Girls on the run
Babofilia
I. and I took the pacific railway north after deleterious car demons made it impossible to safely travel alone, and frankly, despite the extra hours, it was far more enjoyable than driving myself with her strapped tightly behind.
After accommodating our few belongings in the overhead bin, we settled into a comfortable arrangement, lifting the foot rests, and reclining our seatbacks. The man sitting next to us with heavy black boots and distinctive arm tattoos looked familiar, but I observed , snatching glances only out of the corner of my eye. He pulled out his notebook and began writing, I asked I. what work I should do first: the reading or the writing. She proposed reading, and when asked if I should do the fun reading or the not fun reading she insisted that I do the fun reading (also necessary) and so I acquiesced to her plan. Meanwhile she “read” Dr. Seusss and drew pictures and stamped in her rubber stamp kit, while I read a play.
After a short while she became bored and discovered a little boy her age, Luis Alejandro, several seats back. When his mother passed I asked her if I. could introduce herself, and instantaneously they were inseparable friends. “Mommy, guess what? He’s from Tijuana!!! We went to Tijuana!!!” They spoke Spanish all afternoon, and I. was unhindered by her lacking vocabulary, both of them communicating through sounds and gestures to describe all the stories that they wanted to tell each other. He was, it would seem, as much of a Scooby Doo aficionado as she, and he rivaled her in sociability and chatter as no one I have ever met. Dangerous thoughts were sparked, that is, that inner roar for a boychild of one’s own… I have always been thoroughly happy with just a girl, but this pequeñín was so endearing and bright, and so full of promise for the male half of the species that it created a desire in me to have my own to coddle and form. Ah well. Not now, maybe not ever. I. was invited to watch a movie with him and his little sister Paolina, and I was able to write several mini-sections of a story, brandishing Lucy for the world to see.
I splurged on the endeavor and took little I. to dine in the dining car, as we watched the mid-California landscape pass slowly as if in a parade before our eyes. And after dinner Alejandro and she snuggled in for a reading of the Sneetches and Other Stories. Alex said it was ok if it was in English because he was learning in school and he listened attentively commenting on the pictures and telling us stories about his friend Angélica. I. got excited because her Daddy’s name is also Ángel, and they took it from there, bouncing off all sorts of anecdotes about the time she slammed into the stairs and had to go to the hospital to when his friend Armando was knocked over by a forceful frisbee. It is amazing the power of storytelling, and how at such a young age children begin to learn that human interaction is ultimately based on such stories. Of course it helped that they had a common language, but I am sure that even in its absence they would have found a way to involve one another in their narratives. Alejandro’s father took the children down to the play area in the car in front of us, and Craig, and I introduced ourselves. Yes, he said, I was familiar to him, too. He was sure he met me when bartending. Indeed he did. A bartending writer, how exciting.. His move to San Francisco has been fruitful, he said, and he has been writing full time. Lucky man. He gave me some tips and the name of his publisher who, it seems, does not require a literary agent to consider manuscripts. Good information to file away for future reference. His seatmate, Dustin, was a newly unemployed 30-something civil engineer who pumped me for details on different countries where he could go to learn Spanish, and where the political and economic climate would be most favorable to him… ok, that part was my addition, he just wanted to know about partying, I think. The hours stretched on and on…
The trains do not run on time, and while fascism seems to be overrunning our country, a timely train is not this government’s priority (perhaps because it doesn’t pose the massive consumption of unrenewable fossil fuels?).
Finally, Becca was waiting for us at the station, and Kirsten back at her house. The babe was fast asleep in the back seat by the time we were at the house and it was girls, girls, girls for the rest of the night, catching up on the details that escape our sporadic phone conversations.
Mount Diablo
We set out on a quest for wildflower heaven (I myself desirous of a poppy-filled field). Upon entering the park, however the ranger suggested that children enjoy “rock city” and I. became singularly obsessed, and after visiting the summit we descended to picnic among the stones. A selection of dried fruit and nuts, apples and kiwis, multiple semi-dry artisan cheeses, and crackers spread themselves before us, and after we explored the ridge. Walking in the wild with scientists is always a treat because when I. asks what the different flowers and tracks are, she gets more than a mere speculation.
