The Non-disorder

Mexico City

Every time I come to Mexico, I lose my identity. This time, I was at Sense nightclub in Santa Fe – the height of posh in Mexico City. Before getting into the club, I showed the bouncer my U.S. license. I was with a group of girls, friends of friends. Half of us got the thumbs up and were allowed to get on the glass and mirror elevator into Sense, while the guards wanted to keep the other half waiting outside. Exclusive clubs in Mexico are strange like this. Wear the right outfit, get in. Know someone, get in. Pay someone off, get in. Be racially profiled in the right category, get in. Otherwise, the bouncers love to exert the ounce of power they have to keep you in line all night long.  

In my case, the U.S. license almost always does the trick. Thank you Malinche. (She was the Nahua woman from the region that forms the state of Tabasco today, on the Gulf Coast, who betrayed her own tribe in favor of a relationship with the Spaniard, Hernan Cortes, Conquistador de Mexico! Ever since, Mexicans have called themselves, Malinchistas, because they often favor the foreign over the homemade.)

Once inside Sense, I found my best friend, Bonnie. She took me to her table right away.

“Put your bag here,” Bonnie said. “It’s no problem.” And she was right. The only people in there were hijos del papa. The rich kids. I wasn’t even allowed to bring my camera into the club – I had to check it in the coatroom. Upper class Mexico has responded quite seriously to the current security concerns across the country. God forbid I get a picture of some CEO’s kid, post it on Facebook, and let a DTO kingpin find out where his target was, when, and with whom.

In fact, many of these people’s bodyguards were already standing outside the club by the time I arrived. I could identify the bodyguards because they were wearing vests with lots of pockets, and many of them carried walkie talkie radios.

Back in the club, a glass roof over the dancing mass of people opened to reveal the Mexico City skyscrapers around us. Then, they started playing Taio Cruz’s song “Break Your Heart,” and I couldn’t resist any longer. I just had to start jumping on the velvet couches around our table. Some songs just have that effect. My foot quickly found my purse and kicked it to the floor. Contents dispersed. Almost everything recovered. License gone.

________________

The standing joke when I’m in Mexico is that “La cigüeña se equivocó del país.” Meaning, the stork dropped me on the wrong side of the Rio Grande.  My friends love to call me one of the few American-Mexicans they’ve ever met. And after many years of legal residency in Mexico – first as a university student, then as a working professional, and now as an international journalist – it’s an identity crisis that I’m very proud to claim.

Throughout the past eight years, my life has seeped south of the border into Monterrey and now Mexico City. The friends I have here have become part of my extended family. And although I can’t claim any drop of indigenous blood as my own, I have become a mestizaje of culture, language, and customs – like the generations of Europeans and Native Americans mixed together before me. I blend my values and worldviews into something like the Coke and taco stands on every street corner – American and Mexican in one.

In 2008, CEMEX offered to help me attain Mexican citizenship on top of my U.S. passport while I was living in Monterrey. Although I chose not to pursue this option, the idea of claiming a second identity has always intrigued me. We do it all the time with our work attire, our inside voices, our best foot forward, and our hair let down.

Mexico is like this for me. For as much as I live the experience of being “the other” while I’m here (eh-hem, did you see that reddish haired white girl across the street yesterday?), I also feel that I’m part of this country in many of the details that define it. I’m in the $0.25 cents that it costs to travel from one side of Mexico City to the other via metro. I’m all over the fact that suadero tacos come from the meatiest part of the cow’s chest and that chicharron tacos are filled with fried pork fat. I’m in the million ways to use the word “chingar” and the knowledge that “el ultimo y nos vamos,” never refers to the last drink of the night.

I’m fascinated, for example, by Nellie Campobello’s childhood account of the Mexican Revolution in her novel Cartucho, and the fact that other writers of the Revolution like Mariano Azuela, Heriberto Frias, and Jose Vasconcelos ushered in a new cultural era and even helped to define the genre that has become Mexican literature today. 

Of course, I’ll always be a Gringa at heart. Come July 4 in Mexico, I celebrate my American independence with a good glass of Tequila Herradura Reposado. But then again, in the U.S. September 15 is also marked on my calendar for Mexico’s Independence Scream (the famous Grito – Viva Mexico Cabrones!) with a Sam Adams brew from Boston. I guess in the end, I’m both. Not really from here or there, but caught somewhere in between.

