To The Land

So I went to Israel.

And found it to be a land of sacred footsteps, date trees, tension, mountain-top monasteries, rock-hewn fortresses, and limitless bowls of hummus.

Plus a million things more.

And while I'm full of empty promises to tell you about my travels, I do hope to share more about this trip.

'Cause it sure was trippy.

FunFactFriday:
Ye Oldest(?) Synagogue

(ScoutingNY did a blog series last week about the lovely, lovely island of St. John.  Which made me think about my own trip there, last January.  Which reminded me that I never posted this particular set of pictures.  So here you go - one year later - one more look back at the island.)

On our last day in paradise, my friends and I took a boat from St. John back to the main island of St. Thomas.  I had a later return flight than the rest of the group, so I killed a couple hours wandering around Charlotte Amalie before heading to the airport.

The main drag of the town is lined with high-end jewelry and souvenier stores. Neither is really my scene, so I visited the local synagogue, because... well, because of course I did.  

Here's a fun fact for you:  What is the oldest synagogue in America?  According to Wikipedia, that's a difficult designation to define.  Oldest congregation or oldest physical building?  Oldest that's been consistently used as a synagogue, or oldest that was at some point converted for other purposes?

Apparently there are quite a few synagogues vying for title of "oldest," but the synagogue on St. Thomas claims to be "the oldest in continuous use under the American flag."  How about that!

Still, that designation seems a little wonky to me, because St. Thomas wasn't acquired by the US until 1917, so technically this synagogue has only been under the American flag for the last 95 years.  But titles aside, it is quite old: the congregation was originally founded in 1796 (when the island was under the control of Denmark) and was housed in two buildings, each subsequently destroyed by fire.  The current building was erected in 1833 and has been holding weekly services ever since.

Check this out - the synagogue has sand floors!  At first I thought this was just an island-y touch, but apparently there is deeper symbolism.  Per their website:

"The sand on the floor is a remnant of the days of the Marranos, Jews during the Spanish Inquisition who were forced to convert to Christianity but who secretly continued to practice their Judaism. Since practicing Judaism was punishable by death, they met in cellars with sand covering the floor in order to muffle the sounds of their prayers."

Wikipedia suggests a second theory: the sand represents the Israelites' journey through the desert.

I visited just as the head rabbi was showing another group of tourists the Torah collection housed in the synagogue.

Several of the scrolls are very old and historic.  I just tried to find more information about them online, and instead stumbled upon this Travel/Bar Mitzvah site.  Did you know that, in addition to destination weddings, people also have destination Bar/Bat Mitzvahs?  Apparently they do.  File that in your fact folder.

Aha - here is an article about one of the Torah scrolls that St. Thomas has in their collection - dating to 1771, the scroll was used by Jews in Czechoslovakia, before being stolen by the Nazis, before being rescued by a group in London, before somehow ending up in the possession of a couple from New York, before being donated to the St. Thomas synagogue.  What a journey!

Looking up: chandelier and ceiling relief.

The St. Thomas synagogue is beautiful, if a study in contrasts.  The well-maintained mahogany fixtures and refined architectural elements seem in contrast with an unfinished sand floor.  And the troubled past that the sand floor recalls - as well as the sad history represented by that rescued Torah scroll - seems in contrast with the idyllic, sunny paradise that waits just outside the door.

It's a mish-mash of joy and pain, of loveliness and hardship.  A testament to perseverance.  And a nice place to visit, if you want to sit in the shade for a bit and think about how all that is a lot like life itself.

Looking Back at the 'Banks:
That's a Wrap

A few more pics to share, before we move on from the Outer Banks and back to "reality."  (grumble)

The two photos above were taken at the Currituck Banks National Estuarine Reserve.  Nature!  So pretty.  This city girl's been starved for it, lately.