After basking in the sun for several hours and looking in vain for more than a smattering of wildflowers (including lovely clusters of lupine and aromatic grey sage), we went to assuage Becca’s 4pm chocolate craving and we delved into another discussion of the finer points of human relation (no, no solution to the problem of World Peace or the common couple).
Finally after a failed attempt at swimming (the water was far too cold and the baby swam across the pool howling before she decided that a warm bath was a reasonable alternative), we went down to Berkeley for a late dinner at Bosphorous, a Turkish restaurant whose décor was certainly outshined by its cuisine. Although, come to think of it, the cozy little candelit booth towards the back was an intimate space in which to share stories, and share we did as I.;s second weekend obsession was us telling stories about when we were little girls and we got in trouble (guilty conscience, mais oui!) I told her about the time Ari (age 6 ½ ) took me (age 4) by the hand and we escaped our parents in the Parque Güell hiding for over thirty minutes on the upper level when we had been playing hide and seek among the pillars on the lower one. Kirsten shared a story of torching the toaster with an icecream concoction under the not-so-watchful eye of a nanny, and Becca about playing with an abandoned strip of telephone cable in the backyard no-man’s-land, and whipping herself in the eye, scratching her cornea. But no matter how many stories we told, she just kept asking for more. Upon return I meant to only nuzzle with the girl until she fell asleep, but was overwhelmed by my own lack of sleep and didn’t rise until morning. (A well needed rest.)
Vacation accomplished
The practically unmanageable and unmangiable banana from the train ride was converted, in a group effort, spearheaded by Kirsten, into a lovely walnut, chocolate and wholegrain bread, which incidentally is accompanying us on the train ride home. We headed downtown to the embarcadero where we had at “Mijita” marvelous fish tacos, queso fundido, a bottle of wine, and thou… errr. No. Kirsten bought another amazing selection of cheeses from the stand inside and we had cheese, fruit and hand made corn tortillas for dessert. Kirsten left to meet Spring and Maggie at a Japanese tool shop and Becca and I wandered with little I. towards the Yerba Buena Gardens. We were distracted by the Comic Museum and explored its walls until closing. I must say, I am learning to appreciate the genre just a little bit more. We mused over our lack of directed activity, wondering if just a little extra testosterone wouldn’t make us more “productive”. We outlined our day and decided that we had indeed been more than productive in a vacation sense. We played together in yet another fountain and then headed for lovely Thai treats (coconut lemongrass chicken soup, pad thai, satay, the staples) with Kirsten, Spring and Maggie (who I had never met, but heard much about). They were headed downtown for a burlesque show (sigh… times like these make me wish I had a more exciting wardrobe and a portable nanny). Becca so kindly spent the rest of the evening with me, although we were bad and got sucked into our computers for an hour instead of interacting with one another. She drove us to the San José station this morning.
Reflecting once again, what can we get in life from our friends and how much do we really need to rely on a single partner model. Still no answers, just more questions. But I suppose that is what this game is all about. So the return train ride was everlasting (13 hours from door to door with I.' interminable obsession with the Easter Bunny and why it doesn't come to our house) but I began watching Intimate Strangers on the way home (ran out of batteries – am finishing now) and was left feeling like my life is an extremely unoriginal script. Add to that, returning to La hija del caníbal by Rosa Montero, whose laugh-out-loud insight into human foibles and the trials and tribulations of the impending doom of the aging process had me snickering inappropriately to myself for the last leg of the journey.
Once again in SB, I. insisted on Indian, as chicken tikka masala was the only dish that could sate her hungry palate. Und so… here I am again, no longer hungry, nor ill, rested, relaxed and enjoyed ;) ready to begin classes once more and a bit curious as to what the renewal will bring. The up note is… I know where and when I am teaching tomorrow, I just need to know what.