So it’s a good thing that when I lose one identity, it’s easy to find another. Forget the license. I’ll use my passport, or my expired Mexican work visa, or my university ID – one of the many me’s I’ve learned to appreciate during my time across the border. 

Flat Mates

Geneva, Switzerland

I hate dogs. Okay, sorry, that was mean. I don’t hate dogs. I just don’t like them. And you know what’s worse? That I actually feel bad about not liking them – not so much because I’m worried about hurting the dog’s feelings, but more because I’m worried about hurting yours. See, every time I confess my sentiments, old ladies drop their grocery bags mid-stride, babies cry, like “Mommy, don’t let her hold me,” and animal lovers everywhere shift their shoulders to think that maybe I’m the evil witch who abandoned the puppy they had the heart to adopt last month.

But it’s not like this. I swear. More than anything, my feelings toward the canine species are just indifferent. I mean, it’s not like I’m afraid of them. I also know that some cute little puppies are more endearing than others, and that none of them should ever be mistreated. But in general, dogs just don’t make me feel much of anything. Give me a good book, and I’ll swoon. Pass me a baby, and I’ll usually say aw. But ask me to play with your puppy, and I’ll pick my nose. I’d like to think that it’s a simple question of taste – one that couldn’t make me any worse of a person than your preference for stir-fry and my partiality for couscous.

Having said this, it should make no sense to you at all when I tell you that I am now dog sitting in Switzerland. Don’t laugh. This is serious business. For the next eight days, I have one friend in all of Geneva. And his name is McLovin. McLovin the Cairn Terrier. McLovin the recent addition to Arturo and Katia’s family (friends from Mexico who moved to Switzerland to work for the World Economic Forum). McLovin the toasted marshmallow fur ball. McLovin the ultimate lap beast.

Oh heavens, if only my employers could hear me now. I insist – Katia and Arturo – it’s not what you think. I know I told you that I like dogs during our interview, but what I really meant was that I was going to try and turn over a new leaf. Before McLovin’s caring parents leave me with the keys to their apartment, Katia says:

“We’ll be gone for a few weeks, and you’re welcome to stay in our place for as long as you like – just promise you’ll remember to pay a little attention to McLovin.”

“Yeah,” Arturo adds. “Promise to love him, and cherish him, and be faithful forever. Amen.” He smiles, and if it weren’t for the absence of the Catholic wedding lasso and the holy water, I’d feel as though he'd just spoken my marriage vows.

“Of course,” I say. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure that McLovin is cared for in the most professional manner,” ‘cause Lord forbid that anybody ask me to get personal here.

After all, a job is a job. You have to draw the line somewhere. It’s just not healthy to bring work into the home (except when your work lives in the home with you – then it’s a whole other situation). But when Arturo and Katia offer to become a part of my journey by lending me their posh two-bedroom apartment right next to the lake Geneva shares with France in exchange for my services as caregiver with McLovin, what sweeter opportunity could have come my way? This is financial crisis travel at it’s finest! See the world, one dog-sitting gig at a time. How hard can it be anyway, right? One cup of food in the morning, and another at night. Four poops a day. Fresh water every couple of hours and a long mid-morning walk. Simple.

**********

Katia leaves me a note with detailed instructions.

Take McLovin out for his morning pee-pee 9-9:30am

It’s 9:15am and I feel something wet on my scalp. And something hot in my ears. McLovin has discovered the most perfect place to rub and scratch his rag ears – my morning mop hair (a step beyond bed head). His short quick snuffs tickle my neck and for day number one I’m thinking – this isn’t so bad. It actually feels kind of nice to have some early company (McLovin, let’s forget about the “sit” and “play dead” basics I know you’ve already mastered – “Go make me some coffee!”).

And that’s when I start to feel something kind of wet and slimy wiggling back and forth on my bare bicep too. Hold on a minute. I’m confused. It’s early, I know. But Mr. McLovin, if your snout is up by my hair and ears, then what’s… Oh no. Oh no no no. You aren’t rubbing that on me. Please. And then it clicks. Just like the one-two hump of McLovin’s hindquarters. Right there on my bicep, next my shoulder, and then I say, “Bad! McLovin! Down! Sit!”

I grab his leash, while slipping on a pair of sandals. “I guess it’s time to take you for your pee-pee.”

**********

Call McLovin’s friend Diegito the Fox Terrier (022 71319 63). Schedule a play date 10:30-11:30am.

Is this for real? McLovin has friends? How is this possible? I’m in a city, completely alone, and this dog is busy fulfilling social engagements. I feel absurd. But ok. I promised to execute my responsibilities professionally, so here goes.

