Today was a good day. Productive enough, but not stellar. Scheduled some things, raised my sister’s spirits, edited a bit, and saw the new Harry Potter. But beyond these normal things, it was still really really good. Why? A great conversation. A conversation about important things, trivial trifles, the past, the future, culture, current events, family, art, life…in short, a long long chummy chat about everything and nothing at all. And at the end, I got a tarot reading!
A friend long ago remarked to me that he could measure the quality of his day by the quality of the conversations had in it. Following this line, life could be judged by the content of our communication more than by, say, achievements. And it makes sense, doesn’t it? Our lives are a collection of moments and what we choose to fill them with. Who we choose to share rooms with. It’s incredible to think about the power a conversation has. In basic terms, it’s just communication of facts, opinions, emotions, and responding in kind. Most conversations are a matter of mundane necessity. So why, when everything goes right, can they be so damned fulfilling? So…essential, so thrilling, so nurturing it feels almost like it’s feeding some deep part of you that didn’t know it was hungry? Well, it seems to me that it’s exactly the conversations we don’t need to have that we really do need to have. An excellent conversation is our unique elegant refined human ability to achieve perhaps the highest level of intimacy. Albeit different than the physical, a conversation has the potential to connect people and create bonds between people, if only momentarily, in stronger ways.
I used to consider myself a “gourmet conversationalist” and even used that phrase (yes, haughtily so) in some online dating ads. And in the last couple years, I haven’t had too many. Until now. An old friend who recently appeared in my life has proven on every occasion an absolute elixir of delightfully deliciously complex ideas and thoughts. And a new friend has provided some simply delightful afternoons full of musings on contemporary dance, art, Israel. With both of these people, I have had several hours-long talks that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me feeling on cloud 9. And I think the feeling was mutual. It leaves me wondering what I was doing all this time…how did I exist without conversations like these before? This must be what having a really strong community feels like.
Is it by chance that we find these mutually-fulfilling gourmet conversationalists? Is this real friendship? If you don’t have these essential talks with the friends you have, does it mean they’re not the very best of friends? Or only that you’ve been so busy, depressed, distracted by the sadness and chaos that often consumes us in life? Does every friend have to be able to have these soul rocking sessions? I don’t think so. But it would be preferable. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have one juicy idea-packed gab-session every day? Wouldn’t we all be the happier and probably the healthier for it? Yes. Yes, indeed, indeed, and of course.
When I have one of these excited lingering talks, about god knows what — wine, art, makeup, aging, Chekhov, etiquette, Arabic, emotions, sex, books, movies, madness, and more — I know, I know, I know in my heart of hearts that life is good, that life is special, and in whatever sense, be it religious, spiritual, scientific, agnostic, or merely optimistically atheistic, an undeniable blessing. A great conversation is our humanity in action.
May you all communicate deliciously as often as you can!
Decadence (noun) The act or process of falling into an inferior condition or state; deterioration; decay: Some historians hold that the fall of Rome can be attributed to internal decadence.
Roman Decadence - something to aspire to?
Admittedly, I try to spice up my blog headlines. Alliteration, fun words, things with a ring to them. You know the deal. You clicked through. Decadent Decade sounded nice. Decadent, with the meaning of “unrestrained or excessive self-indulgence,” a sub-definition. Like, “I’d had a really, really good time these past few years.” Yeah right. The main definition fits, though. Decay. As we age, we decay. But have I fallen into an inferior condition? I’m not sure. I’d like to think I’ve improved. That’s not always the case, but I’m certain I’ve had an exceptionally interesting life. That can’t be bad.
Here I am — the last month of my 20’s. You have to stop and wonder where it went. So, let’s have it. The bizarre, anxious, international adventures of me. Birthdays from 1999-2009. Where did the time go?
20th birthday (1999): popular upscale Italian restaurant with two college friends and my parents after spending a quiet day at home in Skokie and roaming Evanston — I remember taking at least 30-60 minutes with my friends just watching the dogs playing at the dog beach by Northwestern University. I’d had a birthday party a couple days before at my summer sublet apartment in Hyde Park. It was so hot, I told people not to bring gifts, just to bring electric fans…three to five friends, no more, sat around in the dark on the wood floor drinking cold beer, eating hors d’oeuvres and salads, with several fans rotating around us. I wasn’t too happy about it. But it was kind of an adventure.
21st birthday (2000): one of the worst. Israel, after having backpacked for a month or more across Europe starting in Ireland to get there without taking to the air…last leg was taking a ferry from Greece into Haifa. My birthday fell on last day or two of bad food poisoning got in Jerusalem from bad meat, and I was still on a liquid diet. A good friend was visiting from Ireland, and she was flying out at 4 am or so. At midnight, we ate a gelatin-mold “cake” with a matchstick as a candle. She left for the airport. I spent the day wandering Tel Aviv in the sweltering heat, miserable that I was alone, that I couldn’t eat, that this was supposed to be the one, real adulthood, the drop dead best party. And I was staring at feral cats in a dodgy area while getting sunstroke on a park bench. The queen of self-pity. The one good thing: my “adoptive family” in Ireland had given me a gift, something in a small square jewelry box from Brown Thomas, tres chic and special, tied with two long satin ribbons, with the instructions that I was to open it only on my birthday. I carried that box with me through more than ten countries. It was really a moment when I got to open it. A fine elegant silver bracelet. I’ll remember it always. And now that I think of it, I was ever so glad not to have been alone at midnight. She was a very kind soul.