More turtles from the aquarium.  I wonder what they are thinking.  I wish they could speak.  What would they say!?  Do you think they're slow talkers?  Or maybe they're super-fast thinkers, trapped in slow-moving bodies?  I wonder if they are wise?  ambivalent?  pranksters?   (Why am I trying to make sweeping generalizations about turtles?  I should just let them be (silent) individuals.)

"Art"

While at the Outer Banks, we met a waiter named Derek ("Excuse me, did I just hear a scallop hit the floor?").  We pondered LKJ's future career as a best-selling author ("The Healing Power of Wood").  We texted with our unseen landlord ("I'm Irish-Catholic, so...").

We also swam in the ocean at noon on New Year's Day.  I had done this once before - back in 2001, when I was living in the Netherlands and some friends and I took a train from Amsterdam to Scheveningen and jumped in the North Sea.  It's an event there, each New Year's Day, with 3,000+ people swimming and corporate sponsors and newspaper coverage. 

This New Year's, on our stretch of beach in Kitty Hawk, it was just three of us in the water.  Some people playing Cornhole nearby stopped and watched as we screamed and laughed and splashed, and then struck triumphant post-swim poses on the beach.  It was all very triumphant, really.  A baptism of sorts.  A new beginning.

Our rental house had a porch with ocean views, and we tried to eat breakfast out there.  I say "tried" because one morning we were thwarted by some aggressive seagulls (one with "webbed talons," according to an eyewitness report) who instigated an uprising and dive-bombed our pancakes.

Yes, the gulls won that day.  But don't worry - we fought back and reclaimed the porch in the name of Breakfast the following two mornings.  And it was all very awfully lovely.

The End.

Looking Back at the 'Banks:
Sunset(s)

Wanna see 8,000,000 pictures I took of sunsets on the Outer Banks?  Cool.

Sigh.  I know east coast sunsets can't hold a candle to their west coast counterparts, but there's still something so pretty about the fading pinks and shades of blue and the beach at twilight.

Looking Back at the 'Banks:
Jockey's Ridge

We spent the last afternoon of the year at Jockey's Ridge State Park.  Fun fact for you: these are the tallest sand dunes on the east coast!  Whaddya know.

Here's the thing: I don't get kite-flying.  Like, as a pastime.  Is it fun?  It doesn't seem all that fun.  Not to me.  But it does make for pretty pictures.

Now, this?  This looks like fun.  There were lots of kids (and grown-up kids) sledding, sliding, and rolling down the dune.

I elected to run down, myself.  Sand in my shoes is ok, but sand in my unmentionables = not ok.

We climbed some dunes, brain-stormed some sketch comedy ideas, talked about life goals (or lack thereof), dramatically reinacted part of a Britney Spears video, got contemplative for a moment, met a golden retriever named "Reba," watched some hang-gliders and parasail-ers.

And just generally enjoyed being out in the sun.

Self portrait

Group self portrait

First Steps

Scenes from the Trapeze School - New York

I'm in training. Sort of.

You see, I want to take this really long walk.  A five-day really long walk.  A five-day really long walk in Spain.

But I've had pesky foot problems for the last few years.  And though my heart is up for the journey, I'm not so sure my foot is.

So I'm testing the waters.  Taking my foot for long walks around the city.  Seeing how the ol' girl holds up.

We've been spending a lot of time in Central Park at dusk, my foot and I, exploring the hilly northern reaches.

This weekend, I walked home from TriBeCa (6.82 miles, according to Gmap Pedometer) and my foot kept up.  It didn't feel 100% great, but...it also didn't fall off. 

Success?

I rewarded my foot's valient effort with ibuprofen, and iced it with a bag of frozen spinach.  If it keeps up the good work, I just may buy it a plane ticket to Spain.

Sail Away

I finally finished editing photos from St. John, and was not terribly surprised to find I had taken an excessive amount of boat pictures.

Unavoidable Delays

Krakow, behind the Main Market Square

I mailed a postcard to my parents when I was in Poland three months ago.

