkets

The journey continues, crossing the Atlantic

I have a dead butterfly in my pocket. It’s perfect, just like a Monarch should be, and wrapped safely inside a miniature ivory locket. I’m also wearing a silver, four-looped ring forged by a jewelry smith from southern Mexico. I carry a clothbound journal with mountains of messages from home, each one waiting for me to reach its page during my journey. And then there are the farewell kisses that draw pretty constellations across my cheeks…

I am a walking alter.

I am a connecting passenger from Pittsburgh to Chicago to Copenhagen to Stockholm.

Fellow travelers check their tickets: United Airlines flight 8802, group 3, boarding time 16:45. The men with suits and briefcases must be trying to make an early Monday meeting. A few families look like they are returning home. Still others will be visiting their parents, or maybe a girlfriend. Most trips are like this – point “a” to point “b” journeys. Start here, end there.

I check my ticket and see the same information: United Airlines flight 8802, group 3, boarding time 16:45. I crane my head back to see the departure information screen and confirm the schedule. Pass through security, one more time. Then the gate monitor reminds me again. They all make it perfectly clear that I have no idea where I am going. Add axis “z” to this trip where point “a” and point “b” won’t take you anywhere without a third coordinate. Start here, end up in outer space.

I want to tell you that this is an overwhelming feeling, but it’s not. It’s like asking your father how he learned to parallel park. It’s a process, and you are mostly unaware. I anesthetize any possible shock with daydreams. I imagine the series of events that brought me here: the countless, however significant choices I made to take the blue pill and not the red one.

See, swallowing the blue pill isn’t as smooth as a sip of cough syrup. It’s not fast and no single dose will do the trick. First you need to research the side effects and consider what has happened to others who have chosen to ingest. Then you have to find a glass of water that will push your decision down. And of course, you will need to find good company. People to hold you up on the days the blue pill gives you a stomachache and turns the floorboards beneath you into prickling heads of cactus.

**********

It’s September 2008 and one of my best friends in Monterrey is getting married. She’s from Europe, he’s from Mexico. The celebration will be a Swedish, Hungarian, Italian, Latino affair.  The bride’s family comes over from Europe, friends arrive from the U.S., and I am excited to meet them. I open a hostel in my apartment, and we are fully booked. Two Swedes from Stockholm sleep on couches; another two from Halmstad in my bed; and I sneak under the covers with my roommate. We are together for an entire week. This is the first time I hear Swedish. It’s also the first time I try Sweden’s Turkish Pebbar (Turkish Delight I later rename it after C.S. Lewis’ White Witch treat) – an intensely anise flavored candy with spicy pepper filling. I teach them salsa, they teach me swear words, and I decide it’s time to invent an international document I’ve come to call the Travelers’ Code (this surely already exists but, just for fun, let’s pretend it’s mine).

The Travelers’ Code is a list of should’s and should not’s. For example, four Swedes come to my place. We get to know each other, share a few tequilas, learn new words and habits, and eventually form a bond. I should go and visit them in return. I should see where they are from. I should begin a bed-for-bed barter system. And I should not delay. Open wide. Pick your color.

Now, I am looking for a glass of water. The blue pill is in my mouth. I’m chewing on it, trying hard to swallow, but I can’t seem to get it past my tongue. I’m not sure where to go or how to get there. And then I find it.

It’s 9am on a Friday morning. I come to work, sleepy Chinese eyes, papers stacked to the top of my cubicle. I sit down and open my computer. Here, stuck to the keyboard, I stumble across a most unexpected and quenching surprise. It’s a post-it note from a good friend who understands my thirst. She sits just a few cubicles away and has left me a Friday morning wake-up call. The post-it stares at me and washes my questions away. It says, “You cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

And I should not delay…

Windows start menu; open internet explorer; enter the address Cheaptickets.com; I am available for travel on February 7, 2009; Visa card; are you sure you would like to purchase?; yes; itinerary confirmed; one-way; Pittsburgh to Stockholm; take a deep breath; now go tell your boss.

The rush of adrenaline this purchase sends through my body is the electric shock a Super Bowl champion must feel as he first tests the weight of Vince Lombardi’s trophy. Instead of Cadillac’s latest Escalade, however, my victory is accompanied by tight indigestion. A tummy turning realization that the blue pill is on its way down, and it’s not coming back up.