A Mexican woman picks up on the other end of my phone call: “Bueno?”

“Diego’s mom?” I say, my lips pressed into a smile against the phone receiver. Diego’s mom’s name is also Kathia (only spelled with an “h” because her last name is O’Farrill Duque – descendants of Irish immigrants to Cuba, though Kathia’s family later moved farther west to Mexico City).

“Hey, Cristina! Glad you’re calling. Diego’s ready to get over to the dog park. Do you feel like coming with Macarroni?” McLovin’s name is versatile. It turns into Max, Mr. Mac, Mac-Truck, and Macarroni – depending on your mood. The greatest part is that McLovin loves all his names. Just say them happily and he responds.

I recognize Kathia at the park because she’s the only one talking to her dog in Spanish. We start chatting like many mothers do. You know, saying things like, “Well, McLovin’s poop was a little runny today. Do you think that’s ok?”

But when I start to notice that Kathia’s Chilanga sense of humor is a breath of fresh air, I feel a very fast connection. We begin enjoying the afternoon without having to rely on the dogs. We jibber-jabber for hours in that quick and slow southern Mexico Spanish that slides over me like icing on a cake. And we all know that one jibber-jabber leads to another, which leads to a six pack of beers, and then dinner over at her place with her French-Mexican husband after he gets home from work.

Kathia came to Europe for love, and got married just a few months ago. She tells me about what it was like to leave home and accept the “you’re a crazy woman” blessings from her mother and from her grandmother prior to the wedding. She listens to stories about my journey and invites me over for chocolate cake and coffee in the afternoons (if you've ever wondered what two unemployed people are doing on any given afternoon in Geneva, we are most likely eating chocolate cake).

She takes me to a rugby match with her husband and a group of his friends in France over the weekend, and introduces me as her Mexican friend (and to my surprise, no one questions this claim). She patiently accepts a phone call from me at 1am one morning when I swear that I’m hearing noises in the night and tells me to go back to bed and that everything’s ok and that she’ll be over first thing tomorrow.  Kathia helps me with my French for hours at a time and her jokes – her Chilanga style – wash me with a new wave of energy and motivate me to keep pushing until the end of my trip.

Dear little McLovin; thank you very much for introducing me to my new friend, Kathia.

**********

Feed McLovin dinner between 6:30 and 7:00pm

One of the best parts about dog sitting is having access to a kitchen. With real pots and pans. And spices. And oils. I make a quick trip to the market everyday in Geneva to buy fresh produce for my evening meals. And McLovin watches me cook.

Sautéed spinach with olive oil and lemon juice, sprinkled with raisons and pine nuts. Whole-wheat pasta with garlic vegetable sauce. Uff. And local wine. Don’t forget the wine. And McLovin continues watching.

I turn on the evening news, and keep my dictionary handy to read the subtitles in French. I pour McLovin his evening cup of food and slowly savor mine while he inhales his in one quick breath. Then he sits next to me and watches TV. He puts his head in my lap and keeps me company while I eat my meal. It’s the first time in months that I’m able to enjoy my own cooking with the quiet yet comforting presence of a friend (no, I did not just call this dog my friend – sorry, I meant canine).

And so the days pass. I become less and less embarrassed about picking up McLovin’s poop on the sidewalk (watch out for the monstrous fines they’ll give you if you don’t take care of this thankless civic duty in Switzerland – they even have posts with “doggy bags” tied to them at every street corner). Everyone has a dog in Geneva because the Swiss, like the French, love their little companions.  And I’m not going to say that the whole experience doesn’t touch me in some way, because it does.

Actually, I can’t believe that when it’s time to leave, I’m even a little sad to say goodbye to this dusty, dirty little pure bred (was I supposed to bathe him?). I’m sad enough to give him a big hug and wish him all the best. But don’t worry – not quite sad enough to make McLovin a play date with a mutt of my own.

 

 

Footnote K: When instinct overcomes indifference…

I feel guilty now. You must think I’m an awful dog-hating monster. And to prove to you that I’m not as heartless as you think, I want to introduce you to Chipinque the cabbit (cat + rabbit) – the rabbigato that followed me from the U.S. all the way to Mexico.

One day, as I'm leaving work in Monterrey for my mid-afternoon siesta, I find him in the CEMEX parking lot. He’s small. So tiny and looking for warmth, snuggled up against the back left tire of Mustang Sally. I pick him up (never mind the bugs) and he pushes into my chest, claws dig deep, and he won’t let go. I pull my hands away but he stays on my shirt like Velcro.

