Lucia has something to say

The Bike Elevator

2008-06-24T07:10:00.002-05:00

Madison is a great city for biking. For most of my commute to work, I take off-road bike paths. Past community gardens. To the path along the lake. Where there is a bike elevator. To take up the hill to the Capitol.

You'd think that only the out of shape. The new. The wimpy. Bikers. Would be on that elevator. But every morning. I roll in. With muscled women and men. In biking clothes. Who take the elevator.

I roll in to the right. And am joined by another 2 or 3 bikers. The elevator is just the right length. For bikes. Sometimes. Someone who wants to get on when it's full. Pulls up their front tire. And rolls in vertically. And up we go. I ask, "4 and 5?" And press the buttons. And we ride up. Together.

Dreams

2008-06-04T18:46:00.003-05:00

One of the questions. We asked often. Was "What are your dreams?" Asking about dreams. Is a way of defining. What people would like to happen. Between here. And there. These are the dreams. Of olive wood carvers. And women who make couscous. Of mother-of-pearl artisans. And olive farmers. Of mothers. And grandmothers. Of fathers. And sons.

"I have many dreams. The simplest is that the situation would get better."

"I want to buy a house and get married."

"We all have the same dreams. Peace. Dignity."

"I want my children to finish school, and then come back to be olive farmers."

"Stability and peace."

"That my children can go to university."

"I would like a house by the sea."

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Food!

2008-06-02T11:14:00.002-05:00

No time to write. But I'll leave you with some food.

An Even More Abbreviated Photo Essay

2008-05-29T10:15:00.001-05:00

Control. Alt. Delete. From the West Bank side of the wall.

Egypt: An Abbreviated Photo Essay

2008-05-24T15:51:00.003-05:00

Egypt: Sloppy Traveling

2008-05-19T18:40:00.004-05:00

If I had seen me in the Cairo airport, I would have me pegged. As an inexperienced traveler. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

It wasn’t that I picked the slowest immigration line. (I have a knack for that and can pretty much do that every time.) And it wasn’t that I went straight to exchange $50 into Egyptian pounds. (Which may have been my wisest move during my 2:00 a.m. arrival.)

It had to do with getting to the hotel.

This is a photo from my room window. It’s fairly evident now that I’m here that the airport is probably a 5-minute walk from the hotel and that if I had a really good slingshot, I might be able to clear the pool and zing the concrete wall of the air control tower.

After waiting for a hotel van, I gave up and took a pre-paid cab, which in many countries is regulated. Here, it appears they can charge based on the miscalculations of blundering travelers, which was, in this case $10. This $10 carried me and my suitcase, by car, less than eighth of a mile, right up to the door of the hotel where it was evident that the cab driver knew sufficient English to say, “Driver tip.”

By the time I stumbled into my room, I had dispensed a ridiculous $15 in tips for getting into the cab, using enough gas to idle a car for 20 minutes, and having my wheeled luggage brought to my room by a well-tipped hotel worker. I flipped on the bathroom light and pulled up my bangs to see if “Sucker” was imprinted on my forehead.

And sure enough, there it was. I couldn’t read it, of course, because it was in Arabic, but I’m fairly sure it was there.

Intro. Vert.

2008-04-06T20:58:00.001-05:00

I’m not sure why. I felt the need. To take a 10-question introvert-extrovert test. I already know. I am an introvert. I’d estimate. If the test gave a percentage. I’d be about 85% introvert.

I need time alone. I like quiet conversations with just a few good friends. I’m never bored by myself, but can be genuinely numbed of mind by party banter.

The extroverts of the world set the agenda for social norms. It’s time for a revolution, my friends. As Jonathan Raush said, “We can only dream that someday, when our condition is more widely understood, when perhaps an Introverts' Rights movement has blossomed and borne fruit, it will not be impolite to say I'm an introvert. You are a wonderful person and I like you. But now please shush.’”

Haitian Art

2008-03-12T20:34:00.007-05:00

Some of you. Have been asking. To see some art I bought in Haiti. So I took photos. Of my two favorite pieces. I’m a great lover of recycled drum art. Cut metal mermaids and fish. Starfish and seaweed. I bought a lot of drum art. But these pieces are special to me. Both infused with Haitian voudou. The photos don’t do them justice. Since spirits avoid capture.

