6/17/2007

New Jersey 4, or Silly Putty, and Other Things I Never Thought About While Traveling

Dear Max,

I attended a birthday party for an eleven-year-old girl several days ago. Actually, I didn't just attend it, I was hired to work it. I planned and organized games for the kids, and made sure they didn't kill each other on the backyard trampoline. And, at the end of the party, I distributed the extra prizes from the games and contests, making sure every kid went home with some trinket. As I was doing this, I grabbed one of my favorite childhood toys: plastic egg filled with Silly Putty. I gazed at it with rapt fondness, and, before anyone could claim it, stuck it into my back pocket and took it home.

Before you berate me for stealing toys from children, let me assure you that nobody went home empty-handed and that these kids had put me through such a wringer (which included, among other things, trampling me on a water slide) that I thought I deserved a prize for having kept everyone (myself included) sane and alive.

I've been playing with the Silly Putty on my desk for the past couple of days, marveling at it each time - the stretchiness, the ability to pick up newspaper ink, the bounciness. Silly Putty is fun. And it makes me zone.

Zoning is the name I've given to the peculiar mental space I enter when I see something that I think I'd never see in the Czech Republic, even in Prague. When I zone out, I usually stare at something for far too long, with the incredulous intensity of one who is fairly intoxicated. It is the look that says "Whoa! Look at this neat stuff! Who the hell would think to make such a thing?"

I zone out in giant grocery stores a lot. Particularly in the organic/hippie food aisle. Firstly, because such an aisle exists, and secondly because I can read all the ingredients and organic logos and whatnots - so I do. Sometimes I remark aloud for the benefit of my fellow shoppers on the quantity and variety of available olive oils, or marvel rapturously about canned soup (have you noticed that soup only comes in dried mixes in Prague?). I once, very quietly, recited a spontaneous limerick that came to mind when I found some delicious-looking kale and threw it joyously into my shopping cart (for which I did not have to pay 10kc, or any other amount).

Granted, I've been zoning less and less over the past six weeks, which is a relief. But reading your blog, along with several other blogs, has made me think that most US citizens could use a little zoning. What if, for just two minutes, everyone zoned out at the US government? I mean, really zoned, and asked themselves incredulously:

"Whoa...government. How did they set that up?"

It might even lead to dangerous questions that I've entertained about Silly Putty.

"Is it really good for anything?"
"How flexible is it?"
"Is it really possible to make a clean break? Or will it just get less and less visible until I can't see it anymore but know it's still there?"

Anyway, Max, you might be entertained by my notions about government in this entry, but my family probably can't take much more of my political wanderings. Especially while I'm zoning. They don't really get the zoning thing.

Ah, Max, now I know why I'm writing this to you. Not just for your entertainment, or mine, although those are certainly benefits. But to say this: I don't miss Prague. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But I do feel a certain connection (dare I say kinship?) with you, if only because we lived in the same city, once. I recognize the maps you post on your blog, the picture of the Skalka bus, the descriptions of customer [dis]service and the few Czech names and words you slip into your entries.

As I adjust further and further into life here, I lose the loneliness of being a stranger in a foreign city. And with that, I lose some powers of observation. Zoning is one way of holding on to that - a way to remind myself of the constant ridiculous aspects of life. A reminder, you might say, to keep thinking independently. Others might say zoning keeps me from taking my life in the US for granted. In any case, it is one of the two biggest things keeping me connected to Prague.

The other, of course, is your blog.

6/04/2007

Oregon 1, or Adventures In Family Travel
written 6/4/07-6/5/07

It started, as do many things, with my mother and a desperate phone call. My father's birthday was approaching too rapidly for comfort, and she had no gift ideas. It's virtually impossible to actually buy the man anything, since he doesn't pine for material things - he buys whatever he needs or really wants, and doesn't need or want anything else. The last time my mother tried to buy him a present, he put it in the opposite corner of the living room and went out and bought himself something he liked better. My mother and I kvetched for awhile about my father's gift impossibilities, and hung up with resolutions to brainstorm like mad.

The result of those brainstorms, and many months of planning was this: a 10-day vacation to the West Coast, with three components: a drive up the coast from San Francisco to Oregon, a whitewater rafting trip down the Rogue River, and a three-day digital photography class for my dad to attend.

Right now, we're in the last stage of the trip, and my father seems to have enjoyed himself thus far. My sister and I have managed to share the backseat of a rented Chevy Impala without any major insults or injuries (we'll just forget that bit about my saying she couldn't harmonize for beans), the scenery has been beyond incredible, and - dare I say it - my family seems to be behaving functionally. We're traveling well.

Traveling with my family is completely in contrast with the travels I did in Europe. I noticed this immediately when we arrived at the airport and got to stand in the "Priority/Elite/FirstClass" baggage line. My first thought was this: the last time I was flying, I was nobody's "Priority" but my own. The baggage handlers at this airport were polite and friendly, called my mother "Ma'am" and laughed at my jokes about being a "Priority."

When my family travels, we stay in places that aren't just "nice". They're often beautiful and luxurious, like this house on the beach. When I traveled as a student, I traveled cheaply, with comfort as a secondary priority. But I still made decisions. It was more important for me to eat good food than stay in a hotel or a nicer hostel. I liked people-watching from street cafes better than art museums, although I did see some fantastic art museums. I jumped on a trampoline in a park in Budapest instead of going to one of its famous spas. I went to the London Gay Film Festival instead of the Tower of London. I think I'm pretty weird about traveling, actually. But that's an analysis for another entry.

At this point, I'm enjoying Oregon, a state I've never been to before. But I'd like to relate one more incident that really startled me. I think you all might find it amusing.

I had an experience several days ago in which my younger sister sent a pasta dish back to the kitchen at a restaurant. I almost stopped her. Why? Because two simultaneous thoughts went off in my head like fireworks:

1. Wait, you can’t do that! Who does that? They’ll never accept it - just eat what you can and you’ll eat at home.

2. You're complaining about a little too much cream on your pasta? Are you for real? They got your order right - what more do you want?

And then the waitress happily took the order back to the kitchen, apologized to my sister for not getting it right, and brought her back a steaming cream-less plate without charging her for the other one. I don’t think I spoke for whole minutes after that (which, for me, is generally a feat). Welcome back from the Czech Republic, Dane.