I take him to a friend’s house and she says “ewwww!” In fact, her live-in maids find the cat running through the living room and are so disgusted by his bald spots that they throw him back out onto the street when I'm not looking. And it devastates me because all I can think about is the poor little baby, lost and alone again.

Eight hours later my friend calls. She says, “Your creature is back. And he’s hiding in a box in the backyard. We can’t get him to come out. You better get over here and pick him up.”

And so I rescue Chipinque again. This time, I take him to the vet and the doctor stares at the kitty with big, wide eyes. “You do know what this is right?”

“Yeah, a cat,” I say. “I found him at work.”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s a rabbigato. A cat-rabbit mix found only in the U.S. This cat is from your country. I don’t know how he found you, but he sure has come a long way.”

Don’t ask me why I’m so wrapped up in the doctor’s story, but I’m totally into it. It’s ok that the term “cabbit” is actually an impossible, mythological mix of species and that it really just refers to the Manx line of felines (tailless cats with longer hind legs than fore legs – hence their tendency to walk with a sort of hop – and a special affinity for swimming).

This cat is so ridiculous that I can’t not love it. He forces me to employ my instinct to nurture, and we become best buddies (what other cat do you know that showers with his master?).

Until one day when he gets attacked by a black bear, or a mountain lion – we never fully discover which. My elderly neighbor who’s always opening the knife drawer and threatening to kill her cheating husband is convinced that the gay man from the fifth floor of the apartment is actually the one who attacked Chipinque – with an axe. In any case, the cat is alive but nearly torn in two. Four weeks of surgery and US$300 later, Chipinque is walking again (though with a huge bald spot across his entire right side).

When I move away from Mexico, I leave the cat with my apartment neighbors in Monterrey’s state park, Chipinque – the mountain my manx is named after. To this day, I imagine him making his rounds with all of the neighbors – a communal pet coming and going as he pleases through open doors on every floor. Teaching everyone a little something about the possibilities and the unexpected joys of letting instinct – just this once – dominate indifference.

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 Three

Above the Arctic Circle

Ivan the Terrible is flaring his upper lip and I can see his fangs from ten meters away. We’re on a path in the woods and the sun has just made its last shining puff for the night. Ivan is bigger than all the others and capitalizes his size advantage to begin viciously attacking his teammates. Now he has his neighbor by the neck and won’t let go. He gnaws mercilessly and writhes his shoulders deeper into the bite in order to assert his dominance – and I’m sitting here watching every minute of it.

These huskies are born and bred to pull sleds. Within the first six or seven days after birth, a good musher (or driver) is already holding and speaking to the pup in front of its mother in order to gradually and wholly assume the role of master in the dog’s 15 year (average) life. While they are young, the dogs train only in the warmest months. Working during the spring and summer allows them to build their strength until they reach the 12-month mark when they are fully able to handle pulling a sled in the arctic cold.

The 11 dogs harnessed in front of me tonight are perfect. They are beautifully proportioned, made of pure, conditioned muscle and bone, and protected by thick, full coats of fur. They are connected by a fairly complicated rope-to-carabiner system that forms them into an elongated amoeba. One in the front, then five cascaded pairs.

The lead and the dog closest to the sled must be the strongest, but not necessarily the largest. They are the ones that use their muscles most efficiently and behave most obediently according to the driver’s commands. And they need to be smarter than the rest of the team with inherent leadership skills, because sometimes the other dogs actually follow them more than the driver. Ivan the Terrible is the largest dog on the team tonight, and also one of the strongest, but he is most certainly not the lead. He’s too brutish and too horny.

“Horny?” I ask the sled driver, not sure whether I’ve misheard or maybe it’s his accent, or…

“Yes, horny,” he laughs. Torban is a full-time dog breeder and sled driver from Germany. He’s tall and thin, roughly 35 to 40 years old, and forms his speech through gaunt and weathered cheekbones. The relationship he has with his dogs is full of heart and calculations – a most perfect love affair built on passion, trust, obedience, and responsible decisions.

“All of my best leads have a bad case of kennel cough right now,” Torban explains. “Twelve dogs of the 35 that I own have serious infections. Normally females make the best leads, so I put this one on the job tonight. But she’s in heat, and it’s making the male dogs on the team get crazy and misbehave.”