22nd birthday (2001): I was in a training week in rural Michigan to be a summer camp counselor and drama specialist. The kids hadn’t arrived yet, and we, the 21-25 year old instructors had bonded a lot. They sang for me, gave me a cake, novelty gifts, and we probably drove out to the country road and the nearest gas station for a cold beer. I felt really safe and loved. I was wary before of being with strangers, but it turned out to be one of the best birthdays, ever.
23rd birthday (2002): Rural Delaware, after a year of living a bizarre half-life amongst people twice to three times my age, picking myself up after being dreadfully lost following graduation the year before. And I knew I was leaving less than a month later for London. Had just created and run a drama camp and was in the midst of a radio producing/editing storm. There was an elegant dinner that I cooked, and all of my 50 year old friends were there. I remember wearing a cornflower-blue Provencal-style flowing dress and sitting at the head of the table in a grand dining room in my cousin’s Victorian house where I lived. Everyone there gave me a bit of advice. I don’t remember much of any of it. But it was a good day. And then I left for London.
24th birthday (2003): London. A semi-dodgy East-End neighborhood called Leyton. Was a cook and barmaid in the City all summer. Subleased a room that turned out to be a caravan – yes, a caravan, like a tiny motor home – in the garden of a standard semi-detached row-house. Because it was a corner lot, the garden was in a “L” shape, and there was ample room for the caravan, which was covered in ivy and colorful sweet smelling flowers and had a nice wooden deck built out from it on one side onto a small stream or creek. The house was full of travelers: Aussies, Kiwis, S.Africans, Canadians – and for the summer, I was one of them. It was a great time. I decided on having as real a garden party as I could create in the late afternoon and through the night. I baked real scones and pies and cakes and probably some other savory things. All my “flatmates” were there, and several people from my MFA course came as well. Someone brought out a spliff at the end of the evening. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it now, but I’d hooked up with a guy at a friend’s party the night before, and he had come as well. It was awkward, like “who is he,” but also kind of nice to have someone to flirt with. Good fun.
25th birthday (2004): Skokie. Party in the garden. Lots of pretty cakes that I’d baked, salads, casseroles, barbecue. Old friends. My parents. My best from from Delaware flew in. Friends of my parents, too. A sunny evening. I had just been hired at a big art museum, my first big real job after graduating from London, after searching for more than three months for work. I wore my red embroidered tunic from Bangkok, the one I thought was so elegant yet comfortable. It was a decent day. There’s some video of me introducing each of the cakes I made in great excited detail.
26th birthday (2005): Chicago, a local bar close to my apartment. I “held court” and friends came by for several hours. My sister was there visiting and stayed with me the whole time. I paid for platters of appetizers. People got their own drinks. It wasn’t great. Not too many people came. It was awkward. But I had my sister. The next day was my real birthday, and my family met us at the Chicago Diner, a vegetarian restaurant with great brunch. We sat in the back patio area, had seitan scrambles, wheat grass and beet shakes, and they showered me with presents. The biggie was a briefcase from my dad. My mother had gotten me tons of trinkets from her recent trip to Korea and China. My sister and I then went to a Korean public bath and I paid for us both to enjoy the sauna, steam room, whirlpools, and body scrubs – a tiny old Korean woman wearing lacy undies and bra scraping us with incredible gusto with something like steel wool and regular green soap, gray clumps of skin falling off everywhere. It hurt. But it was fabulous. Then my parents took the two of us out to a very fancy Italian restaurant in Evanston. It was a fun few days. Good memories.
27th birthday (2006): Chicago, a friend’s huge gorgeous brownstone house and garden in the amazing Old Town neighborhood. Because I was living at my parents’ place (I knew I wanted to move to Israel – gave up my apartment), she had volunteered her house to use. My middle sister was again visiting, and she and I cooked all day long. And then almost nobody showed up. It was a nightmare. The hostess got moody in the middle of the party and holed up on her own. She and some of my friends did not get along. At the end of it all we were all kind of pissed off and being passive aggressive and it wasn’t a nice scenario in the kitchen cleaning up afterward. I felt horrible that I had cooked so much, went to so much trouble, and so few people showed. And I was even more on edge and sad and embarrassed that this had happened not at my own place, and that I had troubled someone else over the whole thing. On top of it all, I remember feeling anxiety that I was officially in my “late 20s.” Scared that I was old and unaccomplished. Despite the job. Despite the theatre I had done in the last two years. I missed my sisters in Tel Aviv. I wanted to live authentically. Do something just for me. And do it with courage. It was just a disappointing stressful evening that was out of my control.
28th birthday (2007): back in Chicago. I had just come back from 6 months in Israel where I’d written the bulk of my novel. I was working a temp job in Evanston at a corporate beauty school of all places. Saving up to go back to Israel in the fall after a good friend’s wedding. I decided I did NOT want to cook for my own birthday and specifically did not want to bake my own cake for yet another year. My parents, rather my dad, did me the honor of smoking a few gorgeous slabs of ribs and making a cake. The cake kind of fell apart on him, and I did end up “fixing” it so it could be eaten. But that’s OK. Many of my friends came, almost all were couples (a first..being the only singleton at your own party), and two brought cakes, and we had a glorious dinner. The day of my birthday, my parents took me back to that super fancy Italian restaurant in Evanston. They gave me men’s socks and movie vouchers. That part really sucked. I had asked for and expected an ipod. I was really upset. I shouldn’t have been, but I was. It was the only thing I wanted. I asked for the cheapest one, a shuffle. I could have bought it myself. And they took me out for this mega-expensive meal, several hundred dollars worth…and they gave me socks and movie tickets. Good lord.
