movin on up

Read a post by me on a Chicago Sun-Times blog!

times they are a-changin

I hope you'll believe me when I say I have a list of possible blogs to write, both on paper and in my head. I have the beginnings of at least two more blogs about Israel written in various journals, and a couple more composing themselves in my head. I have ideas of what I can do with this blog that's new, what I can call it, what it can look like, what I can write about. Still a la deriva sits silent, and empty, and sad: Who has time to learn CSS, re-learn HTML, and think, much less write, critically about one's life and surroundings?

Still, I would like to blog everyday. Perhaps I will try.

Monday I begin my new job as an Intern at the Obama for America National Campaign Headquarters. Today I drink morning mimosas and eat sushi for lunch to celebrate and hop on a train that will take me west to Iowa. I've never been to Iowa. Nor, in the last year, have I looked forward to going to work in the morning. Stay tuned...

in the land of promises

More often than not, news from the Middle East is bloody, and images, at least in my first-world mind, are of third-world scenes: starving children, violence, unstable governments, poverty. Perhaps I should have known better from my trip to Morocco (and, come to think of it, the U.S. isn’t exactly starving children-, violence-, and poverty-free itself) but I was surprised to see that Israel was civilized. There were supermarkets and retail stores and Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (but, interestingly, no Starbucks—it apparently didn’t go over well there) and flush toilets and clean streets and paved roads and street signs and freeways and nice houses. We didn’t go near the West Bank or the Gaza Strip (which, depending on who you talk to, are not really part of Israel anyway) or to Sderot, where rockets launched from Gaza fall daily, but even though most of the buildings in the rest of the country are ancient, they’re well kept up, and even though it’s only been around as an official state for 60 years, it seems to be doing pretty well culturally, economically, technologically, politically, and otherwise. Still, it wasn’t home.

-----

We were standing in a balmy Tel Aviv evening, a warm breeze was coming off the Mediterranean, American music was permeating the walls of the nearby bar; we were talking about Israel. Rather, Israel and Palestine. We were, after all, in Israel.

I have picked up a few facts about the Israel/Palestine situation over the years but I've never really understood it or trusted any source of information to be true and unbiased. Perhaps this trip and this conversation will serve as my impetus to try harder to supplement my knowledge, some of which I picked up from this trip and this night when I opted to leave the bar because the music was too loud and American, the drinks were too expensive, and there was not one Israeli in the place. Even though the bar was identical to many in Chicago—with the exception of the Goldstar beer label written in Hebrew—there was one distinct and poignant difference. And we were reminded of it at every moment by the vigilant armed guard for our group of 50.

Standing there, listening to opinions about Israel and Palestine with one ear, trying to tune out the washed-out club music with the other, I looked over the tops of the buildings, and at times the boat masts behind me, and wondered if the planes and helicopters flying by were “friendly.” Our guard, holding the largest gun I have even seen, standing just a few feet away gave no sign.


(View of Jerusalem's Old City—note the wall surrounding it and the gold-domed mosque)

And I wondered again, earlier in the day, sitting at the junction of the Armenian quarter, the Jewish quarter, the Muslim quarter, and the Christian quarter in the Old City of Jerusalem. I watched the men in black hats, beards, suits, with tzitzit and payot walk by, the women in long skirts and dark caps pushing strollers, and the group of dark-skinned little boys not wearing yarmulkes and I looked out over the satellite dishes and white-stone rooftops to the gold-domed mosque that stands on the Jews’ Temple Mount—the fabled site of the creation of the world and the first two synagogues, among other things (see above)—and wondered if the man in the bright-green shirt pacing over the rooftops in front of us with a hand gun at his side in one hand and a walkie talkie in the other was, again, friendly. Our guard was whispering to another participant, but still close by.

And one more time I wondered, in only the second day of our trip, while walking through Shuk Machaneh Yehuda—a blocks-long outdoor market in the New City of Jerusalem—and carrying bags of bright, sweet fresh fruit and some unidentifiable morsels for lunch, a man walked quickly by with a machine gun. I didn't feel I was in danger in Israel, per se; with its rolling hills and subdued greens and palm trees it actually looked a lot like California, home (see below). But there were a few moments during my 10-day trip when, more often than when I’m in the U.S., I stepped back and wondered if my life was in danger.


(California-esque view from our first-night accommodations just outside of Jerusalem, in Shoresh)

I was, after all, in the Middle East. A Jewish state, maybe, or so our tour guide kept reminding us, reminiscent of California, yes, but not quite home nonetheless.

------

You see, before I left, I heard many stories from people, Jews of course, who had gone before, who got a starry look in their eyes when I said I was going to Israel, who said dreamily, “I stepped off the plane and felt like I was home.” “I wish I could go for the first time again, it was so magical.” Even during our final group discussion before we ate our last kibbutz-made dinner and got on the plane, people were saying tearfully, “I didn’t feel like a tourist at all.” Walking in a 50-person group with my sunglasses, hat, sunscreen, humongous water bottle, and camera certainly made me feel like a tourist. And I didn’t believe the “everyone is a Jew” thing either: everyone definitely didn’t look Jewish and there are plenty of Muslims and Christians who live there too.


(Me, dressed modestly, in front of the Western Wall, which is the only remaining piece of the second temple's surrounding wall that stood where the mosque stands today)

The moral of my first, excessively rambling post on my recent trip to Israel is the word “skeptical.” I think if I had taken this trip back when I was an impressionable freshman just learning about my Jewish side and before I went to Spain and saw Europe, it might have completely changed my life. Now, as a skeptical young adult, almost a year into my first full-time job, well, I’m not so impressionable. I wasn't moved to tears when the plane landed, I did not go to synagogue last Friday night, and I wouldn't be too upset if I never took another 12-hour El Al flight. That’s not to say that it didn’t change me at all, though. The recent surge in my Chicago social life can be attributed directly to Birthright. Aspects of the trip, its people, or just Israel recur nightly in my dreams. And I have a certain fondness for the country. My fondness won’t translate into me voting specifically pro-Israel in November, but it does make me read a little closer when I see an Israel-related article during my morning Internet news prowl. The thousands of dollars of philanthropic funding that provided my free trip wasn’t entirely lost on me: I have facts to pursue, questions to answer, issues to think about, and endless fodder for many interesting discussions ahead.