Now I get it. I’ve met plenty of Ivan the Terribles in my life. They usually imagine women are in heat after only a few beers, and generally manage to cause the same biting confusion this dog creates amongst the team tonight.

“He just needs to run,” Torban assures me (is this what I’m supposed to say from now on? Go take a lap and then we can talk?).

“That’s what these dogs love to do. Work is play for them,” he says. And with the quick release of a short, one-syllable command in a special language used just for sled dogs, Torban gets them into gear. The dogs start pulling, and burn a burst of calories from the 1.5 pounds of raw meat they consume everyday. The first heave to get the sled into motion is the most difficult. The huskies really have to dig in, but then, once the sled gets gliding, they sprint together as a single-celled unit. The barks that pierced the woods just a half second ago subside immediately and the huskies focus on the task at hand. The dogs won’t settle – they are in fact anxious – until you get them running, and then everything disappears.

All sound is muted. The dogs’ paws pound and patter silently across the snow. The trees and short quick breezes absorb any note of our presence and it’s just me, and the night sky, and the tundra, and the occasional sound of the wooden sled coming down hard after hitting a mogul. Sometimes the rough drops rack my bones and teeth against each other but I don’t feel it because I am drawn completely toward everything else.

And when the dogs need to turn right or left, Torban yells “Gee!” then “Haw!” In less than a second all 11 dogs follow the command at the exact same time and pull us in the right direction. It’s as automated as a turn signal on a car and makes me wonder if the huskies aren’t actually people dressed in dog costumes – it’s that quick, and that obedient.

“I’m out almost every night,” Torban says as we pull further into the wilderness, “but I haven’t seen the lights in weeks.” He tells me that it’s definitely worth traveling to the top of the world to catch a glimpse of their belly dance in the sky, but that hardly anyone has seen them recently. “It’s been a bad year to catch them,” he says and I say that I seem to have heard that before.

The way he says it, though, sticks to my chest as I recline against the back of the sled. I am sitting on top of a reindeer pelt. When I stick my fingers into it, down toward the skin, the fur comes up to my middle knuckle.  Everything rises and falls all around me, into my lungs then out again. It’s been a bad year to catch them. Catch what? What is it that I’m so eager to find? So eager to receive. Catch this like a baseball. Catch that like a joke. Catch this like your sweater on a hook, and it sends you reeling around to face the other way.

The breaths I take while riding behind the dogs tonight are full of the purest oxygen on the planet. And the night’s dome redefines my retina’s understanding of the color midnight blue. The intensity of this place is overwhelming because it feels like the sky is sitting right on top of me. It’s not as heavy as you’d think, though. I carry it easily on this sled with me, in my pocket, and under my gloves. I take the air in slowly and deeply, checking to make sure that the stars don’t get caught in my teeth. And I recognize the sanctity of my stillness, despite gliding across the snow in full motion.

By the time we reach a Sami teepee to take a rest in the middle of nowhere (address please? Third tree from the left), I need to use the restroom. Torban asks me if I really have to go and wants to know if it can wait until we get back to the kennel a couple of hours and a few miles back.

“Why?” I ask. Aware that de-gearing in the cold will present it’s own set of uncomfortable challenges.

“Wolverines,” Torban responds. “They’re one of the few species that kill for pleasure. And they don’t care if you’re a human or a sled dog.” I laugh because I think he’s joking, but when he doesn’t even smile in return I realize he’s not. “We’ve had a few problems with them recently – though not this close to the trail. If you really have to go, stay close to the dogs. I’ll prepare us some coffee over the fire.”

Is this for real? They’ve had some “problems” with flesh eating monsters lately? And if I just pee my pants? Because going inside the tent unfortunately isn’t an option. I could ask Torban to watch for wolverines while I relieve myself in front of him and the dogs, but that’d just be weird. The only other option I have is to end this paragraph here, leave it to your judgment, and hope you’ll still decide to be my friend in the end.

Anyway, the Sami tent. We start a fire inside and heat up some sandwiches until they’re filled with smoke. And the coffee is a muddy mix of campfire and thick, grainy liquid. The dogs are harnessed to trees outside, and for the first time tonight they are silent and restful. I step outside to greet them.

After seeing the way they chomp at the bit to run and go and move like wild animals because they are wild animals, I’m a little afraid to pet them, but Torban says it’s ok. And so I lay down with them. On top of the snow, and they’re on top of me. They lick my face and I’m a toddler with pretend friends everywhere. It’s playtime! And then I look up, scanning the entire horizon for any sign of an aurora borealis.