I start to explore the consequences. I will move from point “a” to point “b.” And then to points “c,” “d,” and “x.” I will write. I will waste time. I will slow down. I will test myself. I will get scared, happy, lost, and (insert adjective here). But first, before I leave, I will attend a local performance of the Broadway musical A Light in the Piazza with my mother. I was unaware beforehand, but the show is about a girl’s first trip to Europe. She explores Italy; gets scared, happy, lost and (insert adjective here). And she sings:

“I’m just a someone in an old museum, far away from home as someone can go, and the beauty is I still meet people I know… this is wanting something, this is reaching for it, this is wishing that a moment would arrive. This is taking chances, this is almost touching what the beauty it is.”

The lyrics reach my shoulders and pitter-patter through my eardrums: a river of water diluting the blue pill’s initial sour aftertaste, turning it into something sweeter and more permanent.

**********

And now, after many glasses of water, I am floating through airport corridors, following signs, turning circles. I am flying over the Atlantic. It’s a timeless “Caught in the Middle” kind of place, somewhere between GMT -6 and GMT +1. Then, I am landing in Copenhagen, listening to the soft Danish announcements come over the airplane intercom. Now I am in the Schengen Region, and then a quick flight to Stockholm. I am hitting the accelerator. Ride ‘em cowgirl!

Mina damer och herrar, välkomna till Sverige!

 

 

Footnote E: A quick word about the trinkets I carry…

The Monarch butterflies migrate through Monterrey twice each year. Once in the spring as they head north toward Canada, and once in the fall as they head south toward Morelia, Mexico to breed. According to the Indians in Mexico, the butterfly is a sacred symbol for life beyond the grave. The butterfly must first experience the cocoon’s sleepy death before fluttering its beautiful orange-yellow wings in life.

The butterfly is also an important image displayed during Mexico’s Day of the Dead celebration in November. During this month, the Monarchs arrive to Morelia. And Morelia is one of southern Mexico’s most traditional locations to celebrate El Dia de los Muertos – this holiday honoring life after death. Honoring souls that could not be conquered. Butterflies have always been an important part of my life. They appear when I am troubled and often bring a deep breath of clarity to my confusion.

It’s November 2008 and the butterflies have just come through Monterrey. Look up. Go on, throw your head back! It’s an amazing show of transparent and twinkling wings. Hundreds, thousands, more and more keep coming. They are beautiful and they are taking me with them. It’s time to leave Monterrey. Time to follow their lead.

I tell Gabriel that I saw the Monarchs and that they made me feel light and secure. He says nothing. His response is more sincere than words. He walks around the forest that surrounds my apartment and finds a treasure, just for me. A number of butterflies fall from the sky, tired from the journey, unable to continue. Gabriel finds one that has fallen softly, no wing damage, only colorful perfection. He wraps it for me. Close your eyes; hold out your hands. Now smile.

**********

Idunn is a friend from Norway. She lives in Monterrey and hosts a farewell dinner in my honor. She invites Laura the bride and Lisette from the Netherlands. We share salad, homemade lasagna, traditional Scandinavian vanilla sauce, warm coffee, and Regio gossip. These girls understand what it’s like to need a little help getting big decisions settled into your stomach. Idunn sees a bit of heaviness in my face. She pulls me aside, takes me into the bathroom, and closes the door.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she tells me. “Because I have this for you.” She pulls a silver ring off her left index finger. It’s a deformed four-leaf clover. She says she bartered for it with an old lady in a dusty Monterrey antique shop. The way Idunn puts it, the ring has something special about it. Some enchantment cast by the Señora who sold it to her. “It’s supposed to bring you good luck. It helped me find mine. But then I discovered that I’ve had the good luck inside me this entire time. I hope you’ll find this too and then give it to someone else.” I smile as we embrace, and with my hands around her neck, I slide the ring onto my left index finger.

**********

This year, my favorite Christmas gift came from my sister. She bought me a clothbound journal smothered by an image of a whirling butterfly. She dedicated time and energy to hunting down important childhood friends, high school friends, new friends, total strangers, everyone. She asked them to encourage me by writing notes on random pages. She tells them, “Your words will be a part of my sister’s journey, so make ‘em good!” Kimberly is a blue pill woman. More than anyone, perhaps, she understands the consequences of my decisions, how they make me feel, how they simultaneously thrill and terrify me. She absorbs the vibrations of these decisions with me and together we share cups of tea, cans of beer, card games, and Albert Einstein talks, long into many nights to help get that blue pill down and keep it there.

