Miles To Go

Traveling makes me anxious like nothing else.

Not traveling in the sense of breaking out to explore and find the globe granite. I can't think of anything more invigorating than that. This time of year, though, traveling is the opposite type: latching yourself onto a trajectory to shoot you right back to your starting point. It's the opposite of discovery.

I nearly always travel by myself, a big chunk of the anxiety itself. Don't miss your cab, your flight. Don't forget your cab money, to print your itinerary, your passport. Make sure you've looked up this bus route, locked everything up, turned everything in. Don't run out of money. I don't think I've ever overslept an alarm on a travel day because I usually only can sleep a few hours anyway. (The time of this post, case in point.) I realize it's been over three years since I flown anywhere with someone – not the serendipity of running into someone on a flight, but actually going to the same destination with somebody.

I know I'll go back and enjoy moments, to be sure, but I'm afraid I'll mostly be reminded of why I left. And while I miss the Sawtooths already, I'm relieved to not have to go back to Ketchum. Make the obligatory outing to the bar, enjoy the first part of the night when you can actually catch up with the people you want to see and care about, and as the music gets louder, start bumping into and having stilted conversations with people who either ignored or vilified me a decade ago and watch them oblige me now. Wish for myself it could have been different. But Idaho's over for now, besides the lingering 208 area code and scowl of a driver's license.

Home, on the other hand, is never over. Never can be. It mutates, though. There's no parachute of t-shirt pajamas over your spindly frame, the only thing creating any resistance as you fly down the hall or stairs to the stockings at 6 am, nor younger siblings jumping on top of you at 5:48. There were directors and orchestrators (i.e. surprisers) and masterminds, and wide-eyed surprisees. Maybe there was snow. Same food, same soundtracks, different conversations, different moods. There aren't often surprises. There are often sweet gifts. The light moments can feel like relief, but you do laugh, a lot. Some years you cry; some years you don't. There is usually snow. Thank God for the snow.

The Sweetest Diabetic Sister

Today is my sister's five-year anniversary of being diagnosed with diabetes.

A few days before Christmas 2003 on a trip home from Boise, the brothers were teasing her mercilessly about having to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes. But an astute Dad took note, looked up the symptoms when they got home, realized they matched diabetes, and took her in to the hospital. She was diagnosed with Type I diabetes and spent the next three days in the hospital, with a new tally of how many times she'd been 'pricked' each time we came to visit her. She stopped counting somewhere around 100.

In the car home after she was discharged on Christmas Eve Day, she, then 9, asked us nervously, "You didn't decorate the tree without me, did you?" To which we, her three incorrigible older siblings replied, "Oh, sorry, we thought kids with diabetes didn't like to decorate Christmas trees." True story.

We had, in fact, waited for her to come home to put up the ornaments. But those jests were a sliver of what was to come in terms of the ordeal she's had to put up with since then. She has to account for every carbohydrate in every meal and snack and morsel of a bite every day. And she does this, not out of some ill-advised fad diet, but because her body can't regulate what ours do involuntarily. She has to keep her feet warm and dry, has a higher risk for heart & kidney disease, and, oh, also has to watch out for blindness, among other things.

I had a heart condition when I was her age, for which I had to give up lots of things, notably swimming lessons, because laps (specifically starting to run out of breath while underwater) would make my heart rate jump from 80 to 180 bpm. (I blame this for the reason I still swim like a frog.) At one point, I was taking medication four times a day. One time in middle school while sledding with friends, after flying off the saucer and faceplanting in the snow (underwater with no breath = in snow with no breath, apparently), my heart went off and I had to excuse myself while I went and discreetly stuck my head in the snow repeatedly to try and get my heart rate back down. Because moving, paralyzing shyness, acne and MIDDLE SCHOOL weren't traumatic enough on their own, but thankfully I had a medical condition that occasionally turned me into a brumal ostrich.

But those were extremes, and at 13, they fixed me enough to go off medication, and cured me fully at 17. Em, on the other hand, will have this for her whole life, barring some monumental medical breakthrough.

I often say that Em is one of the most well-adjusted people I know, besides being 14, moving from the only town she's ever lived in this summer and having this medical ball and chain. She handles this disease well. And I don't mean this in the way people will insultingly say "You'd never know Sheila has cancer," where they're really just glad Sheila isn't burdening them with the gravity of her illness. Em is not shy about having diabetes and is openly frustrated when she either over or underestimated the carbs in a certain food and now her insulin levels are either too low or high. She also will readily introduce you to her insulin pump, Gloria. (Her first pump, Todd – named after the dog I will have one day – passed away last year.) The kid might not have insulin, but she's got more heart and strength of character and beautiful flaxen hair than the lot of us, and she deserves some recognition.