I’d love to tell you that I find the lights right now – it’d be so perfect – but I don’t. Chasing after uncertainty teaches me that perfection most accurately rests in the eyes of the expectant. And I’ll be best off when I can learn to expect nothing and find perfection everywhere. Torban ducks through the tent flap as he comes outside. He sits down and I wonder how he got here, all the way from Germany, and what this is about, and…

“I had to get out of my cubicle and I felt the call,” he answers before I can even fully ask. It’s something, I think, that he knew about me before we even got to the details. “I’ve been breeding and racing sled dogs for 15 years,” he says. “I don’t make good money, but…”

“But you’re happy?” I interject.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But more than that, I’ve found my family. I live with these dogs. They mean everything to me. They know when I’m in a good mood and when I’ve had a fight. They love me and protect me and I do the same for them.”

Torban tells me about one time a couple of months ago when he was out on a team building mission with a group from the British Army. Snow came in from nowhere, and from everywhere, blowing up and down and sideways, and it blinded all seven teams. Each person was driving their own sled with five or six dogs depending on their weight. (Even when you have your own team, though, the dogs will only follow commands from the head musher. The rest of the time, they’re actually just following the sled ahead of them.) And the team building wilderness adventure was cut short, and they had to set up camp for days, and the dogs were the only reason the group was able to stay warm enough to not die.

“Woah,” I say, looking straight into Torban’s big eyes. He smells sour, like a mountain man. And his face is attractive, save the leathery years added by his work. I look down and notice he’s missing two fingers from the middle knuckle.

“I fell through the ice last winter with a team of twelve dogs,” he explains before I can fully ask again. “Frostbite,” and it’s like he knows what I’m thinking and maybe he knows why I’m here (could you share the secret please?) and then we have a meeting of purpose without needing to share another word. Just a few last sips of coffee.

Rugged mountain man meets arctic cowgirl. He’s into his life pretty deep now. Up to his neck in ice and snow. He says he’ll never go back, because he’s found it, whatever that is. And I like the sound of that challenge. Never go back, or maybe never look back. Catch this like a curveball you never saw coming.

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.”

To Whom Much is Given: Part Two

Riga, Latvia

The guy from the bus. The one with the dark, messy hair and the thick Baltic accent. He’s unshaven and his teeth are the color of candy bars. He talks with a one-quarter smile, like he’s trying to sell you tickets for something and has no idea that you’ve already made other plans. My interaction with him is gum on a shoe. I keep thinking about it, over and over on the tip of my tongue. I can’t figure out why. Still sticking. And then, it’s clear. I’ve seen him before.

In Mexico, I live in a 10-unit apartment building. It’s a mountain tree house hanging half-way over a cliff.  And the only people who live there have somehow dropped something along the way. The retired couple below me fights everyday. The woman screams and tells her 75-year-old husband that he’s a no good slut-lover, sluts sluts sluts, and “I’ll kill you,” she yells, and then I hear metal clashing and know that she’s opened the knife drawer again. The gay couple on the fourth floor happily collects the extra onion peels from my refrigerator once each week. I think they make crafts with them. And the building administrator burns incense at an altar he’s built just outside his door – smoke clouding around the shrine’s Buddha statues, crucifixes, flowers and potato dolls. But this man from the bus to Frihamnen’s Harbor…

He’s exactly like the 55-year-old manic-depressive on the third floor of my apartment in Mexico. Both men have the same yellow smell and the same melted wax under their eyes. One late night, I have some friends at my place in Monterrey. The front door is unlocked because more people are on their way. I am preparing a drink, then changing the song on the stereo, then turning around and the 55-year-old neighbor is standing right there – right there in my kitchen. He’s hopped up on something and asking me for a fix. The men around me are immediately concerned. They stand quickly and put themselves between the intruder and me.

They ask him what he wants, how he got through the door, what on earth made him think it was appropriate to walk into a woman’s apartment without an invitation. He starts to stutter. He’s unable to explain himself – pupils dilated – nearly crying over the frustration he experiences when unable to communicate. He starts to push the boys, losing his cool now, frightening everyone – an alarm clock with no buzzer. My friends take him outside, throw him against a wall and make it very clear with fingers closed tight into rocks that he is to never bother me or make me feel uncomfortable again. Don’t even say hello.