**********

I’d love it if you bought me a new Coach bag. Airline miles, bottles of Herradura tequila, or a $130,000 scholarship for my Master’s degree (figure based on the latest “Estimated Cost of Attendance for Two Years” information sheet sent by Columbia University where I have just been offered admission to their School of International and Public Affairs for August 2009), would also be great. But nothing, and I’m being so serious, nothing could ever replace the value of two parents who send you off on a crazy man’s journey with hugs and kisses. My father says he’s proud of me and my mother says I am precious to her. Worthy of my father’s praise and sacred to my mother despite being unemployed, unsure about what’s next, up in the air on a Master’s working out, shaky on my savings, and generally all sorts of turned around. Their kisses cushion and protect me; block my falls and tell me exactly who I am.

“This is being thankful, this is counting blessings…”

Smack dab

Introduction

I just turned 25. Enter stage left: Ms. Mid-20 something! By all accounts, this year is supposed to be one of the more fabulous ones in a woman’s life, so I decided to start it in style.

After living in Monterrey, Mexico for nearly four years, I quit my fantastic full-time, stability granting, career-woman job to go and chase after some of the world’s most impractical goals before later moving on to start a Master's degree. Get a Mohawk. Learn two more languages. Travel Europe for five months on a three-month tourist visa. And of course, (sorry Mom and Dad – I recognize I may not have been completely upfront about this next one) visit the nudest of nude beaches.

The list continues, but these are some of the more pertinent items on order. For information on the origin of this list, please see footnote A.

I should also point out that the vision for this plan came into being prior to the world’s decision to turn into a giant pit of quicksand and economic turmoil. It’s important to note because when the U.S. government decided to inject its first $700 billion into America’s financial system last October 2008, the dollar flexed it muscles around the globe, strengthening against other world currencies.

Within four months, my hard-earned savings from the past three years were devalued by nearly 30% against the dollar. I’d been gathering my travel fund in Mexican pesos. But now, just like the monopoly money poker bets placed on Wall Street, the exchange-rate value of my pesos took an unexpected hit.

Things just got…

…a little more interesting.

While preparing to leave Mexico, I sold nearly all of my belongings for enough money to purchase a one-way ticket to Stockholm, Sweden. I cut my hair (not a Mohawk yet, but still shockingly short – enough to stir up that “I ain’t nobody’s woman” feeling I would highly recommend to any girl in her mid-20’s. Piercings, tattoos, and drastic wardrobe changes can also do the trick, however I tend to suggest the less permanent options for us beginners).

The week of my 25^th birthday was my last one at work. I packed my boxes, handed over the keys to my cubicle, said a few teary eyed goodbyes to the people who’d become my family in Mexico, and set off driving toward the Texas border. Cowgirl meets wild new frontiers.

I am in every way, "Caught in the Middle." Mid-twenty something girl quits job, enters radical transition phase between steady work and steady schooling. I am caught in the nasty wire transfer from pesos to dollars. In the middle of a rabbit-hole plan. Between countries, cultures, and languages, and I’ll bet that in some way you are too.

Welcome to my collection of stories for people who are mid-way there. For those who are in the middle of a big decision, people caught mid-discussion, for half birthday enthusiasts, middle children, and middle managers. I hope you’ll find pieces of yourself here, between things old and new, near and far – somewhere between birth and death, because ultimately we’re all somehow… Caught in the Middle. And what matters most is how we choose to work it when we're walking that middle line.

 

Footnote A: It’s 2am in July 2006. One of those perfectly warm Kennywood cotton candy midnights in Pittsburgh. No better time to take a dip in our backyard pool with my sister and our childhood friend, and frankly there’s no better time to do it in our skivvies. No one’s watching – I can almost hear our neighbor snoring through his second story screen window. I follow my sister’s lead, the path of strewn socks, t-shirt, and shorts leading up the back patio stairs toward the pool deck.

The three of us run around the edge of the pool, giggling, still a little performance shy. Splash! Sister takes the plunge. I follow. Friend follows. We all get out, skipping around the pool deck. Fairy-like. Laughing, cackling really. Splash! Here we go again… in and out, up and down. Little Gollums running in the night. Whoosh! Down the slide – cold, wet fiberglass against the back of my legs and on my hips.

We play like fireflies, and we send our laughter up to the universe. And it is the truest laughter I have ever released, the kind that splits through all sadness and forces you to discover things. In this moment, my sister’s freest of free spirits inspires me. My friend’s courage fills me. It is one of the happiest memories I hold onto in my life. And if something so simple could bring me that much closer to myself, why not make a list of a few other simple goals to bring me closer still – a few more adventures to help grow these girl bones into woman ones with just a little more grace… and a little more style.