To be continued…

maybe

Maybe if I wrote my posts like this I would have more readers.

I am composing Israel posts. I promise.

violin lessons

Today I found myself in an unlikely situation. I was hiding from the California-esque sun in the cool, dark, faintly sweet-smelling basement workshop of a violin maker and repairman. There were violins of all shapes and sizes hanging from the walls, some with finish, some without, some with strings, some without, some full-sized, some half-sized, some giant (otherwise known, I think, as cellos). The repairman was slightly awkward but friendly, and though I had diagnosed my own problem, he proceeded to tell me all the other things wrong with my eight-month old violin. The strings are too high and cheap and the fingerboard too low, the pegs not "doped" enough. He gave me my choice of three "good" violins with appropriate string-heights and fingerboard angles and set to work, fixing the only fixable problem.


I spent more time staring at the dark graveyard of desks and dressers and couches and painted arches and picture frames that inhabited the basement outside his workshop than I did squeaking out the parts of songs I could remember after two weeks of not playing, convinced it was the violins that were out of tune and not I.

It seemed like such an unassuming place to work: an artists' building with no real need for business or numbers. I paid in crumpled cash. I didn't see the computer in the corner, only the wooden work tables, the mis-matched chairs, the small wood-working tools and the light coming through the distorted glass windows. This is a man who took the less-traveled path. This is a man who does not stare at a computer screen all day. This is a man who gets to surround himself with beauty, in sight and in sound, and he gets a tangible reward from his day's work: a well-working violin, and maybe even a child's smiling face. I certainly walked out of there, into the perfect day, smiling.

One of the reasons I'm a journalist (or I want to be one) is I enjoy finding myself in unlikely situations. Discovering unlikely people. Looking for graffiti under a freeway underpass, watching bikes fly by at a motocross raceway, exploring the bowels of a brand-new clean room in an engineering building, smelling the air in the sanctuary of a LEED-certified environmental synagogue: when I'm in these out-of-the-ordinary situations I like to take a step back, look around, and think, "Not many people can say they have been where I am now." I like to dabble, walk a mile in someone's shoes, and while I don't mind my daily routine, I relish the opportunity to leave it.

to the holy land and back again

I left for Israel without telling you and now I'm back. Lots of words and thoughts and pictures will be up soon...

shiny new

At 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning as I was speeding along the freshly rained-upon sidewalk on my spiffy new bicycle (yes, the sidewalk, and don't worry, I didn't go further than that crack), the quiet moist air in my mouth, the wind brushing across my face and through my hair, I thought to myself as my lips moved into a smile, "This move was a great idea."

You see, last year at around this time, before I bought my one-way ticket to Chicago but after I started thinking seriously about moving here, I focused a lot of my decision-making energies on whether I thought I would regret the move later. Now I see that however badly I think I'm doing now, or how everything turns out later on, this move could never induce regret. While I probably won't end up here in the long run (though I can never be sure--I may be living on a corn farm in central Illinois in 10 years) I seem to have surrounded myself with very thoughtful friends. I may not have the quantity I had in college or the social life (yes, sometimes I go to sleep at 11:30 on a Saturday night), but I have met some very good people. And in my slightly less than a year here, I have received two of the most thoughtful gifts anyone outside my family has ever given me (of course not counting the many nice gifts my family has given me over the years).

The "new" bike that I was so gleefully riding the other night was presented to me as a no-occasion surprise Saturday afternoon in the living room of my boyfriend's apartment. I had my ears and my eyes sufficiently covered, and when the hands came away, the bicycle pretty much of my dreams was sitting between the alley-found armchairs and the old wooden floor.

"To what do I owe this amazing gift?" I stammered with amazement, gazing at the slightly faded black frame, the shiny handlebars, the cushy seat, the rusty fenders (perfect for painting white and red).

Apparently my friend has been eyeing it all winter, where it sat unlocked near a hidden bar on a forgotten street populated mostly by warehouses. She sat for a day or two scrubbing at the rust, tuning up the chain, fixing the flat tire until it was roadworthy and presented it to me with a smile. It still needed a little work, but it was a nice smooth ride. "What do you think?" she asked. I felt like Ralphie in The Christmas Story; of course I was thrilled to have my very own bike, and for free! And more importantly, my friend was thinking of me.

My new bike looks something like this, but black, a little rusty, and minus the metal thing in the back: (I will post a real picture when it's completed)


I will be speeding around the city with it upon my return from Israel when, I'm hoping, it will finally be warm. I'm pretty sure Spring doesn't exist here. Sure it's lovely: the trees are blooming and the colorful tulips are opening, but it's 53 right now... and it doesn't seem to ever want to get warm!

Nevertheless, I had my window open this morning, and in the couple minutes I had to kill before leaving for work I was playing my other most thoughtful gift--a red violin--as softly as possible in the crisp sunny morning breeze.

blue oblivion

I shuffled over to the pool's edge yesterday afternoon, dodging puddles and little kids, sweating slightly from my brisk mile walk from the train station, the relatively warm weather, and the hellishly wet, warm locker room.

"Hey Lindsey," my coach declared from the pool with a wave and a smile. "You're the youngest person on the team now! You beat the youngest by four months!"

Evidently, I joined a swim team. I think it's safe to announce now that I've canceled my gym membership, filled out my forms, written a check, and been to every practice but one for the past two weeks. Apparently, in addition to being arguably the most out-of-shape swimmer on the team, I'm also the youngest.

I'm no stranger to being the youngest--odd, I know, considering I'm the oldest in my family. Regardless, by virtue of the fact that my birthday is on the late end of the Kindergarten cut-off date, I have always surrounded myself with people that are slightly older. And since graduating, the people I have surrounded myself with are older still--I'm the youngest in my apartment, the youngest in my office, the youngest of most of my friends (even those still in college), the younger in my relationship...

It doesn't matter, really. I was making friends at swimming who were 24 and 30 before anyone knew the difference. But still, there is a slight difference. I tend to group all of my peers in the same general age group, the 20s, but I constantly have to remind myself that while I'm figuring out what I want to do with my life and anticipating my one-year anniversary with my boyfriend, my 27-28-year-old friends might be thinking about marriage and kids. That, and they like to make fun of me for being as old as their younger, snot-nosed siblings.

But if my same-aged peers are not at work and not swimming and not living with me and are not my friends, where are they? Some of them are in college, some are traveling the world, some are in grad school, some are living with their parents--there's no way to know for sure.