“Hello you, gurl…”

And now I am on a ferry full of my neighbors, sailing to Latvia. Upon boarding, I read a sign translated from Latvian, to Swedish, and then English. It reads: ICE WARNING in capital block letters and gives a brief weather forecast for the night’s journey. I decide to order a glass of Merlot at one of the ship’s four bars, sit down and hum to a one-British-man band’s rendition of “We are the Champions.” And then I visit the cruise casino and feel lured to the black jack table where I win enough lats to pay for tomorrow’s lunch.

Next, I walk to the candy section of the duty free store onboard. Here I notice a surprising number of families with small children also traveling this evening. My lungs expand with relief. I quickly learn to find these kinds of parents when feeling concerned or unsafe. Simply sitting near them or walking close by helps me to pretend that they are tying ribbons in my hair and reading me stories too (for information on important bedtime stories, please see footnote H).

And then slowly, as the sea’s giant waves roll over and under, moving me to sleep in my single, windowless closet-cabin, the kids from the duty free shop push my uneasy neighbor out of mind. Memories from Mexico fade backward toward childhood, and I rest for nine hours at sea – back and forth, lullaby baby.

By the time we reach Riga’s port, I am ready to walk from the harbor to the city center where I will find St. Peter’s church (one of Riga’s skyline centerpieces, and a fully restored masterpiece after suffering fire damage during World War II), the Riga Cathedral in Dome Square, and the Swedish Gate built in 1698 during Swedish rule (the only remaining fortress entrance to Riga’s UNESCO World Heritage Old Town). I move from tight alleys to open squares, turning my map a full 360 degrees at every street corner. And it’s cold; more than in Stockholm the wind here whips around me, biting and kicking, and gives me bloody blisters on my chin.

All afternoon, I walk. People are everywhere, but somehow the city feels empty. The streets are frozen and the walkers whisper. Hardened, solid faces reflect in storefront windows. The women wear the highest heels I can think of on these cobblestone streets. And the men pull fur flaps from their hats over their ears. The city gives me a feeling I’ve never experienced before. It’s as if everyone were busy hiding, only they manage to do this while actually positioning themselves as plainly visible targets in the most public of midday places. I notice that the Latvians walk with an even pace, not too quick and not too slow, heads down against the snowy bursts. They all move just like this. All of them of course, except for the children. The young ones move erratically, running ahead and lagging behind, and I happily allow them to again push the foreignness of this place just out of my reach.

By the time I arrive at Riga’s Occupation Museum, documenting over 50 years of Soviet and Nazi presence in the region, I am ready for a break from the cold. I am unaware, however, that what I’ll find inside this building will numb me and turn me even more hollow than the below zero winter coming in off the Baltic outside. The journey from 1940 through 1991 will hurt and make me want to grab the children’s hands from just a few blocks ago and skip with them until our legs fall off. And it will help me to understand why the behavioral differences I notice on the street have less to do with age – adults acting one way and children acting another – and more to do with stark generational contrasts that presently define the country’s mood swing up or mood swing down.

**********

Sometime around 9000 BC, after the Ice Age glaciers retreated, nomads settled the Baltic lands in order to collect and trade the region’s rich amber deposits. Latvia’s history was subsequently defined by a series of violent German crusades, and then occupation periods by Poland, Sweden, and eventually the Russian Empire. After World War I, Latvia seized a window of opportunity to declare independence from Russia on November 18, 1918. The country signed a peace treaty in which the USSR promised to never attack Latvia again, ever…

…until 20 years later when World War II started to frown it’s ugliness across all of Europe. The Soviets found creative and devilish ways to break their treaty with Latvia without violating the terms that had been set. The Russians bombed themselves just inside their western border and blamed Latvia. Then they accused Latvian political leaders of hosting secret meetings with Estonian and Lithuanian councils to conspire against the USSR. Grounds enough to invade the Baltic states in 1940.

And when they invaded they did it with jaws like a bear trap. In the first year alone, 30,000 men, women, and children disappeared forever – sent to work camps in Siberia and never heard from again. Nearly a thousand were shot, execution style, before they could even be dragged from their neighborhood. Children were imprisoned for singing Latvia’s national anthem or wearing patriotic colors. And the women were sent to special camps where male soldiers raped as they pleased.

The Soviets were so ruthless, in fact, that when the Nazis briefly fought them off and hosted their own occupation of Latvia from 1941 until sometime around 1944, the Latvians celebrated the German takeover because at least their inhumanity was somehow targeted, less random, and sickly ordered. The Nazis blamed Soviet cruelty on the Jews and by the time World War II was over, only 1,000 Latvian Jews remained.