Here is her Sweetest Diabetic Sister in the World playlist:
"I Want Candy," The Strangeloves
"Sugar and Spice," The Cryan Shames
"Falling Sugar," The Palace Guard
"Sweet Young Thing," The Chocolate Watchband
"Ready Steady," The Sugarettes
"Sweet Lady," What Made Milwaukee Famous
"Dulce Compañía," Julieta Venegas
"You Want the Candy," The Raveonettes
"Sugarcube," Yo La Tengo
"Angry Candy" and "Sugarless," Autolux
"Sugar Man," Rodriguez
"You're So Sweet," Neil Diamond
"Sweet Darlin'" She & Him
"Sipping on the Sweet Nectar," Jens Lekman
"Sweet Thing," Van Morrison
"Oh! Sweet Nuthin'" The Velvet Underground

Costa Rico Suave

Costa Rican Spanish is smooth. This is not the Aymara- or Quechua-derived Spanish with its hard palatal clacking I initially learned. It's a fluid, soft accent, without the jarring lisps or pronunciations you hear other places.

And it's not just the accent itself, but the delivery and Tico-style speak is almost (U.S.) Southern with this hyper gentility. They don't use the personal you tú form at all. Everyone (friends, little kids, couples) addresses each other with formal usted form, or what would represent Sir and Ma'am in most other Latino countries. "You're welcome" isn't "de nada" (it's nothing) here, but "con gusto" (with pleasure). When people get off the bus, they thank the bus driver with "Thank you, God bless." Where we use "if there's anything else you need" or "any way I can help," Ticos use literal translations of "at your orders/service."

And, they're big on terms of endearment, regardless of whether there is any actual relational endearment between the two speakers. When I go buy milk from the little shop next door, I get a "How are you my love," from the owner. I thank the IT guy for fixing changes on the Daily Page, and he'll reply with a "With pleasure, honey." When I went to buy a phone card, the middle aged phone company guy asked me, "How can I serve you today, queen?" These types of things are said all day every day among a married and unmarried person, two people of the same gender, whomever, and it has no suggestive connotation; they just really dig being polite. Of course, that can be the problem sometimes, too.

While it's a general trend in Latin America that people don't like to let you down by saying 'no,' this doesn't mean they will get you what you need, just that they have a softer way of letting you down. In La Paz, you could bet on hearing "Es que no hay" (it's just that there isn't any) on a daily basis. In Costa Rica, it's "No sabría decirle" (I wouldn't know what to tell you) from every other "customer serivce rep" you talk to. People will tell you an interview is cancelled or that their cab meter is broken and your fare is twice as high as it should be while smiling. Frankly, it makes you want to pop a left hook in that smile.

My interview with a 17-year-old convicted felon has been my easiest by far for one reason: It was straightforward. He was perfectly affable and talked easily while gnawing on a piece of raw spaghetti, and I got more out of my five-minute interview with him (you can rent a gun for four hours for $18 in his neighborhood, one of the city's most notorious) than I did in the 45-minute interview with the legal expert ("You could say there's been a light increase in youth violence in recent years").

Even knowing it's all just cultural adaptation, all the over-formality makes it hard sometimes for this Pacifc Northwest Yankee to not want to sit down and have a DTR talk with the Judicial Investigation Police spokesman, which would essentially go, "I give you the question (have you made any arrests in the case yet?), you give me the answer (yes/no). End of transaction. We don't need to bring terms of endearment/submission into this."

Gillian, one of our reporters, could probably have one of those talks with this legislative aide. (And yes, this is a particularly egregious example.)

-----Mensaje original-----
De: Gillian
Para: Herman
Asunto: consulta de Tico Times

Estimado don Hermán,
Un cordial saludo departe de Gillian de The Tico Times. Le escribo para pedir el proyecto de ley de la capitalización de bancos. ¿Me lo podría enviar de una vez?
¡Gracias!
Gillian

Dear Hermán,
Best regards from Gillian of The Tico Times. I'm writing you to ask for the plan for the law on bank capitalizations. Could you send it to me one (more) time?
Thanks!
Gillian

----- Original Message -----
From: Herman
To: Gillian
Subject: RE: consulta de Tico Times

Distinguida Señorita, adjunto le envío la Ley de Banca de Desarrollo que considero Usted necesita, un gusto poder servirle y que Dios bendiga su trabajo en la información del periódico la cual Usted es funcionaria, para mi ha sido un privilegio servirle, estoy a su orden para cualquier información que requiera. Un abrazo y un gusto es bendecirle a Usted en esta mañana..

Distinguished Miss (Gillers),
I'm sending you the attached Law of Development Banking which I believe you need. It's a pleasure to be able to serve you and may God bless your work in the reporting for the newspaper of which you are a member. It has been a privilege for me to serve you, I'm at your orders for whatever information you may need. A hug and it is a pleasure to bless you this morning ...

He sent her the wrong bill twice.