29th birthday (2008): Tel Aviv. Took half a day off work from my internet startup job. Bought a dress. Got a massage. Bought some nice face products. Went to the beach. Ate a whole plate of fries and drank a beer. Waited for friends. A few came. Then we walked together to an Ethiopian restaurant. More friends met us there. Had the whole place to ourselves and sat in their outdoor section. Shared a bottle of wine. Laughed. Someone pulled out a joint. Even though we were in “public” it was so secluded…kind of fun. After dinner it was late…we walked up to the incredible art studio of a friend’s friend. Hung out. Then the guy I was dating took me home. We messed about. And we broke it off the next day. Sad. But only bittersweet. We stayed friends. An OK birthday. I planned well for the “disappointment fact” by doing things I enjoyed…a massage, the beach.
So there we have it. A decade of birthdays. Three countries. Lots of cake. Lots of barbecue. Lots of Italian food for some reason. Good friends. It’s funny. I end up feeling so disappointed – not enough people came, things didn’t go according to plan, my parents were assholes – and the like. But the memory doesn’t last long term. Even my crappy 21st birthday. I can laugh about it now. Like I’m consoling my younger former self.
Trends and stuff that I can learn from: garden parties/barbecues predominate. Well, it’s summer, why not. The best birthday of the lot may have been with semi-strangers/new friends in rural Michigan. I had low expectations, so I suppose that when it turned out to be great fun, it was more than fun for me. It was miraculously good. The worst birthdays were when I was alone, had high expectations, and/or was disappointed by parents or myself. So what can I learn from all this? Outdoor parties work, try not to expect much – maybe with the goal being to have a laid back fun time myself, and make sure a definite number of people can and will be there to help out (and so I’m not perceiving myself to be “alone”). Taking care of “me time” is also a good idea. A massage goes a long way. Right? Right. I think I’m on the right track for this coming birthday. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…
Queen of Sheba Cake - one of my faves to make and to eat
I am so tired, and it really doesn’t seem like I have much reason to be. I slept nearly ten hours last night. Well…except that I have been on six (looong) flights over the course of the last three weeks, have endeavored to see many friends (requiring long freeway drives and/or train rides), and have carried around copious amounts of luggage (I have yet to really master the art of packing, although I’ve gotten close…I just don’t really give a crap this time).
And I’m making all of these stupid justifications why? I don’t know. I just feel lazy if I’m not doing everything. I mean, that’s why I’m here! Vacation, see friends, see family. No big deal. My father invited me to go to the theatre last night…an amazing production of Twelfth Night. I turned him down. We went to the movies last night instead. Pixar’s new film, Up. And as I sat in the audience, I was asking myself why oh why was I there, and could I stay awake through an animated film, even though it was only 9:15 pm. And I have so many friends left to see, excellent, good, lovely old friends, as well as some new delightful ones. And I cannot, I just cannot get myself to get in the car and drive the hour and a bit and search for overly expensive parking every single day to see them. I can’t. I’m too tired. And I feel like a shit for it. I just don’t want to drive anywhere. And in America, cars are the name of the game. Where is my cafe down the street? The market around the corner?
Maybe it’s the new meds. A new friend told me she was on Cymbalta, too, and she couldn’t get over the side effect of fatigue, more than two years on. Maybe it wasn’t good for me to learn that. I don’t think I considered a medical reason for my tiredness before then.
The good fun stuff? Yes, despite the clouds, there is always a silver lining. I’ve watched all of John Le Carre’sTinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I’m making headway into the last part of the trilogy, Smiley’s People. Thank God for Netflix. And for British television. And Alec Guinness. And the fact that I can do this at home on a sofa, swaddled in woolen blankets, sipping herbal tea and eating roasted almonds. Espionage is always best when watched from the safety of home with a hot beverage.
Patrick Steward as Karla and Alec Guinness as Smiley
And aside from being overwhelmed by American TV, the news, Judge Sotomayor, John and Kate plus eight (do I care? no), a minor Huffington Post addiction, and anxiety about whether or not I’ll be able to see all of my friends for five seconds before I yet again leave town in about five days…I’m doing OK. A potential solution: invite people over to me. Yes. A get together, a barbecue, a hoedown, a potluck, a chance to chew the cud quietly in that nice homey safe suburban atmosphere… Yes. Let them find me. I’m just too tired. And I’m not sure why.
Three days in LA. A nice time was had. And except for the fact that I will be missing my good good old friend here, I’m OK to be leaving. LA has not redeemed itself. It has it’s moments. Some gorgeous buildings. A beautiful beach. Healthy food. Decent weather. But on the down side, it is one giant strip mall that you have to traverse in freeways for the majority of your existence. No amount of palm trees can really make up for that. The smog really sucks. And the foggy smoggy icky grey mornings are no fun, either. There’s no hip happenin’ single downtown area. You always need a designated driver or be willing to pay a huge bundle for taxis.
But the highlights I’m taking with me were very worth the visit. And I’ll visit again. While here, I:
Learned to Samba dance — it was not easy, but it was very fun and eye opening.