Lucky for me, my age is not holding me back at swimming, thanks to my youthful muscles and my many, many years of swimming regularly before my couple-year hiatus in college. Regardless of how successful I am at it, I've come to realize that it's just plain essential for my sanity: I never realized how much I needed a time without cell phones and computers and dealing with people and expectations. It's an hour off three times a week, and it's small in comparison to the 40 hours per week I work and the 168 hours per week I worry, but it certainly helps.

on a tragic note:

There was a shark attack in San Diego on Friday that killed a swimmer at a cove I used to swim at with my team during the summer. That hits a little too close to home.

this is not a political blog...

Nor do I want it to be. But this article/blog is my favorite of the week and I couldn't resist posting it:

Drop Out, Obama

R.I.P. Banana

I was eating a late dinner last night at the little green folding table in our kitchen while talking to my little sister on the phone, when I happened to notice out of the corner of my eye that my roommate was up on her knees on the kitchen counter, with her head jammed in the little space between the window and the cabinet and her butt sticking straight up in the air. There was a faint smell of banana wafting past my nose.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"I dropped a banana. And it didn't just fall on the windowsill, it fell behind the cabinet. These things only happen to me!"

I sighed, hung up with my sister, and left my dinner half-eaten on the table while she jumped off the counter and started furiously opening and slamming drawers and cabinets. Short of dismantling the cabinets, there was no way get behind the cabinet from the front, so we'd have to get there from the back: a one-foot wide by three-foot deep space under the counter and behind the cabinet, mostly obscured by a metal bar across the top and the wall below the window. Or risk the return of Nelson (formerly known as Squeaky) and living with a kitchen that perpetually smelled of rotting banana. We got to work.

I held the flashlight and my roommate, a coat hanger. The banana was sitting about three feet down in the middle of a graveyard of never-again-played CDs, dust, and scraps of paper. When the coat hanger proved useless, I bent it a different way a tried again while my roommate held the flashlight. With each pierce of the metal coat hanger in the bruising yellow skin came another whiff of the future smell of our kitchen, made all the more dramatic by the dull thump I heard each time I tried to lift the hanger and the slick meat of the banana slipped off. We opened the window that hadn't been open since last summer, hoping we could unscrew the gate over it and get through the hole from a different angle. We were greeted by a shower of pebbles.

I taped a spatula securely to the end of the coat hanger and fished around while my roommate pawed through our drawers, looking for a pair of tongs, a barbecue poker, or anything more sturdy than a coat hanger. She stuck her arm down the hole as far as it would go, her head jammed awkwardly against the windowsill, one leg stretched straight up in the air. Her arm and taught fingers were just slightly too short to reach the now black banana. The circle of the flashlight bounced around in the hole while I giggled, my roommate teetering dangerously on her one hand on the counter, shaking from laughter.

We found a metal pounder of some sort, with a long handle and a sturdy base held by a triangle of metal arms that was just thin enough to maybe, just maybe, stick under the banana. I stuck my finger in the loop at the end of the instrument, stuck my arm down the hole, and very carefully scooped up the banana. We stifled our laughs and tried not to make a sound as I slowly raised the banana, my roommate ready with her hand to grab it. She did, and it ended up, like the mouse, securely fastened in a plastic bag, black and furry with dust, waiting to go down to the dumpster with the rest of the trash.

I finished my dinner. But I'm not sure I'll ever look at bananas the same way again.

remember the earth

It is Earth Day. Just in case you haven't seen enough top-10 tips on reducing your carbon emissions lately, I'm going to add my own to the mix. I am by no means an expert on the environment, but I have picked up a couple of easy and environmentally friendly practices that I have, for the most part, added to my routine, and I hope you will try to add to yours. In no particular order:

1. Walk, bike, run, or take public transportation instead of driving. If you must drive, drive a car that gets good gas mileage.

2. Use reusable cloth bags instead of paper or plastic at the supermarket and during other shopping trips.

3. Replace all of your light bulbs with energy-efficient fluorescent ones.

4. Turn off the lights when not in use and turn off and unplug all all electronics when not in use. Buy energy-saver appliances and electronics when replacing old ones.

5. Turn your heat cooler a few degrees in the winter and your air conditioning a few degrees warmer in the summer. You will save energy and money on your utilities bill and you probably won't notice the difference.

6. Take shorter showers and don't leave the water running when you're brushing your teeth or washing the dishes. Run the dishwasher only when it's full and don't rinse the dirty dishes beforehand.

7. Buy local whenever possible (buy your produce at the farmer's market instead of at the supermarket). Buy fair trade.

8. Use Tupperware (or the equivalent non-brand version) to store food instead of plastic bags. Try to reuse them if you do. Use a reusable lunch bag or an old plastic bag as a lunch bag and garbage can liner instead of a brown bag. Buy a reusable water bottle for your water instead of single-use bottles. If you use a single-use bottle, recycle it.

9. Buy secondhand whenever possible. Buy books at used book stores or borrow them from the library.

10. Don't print this list out. Commit it to memory. Try to read most electronic documents on-screen. If you must print, use scratch paper or recycle it after you're done with it. Buy food and items with less packaging and recycle whatever isn't trash.

If you have any other easy tips to add, please do comment below!

more about water...

An addition to my post on water: The New York Times had a story today that further explains why certain plastics could be dangerous (specifically, the plastic that's used in Nalgene bottles).

Yes, I realize I could drive myself nuts by trying to understand and eliminate every object and activity and material and food in our world that may, in some cases, cause cancer. But if it's an easy enough fix, why not?

the unifier

A few times per month, or whenever I can, I venture down to volunteer at the unassuming storefront that is The Boring Store and its hidden 826CHI. (Pause for me to get out my journalistic writing style:) Founded in the Bay Area by the brilliant (my own editorializing) contemporary writer Dave Eggers, 826 exposes children of a variety of ages and skill levels to a variety of different styles of writing through free field trips, in-class visits, and workshops at nights and on weekends. It encourages excitement about literacy through these programs, along with its free tutoring program, in a creative and non-academic atmosphere. In short, it's amazing.