Italialaisella laivalla

This music section is the one I feel most vulnerable writing. Mostly, I'm comfortable with my musical tastes, but my education has been woefully incomplete. I've also had too many bad experiences with music snobs who couldn't forgive me for not having learned of some band's evolution or album's historic significance by age 14, nor did these snobs have the patience to educate me, because that would mean sullying themselves in my ignorance. Sorry, but in 1997, I was more interested in soccer, namely the fact that I got to play with the boys because we didn't have enough girls to have our own girls team that year. I think it's reasonable for a teenage girl to have been more absorbed by the varsity captains than OK Computer. (And still, some will bristle.)

But that's also meant I have plenty of catching up/rabid consumption left. When it comes to music appreciation, I'm mostly my own teacher (and then dangerously my own editor when I post on it). Sure, I try and glean as much as I can from others who have an investment in the art, but I am the one who selects the next loci for exploration.

As much as it makes me nervous, part of me likes it this way, too. If I'm being generous, it feels more unadulterated. I don't need to know who used to work with/produce/be labelmates with/be the muse for whom. I don't need to know who was the leader of a movement, who was a follower. Pop the disc in. Listen. Repeat. How do you feel? The end. I think this is also why I am initially drawn to (or repelled by) band names and cover art: It means you don't have to make your (initial) selection off the music reviews.

This is the cover that spawned November's theme of Scandinavian albums of goodness:


Dungen, Ta Det Lugnt (Sweden)
Do you miss 1964 or feel like you never really got to appreciate it because you weren't born for another 18 years? Me, too. Thankfully, we have Dungen. They swing from roughshod guitar to billowing flute in the same song like no one I've ever heard. Literally, I've never heard anyone else try to do that. Oh my, I love this album. Key tracks: "Det du tanker idag ar du I morgan," (no, I have no idea what any of these titles mean) "Sjutton," and this one, "Panda":



Múm, Yesterday Was Dramatic, Today Is OK (Iceland)
The album title sums up in six words what these ones did in 1,445.

José González, Veneer (Sweden, via Argentinian parents)
The spare balladier and a transport to 197----(choose wisely, Holly)---2. 1972. (Best link of this post right there.)

Paavoharju, Laulu Laakson Kukista (Finland)
This album is the argument for jumping into the mountain lake instead of wading into it. You'll never warm up to it if you try to ease in; you have to let it all go and go all in, because only completely divesting yourself from what you know is what will let you fully absorb what's hitting you. I listened to this album a dozen times in the first week I bought it.

I'm From Barcelona, Let Me Introduce My Friends (Sweden)
It's one of those obnoxious ironic names, but the 29-member band has something going for it, namely, a niche in indie rock for kids who have grown up. Also, they clearly wrote Track 5 for Miriam, who, despite living in France in high school, i.e. a ways from being married, refused to go up the Eiffel Tower with anyone other than her husband. So, however many years later, Jon proposed by asking her if she would go up the tower with him. That's about as precious as it comes, folks.

Sigur Rós, Ágætis Byrjun (Iceland)

Swimming in ice. That's all I could think of listening to these albums (especially Paavoharju, Múm, and this one). All stark, cold, lucid splendor.

I was pleased with this idea of ice bathing for the first week or so I was listening to these albums, until I started reading the reviews about this one. I found out that, not only was my idea of gelid images not unique, but it was universal. Everybody thought this album invoked glaciers and fjords.

My creative sensibilities sulked at first, but then I thought of something: How remarkable for a group to create an album that evokes the same, particular notion in everyone. If someone told you to create an album that made everybody think of climbing trees or watching elephants on the savanna or eating a hamburger and strawberry milkshake in a hole-in-the-wall Chicago diner, all via a language other than the majority of your audience's maternal one, could you do it?

Can we count up now?

A retrospective of my favorite parts from the election, one month later, and with a whole lot more months to anticipate.

Senator Obama was doing press interviews by telephone in a holding room between events. Sometime later as he was getting ready to begin his event, he asked me if I was photographing his shoes. When I said yes, he told me that he had already had them resoled once since he entered the race a year earlier. Providence, R.I., 3/1/2008. (Click 'Show More Images' about five times to get to this one and its caption.)

Best Flickr set ever:


Harbinger, November 1999:

The BBC's Washington correspondent, Paul Reynolds, said the speech was designed to demonstrate that the Texas governor does have a world vision, despite some slips up recently which betrayed his lack of experience.

The meta-political observer, October 1988, when I voted for Bush in our kindergarten election, probably because I didn't know how to draw, much less pronounce, a "Dukakis":

"Black," in other words, could be useful, and even a moral force, a way for white Americans to attain more perfect attitudes: "His color is an enormous plus. … How moving it is, and how important, to see a black candidate meet and overcome the racism that lurks in virtually all of us white Americans," Anthony Lewis had noted in a March column explaining why the notion that Jesse Jackson could win was nonetheless "a romantic delusion" of the kind that had "repeatedly undermined" the Democratic party. "You look at what Jesse Jackson has done, you have to wonder what a Tom Bradley of Los Angeles could have done, what an Andy Young of Atlanta could have done," I heard someone say on one of the Sunday shows after the Jackson campaign had entered its "historic" (or, in the candidate's word, its "endless") phase.