Made some new friends/acquaintances
Met up with some very interesting people (amongst them, filmmakers, a rocket scientist, an actress, a choral conductor, a french horn player, and an award winning journalist), old friends and acquaintances, and it made my heart so happy to have quality conversations with them
Had a real barbecue with real English sausages (aka bangers), pure pork, no seasoning, nothing else…except for maybe salt and some water…so very very tasty
Ate excellent and cheap sushi
Walked Venice beach on a perfect sunny day, dipped my feet on the Pacific Ocean, and watched a sea lion dive in an out of the waves just off shore
So…so long, LA, I hardly know you, and that’s OK. I wanted to see the Getty and for some reason, the La Brea tar pits…but they will wait for another occasion. Unless a strong quake hits and they all fall into the sea. But then we’ll have bigger problems, won’t we.
I missed 69. Oh well. The 69th day was pure bliss. So it was worth living and not rushing to describing. I had such a nice day. So calm. So friendly. So, so…good. A good day in a picturesque place. Sometimes that’s the best you can expect in a day.
My housemates arrived well past 11:30 pm two nights ago. It was my responsibility, as first person to have arrived at this very difficult-to-find little house on the prairie, to give directions to them and/or lead them here. I met them at the bottom of the drive, and they followed me the rest of the confusing twisty-turny way down bumpy graveled private back-roads to the house. And they are charming! Couldn’t have asked for nicer housemates.
The four of us had breakfast at Cafe Emporium, the Ojai brunch-centrale, and then one of the girls, the one I’m rooming with, and I went and had manicures done. They took much longer than expected, and by the time we got home, we had less than 45 minutes to shower, dress, and all that jazz to get ready for the wedding! It was done! Two frantically made-up women, one with wet-ish hair, the other slapping on mascara while looking in the rear view mirror…arrived at the most beautiful wedding that ever was.
The ceremony was conducted in a wooded area under a lovely little trelis covered in lilies and greenery. The view was just that. A priest, the couple, flowers, and majestic forest with large swooping trees as far as the eye can see. The bride and groom were so happy. Glowing. Floating. More than I have seen at any other wedding. The happiness was palpable. And I think it affected all of the guests and the tone of the entire event. We were calm, friendly, chatting. Mellow. It was elegant to the extreme, nicer decor, catering, location, there could not have been. And yet, I felt comfortable. Comfortable in my outfit, in my skin, with the people I was speaking with, with the dancing, with everything. How such a formal event could be so laid back was a miraculous blessing. We all felt it. It was good. Dancing to the big band, old time jazz, swanky classics, smelling the herbs that decorated the tables instead of flowers, watching the sun setting over the dance floor behind the valley and mountains in the distance. The richest butter cream, chocolate mousse layered wedding cake that has ever been… What a night.
The perfect day ended with an after party at some friends’ guesthouse. They had a hot tub. And perhaps twenty of us showed up, drank prosecco, red wine, smoked, and soaked in perfect bliss. The darkness here is profound. So many stars. The sky can hardly be called black. It is peppered generously with the glowing remnants of the gods of old.
I will remember this weekend for the new friends, for the sunlight, for the fresh picked oranges, for the earthy smells, and the exceptional love and generosity of my friends, the bride and groom. A happier couple there never was.
I am in paradise. I’m not kidding. It’s hard to believe.
Ojai is a town about 90 miles north and a bit west of LA. It’s about 30 miles from Santa Barbara and 13 north of Ventura, if that gives you an idea. I’m not one for California geography. This is perhaps the fourth or fifth time I’ve ever been in the state, and the only time not in a big city. Ojai is not on the coast. It’s a beautiful sun-dappled valley full of lush orange groves and vineyards and ranches surrounded by mountains. They filmed a movie about Shangri-la here. It’s that beautiful. I’m pinching myself.
I’m in Ojai for the wedding of a dear friend, and I’m so incredibly tickled that I am here. I love weddings. In this crazy chaotic war-stricken stressful world, the thought of celebrating love, just for the sake of it, makes the tears well up in my eyes. And it’s Ojai. So beautiful, I don’t know what I did to deserve coming here. Sounds funny to think of it that way. How much fun will it be to spend the weekend here, going to funky little shops, hiking in the mountains, seeing old friends, and of course, getting all gussied up in my very best formalwear for a great celebration.
It sucks that there is a downside. No, no, there isn’t. But there always is. Perhaps if I write about my stinking awful side here, I can get over it and just get on with enjoying myself. Or at least trying to.
Are you ever NOT able to enjoy yourself because you know that the situation you are in is temporary? Or perhaps you’re the kind of person who enjoys yourself more BECAUSE a situation is temporary. Vacations. You go away for a week. It’s like, 3 -2 -1 – GO! Have fun, NOW! Because you have to go back to your ordinariness and troubles and stress sooner than you think. When I arrived, my jaw dropped. It is so beautiful here. And a very kind women, a friend of the bride’s family, offered her guest house to guests of the wedding coming from far away. And it’s the most lovely little house you can picture. Stone walls, high wooden beamed ceilings, perfect elegant decor, large windows, large patios all around the house, a screened in porch which acts as a second living room…it’s hardly a guest house…it’s just a gorgeous little two-bedroom house beside a much larger house. It even has a large kitchen, a set of scrabble, and lots of cold beer and tea (which I’ll be replacing, of course, if I use). Part of me was so thrilled, so awe-struck, not just of the beauty and elegance of this house I have been given to enjoy for the weekend, but also of the generosity of such people who would freely give this gift to a stranger. Then my mind (and perhaps my paranoia) kicked in with thoughts of, “how can I best take advantage of this?” and “how can a thank my hosts and adequately show them my gratitude?” and “ya right, I’m not going to enjoy myself, knowing I only have 2-3 days here…it’s like being shown a glimpse of paradise and then having it whisked away…”
See, I’m not as gracious as people think. I fear that I must appear ungrateful. Being here, I feel that this is a place I would really like to spend a lot of time. This place is very close to the picture I have had in my head for years of what my living heaven on earth would be:
Rural, yet somehow cultured. Ojai has festivals, a playwrights’ theater, music concerts, and much more.