I. and I took the pacific railway north after deleterious car demons made it impossible to safely travel alone, and frankly, despite the extra hours, it was far more enjoyable than driving myself with her strapped tightly behind.
After accommodating our few belongings in the overhead bin, we settled into a comfortable arrangement, lifting the foot rests, and reclining our seatbacks. The man sitting next to us with heavy black boots and distinctive arm tattoos looked familiar, but I observed , snatching glances only out of the corner of my eye. He pulled out his notebook and began writing, I asked I. what work I should do first: the reading or the writing. She proposed reading, and when asked if I should do the fun reading or the not fun reading she insisted that I do the fun reading (also necessary) and so I acquiesced to her plan. Meanwhile she “read” Dr. Seusss and drew pictures and stamped in her rubber stamp kit, while I read a play.
After a short while she became bored and discovered a little boy her age, Luis Alejandro, several seats back. When his mother passed I asked her if I. could introduce herself, and instantaneously they were inseparable friends. “Mommy, guess what? He’s from Tijuana!!! We went to Tijuana!!!” They spoke Spanish all afternoon, and I. was unhindered by her lacking vocabulary, both of them communicating through sounds and gestures to describe all the stories that they wanted to tell each other. He was, it would seem, as much of a Scooby Doo aficionado as she, and he rivaled her in sociability and chatter as no one I have ever met. Dangerous thoughts were sparked, that is, that inner roar for a boychild of one’s own… I have always been thoroughly happy with just a girl, but this pequeñín was so endearing and bright, and so full of promise for the male half of the species that it created a desire in me to have my own to coddle and form. Ah well. Not now, maybe not ever. I. was invited to watch a movie with him and his little sister Paolina, and I was able to write several mini-sections of a story, brandishing Lucy for the world to see.
I splurged on the endeavor and took little I. to dine in the dining car, as we watched the mid-California landscape pass slowly as if in a parade before our eyes. And after dinner Alejandro and she snuggled in for a reading of the Sneetches and Other Stories. Alex said it was ok if it was in English because he was learning in school and he listened attentively commenting on the pictures and telling us stories about his friend Angélica. I. got excited because her Daddy’s name is also Ángel, and they took it from there, bouncing off all sorts of anecdotes about the time she slammed into the stairs and had to go to the hospital to when his friend Armando was knocked over by a forceful frisbee. It is amazing the power of storytelling, and how at such a young age children begin to learn that human interaction is ultimately based on such stories. Of course it helped that they had a common language, but I am sure that even in its absence they would have found a way to involve one another in their narratives. Alejandro’s father took the children down to the play area in the car in front of us, and Craig, and I introduced ourselves. Yes, he said, I was familiar to him, too. He was sure he met me when bartending. Indeed he did. A bartending writer, how exciting.. His move to San Francisco has been fruitful, he said, and he has been writing full time. Lucky man. He gave me some tips and the name of his publisher who, it seems, does not require a literary agent to consider manuscripts. Good information to file away for future reference. His seatmate, Dustin, was a newly unemployed 30-something civil engineer who pumped me for details on different countries where he could go to learn Spanish, and where the political and economic climate would be most favorable to him… ok, that part was my addition, he just wanted to know about partying, I think. The hours stretched on and on…
The trains do not run on time, and while fascism seems to be overrunning our country, a timely train is not this government’s priority (perhaps because it doesn’t pose the massive consumption of unrenewable fossil fuels?).
Finally, Becca was waiting for us at the station, and Kirsten back at her house. The babe was fast asleep in the back seat by the time we were at the house and it was girls, girls, girls for the rest of the night, catching up on the details that escape our sporadic phone conversations.
Mount Diablo
We set out on a quest for wildflower heaven (I myself desirous of a poppy-filled field). Upon entering the park, however the ranger suggested that children enjoy “rock city” and I. became singularly obsessed, and after visiting the summit we descended to picnic among the stones. A selection of dried fruit and nuts, apples and kiwis, multiple semi-dry artisan cheeses, and crackers spread themselves before us, and after we explored the ridge. Walking in the wild with scientists is always a treat because when I. asks what the different flowers and tracks are, she gets more than a mere speculation.