(Pause for me to ditch the fact-laden journalistic writing style in favor of something more descriptive:) Its sign is a confusing mix of words and sentences that do not amount to any understanding whatsoever of the organization inside. In the window is an uninteresting collection of brown boxes and some question marks. The first time I walked by I thought it was a box store, lacking any better explanation for the windows that stand adjacent to a row of old-fashioned furniture store neighbors with wrought-iron security gates. In the store is a random and creative assortment of supplies for spies, each displayed with its own personal brown box. Every aspect of this place is meticulously thought-out, from the mannequins equipped with black spy mustaches to the one-way mirror into the store from the classroom. And kids go wild upon entering. Even I, an adult (who admittedly retains some childlike impulses), like the brightly colored floor and the 50-something spy cameras that point toward the front door and the old-fashioned cash register.

Last week, on my once-a-month day off, I got up early and made my way to 826 as I often do for a field trip with a first grade class from the South Side. Without going into too much detail about the experience, the class goes on a field trip to 826, which, we tell them, turns into a publishing house during the day with a very mean and mysterious boss named Moody. A volunteer teachers the kids about what goes into a story, the class creates the beginning of an often very strange original story which is illustrated by another volunteer (once a second- or third-grade class wrote about a trilobite festival, creatures I had never before even heard of) and each student is directed to finish the half-finished story and create illustrations.

This is all beside my main point in writing about 826, which I am finally getting to. In this class of first-graders from the South Side, there was not one white student. There were maybe two Hispanic students, but the rest of the twenty-something kids in the class were black. The teacher was young and white. All of the volunteers and the full-time staff at 826 were white (and the majority young and female).

In the confines of the store, and even in the real world, none of this really matters, of course. Any kid, any class, regardless of location of the school in Chicago's rather strictly segregated North, South, and West Sides, regardless of parents' income and anything else, obviously gets the same program and the same number of volunteers, and the same professional-looking bound and "published" books at the end of the field trip. But the reason I bring it up, I guess, is to illustrate Chicago's persistent problem with gentrification and segregation based, unfortunately, on income and race. I don't know exactly what kind of area this school is located in or anything about the home-life of the children. I won't venture any explanations or solutions, as growing up in SoCal, diversity outside of white or Hispanic or Asian isn't really my specialty.

I will, however, keep volunteering.

taste of summer

It is the warmest day of the year so far--69 by my last count--and the streets are teeming with wanderers reluctant to sit in their offices and there's not a cloud in the sky.

Yet Chicagoans, perhaps some of the most resilient folk in the country when it comes to weather, are strangely attached to their coats. Even today, when skirts or dresses without tights, when short sleeves, when even sandals are acceptable attire, the vast majority of the street wanderers still have all their skin covered and they are still wearing their coats, myself included. A jacket has become almost an extension of oneself at this point: we have been carrying around jackets, big and small, for the past six or seven months, and to go without one now is a bit uncomfortable--or even risky. Just like going without an umbrella in summer is inadvisable (due to those mid-afternoon or evening downpours), going without a jacket between approximately October and May is like taking walking on the wild side. Literally, at any moment, even on the warmest day of the year so far, the temperature could start to drop and the warm, happy non-jacket wearer could find him or herself not so warm and happy anymore. It wouldn't be the first time the temperature has changed 20-30 degrees in one day. So we cling to our jackets and our tights (yes, I am including myself with the Chicagoans--I am wearing a skirt with tights and a jacket today), even when they make sweat, even when they seem unnecessary in the face of the bright light sun. It is not summer yet.

all about water

Apparently, there is no proof that water is actually good for you. What they forgot to mention is there's no proof it's bad for you either. What does this mean? Keep drinking water. Obviously, everyone makes their own rules, but I say, if my body is made up of mostly water, it makes sense to put some water in, especially if I'm thirsty.

There is also no proof that the plastic in Nalgene bottles is bad for you, but it might be. And there is proof that single-use water bottles are not meant to be reused, and that steel water bottles emit no questionable chemicals into the water bottled inside. I have been an avid user of Nalgene bottles in all shapes and sizes for about two years now, and I'm making the switch to steel.

diet decisions

For the past seven-plus years, my not eating red meat, and my usually not eating pig-products or lamb, and my occasional rejection of any meat or fish whatsoever has been a fairly easy and "just understood" sort of choice. Everyone who knows me knows I don't eat these things, and most of my friends are vegetarian anyway, so it's not an issue. And if it, for any reason, becomes a not-so-easy choice and I run out of ways to explain it or I'm just not feeling it anymore, I'll adjust my dietary constraints accordingly. I started eating poultry instead of being a vegetarian, I started eating pig-products and fish in Spain, and now, while I still eat poultry and fish and shellfish and don't eat red meat or any other strange kinds of meat, I will occasionally have a piece of good Spanish ham, or prosciutto, or a piece of bacon on a sandwich.

Lately, however, I have been thinking about becoming an occasional beef-eater, making it an occasional treat like prosciutto or good Spanish ham. I don't think I'll ever be the type to eat a steak, or even ever really order beef at a restaurant or make it at home, but it might be nice to eat a real meatball every once in awhile, have a real hamburger, try a bite of corned beef or pastrami, eat a famous Chicago hot dog... I feel there are some culinary delights out there that I have never tried, and maybe should before I decide to reject them.

That said, there were a few times this weekend when I could have eaten a bite of beef. Corned beef, which frankly looked delicious on marble rye, pastrami on a novel pretzel-style roll at one of my favorite sandwich restaurants in Chicago, veal-that-looked-like-chicken at a German restaurant in my neighborhood (Now that I think about it, though, I don't think I'll ever want to even try veal, judging from the bad things my parents have said about it my whole life, being that it's from a baby cow and all). Even though I had the opportunity to become a full-fledged meat eater this weekend, I didn't. My excuse was what it normally is: "I haven't eaten beef for seven years and I don't know how my stomach would react." This time my theory was debunked by a doctor who insisted that a human stomach is equipped to digest meat, whether or not it has been getting the practice.

Regardless, though I'm curious about certain beef-based items, I realize the reason I rejected my opportunities to taste is because I don't actually want to become a beef eater. After reading The Jungle, after recently becoming more and more concerned with the environment, I don't need it and I don't really want it.

Strangely enough, in the same train of thought that I think about eating beef occasionally, I also think about becoming vegetarian again. Or "fishatarian." I rarely ever make meat of any sort at home, so it wouldn't really be too much of a change. But maybe I like having the freedom to eat the occasional turkey sandwich, chicken tortilla soup... philly cheese steak?