It arrived today. 

That delay reminds me of my own delay in processing/posting pictures from my trip.  What can I say?  It's been a busy three months for me, and apparently also for the Polish postal system. 

I'll aim to tackle my to-do list backlog in February.  (I can make no such promises for the Polish postal system.)

All God's Critters

View from Ram's Head Hike

(There is snow on the ground here in NYC this morning.  Let's ignore it and look back at life on the island.)

I entered our girls-weekend trip to St. John with few expectations.  I expected there would be beautiful beaches - check. I expected there would be frozen rum drinks - check. And I expected there would be ample space and time to spend laughing with my friends - check, check.

But what I hadn't expected was the wildlife - St. John is teeming with it.  We were able to get up-close-and-personal with a variety of God's critters, and that ended up being one of my favorite parts of the island experience.

Here's a laundry list of our creature-encounters:

1) Countless pelicans

2) Lotsa little lizards
3) One BIG lizard (a green iguana, who dropped from a tree on a shopping street, causing a passer-by¹ to scream)

4) Bright yellow starfish, with diameter bigger than a basketball!
5) Schools of colorful fish
6) Spiky sea urchins
7) Conches on coral
8) Hermit crabs hanging out near recycling bins

9) Two squid
10) Four sting-rays
11) A few Great White Herons
12) Packs of wild goats, grazing roadside

13) A group of cows, walking down a mountain
14) Roaming wild chickens (including one who crossed the road in front of us.²)

15) Doe-eyed, sweet wild donkeys

16) A mongoose
17) A wild boar
18) Fang-ed deer³
19) Two or three barracuda⁴
20) A sea-turtle wearing a UVA shirt⁵
21) A shark!⁶

All of the above were spotted on the island of St. John (or in its surrounding waters), with the exception of the BIG lizard, who was hanging around in Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas.


1 - And that passerby was me.
2 - Why did the chicken cross the road??
3 - Kinda-sorta
4 - We're almost positive
5 - Not exactly...at all.
6 - No really!  I did!

Reality: Revisited

I'm slightly sunburned, bug-bitten, and still a little sandy. I'm back.

Back in a beige cubicle in East Midtown, which has never looked more gray.  I stare out the window and all I see is gray, gray, gray.  There is lingering snow lining the sidewalks, and it too is gray.  Forecast for today?  Chance of rain.  Gray, gray, gray.

More pictures forthcoming, providing it doesn't depress me too much to look back on the four days I spent surrounded by blue waters and green mountains and yellow starfish and pink bougainvillea.  Sigh........

Ok, ok.  I'm back.

Island-Time

The ocean in morning light, Amelia Island, last January

It's that time again - girls weekend!  I'm reuniting with some college friends and we're heading south to an island.

It's almost 1am.  I've finished packing!  I have to get up in 3 hours to go to the airport.

Should I sleep?  Or give myself a pedicure and make a mix-cd?

I think you know the answer.

Back in the Day

There are some situations in which I'm able to exhibit a tremendous amount of patience, and then there is travel. When going somewhere, I just want to be there NOW.  I don't have a ton of patience for traffic, delays, general dilly-dallying.

But I got a double-dose of patience-practice this weekend.  My bus ride to Boston on Friday night should have taken around 4.5 hours, but we picked up an extra 3 hours sitting in snow-related traffic in central Connecticut.

And my bus ride home from Boston on Sunday morning should have begun at 9am, but due to some d-baggery (That's right. I said it.) on the part of MegaBus, we didn't get on the road until close to 11am.

P-A-T-I-E-N-C-E.

It got me thinking about the days of yore, way back before busses even existed (let alone before they were mega), and how folks then must have been infinitely more patient than we are nowadays.  Because weather delays would have tacked on extra days - not just extra hours - to a trip. 