Rural, yet close enough to civilization, and good civilization at that (think an hour and a bit outside of Paris or Rome). LA is not a European cultural mecca…but it is exciting in its way and large and important.
A modest home. Yes, modest. And perhaps even the chance to build it (or design it, or have it built for me with my input, etc). See, I don’t care about being wealthy. I just don’t want to worry about money all the time. I don’t want more than I need. Because the second I do have a bit of cash, even these days, I give it away to my alma mater or charities or arts organizations.
A garden. Veggies. Herbs. Color. I want English roses and just fields of basil.
A beautiful warm kitchen in the center of the home.
Simple, elegant, comfortable decor.
Books. Lots of books.
A perfect office. With a perfect armchair.
Warmth. Kindness. Generosity.
That’s what I want. I want an office where I can be productive, write my novels and philosophical treatises and cookbooks and travel guides and somehow get paid to do it. And a home where I feel safe and free and where I can make others feel safe and free and loved. That’s it. And yes, Ojai is a picture postcard. And it is the haven of second homes of the rich and famous. And I’ll probably never live here. But it’s so nice to see it and experience it. And also quite devastating. Will I ever achieve even a fraction of that picture that hangs by a thread on the walls of my psyche?
Such the fraidy cat that I am, I just spent half an hour rehearsing a phone call that lasted no more than five minutes. But what a step! And what a series of events! For starters, I went out last night with an extremely hip group of women. One gifted writer, one theatrical designer and TV stylist, one genius computer engineer, and me. The four of us, after a hilarious mishap which found us at an Israeli cross between a pub and sports bar when we had been expecting a suave wine bar with exquisite Italian food, went across town where I found us a real quality wine bar, one of only two that I know. This one was closer (corner of Nachalat Binyamin and Montifiore), very new, and owned by a friend of a friend, so I was more than glad to give them our business. It was a wonderful decision. We shared a bottle of Rioja, which turned out to be very complex, spicy, and really hit the “we want to be in a great and elegant spot” kind of mood. We also shared a cheese plate, a fundamentally fantastic decision, again, as it had a Chevre, a goat’s Camembert, a gorgeous Gorgonzola, and a hard cow’s cheese presented in dainty slivers whose name I can’t remember now. This wonderful place even gave us four homemade chocolate truffles with our bill. Nice. In a country where customer service is a non-existent joke, we were quite happy, indeed.
My depression / melancholy / ennui patch slowly subsiding this week, and still very much on a high of wanting to “get into” the wine/spirits business here in Israel, I chatted with the ladies about some realistic short-term goals I had in mind. Amongst them is to perhaps get a job at a wine shop, or lead wine tastings, or doing some part-time marketing work for a boutique winery, or some such activity which would allow me to get out of the house some, interact with interesting people, and taste and learn lots about Israeli wines. As well as earn a buck, I should say, as I’m unemployed or self-employed, or delusionally employed, or goodness knows what.
As I was saying this, the wine bar staff was just pouring our wine and presenting our cheeses, and my friends stopped me…as it seemed the two waitresses were trying to get my attention. These two charming girls told me that they often do wine tastings and that their manager at this company was looking for more workers, especially with the holiday season approaching (holiday season in Israel comes twice a year, essentially — we have the autumn holidays, the big scary “high holy days” — and then we have the spring holidays which start with Purim in March, continue to Passover in April, and then continue to a bunch of national holidays leading up to Independence Day, which is usually in early May). They had me take down their contact’s number, said to pass along their names, and that was that. It also turned out that one of the women I was with, the designer, has a brother who is a wine maker, a true blue degree-carrying expert in setting up vineyards and making the actual wines who has been doing it for a decade or more here in Israel. Good friends of her brother’s actually started one of my favorite boutique wineries here in Israel, Flam (it’s a gorgeous website, too). And after I do some good research about what my “wine goals” realistically are for the long run, and do some good research on wine making, wine in Israel, etc, she’ll find a way for me to meet her brother. Yay!
It was a fortuitous evening to say the least. Stars coming together to help me. But, I have to act, too. This could be it, the way for me to make money without hating myself. It also really helps that I love this field, and I might be persuaded to even dream so big as to want to make a big contribution. Why not? But I have to act. And act I did. I made that phone call, they are looking for new people to lead wine tastings and market the wines, and there will be an introductory meeting early next week! Yes! It’s a step. And it may lead to nice part-time work. And it’s a great company, from what I’m told. At least the wines are good. Check the Golan Heights Winery out.
But onto the daily drag. I have a mountain of laundry so scary, I’m not sure what to do about it. Wash it would be the logical thing, but I don’t have a dryer, and it would take me more than a week to wash, then hang, wait for the load to dry before doing another one, as the apartment is too small to even hang more laundry than that. I have to read two manuscripts this week for my writing seminar, and I have to write, and write a lot, because I’ve barely been doing a thing. So, it’s gotta be about writing and cleaning and reading this weekend and it has to happen.