Evidently, I'm no closer to a decision.

eyelids droop

This is rather a bad habit I've developed, probably due to years of writing articles late into the night at the Daily Nexus office and writing essays after that while the dark waves crashed on the invisible beach outside my window. I can't seem to produce quality work during the day, but in the middle of the night, when I seem to have all the time in the world to edit and re-write, my writings, or in this case, my articles, move along swimmingly. Not only do I not get paid enough to spend eight hours working and another three writing at night, but I do not start work late enough to be able to stay up until the early morning and still be high-functioning in the morning.

Having recognized this, I could now go to sleep. But this might just be the highlight of my work week, writing along to the quiet drone of my 109 Ani DiFranco songs on shuffle as my eyelids droop.

silence

Once every two months or so I experience complete silence in the city.

This morning I was lying in bed for one last sweet second after my alarm went off when I noticed it. The fan was off. My incessant alarm was, thankfully, off. My thoughts were still groggy. All the 8:00 commuters had already left, so there was no creaking on the stairs or around the apartment. And most notably, there were no cars honking, speeding up, or stopping at the nearby lights, and there were no buses stopping with squeaky brakes, speeding up with noisy, dirty exhaust, or otherwise announcing their presence--the street or the route or the fact you can answer any further questions at www.transitchicago.com. Thank you for riding the CTA.

-----

I haven't quite decided if I like living in a big city. I like this city, I like its variety, I like its public transportation (even if it means I can't get to anything on time)--notice I DIDN'T say I like its weather--but big cities in general are horrible messes of places that are often exciting to visit but easy to leave. I think Chicago assuages (GRE word) the mess slightly by being sprawling and composed of 70-something different neighborhoods that each have their own feel: urban, suburban, European, gritty, clean, you name it. It still is a horrible mess, though. The public schools are bad, the north side is disproportionally richer and therefore better funded and maintained than the south and west sides, the sales tax--I just discovered--is over 9% and rising because of the transit system's budget and staffing and service woes... but there's a strange power to it all. I like working downtown, riding the train, craning my neck so I can try to see the top of the Sear's Tower (difficult), strutting across streets like I have something to do and like I know where to go (usually, I have both).

My friend asked me not too long ago if it bothers me that there are people everywhere. Before she asked I hadn't actually thought too much about it... there are so many ways to escape these days, from listening to music, to watching videos, to just plain reading. Then, sometimes, even with all these people, it's quiet. But when I think about the big mess and all the cars and people and hurry and bustle, I want to go back to my little bubble next to the Pacific Ocean, where I could hear the waves.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my six-month anniversary of being a real person. For the past six months, today, I have had a job that I haul myself out of bed for almost every day, I have received a paycheck in my bank account every two weeks, and on varying dates throughout the month I have been expected to transfer this money to various companies and individuals--my landlord, my roommate, my gym, Visa, CTA, Netflix, Blue Cross, etc--now, six months later, I'm not quite rich yet nor do I think I will ever be. But this is beside the point.

On this most historic of days, my six-month anniversary of being the stereotypical, the miserable, nine-to-fiver, I am thinking about the GRE Practice Test I'm taking tomorrow and how I'm going to refuse the company administering this free test when they try to get me to agree to pay them over half of my current checking account balance so they can teach me to do well on this test I am almost certainly ill-prepared for. I am looking forward to, perhaps relatively soon, retreating into the sheltered academic cove I not-so-long ago knew and loved, which will allow me to get up past 7:00 a.m. during the week and, furthermore, see my apartment by the light of the sun. Today I am looking at my recently updated resume and planning what I will wear and what I will say at a job fair I am attending on Saturday. I am slowly scouring job-search websites and planning to update my writing portfolio and cover letter in between completing my least-favorite tasks at my current job.

This is not really how I thought it would go. Yes, by all accounts it is going fine: I pay my bills, I have a little left over, I am working in my field... but I left college hopeful and confident, a strong believer in the absolute freedom of the press, and now I'm disillusioned, confused, bored, and tired. And freedom of the press for me, for my interests, my beliefs, is a myth. That's fine. Unfortunate, but fine. Six months really isn't a long time, but it does feel like one... and what can I do now but look for and hope for something better.

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Today is also nearly my nine-month anniversary of living here in Chicago (and of dating my boyfriend). Nine months is also not really a long time, but Chicago's starting to feel more and more familiar, especially now that spring and summer are rolling around again. Concerts to look forward to, my pride at being able to navigate without a map of the streets or the transportation, my not having to deal with a car, my lovely apartment and neighborhood... so I try to focus on these things instead of the former.

shalom

This afternoon, in the midst of front-page news about Israel and Gaza bombing each other again and the school kids getting shot in Jerusalem last week, I got an email with flights, dates, and a packing list.

Shalom, Lindsey, it said. You're going to Israel.

My philosophy behind traveling or basically doing anything else that scares me out of my mind is to not to think about it until the time comes. This way, I can sign up for things that I feel would be good for me, things that I feel I should do, and I don't have to think about exactly what I'm doing before it's too late. Like going to Spain and moving here, I don't freak out until I get to the airport, and by that point there's no turning back... Like that famous picture that still stands on the shelf above my parents' office computer, of me at the airport about to leave for Spain for six months, my eyes red and tears running down my cheeks. I knew objectively that studying abroad was good for me but if I wasn't an adult I would have tried to run and hide behind my mother's apron strings. But I am an adult. So I do it.

In this case, there are other factors at work besides simply being fearful, tired, or unwilling to leave the country. This is the Middle East we're talking about, after all. Nevertheless, I know this trip will be good for me because it has been for so many others like me, and I am an adult, so I'll do it. And not think about it until it's upon me.

(You can bet that I will think about it while I'm there and when I return. Check back in MAY and JUNE--and before and after that--for my thoughts on Israel.)

the no-send list

This is that post I was talking about...

Easily number two on the Top 10 list of reasons people unsubscribe to the famed WJD is the confession that "I'm Catholic," or "I'm Methodist," or "I'm Christian." Also in the top 10: "@#$%!&#%!%@#$" (seriously, people yell and scream obscenities), "I don't want my mailman in the no-man's land of Kentucky to think I'm Jewish," "I care about the environment and I want you to save paper and postage by not sending this to me ever again," "I didn't pay for this [free] subscription and I want to know whose joke it was to send this paper to me" (findings based on the results of an informal study of an unspecified number of callers conducted by the WJD editorial assistant). Luckily I don't have the job of managing the circulation list so I don't get to hear the best of them. But if I'm good I do get to hear some, because an inconsistency in the phone system sends several of these delightful callers to my desk each day and some of them even leave me messages though my voice mail box message expressly tells them not to.