When your travel plans are impacted significantly not only by weather, but by horse health, by unpaved roads, by waning daylight, by highway bandits, by scurvy, by crop rotation (what I don't know about the days of yore, I make up), I think one must have lived with a more present sense of his lack of control in such matters. 

And in ceding control (or realizing you never were in control in the first place) of one's calendar and time tables, perhaps one is better able to swallow life's little delays with grace and patience.  Wait it out without tapping your foot.  Utilize the delay by reading a good book, instead of fuming that your afternoon gym time is being compromised.

Of course I can't quit my calendar entirely.  Nor can I ignore the value that modern society places on timeliness and efficiency.  Nor can I show up to work 45 minutes late, blame it on a sluggish horse, and expect no consequences.

But the next time the subway slows me down, I will practice letting go. I will read my book and will not tap my foot.  Days of yore-style.

Making Me Feel I'm Home

Hudson River and beyond

Hello, blog. I am back from vacation, from aways’ville, from Europe – land of pay toilets, history, destruction, cathedrals, Coke Light, coffee, and cake.

It was good to go. It is good to come back.

I am tired – not so much at surface level, but a deep-down, bone-marrow, heavy, tired kind of way. I stepped immediately into a busy week with little-to-no down time, so my eyes are focused on the weekend for recovery. Sleeping in? Naps? Watching mindless movies? I hope so.

Want to hear something dumb? When considering whether or not to buy my airfare and take this trip, one (small) hesitation was that it would mean missing part of autumn in New York. I love autumn in New York. I didn’t want to miss a minute of October. Of course this wasn’t a real reason to delay, so I went ahead and booked the trip. And lo and behold, can you guess what I found in Europe?

Autumn. Naturally.

Budapest and Krakow were yellow with swirling leaves. (Not so much Vienna; that city just has fewer trees.) It was pretty wonderful to see. One day I will show you picture evidence, but not today. I haven’t even begun to process my 500+ photos.

So instead I’ll leave you with this image of Autumn in New York, circa 2009. “It’s good to live it again.”

Show Time

East Village Lot

This week I had my sixth Improv show. But unlike the previous five - which were all class graduation shows - this was a real deal show.  One I was asked to be in.  One on the theater's main stage, with a slot on the theater's schedule, one where tickets were required for admission. 

It was like, you know, legit, and stuff.

I don't think it was my best performance ever, but I think it went ok.  I'm trying to let go of the need for perfection and (as previously mentioned) comparison, and just focus on the fact that I showed up.  Because - hey!  That's something, you know? 

I stood on a stage in front of an audience. I participated. I even did an edit, an initiation, and several walk-ons (Improv terms I don't expect you to understand, but understand this:  they're hard for me and I usually avoid them.)  I tried.  I gave it a go.  I had fun.  I WAS IN A SHOW!

So we'll call that success, for now.

Guess what else? My friend MadDawg made the trek down from Boston to attend the show, which made the evening extra fun.

Does it get better?

Yup.  I've got plane tickets to Europe next month.

Details forthcoming once my head stops swimming.

Drawing Near

M&J, dancing at Kat's wedding

On Sunday, Kat's Facebook status reminded me of where I was, exactly one year ago.

In a studio space, in midtown Manhattan.  The Magnetic Fields playing on the sound system. White walls covered in periwinkle paper flowers of Kat's own creation.  White folding chairs forming an aisle, which Kat walked down on the arm of her father, and walked back up on the arm of her husband.

It doesn't seem like a year ago since that wedding. It also doesn't seem like ten years could have passed since I first met Kat, when we were co-workers at a youth hostel in Amsterdam.  I, direct from college, had never before left the U.S. before getting on a plane to the Netherlands.  Kat, a few years older, had spent most of her life abroad.