Luckily I’ve got some great new tunes to make it all go easier. I’ve heard some of Mika’s songs over the past many months, but I didn’t connect the dots. I must have been the last one to hear of him. I honestly thought the songs might be from Robby Williams (because to me, they have very similar voices). But in Ireland, my friend had the album Life in Cartoon Motion in her car, and I got to listen to the whole thing. Impressive, full of energy and light. Fun, hip, bouncy, quirky, and intelligent. I highly recommend it to anyone out there who needs a boost. And to anyone else. It’s just too damn fun to miss out on.
Yes, I’m having one of those blurry, kind of fun filled, kind of exhausting days. Within 24-hours I have been to Tel Aviv, Haifa, and now Jerusalem. Sure, on American or even European standards, these places are pretty close. Not so, here. I’ve been on a train and six buses in less than a day. Why? Friends, of course, completely putting ruin to my “week of health,” that I so aspired to in my last post.
What have I been doing, might you ask?
Started out visiting two adorable kitties (not my own) whom I’m looking after for the week, and ended up having a marvelous time playing games with them, brushing them, having fun looking out windows with them, and then snuggling for a bit while I read a book. A yummy sort of visit, wouldn’t you think?
Saw friends from all nationalities and living in different parts of the country — including Dutch, Russian-American, Israeli-American, and plain old American. Well, I should also include the regular Israelis, too.
I drew a nude woman at a studio art session in Haifa (there is an extraordinarily interesting story to this — Despite the fact that I come from an artistic family and had a rather famous artist as a grandfather and I currently live in his former studio, I have never attempted to draw. Sure, I love to doodle, and as a kid, I colored lots. It’s a constructive activity for kids. But as an adult, or a teenager, even? No art classes for me since elementary school. Never learned to sketch figures, faces, etc. Didn’t think I could do it, and I was already over-committed to drama, music, clubs, societies, academics, and more. Well, last week I discovered that not only can I draw, I can draw well. I’m starting to suspect I’m a bit of a genius. And I’m not saying it in a conceited, self-aggrandizing way. I’m good at almost everything I’ve ever tried, to the extent that I could have, or could have had a career in just about anything. Which I had already suspected. Which makes my psych problems all the more exacerbating, as I can’t make up my mind, and I suspect it has much to do with the fact that I was always praised more for my talent than my effort, and it fucks with a kid’s mind to do that. Ok, I’m going to stop. So, I painted this nude woman very well, and I may even frame one of the brush-and-ink ones I did, the first time I’d ever used a Japanese brush before. An elegant almost organic tool. It even feels sexy to just handle it.)
Had drinks at a bar (non alcoholic for me for a change — orange juice mixed with Sprite) with a good friend and her artsy friends while gorging on gorgeous tempura-style broccoli and dipping sauces
Had a sleepover at my friend’s, complete with surfing fun blogs late at night (check out The Absolute Zero Project – a guy named Russell Freeland’s amazing site, amazing story, an inspired and addictive read), the poor-man’s healthy breakfast of bits of sliced cheese, a banana, some lukewarm herbal tea, and good conversation.
A hurried purchase of two, count ‘em, two new pairs of gym shoes, for only 100 shekels (about 25 USD) at a great (ordinarily kind of crappy) discount shoe outlet called Gali, this one at the Haifa bus station. See, I haven’t gotten to the gym yet, not for lack of trying — see, a couple days ago I got into gym clothes and everything, set the time aside, was all ready to go, and then couldn’t find one of my gym shoes. I tore my room apart to no avail. I only own one pair, and it was purchased back in 2004. So…almost 5 years with one pair of runners warrants a new pair…or two…and the price was more than right. Major discount. Major. Add to this my stupidity of wearing crocs, yes, crocs, holes in the sole and all, on what turned into a cold and rainy evening yesterday…and I was more than happy to have tightly tied closed toed shoes to skip around Jerusalem with.
Met up with another amazing friend in Jerusalem and had scrummy delicious leftovers at her house, including kasha (buckwheat) stewy stuff that had come out of a veggie stuffed pepper, some sort of lentil curry (I think), and some sort of casserole made out of greens and recycled sweet cornbread (this resembled stuffing) and tofu. Did I mention she’s an amazing cook?
And now, she’s napping as I blog…this has turned into a boring domestic report, oh my. Oh well. I’ve been invited to dinner, and I think I will stay…a mutual friend is returning home, a lovely sweet man, who is bringing back oodles of sweets and junk food for us from his native land called Liverpool. I tried to convince him to bring me wine gums and skips, a kind of reconstituted artificial crisp that fizzles in your mouth, both foods that bring back memories of endless rides on British trains with green fields, sheep, churches, big grey skies, and streaks of rain outside my window as I snacked snowly on these sinfully delicious snacks, reading fantastical novels, and relishing every minute of it. But no. He thinks skips are disgusting, which of course, they are, but he’ll happily bring me the wine gums. You can’t win it all. And then, and then, back to Tel Aviv I’ll head, a mere 27 hours after I’ve left it. A huge triangle have I created across the land. At least I had excellent company and good reading (borrowed a copy of Sybil from my cat friend’s bookcase) between stops. And although it’s cold as bloody hell in Jerusalem and even colder indoors because of our bloody concrete structures, I have a little space heater in front of me, and if I squint, I can almost be persuaded its glow is that of a small burning fire.