The woman I just talked to was polite, so she has a leg up on most of our callers. She said pleasantly, almost laughing, "I'm calling to cancel because [suppressed giggle]... I'm actually Catholic. So..." I said "OK" and transferred her to circulation before she could say "I don't want my mailman to think..."

My blood started boiling even before I really thought about the call. No, there is nothing inherently wrong with wanting to cancel a newspaper that is made with the religion and/or ethnicity that's not yours in mind. Maybe it was just her quick and cheery excuse. Why should it matter that she's Catholic? Is it against Catholic doctrine to touch, or, God forbid, open a magazine that has the world "Jewish" written on the cover? It wouldn't kill these people to be a little more accepting and a little less judgmental. It's not very encouraging to work somewhere where the volume of calls to cancel the subscription outnumber the constructive or article request or subscription request calls by at least 75 to 1 (findings based on the results of another informal study of an unspecified number of callers conducted by the WJD editorial assistant).

the absent engagement ring

The secretary looked at me conspiratorially from between the long green leaves of the plant sitting on the edge of her desk.

"Are you getting married?" she asked covertly, excitedly.

I looked down at my semi-professional clothes, the pile of winter gear now in my lap, and the steno pad and pen in my hands, and thought quickly of my boyfriend. And my age. And my dolls. And the single university diploma sitting on my dresser at home. I decided I definitely wasn't, and giggled softly.

"No," I exhaled. "I'm here to interview..."

"I only asked because I was being nosy," she admitted. "When I was your age, I was getting married."

I wondered what age I looked and what age she was when she got married... and the rabbi called me into his office.

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I don't know where 20-somethings disappear to when they graduate from college, but apparently they don't end up at semi-conservative religious publications. People have mistaken me for many things since I've been here, and usually it's not the reporter I am. Or once I sit them down for the interview, they talk about me and my generation... "Kids your age, they don't feel any connection to stuffy Jewish institutions." (True.) And when, yesterday, we touched on "the problem of" Jewish continuity and intermarriage, I tried to sit up straighter and look older when I realized that I embody the quintessential "problem" the older generations talk about when they fear the religion will die.

I don't mind, really. I smile understandingly and look forward to one day when I will hopefully be among the hip, young journalists at some publication or blog that publishes articles I would read and things I would believe if I wasn't forced to.

the myth of objectivity

Incidentally, I am in the process of composing a long, rambling post about why people hate journalists and the media, specifically my newspaper/news magazine/newsletter/magazine... whatever you care to call it. I may never get to the point of the post, in which case I will never post it.

Do not fear, this article should tide you over. It's concise, honest, and refreshing. It explains a lot of important things that most lay-people don't understand about "the media." It's what I wish I had been saying in the media's defense all along. Well, I have, but maybe not in so many words.

I still hate the phrase, "the media."

bad burritos

Someone asked me yet again last night that all-too-common question, "Why did you move to Chicago?" Because I was in the company of funny people, as I so often find myself, I gave a slightly different answer than usual, "I really wanted to experience 30 below." My boyfriend added, "She really likes earmuffs." (It wouldn't have been funny to say any of that a few weeks ago when there was still a threat that the temperature would fall 40 degrees at any time... but now that March is nearly upon us, I feel confident that the worst is most certainly over. If you don't count the waffling of temperatures that's now upon us or the melting that will soon ensue.)

What I should have said was, "I wanted to eat lots and lots of really bad Mexican food."

Maybe I'm seeing the grass as greener in Southern California, but it seems like any Mexican restaurant I went to in San Diego or Santa Barbara (or LA for that matter... and even one in San Fran), it was reliably good. Or awesome. Or at least edible. Now while there are a fair number of Mexicans in Chicago, I have yet to go to a hands-down really good Mexican restaurant here--take out or sit down. I've been to a couple that pass, but always the rice isn't quite right or the tortilla isn't quite warm enough or there's just something that doesn't click like the amazing and famous Freebirds or Nico's or Rico's or Rose's or Senor Pico's... so last night I went out on a limb, went to one in a new neighborhood I had heard of but never been to, and it was not awesome, not good, and not really even edible. The half of chicken burrito I ate with one piece of bone, a measly, greasy slice of cheese, some brownish avocado, and a not-very-warm tortilla didn't give me food poisoning, but it left me planning a quick escape to the bathroom for the rest of the night and this morning just in case.

The good news is I can do things to slightly quell my addiction to good, SoCal Mexican food. I can eat almost-good-enough burritos. I can try more places that have been rated the best by Chicagoans, though they can't really be trusted. I can go to Chipotle, which doesn't have the right feel, but the food is passable. I can make burritos at home, drowning the not-quite-right beans and tortillas in sour cream, guacamole, and black olives. It's unfortunate, really, because I was just beginning to like it here.

the case for grad school

My latest article should be arriving in the mail shortly if you are a lucky subscriber. Or you can view it on the website. You may notice that I'm not posting a "this should have looked like this" version of it. Progress? Maybe.

You also may have noticed that I've been MIA. The winter is long, I have nothing to talk about besides the crazy and cruel weather (which no one wants to hear about anymore) and once I get out of the habit of posting often I forget to look for things to say and compose them in my head.

I have also become increasingly political in my talking, reading, and thinking, and I do not want this to become a political blog. There are far too many good ones (here, here, and here, just to name a few) and I am not qualified to be a good political blogger or a good compiler of political stories. I did enjoy writing my endorsement, but that's as political as I get here.

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I have never been a proponent of grad school. In fact, I have long been convinced that I would never go and have wondered why everyone thought it was the obvious next step after college. Why spend thousands on another degree that might not even lead anywhere? Why head immediately into more and more years of school when one has just graduated from 17?