The first is a voudou ritual flag deluged with sequins. A drapo. To honor the spirit and inspire devotees

The second is assemblage art. When I bought the piece, the gallery owner asked if I wanted to meet the artist who was out back. He said that his work wasn’t as good since he “repented” from voudou. But this piece, which the artist called the butterfly angel, was imbued with some of the milder gentler benevolent spirits. Who bring lightness. (It’s too bad the photo doesn’t show the wonderful rusty bent nails congregated on the top and bottom.)

Need a really good laugh? Read the customer reviews for the Playmobil Security Check Point on Amazon.com.

Swept

2008-03-05T06:24:00.001-06:00

I am swept by the tide. Island to island. From Port-au-Prince to Whidbey Island, between Seattle and Vancouver. This sounds more idyllic than the reality of airports and a stop in frigid Wisconsin. To exchange summer clothes for winter. To perform between-trip banalities.

The rest of the week will be spent with friends from Weave A Real Peace. People with whom I can be my authentic self. Instead of my representative self. Of an organization. Or a movement. Or a group. Just me.

I had hoped to write more. About Haiti. But life. Keeps moving.

Currently reading: Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat

Haiti: Road Trip!

2008-02-28T17:21:00.003-06:00

Haiti: The U.N.

2008-02-26T20:16:00.002-06:00

Port-au-Prince is a city sprinkled with white U.N. and NGO 4x4s. The U.N. is everywhere. On the streets. In restaurants. We even passed a white tank with U.N. peacekeepers, guns at the ready, at a busy intersection. Right now, there are peacekeepers across the street and down the block for night. Just this weekend, 3 people were kidnapped in Peiton-Ville where I’m staying.

At a seafood restaurant tonight, I speculated that the tables around us were full of aid workers. My Haitian friend knows everyone and was able to deduce from who they were with who they were. One table was from the American embassy. Another was an airline pilot with friends. And yet another table was a government ministry with an Asian delegation. I guess I was the "aid" worker, as it were.

Haiti: Immigration

2008-02-25T17:32:00.001-06:00

No address in Haiti. A problem. I’m stopped in immigration. My friend is picking me up, I say. I don’t know where I’m staying. Some hotel. No go. They want to know where to start looking if there’s a kidnapping. It would make them look bad if they did not know. They take me to a side room. Various people look at my papers. They send me winding through the airport out the front door with a woman official. She tells me to point out my friend. She’s not there yet. We stand in the sun. Squinting at the crowd. And I am not yet through immigration. We go back to the room. My papers and passport pass from hand-to-hand. They stamp my papers anyway and send me on my way. By the time I get my bag and change a little cash, she’s outside, waving wildly and picking me up.

Travel

2008-02-25T06:40:00.003-06:00

Relinquishing control. It's a lot of what travel is about. Planes leave when they will. Van drivers come when they choose. Taxi drivers talk if they want to. The result for me? An informative ride about Haitian history. Late flights. A meager 4 hours in a hotel. And back at the Fort Lauderdale airport waiting for my flight to Port-au-Prince.

Haiti

2008-02-24T09:15:00.002-06:00

Port-au-Prince
Partly cloudy
82 feels like 90

Add that to visits to drum art metal artisans, painters, and stone carvers, and I'm set!

The Lamest of Posts

2008-02-19T07:12:00.004-06:00

Rattling 'round in my head these days...

- an upcoming first-time trip to Haiti
- finding time to work on assemblages and mosaics
- today's election in Wisconsin
- not having time to read blogs
- endless shoveling
- visitors from India today and tomorrow
- whether I was daydreaming when I got dressed and my socks don't match
- a convergence with friends on Whidbey Island
- making breakfast on Friday morning for homeless families

The Unexpected

2008-01-30T06:54:00.000-06:00

I was on my way out. To the trash. With frozen lasagna. Seven single-serving boxes. That I wasn’t sure why I bought. Because I didn’t like it. I changed my mind. And posted it on Freecycle. Thinking maybe a student would want it. Since it was free. I put it on my porch. Where it could stay nicely frozen. And left for work.

Things didn’t turn out as I expected.

The first message said, “I will take them. We are so broke and could use the food.”

The second, “Last night we each had a can of corn for dinner. It's crazy. Are those single meals or the family size lasagnas? Either way it's better than corn.”

I stopped. And thought about a family living near me. Who had canned corn for dinner. I wanted to empty out my cupboard. And buy a gift card for the grocery store.

Another message, “We're just running through a rough patch. My van broke down last Saturday (coldest day of the year). They said I have to replace the engine, so basically we have to junk it. Being that I couldn't get to work I lost my job. My husband is working thank god but his paycheck barely covers the house payment and few bills. It's crazy. Thank god they can't turn off your heat this time of year LOL. It's tough.”

