Working very hard at Staying Home

April 2, 2020

I need to start writing more. I’ve been escaping into social chat rooms. And wine.
And sometimes food. It’s good. I need my friends. I need the wine. And the laughter.
We all do. I’m not taking the best care of myself but I also think this is a phase. It’s
spring break right now. 

Spring Break. 

I’m supposed to be in New Orleans. With the numbers of COVID19 cases there,
I’m sure glad I’m not. And I’m glad I didn’t go for Mardi Gras like I had wanted to. 

Spring Break. 

I’m not going anywhere. I’m not working, but that’s my job. To not go anywhere.
Maybe when I can focus for more than 15 minutes at a time, I’ll catch up on grading.
Maybe I won’t. I have a lot of thoughts about this and that’s it’s own entry. 

Spring Break. 

That began as a clusterfuck of construction right outside my door. Jackhammers, pavers,
cranes, you name it. Three different projects at the same time. Thankfully, Governor
Newsom gave orders on March 31 that beginning April 1 only essential construction may
continue. They did have to come back to complete the sidewalk for safety reasons, but
it’s as quiet as downtown Redwood City gets. And there’s a leaf blower, which I’m pretty
sure isn’t allowed, but where is the tattle number? Do we have a 3-1-1 like New Orleans? 

Which brings me to something else.I don’t like living here very much. This chapter of my
life has been all pragmatism, with some super fortunate perks of adoring my job and colleagues,
and being close to nature. But I am not in nature, and I don’t have a garden or a yard. Normally,
these things don’t bother me. I’m never home. 

I’m always home. 

Now I am ALWAYS home. 

I try to imagine myself in the house I do love. On Desire street in New Orleans. I imagine
my beautiful wood floors, and the crafstmanship of my friend Mike in several rooms. I try
to imagine my backyard, usually too hot to sit in, with the screened in porch I plan to have
built one day. I imagine the various colors of hibiscus, the smell of night blooming jasmine,
the sweet olive scents of Esplanade avenue.
I imagine my tiny bedroom tucked into the back of the house, poorly measured, terrible
closet, door to the backyard which is not very useful. I imagine my gigantic kitchen and
know that if I were there, someone would be living with me. Wishing it was Corry and whatever
dog she would have at the time.
I imagine my plentiful cupboards of food to cook for people. And Corry choosing a recipe that
takes hours for her to make, and uses every single bowl, pan and plate in the house. It would
take a lot of time to cook and clean from that.
A good filler. Because it's that time in the kitchen that is the most social for me.
I imagine my neighbor practicing her classic piano, and opening up all of my windows so I
can hear her more clearly. I imagine the Calliope with it’s annoying sing-a-long sounds, the
deep udder of the port vessels. 

Here in my tiny condo that sits on a train track in Redwood City, I try to remember that just
three miles away is some of the most beautiful forest on the planet. And slightly further, the
rugged coast is intoxicating. It’s not that far. It’s not even a day trip. I could go for an hour. But
not right now. Because my job is to stay home, and I am working.
I am working very hard at staying home.
When this initial Shelter in Place is lifted, I am going to need to go sit with the trees. I haven’t
listened to them in a while and what they say is pretty important. 

When we are all done with this important work we are doing- staying at home- I am going to take a drive
out on the curviest road I can find out to the sea. I am going to smell the salt air, and put my toes in the
water. I am going to breathe it all in. I'm going to breathe.
I need to breathe more. 

When we are all done working so hard at staying home, I’m going to cry.
I can’t do that now. I have to save that for later, because I’m busy working and I’m afraid that once
I start, I’m not going to stop. I’ve already lost two people in two vastly different places. I know there will be
more, so for now I hold onto my tears.

This is why I’m working so hard staying at home. And not crying. Yet.

Hugging the walls- 7 years late publish date

I didn't fall in love with New Orleans. No, no, this was no accident, no thing that happened to me. There was no victim in the arrangement. I jumped into my love for New ORLEANS. I walked into a fire I knew would consume me. And I have been forever changed.

Both before and since moving to New Orleans, I have traveled a lot. Though it is true, I am mesmerized by places like highland Guatemala, the Corn Islands, Luang Prabang, Hoi An, Jerusalem, and even St Louis, MO, there are very few places I arrive, feeling in some way that I've come home, that floating feeling that carries me on a wave of wonder, and childlike excitement. New Orleans was my first. San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico was second.

And then I came to Granada, Spain.

Of course it's no wonder that I again walked into this flame of desire. Granada has a temperament of its own. Modern city dominates the a portion of the city, but as the city hills wind themselves uphill towards the Alhambra, it snakes through several different centuries, cultures, and traditions before it reaches the top. On the right side of the river Darro is the Jewish quarter, called El Realjo, holding onto nothing but secrets in the walls of its ancient, albeit no longer historically relevant, buildings. To the left is the intoxicating Albaicin, its whitewashed walls snaking around cobblestone alleyways not fit for cars. Every home in the Albaicin faces the Alhambra, squarely perched high above the city, basking in the beautiful Andalusian sunlight during the day, and the glow of the moon and modern lights in the night. It is in the lower part of the Albaicin, as the cobblestone alley pours towards Plaza Nueva, that the evidence of Spain's African culture is still quite present. Morocco is closer than I thought, and at is evident in design. Moorish archways into homes and restaurants, fountains for washing all over the city, falafel and shawarma in restaurants not even hinted with Spanish wine. Shops with beautiful rugs, Moroccan leather, handicrafts, line the street. Arabic lettering.

 Even further above the Albaicin is the Sacromonte, known for its cave dwellers. These are not the kind of caves one finds at the beach, but cement homes built into the ground, with a window to let the light in. It's no wonder, as Spain is extremely hot. In all of these areas, people dance flamenco. I'm no historian, and have not studied this form of dance, but the little I know is fascinating. It

is also the part of my trip I am now weaving together the places I have been the last 15 months, the place that I am from. Flamenco is said to have begun over 3000 years ago. As people and culture moved throughout Europe, and as Islam spread from the Middle East to Africa and the Iberian peninsula, it was further influenced by the Gypsies, the Jews. It was never ever mentioned, and never ever shown on a map, but I could NOT get past how similar some of the poses were to Apsara dancers of the Hindus during the time of Angkor.

It is not coincidental that each of these places that I am enamored with- New Orleans, San Cristobal de Las Casas, Granada, is Spanish by design, a living cultural history spanning centuries. All were the sites of great wars and oppression, of different religions, languages, and customs. And all have a creative mysticism a city can only acquire through years and years of oppression and revolution.

I'm wondering now if this moment is the precise moment that invites my entire year of travel and self reflection to finally come through into something I have known all along. 

I don't fit in.

And this is not a bad thing. It is just an aspect of me I have always had to take into consideration when embarking on a journey, whether it be personal or professional. I cannot put confines around my thoughts and ideas, because they simply don't fit me. When I do, I find myself aggravated, depressed, and rebel against myself.