She taught me about funky hairstyles and Henry James novels.  She also taught me how to ride double on an Amsterdam-style bike: side-saddle on the back rack, ankles crossed, hold on and lean back to balance.  We biked from the city center to the Jordaan that way one night - across the arched bridges over the canals, dodging tram tracks and pedestrians, the city lit up and whirring by fast, probably too fast.  I remember thinking, "Don't ever tell your parents you did this," and also, "Don't ever forget this moment."  It's still one of my favorite Amsterdam memories.

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 3

(Source)

As I said before, I've never lived in Ohio but it's always seemed a sort of homeland to me.  My family's history is there.  Whenever I visit, I think I should be able to feel that history, feel the pull of ancestral roots, or some such thing.

I usually don't though.  Don't feel those roots like I think I should.  The Ohio homeland connection is in my mind; not in my gut.  Nevertheless, I still try to picture what it would be like if I were to live there.  Could I live there?  Could I do it?  It would be nice to be closer to family.  It would be sad to be so far from the ocean.

When I flew back to New York on Monday, my plane touched down at LaGuardia and a flight attendant announced over the intercom, "If New York is your home, let us be the first to welcome you home."

Is New York my home?  Right now it is.  But "home" has a connotation of something more permanent, less transient.  I still feel pretty transient; I still change my address every two years or so.

Virginia, though the land of my birth, my childhood, my education, is no longer home. Not really.  I still miss the Shenandoah mountains in the fall, but not enough to seriously consider returning to them.  Boston is home too, in certain ways.  But not in others.

So to sum up: 

Dear AirTran Flight Attendant,

Thanks for the warm welcome, but I don't know if New York is my home. I mean, it is, but it isn't, if you know what I mean.  Do you know what I mean?  What I mean is, what is "home" anyways?  It is a bigger concept than we could possibly unpack while waiting for that guy in Row 3 to get his stuff together and get out of the aisle so the rest of us can disembark the aircraft.  You know?

And so, AirTran Flight Attendant, I'll leave you with that epic quote from the movie "Garden State":

"You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens...You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

Thanks for the gourmet pretzels and ginger ale.

Sincerely,
Seat 21-E

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 2

My uncle wanted to know what my life looks like in New York. "Where do you get your food?  Are there grocery stores there?"

Yup.  They're small and cramped, but they exist.

"How do you get your groceries home?  You carry them six blocks?"

Yup.  I just buy less, more often.  And generally try to avoid purchasing more than 1-2 cans of anything on each trip; it's only six blocks, but canned goods make for a heavy haul.

Then my uncle told me about his first trip to The Big Apple.  He and my aunt came here on their honeymoon back in the early 1960's; he, being a jazz enthusiast, wanted to check out some of New York's famed jazz clubs.

One night, they took a cab down to Birdland on 52nd Street - it looked nothing like what he had expected, but the music was great.  He loves his jazz.  ("Honey," he said to me, "Remind me to tell you about the time your aunt and I saw Frank Sinatra, when he opened the Coliseum up at Richfield."  Knights-Of-Columbus!!, I swooned.)

My aunt and uncle stayed at Birdland for several sets; it was late when they left the club.  They had realized on the cab ride down that their hotel wasn't actually very far away, so they decided to walk back.  They got about a half a block when they heard a weird clanking sound.

It sounded like it was coming from around the corner.  The mysterious clanking was getting closer and closer, and then suddenly appeared before them -

A man, covered head to toe in a full suit of armor.  (Knights-Of-Columbus, indeed!!)

The suit of armor clanked by them without word or explanation.  My aunt and uncle, suitably startled and confused, had a good laugh and decided to take a cab home after all.  This was one strange town.

And it still is.

New York has lost a lot of it's grit in past decades.  But you still never know just what might come clanking around a corner.

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 1

(Source)

I spent the weekend visiting family in Ohio.  My family has been Ohioneers Ohiosters Ohioans for generations and generations, almost since arriving in this country.  Almost, I say, because we apparently started up in Michigan.

"How'd we get from Michigan down to Ohio?" my mom asked my uncle.

"Chased," he said.

Probably.