When the Soviets retook Latvia in the WWII tug of war for control, they started burning things. Everything. Churches. Books. People. They killed senselessly and disappeared entire communities; one morning you wake up and your neighbors are gone and you have no idea why. The randomness of it all caused such terror, causes me such terror that I start to feel cold and ill.

It’s one thing to watch a documentary. And it’s altogether different to read a book. But when you touch the wood from a work camp bed, knowing that innocent prisoners were forced to hide the bodies of other dead inmates there – pretending that the deceased were only asleep – so that extra food could be harvested from the body... when you touch that wood you want to throw up on yourself.

Or when you see the miniature cloth dolls sewn by 25-year-old girls in Siberian camps, using hair from other dead prisoners, bark fiber, or scrap cloth. It’s like somebody takes both hands and squeezes your stomach until you’d prefer for it to pop. I see drawings of Latvian flags from families left to live in agony over the loss of their loved ones, and read patriotic love poems written from the deepest part of a man’s heart. Such love and such passion for home; and such unforgiveable violations of that sacred affection.

In Riga, history becomes my troubling present. I am affected by the violence of Latvia’s occupation years, but what actually troubles me more is the senselessness behind it all. I am lost between the neighbor that was shoved onto a train to Siberia and the other who was tied to the execution wall. I am wandering aimless between one girl’s guilt and another’s innocence. And more than anything, more than any other question this experience drives into my mind, I want to understand the senselessness that put me in America, born in 1984, so far from it all. A generation and an ocean apart.

I’m looking for an appropriate response. An inch of guilt wants to come up from my toes but I push it down. I think it’s something else. In Latvia, my guilt means nothing. It’s superficial and selfish, and it doesn’t come from the heart. For the most part, guilt dwells in our intestines, close to the dirtiest muck in our bodies.

I am hoping that the response I start to feel once safely aboard the ship again is something more permanent. I want it to last longer than three hours in a museum. I want it to drive me forward and change me. I want it to expect something from me. And there it is. This is what I take:

To whom much is given, much shall be expected.

It would be a crime against generations past with problems more complicated than mine, for me to sit down and let my life just happen. I can’t and I won’t. I will question things and take notes. I will open doors and walk through them. I will keep going, treading, and finding. I will feel the richness of every moment as deeply as I possibly can. And I will keep learning and pushing upward against gravity. All of this, so that other people’s struggle for a life that was given to me so freely will not be wasted. Ever. This much, I promise.

 

 

 

Footnote H: I’m eight years old in the first house my family has ever owned at 110 Mitchell Drive in Pittsburgh. It’s summer time and Grammy and Grandad have come to visit. Grammy tickles my back just before bed. The sun is still out, but an 8 o’clock bedtime is an 8 o’clock bedtime. My sister and I share a room. Every night we listen to stories. Tonight, after our back tickles, Grammy reads “The Funny Little Woman.” “Long ago, in Old Japan, there lived a funny little woman who liked to laugh, ‘Tee-he-he-he’ and who liked to make dumplings out of rice...” And when Grammy reads the laugh, she performs it. Her reenactment of the Japanese woman’s laugh is so high-pitched and so funny that my sister and I squeal with delight. Every night we ask her to read it over and over again. And she does, and it never gets old.

**********

Once each week, Kimberly and I bring home a new book from the school library. If it’s a silly book, Dad gets to read from the edge of our beds. Our bedroom at 110 Mitchell is a cape-cod doll house, with window nooks and crawl-in crannies. This week, we’re working through a chapter book, “Sideways Stories from Wayside School.” Funny vignettes about Mrs. Gorf the third grade teacher who has a long tongue and pointed ears make my sister and I giggle and imagine our own world with such fantastic detail. Some nights my sister and I create equally whimsical stories and whisper them to each other long after Mom and Dad have turned out the lights.

**********

And then there’s Shel Silverstein. His poems are so absurd that they can only make perfect sense to a kid. His story, “The Giving Tree,” teaches me to see the world from all different angles. Because see, when a tree makes friends with a boy (stay with me here), the relationship can be seen from many different places. First the tree offers the boy a branch to swing on, and then some fruit to help him grow strong, and then shade from the rain, and then lumber for a boat, and finally a stump to rest on. It’s a story about one relationship with many phases.

My family reads me stories over and over as a child, and they use the words from these tales to nourish and encourage me. And perhaps in these close head-in-their-lap moments, I am able to first feel the power of a good story and of those who tell them in my life.