After basking in the sun for several hours and looking in vain for more than a smattering of wildflowers (including lovely clusters of lupine and aromatic grey sage), we went to assuage Becca’s 4pm chocolate craving and we delved into another discussion of the finer points of human relation (no, no solution to the problem of World Peace or the common couple).
Finally after a failed attempt at swimming (the water was far too cold and the baby swam across the pool howling before she decided that a warm bath was a reasonable alternative), we went down to Berkeley for a late dinner at Bosphorous, a Turkish restaurant whose décor was certainly outshined by its cuisine. Although, come to think of it, the cozy little candelit booth towards the back was an intimate space in which to share stories, and share we did as I.;s second weekend obsession was us telling stories about when we were little girls and we got in trouble (guilty conscience, mais oui!) I told her about the time Ari (age 6 ½ ) took me (age 4) by the hand and we escaped our parents in the Parque Güell hiding for over thirty minutes on the upper level when we had been playing hide and seek among the pillars on the lower one. Kirsten shared a story of torching the toaster with an icecream concoction under the not-so-watchful eye of a nanny, and Becca about playing with an abandoned strip of telephone cable in the backyard no-man’s-land, and whipping herself in the eye, scratching her cornea. But no matter how many stories we told, she just kept asking for more. Upon return I meant to only nuzzle with the girl until she fell asleep, but was overwhelmed by my own lack of sleep and didn’t rise until morning. (A well needed rest.)
Vacation accomplished
The practically unmanageable and unmangiable banana from the train ride was converted, in a group effort, spearheaded by Kirsten, into a lovely walnut, chocolate and wholegrain bread, which incidentally is accompanying us on the train ride home. We headed downtown to the embarcadero where we had at “Mijita” marvelous fish tacos, queso fundido, a bottle of wine, and thou… errr. No. Kirsten bought another amazing selection of cheeses from the stand inside and we had cheese, fruit and hand made corn tortillas for dessert. Kirsten left to meet Spring and Maggie at a Japanese tool shop and Becca and I wandered with little I. towards the Yerba Buena Gardens. We were distracted by the Comic Museum and explored its walls until closing. I must say, I am learning to appreciate the genre just a little bit more. We mused over our lack of directed activity, wondering if just a little extra testosterone wouldn’t make us more “productive”. We outlined our day and decided that we had indeed been more than productive in a vacation sense. We played together in yet another fountain and then headed for lovely Thai treats (coconut lemongrass chicken soup, pad thai, satay, the staples) with Kirsten, Spring and Maggie (who I had never met, but heard much about). They were headed downtown for a burlesque show (sigh… times like these make me wish I had a more exciting wardrobe and a portable nanny). Becca so kindly spent the rest of the evening with me, although we were bad and got sucked into our computers for an hour instead of interacting with one another. She drove us to the San José station this morning.
Reflecting once again, what can we get in life from our friends and how much do we really need to rely on a single partner model. Still no answers, just more questions. But I suppose that is what this game is all about. So the return train ride was everlasting (13 hours from door to door with I.' interminable obsession with the Easter Bunny and why it doesn't come to our house) but I began watching Intimate Strangers on the way home (ran out of batteries – am finishing now) and was left feeling like my life is an extremely unoriginal script. Add to that, returning to La hija del caníbal by Rosa Montero, whose laugh-out-loud insight into human foibles and the trials and tribulations of the impending doom of the aging process had me snickering inappropriately to myself for the last leg of the journey.
Once again in SB, I. insisted on Indian, as chicken tikka masala was the only dish that could sate her hungry palate. Und so… here I am again, no longer hungry, nor ill, rested, relaxed and enjoyed ;) ready to begin classes once more and a bit curious as to what the renewal will bring. The up note is… I know where and when I am teaching tomorrow, I just need to know what.
posted by ilana at 10:11 p.m.
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