I've never lived in Ohio myself.  I just grew up thinking of it as the homeland, visiting family there once a year, and always making Buckeyes for Christmas.  Chocolate & peanut butter: it's my heritage.

This weekend there was a community event in the town where my uncle lives.  On Saturday night we all trooped to the downtown traffic circle, and watched as local firetrucks led a parade of floats around and around.

The highschool marching band was there, playing cadences and their fight song.  The highschool cheerleaders were there, too; they were in uniform and crammed on the back of a small flatbed truck like cattle.  There was a more spacious float, carrying the members of the town's city council.  An older gentleman, resembling Santa Claus, drove a make-shift pioneer wagon.

There were floats constructed by local businesses (a beauty salon, a plumber, the A&W).  There was a pipsqueak-sized color guard, twirling orange flags.  PNC Bank passed out tote bags, a couple of churches were there to pass out candy (definitely the highlight of the evening for my little cousins).

After the parade passed us by, we wandered around the rest of the fair and purchased kettle corn and heard a local cover band perform a (semi-decent) rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."  Then it was time for the fire works; we stood - necks craned back - watching them explode in the sky above the white townhall building.

It was sweet and lovely.

I generally think of New York as a city that has it all.  But one thing it doesn't have? 

Small town charms like I soaked up last Saturday night.

I skipped town again this weekend.

Threw my journal, flannel pajama pants, a toothbrush and some snacks in a backpack, and boarded a train bound for East Quogue - a hamlet in the Hamptons and the setting for my small group's retreat.

As it was a weekend aimed at quietness, I don't want to muck up the recap with too many words.  I'm not even sure I have the words to describe the lovely loveliness of time spent away with these girls.

So instead I'll just show you some pictures and leave you with a poem.

Prayer

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

-Mary Oliver

A Snow Bunny Survives

This here house is where I stayed last weekend.  It is close to some mountains, and not much else.  All around us were snow-covered fields, and winding roads, and a big sky with visible stars.  I didn't hardly miss sky-scrapers at all. 

The place was decorated in a most unusual fashion. If you are feeling nice, you could say "eclectic." Otherwise, you could call it "weirdzies." (And you'd be right.)

I was traveling with a big group of hilarious people.  The kind of people who just might purchase snowflake sweaters at the Salvation Army and wear them ironically to dinner one night.  The kind of people who might try to scare one another with a freaky-deaky doll found in the living room.  The kind of people who enjoy trash-talking Canada, and the kind of Canadian people who can trash-talk right back.  The kind of people who made me laugh. A lot.

I learned to ski, which was fun. But also scary.  Sometimes I'd make it all the way down the hill without falling!  But other times I would fall.  Sometimes spectacularly (I've got the battle bruises to prove it).

Occasionally I said curse words as I zoomed over icy patches, 'cause holymoly and knightsofcolumbus, I was going *fast*!  But CJL coached me off the chair lift, and SBG coaxed me down the hill, and my fellow beginning skier, T-Bone, gave me the freedom to fail.  Because if you don't have the freedom to fail, then you have nothing...am I right, T-Bone?

Sunday was the dreaded holiday but I survived that in the same way I survived the ski slopes: laughing with friends.  Sharing lifts up the mountain, and high-fives at the bottom of it.  Eating meals around a big table, making cups of coffee to stay warm.

Oh yeah, and I got by with a little help from beignets.  Dozens and dozens and dozens of home-made beignets.

There were horses on the premises of our rental house.  This guy's name was Nugget.  He gave us knowing looks each morning as we headed off to the slopes, and he greeted us each evening when we returned to make soup and watch the Olympics. And wear snowflake sweaters. And laugh at the freaky-deaky doll in the living room, who we worried might come to life (ala Child's Play) and terrorize us at 3:30 in the morning.

But luckily the doll didn't come to life.  Luckily we survived.  I survived!  And I had a wonderful weekend.