I get home as soon as I can. I’ve told her if I get there before she does that I’ll get together more food. But the lasagna is already gone.

The experience has affected me deeply. I think about Barbara Ehrenreich’s book Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America. I become more conscious. Of need in my back yard. I resolve to do more. She is facing this challenge with remarkably good cheer.

Her last message was a thank you. “It took care of dinners last night and the other three were split among us all tonight. Thanks for helping us. If you ever know of anybody throwing any food out please have them contact us. Every little bit helps.”

Haunted House

2008-01-18T07:33:00.000-06:00

Is it possible? For a house that has never seemed haunted to become so? My Dutch colonial house was built in 1918. Nothing unusual has ever happened before. But in the last 3 days, on each day, something has been on the floor that doesn't really have a way of getting there.

Day 1: An ice cube makes it's way behind the dog bowl in the kitchen.
Day 2: An Amsterdam guidebook fell from the bookshelf in the bedroom.
Day 3: A receipt moved from the table to several feet away on the floor in the dining room.

Mysterious. Do you believe in ghosts?

Do You GoodSearch?

2008-01-15T16:16:00.000-06:00

For those of you. Who aren't already using the search engine GoodSearch.com. Or haven't already designated a cause. Do me a favor. Use the site for your searches. Where you see Who Do You GoodSearch For, type in SERRV. This will bring up SERRV International Inc. (New Windsor, MD).

Today you can see. That since we joined. We've earned only $6.80. Help me bring that number up! Good cause. Good site. Good Search.

An Absent Blogger

2008-01-13T12:14:00.000-06:00

Coming to my blog. Is like coming to a room that’s had the door shut for a few weeks. I was here. But I shut the door for a while. And the room cooled off. With no heat coming into it. I have been. An absent blogger.

I’ve been on vacation over at Freecyle. Cleaning the house. Putting a notice on Freecycle. And leaving the stuff on the porch. For the Freecyle recipients to pick up. Goodbye large wool woven rug. Goodbye big bag o’ dog treats. When I started, I thought I’d get stuff too. A little bit of Freecyle karma. But so far, I’ve gotten exactly nothing. So, if you’ve got a hammock stand you’re just waiting to get rid of, I’m here in the world waiting for one!

And I just met a neighbor for the first time. And said something ridiculous. Displaying the social skills of a turtle. Now I want. To go right back. Into my turtle shell.

Good read of the day: What Is the What by Dave Eggers.

Looking Forward

2007-12-21T08:58:00.000-06:00

I’m looking forward. To a break from the snow. Hopping on a plane to Tucson. To hike among the saguaros. To eat Mexican food. To take a road trip across the border to Nogales. Packing for Christmas in the desert.

Interiors

2007-12-18T07:11:00.000-06:00

The exteriors of houses in northern winters lose the personalities of those inside. Heaps of snow hide individuality. Carefully clipped lawns and imaginative yard art disappear. Into the whiteness. Which makes the interiors. So much more fascinating. We all live so differently. Planned. Unplanned. Inside. Our shells.

In someone else’s house last night, I was eyeing the wall space, imagining what I would hang there. I have no empty walls. Talavera tile mirrors, mithla paintings, Haitian drum art, African carvings. Their house was entirely different. The walls were vacant. Uncluttered. But nearly everywhere else. There was pottery. Which was likely made by someone who lives there.

One of my favorite interiors was in the house of a South Carolina indigo artist. Every niche, every inch, everywhere was covered with what I can only describe as stuff. Stuff that to the artist in me was eye candy. Inspirational. Marvelous. Immensely different than other interiors. A grand jumble of all that is wonderful in the world.

Another house. An apartment actually. Another time. Full too. But in a claustrophobic, dusty way. We wind through, and she points out textiles. From Africa. “That one,” she says, “I want to be buried in that one.” For a moment I am taken aback. I can’t remember another time, being in someone’s shell, where they’ve introduced me to their shroud.

Our interiors say a lot about us. Who we are. Who we want to be. Who lives inside. Where we’ve been. What we value. What we love. What does your interior say about you?

Share Your Dreams

2007-11-28T04:38:00.000-06:00

I've been realizing. When I'm traveling. That I may no longer have dreams.

Her dream is to have solar electricity for her house in Mali.
His dream is to go to Europe to get his PhD in business so he stays ahead of his students at the university in Nepal.
He lives in Bali, and his dream is to see snow.