Today is my last full day here in Dublin. I’m a bit sad to leave tomorrow, but not heartbroken. It’s given me energy and a bit of peace of mind being here. It’s really exciting to be “going for your dreams.” Life can be stressful, but goodness gracious, there is indeed so much to look forward to. A lot of things are hard (publishing a book, building a company, making ends meet, creating a lasting mark on the world…), but it can be fun, exciting, joyful, and good to simply be going for them. Putting in a strong effort. This simple optimism is missing from my life on a day to day basis, quite often. And it’s something that was essential in my life when I was in uni, and especially when I lived in Dublin 9 years ago. I’ll have to find a way to remember this. To make it mine, daily, again.
Yesterday, I had a “day of decadence,” I think I’ll call it. Got up quite late, went to The Winding Stair, an old independent bookstore that has a cafe above it. Well, it’s been completely redone, and the cafe is a gourmet restaurant in the best liberal Irish tradition — local fare, local ingredients, organic produce, imaginative yet wholesome menu — and just a lovely bright room, lots of wood, overlooking the Liffey right at the Ha’penny bridge. I ate lamb liver, streaky bacon, mustard mash, and whiskey sauce, with an interesting amber beer from Italy I’d not had before. Really lovely. Liver was more cooked than I liked, but still a good meal. Very warm, smart, attentive staff. I’m so glad I went back there. In college, I used to hang out there a bit. The cafe then was “literary themed” which I do kind of miss in the place now. You could get sandwiches named after famous books, and I was quite looking forward to a “Watership Down,” or an “Anna Karenina,” or something like that. Lamb’s liver was more than fine, of course, but it would be fun if they’d included more books in the decor, and added back some of the whimsical which made the place so special before.
I then rushed up to one of the main cinemas in town off of Parnell Square, and I saw the much praised Slumdog Millionaire. It was fun to see a film in the middle of the day. It was a feel-good experience. Nice story. Having just been in India, I actually wasn’t too keen on “being back there” so soon. But everyone’s been raving… Thing is, as good as it was, it wasn’t anything to write home about for me. It was fun, it was romantic, it was a nice glimpse into India. But it doesn’t seem like Oscar calibre to me. It was average-good. A box office hit, sure. Nice color, nice young people, hard work triumphing, a deserving youth. But I don’t think I saw any stellar performances. We shall see…
Then, I went to Kilkenny, not the place, but the design shop on Nassau Street. There is a jewelry designer I am absolutely smitten with, and I was told I might be able to find his stuff at this shop. Sure enough, a whole case of Alan Ardiff. His works move! They do! It’s like gorgeous clockwork in miniature hanging on your neck. Ducks bob on water, stars rotate, doors open…it’s amazing. And so very pretty. All silver, all cute, and so unique. Problem was, I didn’t have a spare 200 Euro. I think I’ll have to create a list of birthday requests for my family…it’s cheeky, but I would really love to have one of those pieces. It’s art. And it would make my day. Here is one of my favorites, called, “Follow Your Star.”
Follow Your Star
I then dashed over to The Market Bar on Fade Street where I met some old friends from Trinity. Such fun. Munching on tapas (well, I got a cheese and meat platter and they barely ever pecked!), drinking wine, and catching up with such good people. One is a filmaker who I pray will make it big. The other a director and arts administrator who basically runs the Dublin theatre Festival. A great evening.
And now, now, now, I must get offline, get dressed, and get out of the house! I’m going to another wine tasting extravaganza with the lovely S, this time at the Guinness storerooms. Hurrah! I love Dublin. Should I find a way to move back? Should I find a way to export my friends to be near me? Start an Israeli-Irish winery? Perhaps, perhaps? Ah life. It’s good right now. We’ll see about tomorrow when I have to be on a 6 am flight out of here…
I have great, great friends. I do. I’m maybe, potentially, perhaps warming up to the concept that I have really great friends who are my family. It’s taken place, miraculously, since the summer. But when the boy broke it off, I knew who to call, and she was there on the phone, and I cried, and it was OK. And the next day another friend picked me up and took me on a short drive out of the city to a village that had an organic store and nursery where I bought a Melissa plant. And that night, another friend took me out drinking, and the next night, yesterday, a good, good friend surprised me by showing up out of the blue from Haifa, and took me and another friend who had already planned on coming over to drink it up with me, to a brand new wine by where a vague acquaintance was having a birthday. It was fantastic. An accordion, a guitar, Georges Brassens music, practice at flirting, excellent wine (had a whole bottle of Flam), delicious food (lamb ravioli and sheep cheese gnocchi). Good friends.
And today I bought a plane ticket to Dublin. It’s my Irish friend’s 30th birthday bash. And I cannot afford to go. But the ticket was so cheap ($430 return, thank you British Midlands), it was a crime not to. I mean, tickets to London are running upwards of $500, and I’m going to Ireland with a London stopover for significantly less? So, I’m off for about 6 days. It’s far too far a destination to go for simply a weekend. And despite the fact that I’m unemployed or self-employed or “writing” full time, I can’t get out of the groove for that long. The money is dwindling. I need a plan.
But first, Dublin. My plan for Dublin: have a brilliant time at my friend’s birthday festivities, totally pamper her the following day (her real birthday), see old friends (did I mention I lived in Dublin 1999-2000 for a year?…it’s the first time I’m going back), hopefully smooch a gorgeous Irishman in a dark pub corner (who knows, maybe a quaint little affair is in order), work on my writing (thank GOD for laptops), redesign my website, sight see, go to the theatre loads to see friends’ shows, and see the family I lived with 9 years ago. I want to let loose and have fun. And I think Dublin is the perfect destination.