Now, eight months out of college I am still not a proponent of beginning grad school immediately after undergrad (except for those who are on a specific path... to become a doctor or a lawyer or a scientist or psychologist or whatever). But I can see the argument now for going a couple years after college, or even long after college, after one has entered the work force and decided she either doesn't have enough training to do what she wants to do, or decided she doesn't really like the work force and wants to retreat back into her academia hole. I fit into both categories, hence the "she" pronoun and this post. I have many career and future aspirations that change weekly depending on my mood and the weather, but this particular aspiration to maybe someday go to grad school has not changed weekly, so I'm planning accordingly. Campus visits, reading online, talking to people, buying GRE prep books and taking practice tests, making friends again with people who could write recommendations for me... It might happen. I might apply if I still feel this way next winter, but for now I'm excited at the prospect of learning how to do math again for the GREs, preparing myself without spending much money, someday returning to my academia hole, perhaps going abroad again, and being, after it all, thousands of dollars in debt. But there's something admirable and serious about putting oneself through school. So maybe I'll learn to save a bit while I'm still working. Probably I'll still have to be a very hard-working student if I decide to do this. Maybe I'll finally cash in my bonds for the occasion.

The bottom line is, with the face of journalism changing so rapidly, I no longer think that journalism grad school is a waste of time. In fact, for people like me who made it through the first round of school and learning journalism just before and while the web was becoming so prevalent, it might be necessary to get that web edge. I'm still a proponent of paper newspapers... but I don't get any myself (this Slate article seems like a good excuse) and I'm beginning appreciate online that much more now that I spend basically all day reading the news.

more about the cold

There is nothing positive to be said about -1ºF. Or, for that matter, -1º with a windchill of -15ºF. There is nothing positive to be said about the coldest day of the year, unless you count being inside, drinking hot chocolate and eating sweet tea biscuits.

There is, however, a certain cleanliness, a certain crispness about the -15º air. With not a cloud or snowflake in the sky skewing visibility, the lines of the buildings are perfectly straight and clear and everything is, in other words, brilliantly in focus. I looked down one of the few diagonal streets from the train this morning and could see the outline of downtown against the gray-yellow morning sky. And dotted above the three- and four-story red brick buildings into the distance were perfect clouds of white smoke coming from all the metal flews and chimneys. They seemed to be frozen in perfect formations by the air all at the same moment.

As I sat on the train this morning in just slightly warmer than -15º, bundled in my long johns, scarf, hood up, headphones on, I could also smell, quite strongly, chocolate along with every blast of frigid air from the frequently opening door.

Another Democratic Endorsement: A Slightly Different Take

This guest endorsement is courtesy of Prince Philip Ramon, aka Philip, my boyfriend. OK, so both being liberal, young, white kids, our endorsements perhaps aren't much of a surprise (as Philip says). But I can truthfully say I don't know anyone who's pro-Hilary, so you're stuck with two opinions, though very different, about Senator Barack Obama. If you like his writing, Philip will be starting his own blog soon; you can find it here.

Maybe it's symptomatic of the dull workday of an office drone, but the 2008 Presidential Primary is the first time I've truly engaged myself in the political process. Since the summer, I've drowned my career sorrows in the race for a job that I'm woefully underqualified to hold, whilst performing a job for which I'm clock-slowingly overqualified. My week is punctuated with Slate political gab, Daily Kos diatribes and Ken Rudin (NPR's Political Junkie) delivering puns that Mike Huckabee wouldn't touch. With such a historic, conventional-wisdom-defying primary season, there has been no shortage of destinations for my internet wanderings. In brief, I picked a hell of year to become politically aware.

Still, I've ultimately been a spectator in this affair. That is, until today. Living in one of the twenty-two states holding its primary on Feb. 5th, I went to large stone church down the street from my apartment and cast my ballot for Barack Obama. As a white-male, age 23, I don't suppose this is much of a shock. But I haven't always been an Obama supporter. Back when the debates were a seven (sometimes eight) candidate affair, I was mostly interested in Richardson or Biden. Richardson impressed me with his resume. In the debates, Biden routinely came off as the adult in the room when talking about foreign policy, making the other candidates' look like undergrads reaching for an adequate exam answer. Alas, he never made it past round one. Richardson folded soon after, not even holding on until a western contest.

It wasn't long until Democrats were left with the Big Three. Three senators, three passionate speakers, three candidates who made up for their lack of political experience with the promise of change in the lives of ordinary Americans. Let's face it. Policy-wise Clinton, Edwards and Obama are all pretty much identical. Sure the health care plans have different strategies, Iraq troop withdrawal timetables vary slightly, and the figures change depending on the stimulus package. But the goals are uniform; get out of Iraq safely, make universal health care a reality, turn back the economic tide of the last eight years that did not lift all boats. In this policy stale mate, we've seen some interesting arguments emerge for why we should vote for one candidate over another. Edwards has been a fighter "all his life," except in 2004 when he took a break to run as the nice guy (or Obama lite). Clinton acquired 35 years of experience that she didn't seem to have when Biden and Richardson were still in the fray (perhaps because it would've been a laughable comparison). What's interesting is that Obama's message didn't change. Some say it's his weakness, he doesn't veer from his inspirational rhetoric enough to show he's got the specifics worked out. I see it as his strength. It's a sign that he makes those speeches because he believes them, not because they will have the maximum impact on that day's newscycle.

Clinton said in her infamous diner tear-up that for her, this election is personal. I believe it. The tone of her campaign makes me think that this is as much about righting the country as it is about restoring the Clinton dynasty. On her husband's presidency, it annoys me that Clinton wants to have her cake and eat it to. She says she's running on her own record, but then comes out with a line like "it took a Clinton to clean up after the first Bush" when confronted with the question of her serving Bill's third term. For me, it's a lose-lose proposition. If she wants to claim the Clinton presidency as part of her experience, then I'd rather not repeat the bitter partisanship of the late 90s. If she truly wants to be judged on her record and hers alone, then she and Obama are essentially evenly matched.