Me? I'm not sure if I've got dreams. Maybe I'm already living them. But it seems that there should be something out there. Just out of reach. Bright and shiny.

I need some inspiration. Share your dreams with me. And let them inspire.

Nepal: Airport Adventures

2007-11-25T07:42:00.000-06:00

Two long lines of passengers snake into the Kathmandu terminal. Eleven flights leave this small airport within hours of one another. Creating chaos.

I am squeezed amid a group of trekkers with enormous packs. My bag passes the first security screening and is strapped with a yellow band - Security checked - Tribhuvan International Airport - Kathmandu, Nepal.

I go to the ticket counter. They send me to pay the airport exit tax first. Another line of bedlam. The man in back of me presses into me. I think it's an accident. It happens again. I'm thinking what the... The third time, I turn around. It's crowded, but not that crowded. "Give me space!" I say, while my luggage cart nips the heels of the guy in front of me. The guy behind says lamely that people behind him were pushing. There's an Australian woman behind him. I don't think so...

Back to the ticket counter. I have a boarding pass. My bag is checked in. I foolishly believe the rest will be a piece of cake. Next step - immigration.

I've got my paperwork and get into one of half a dozen lines. There's hardly room to queue, as the lines already go the length of the room. Mine. Is not moving. A shy Nepali woman ahead of me says she's headed to Boston on her first trip to the U.S. A Brit behind me eats a sandwich with the filling plop plopping on the floor. He sings pop tunes. We wait. We take baby steps toward the counter. In a little an over an hour, just as I'm ready to go seriously nuts, I get through immigration.

Then to carry-on security. My bag is open and they dig through it. Go through the metal detector marked "Ladies."

On to the gate. All the flights leave from two gates. The plastic chairs are filled. All of them. I lean against a wall and read. I'm near the men's room and whenever someone walks through the open doorway, a bad smell wafts through the room. A man and his wife leave and offer me a chair. The flights are announced only with a little shout.

My Indian Air flight to Calcutta is about an hour late. We get on a bus to go to the flight. We're kept on the bus, because they aren't really ready for us to board the plane. We burst from the doors to some contraptions set up at the base of the stairs to the plane. Another security check. I'm brusquely told to go to Ladies. Ladies what? I have no idea. A woman nearly empties my backpack onto a table and waves me on. She's irritated. I'm not moving fast enough. People are trying to push past to board. I'm trying to cram my things back into my pack.

Things will be easier when I arrive in Calcutta. Immigration is faster. I know the driver who has picked me up frequently. He'll be waiting with a smile and a 4x4. He looks like an younger Indian version of the actor Matt Dillon. We exchange the half dozen words we have in common, and I let my mind drift on the ride through nighttime Calcutta.

India: Darjeeling

2007-11-21T09:55:00.000-06:00

The winding cracked and hilly roads of Darjeeling delight me. Mandarin trees and tea gardens where women pluck tea leaves and toss them into baskets strapped to their heads. Tibetan prayer flags. Low hanging clouds near the border of Nepal. Teak forests with leaves as big as serving plates. Monkeys. Men and women repairing the road by hand. The women use a hammer to break rocks into gravel. And snow capped peaks, including the world’s third highest.

I know in these moments how to drink with my eyes. I drink until I am sated, and go to sleep in a tea bungalow with a snapping, crackling fire in my room.

India: The Driver

2007-11-18T04:36:00.001-06:00

Shortly after climbing into the Amassador Classic--a ubiquitous car in Calcutta, a curvy diesel number that looks like it survived the 1950s, with big, round headlights--it became clear that our driver didn't have much experience. Driving.

Scraping panel to panel with a jeep in a roundabout, angry drivers shout at each other. He crosses five lanes of oncoming traffic only to tap a bike, leaving the front tire bent. Even though there is no space to move, he blows the horn. Constantly. He turns off the car when traffic stops. And turns it on only to creep six inches, and then turns it off again.

Night brought cyclone rains. Visibility falls. Trees bend in the wind. The lone wiper in front of the driver flapped. He switched on his dashboard Ganesh. Remover of obstacles. It flashed green. Red. Green. Red.

We turn into a market under a highway. It does not seem like a road meant for cars. We firmly lodge on something across the road. By the time I get out of the car, there's a strong smell of burning mixed with the stench of the open sewer.

On our way again, he shouts that he knows the roads. He knows what he's doing. But they're just words.