But before…ah before…love, love, you need to work for it. Indeed I do. I have promised myself here and now, that my apartment must be as close to spotless as I can manage it before I leave. This means significant work every day for the next four days. It really does. Perhaps a load of laundry. Or five. Dusting, sweeping, and mopping. Rearranging books. Shelf organization. It all gets done. And of course, I have to do my reading and critiquing for Friday’s workshop. It’s a fun job. Just one I’ve been procrastinating on. Especially now, by writing about it instead of getting to it already. There I have it.
I am Dublin bound. Indeed I am. Now go to it, boobie!
And just think, you’ll be here in just a few days…
It’s just one of those “world conspiring to do me a huge favor” kind of days. I cannot friggin believe it. I just got back from my writing seminar, and they drop dead loved my book. All the worry. All the absolute convincing-of-myself that I did that the manuscript was just glorified toilet paper. Gone. People really do think it’s something special. Four talented, professional writers think it’s really good. And funny. The leader of the group, the professional writing instructor, told me he laughed out loud several times, and that that never ever happens to him. Ever. And he even read it twice. Twice! And laughed out loud the second time, too, anticipating the funny moments. I am in shock. I am not a failure. What I create may actually have merit. One day I, too, may become a published author, big time. Because the other manuscript we critiqued today, while it was quite good, didn’t receive the all-around, “this was so fun-unique-hilarious-true, etc, etc” that mine did.
And now I’m off to cook for two whole days, starting in about an hour, after I can get my stuff together and over to my uncle’s house who has graciously donated his kitchen for my cause today. Friends will be popping around periodically, and I’m hoping it will be a Martha Stewart meets Mr Rogers meets the cast of Friends kind of day, yet totally productive. Geez, this is even one of the plotlines, when Monica has her won catering company. Actually, it’s the exact plotline, when she takes one of her friends to be the waitress and friends of the family are the first ones to hire her. Wow. Life mimicking art. Naw. That would be going to far. Not that Friends isn’t art…I mean, how silly would it be to think I have a life…ha, ha, ha. Now let’s get to frenzied work! Pate to be made! AHHHHH! Wish me luck!
I had originally met the guy I just broke it off with through friends. A friend. A female friend. A really nice girl whom I think is sweet, smart, fun, quirky, a bit nuts, but a great person to hang with and to know. I really think she liked me, too. And this guy, this guy. This guy was an ex of hers who became a good friend. I should have smelled trouble a mile away.
Background – I’ve been in this country less than ten months. Only in the past 2 months or so have a really started to feel an inkling of what it is to feel at home here, to have real friends here. A group of great creative, lovely women allowed me to join their “group.” Not that there was a membership process. But it has been great. I live a bit far from them, so I’ve only seen them sporadically. But it’s been enough. Once every week and a half, plus phone calls, emails, a party here and there, some holiday antics. This girl was one of the new friends I had adopted. And I must add here, they are natives, locals, whatever you’d call it. I have lots of expat acquaintances, but it’s been so important to me to find something real. Real people, a real connection. This is one of the few tendrils that keeps me happy and sane, here, these new friends. They give me hope that I can build a life here and feel more at home. They have been more than kind, and we’ve had some great fun.
But now. But now. I made a mistake. Not in dating this man. But in keeping it a secret. Not that it matters at all now, however, it was his idea, and his request. He didn’t want to let anyone know unless it “became” something. Obviously, it hasn’t. And it’s OK. Throughout the short dating period, I felt very stressed. I felt it wasn’t quite right. I felt like I was lying when there was no need. And I also felt like this was the kind of situation where I ought to have been more than open with my friend, ask “for permission”, or advice, or the like. It would have been respectful, or seen as such, in this Sex and the City type world. Girlfriend etiquette. But the guy and I started dating so organically. Emails, a coffee, etc. He lives nearer to me than the girls. It was easy to get together. And then his request. We wouldn’t let anyone know until it was “something” because if it didn’t turn out, nobody would be the wiser. Why hurt anyone?
Well, she felt something, she asked him, and he told her. And I was so sheepish, scared, I don’t know what. I didn’t speak with her. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t confront. And now it’s off anyway, and if nobody had found out, it would have been simple. But now I don’t have a boyfriend, and I also might have lost a friend. The guy keeps insisting she loves me, she actually told him it would be great if he dated me, encouraged it. But still, it was I, I who did not speak with her.
Today I spoke with her. It was a very short phone call. We had planned to go dress shopping (she is a famously good personal shopper), but we both may have been busy, so it was to confirm the cancellation. And after this I said, “(The Guy) told me that you knew we had started dating, and you may know we have stopped.” She confirmed, but it was short, curt, and cold. And I told her that I felt bad, and that I apologize for not having spoken with her about it before, sooner. She responded, “well, it’s too late for that, now.”
I feel like a terrible human being.
And it continues. I’m still going out with this man, just like before. Only no touching. Dead Sea, a movie, a long phone call, and now dinner tonight. Hopefully the two of us can figure out how my friend really feels, and think about what to do.
Because I may have just lost the only friends, the only Israeli friends, I had here.
Welcome!
This is my countdown to my 30th birthday. Thanks for stopping by.
This life I’m on often feels like a great adventure, and it is my pleasure to share it with anyone who is interested.
I am a writer and chef. I am an American woman living in Tel Aviv, editing my ... Continue reading »