Something very interesting surfaced in one the debates last month. It's a difference that I think is a legitimate issue when deciding between the two remaining contenders. When asked what his greatest weakness is, Obama gave an honest reply. He can't keep his paperwork organized. Clinton gave a nonresponse to the question, but jumped on Obama's self-effacing answer. She proclaimed herself a bureaucratic superstar. A distinction was drawn that I think goes to the heart of these two candidacies. Clinton's MLK comment and Teddy's endorsement made the point even clearer. Obama is like JFK. Clinton is like LBJ. I'm a little dubious that Clinton is the master executive she claims to be, considering she has no personal executive experience to speak of. But I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. At this moment, I think we need the former. For the past eight years, we've been united in our collective embarrassment of having Homer Simpson run our country (with Mr. Burns as VP!). It's time to be united under a positive, trans formative figure. We've had enough of the politics of "us vs. them." Obama wants to engage the Republicans, engage the insurance companies, engage the Iranians. I think this is the only way to get meaningful progress. Rather than letting the pendulum swing from one extreme to the other every ten years, I'd like to see a United States in which individuals feel represented and encouraged to help in finding solutions.

Some say that they'd vote for Obama, but not now. He should wait eight or twelve years. I disagree. Look what long careers in the Senate did for Biden and Dodd. They couldn't generate anywhere near the same amount of excitement for their candidacies. Obama could only run this kind of campaign now. After a decade in the Senate he would grow stale. Like McCain, he would go from maverick to establishment. Whereas if Obama is sworn in next year, I'll watch enthusiastically as the torch is passed to the new generation, rather than sing in my head those classic Who lyrics, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss." If Obama becomes President, I don't think I'll be the only one looking back on this campaign as the first time I was genuinely excited and inspired by an election cycle.

2008 Democratic Primary Endorsement

This is not a political blog. However, on the eve of many of the primaries for this most historic of elections, I feel it is necessary and important for me to join the hundreds of other bloggers, newspapers, and famous people and issue an endorsement. So, my editorial board of one unanimously endorses Barack Obama as the Democratic nominee for the next president of the United States.


I first became enthralled with Obama four years ago, along with much of the rest of the nation, when he gave the keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention. Barely old enough to vote, I hazily remember vowing to vote for him if he ever ran for president. When he announced he was, indeed, running for president I, too, wondered along with the political analysts and the media whether the "wonder child" of only four years ago now had enough experience to become the president.

But now I wonder, maybe experience isn't the only thing the president needs: After all, we have seen this last seven years a president that did have experience but did not, overall, have a successful presidency or make good choices for our country. If serving as the governor of Texas is not enough, if attending Yale isn't enough, maybe in this day and age we need more. Obama has more. He is a fresh face in Washington and is better able and better suited to see past the traditional methods of politics, be creative and endevour to actually do what needs doing and not get stuck in overly complicated processes and old ways of governing. This is the age of the Internet, of everyone has an opinion, of taking the power out of the hands of the traditional news organizations and putting it in the hands of the people. This is the age of Apple and Google, of innovation, and in this age, we just can't elect the wife of the president eight years ago: What's new there? Abraham Lincoln came to the 1860 presidential elections with only four terms in the Illinois House of Representatives and one in the U.S. House of Representatives under his belt. And won. And went on to do one of the most drastic and important things a president has ever done: abolish slavery.

I'm going to echo The New York Times and say that Hilary and Barack both have pretty much the same views on a lot of the issues. They are, after all, both Democrats. Looking past the subtle, probably insignificant differences in their health plans, looking past their voting records, looking past Hilary's dirty way of running her campaign, her acting, her unfair accusations, and what she stands for (nothing new), I would probably vote for her if she was the nominee. Going purely on looks, having a woman president would be just as amazing and refreshing as having a black one.

But she's not the nominee. Given the same facts, I'm going to draw a different conclusion than The Times--who endorsed Hilary on her "experience" alone--and endorse Barack Obama. He has the mindset, he has the intelligence, he has the capacity to step out of the box and really bring some change to the White House. Chances are, Hilary is going to do things like the Clinton before her; lacking a precedent, Obama is going to do what he thinks is best for the country and for the world. And I trust him to make those important decisions.

So, if you're a resident of one of the 22 states that is hosting their primary today, and you're registered to vote, I encourage you to do just that. Whether or not you vote for my pick doesn't matter, what does matter is that you listen and then voice your own opinion.

Oh, and if you're republican, vote for Mitt Romney. We don't want John McCain going and stealing the votes of the moderates.

*Tune in tomorrow for a guest endorsement*

snow day

This morning there were four little girls with brightly colored backpacks standing in a line at the corner, trying to look mature. They were up to their knees in snow, the falling flakes were sticking to their eyelashes, and for all they knew they weren't standing at the corner, like they were told, but in the street. When you're four feet tall and up to your knees in snow, it's hard to be mature, so they were fidgeting, giggling, and letting their feet sink in further, all the while yelling assurances to their guardian down the street. They weren't playing, per se, but they'd certainly rather be standing here than in school.

I felt a similar jubilation upon stepping outside of my apartment this morning before a path on the sidewalk had been cleared, so I didn't mind walking up to my calves in snow next to them; they were standing in the path the footprints before them had already made.

It's the biggest snowstorm of the year and my two roommates and I all have snow days. We're cooped up inside with the heat, the snow drifted around all the windows, and there's a tiny knot of excitement in all our stomachs. We're trying to be mature, too.

Amber Romance

I just bought a new bottle of perfume. It's not actually a new perfume for me, but it's been a couple of years since I've worn it religiously and I decided to purchase another bottle because I've always quite liked it.

I didn't realize how strongly the smell is linked, for me, to that day back in college when I bought my first bottle. It turned out to be a particularly emotional day, and the months that ensued were not my easiest or brightest, but the nostalgia that hits me from one spritz of this perfume is not a foreboding sort of nostalgia, it's a regular sort of nostalgia for my more naïve self, coupled with an empowered feeling that I can clear hurdles and build bridges if I was able to get through those difficult months.

It also hit me late last night and early this morning in the form of a renewed love for journalism. Or maybe that was from the article I just turned in. But ironically, I began work on my first investigative feature story only a few days after I bought this perfume, I wore it all the way through the writing and the researching for the story, and it was from that time that my work was really appreciated at my college paper and I began considering a career in journalism.

Unfortunately, I've been feeling lately like I don't identify much with journalism anymore, but I'm thinking now that maybe it's just that I don't identify whatsoever with what I've been writing about lately. As a journalist, I have become miraculously good at finding some way to identify with every single thing I write, no matter how strange or small, but this job for some reason made me build a wall between myself and my sources and subjects, and as a result I haven't really enjoyed anything I've written. Today, however, my desk isn't visible under the papers and folders and notebooks I've been using to write this story. I like the sight of a well-used work space and I love the feeling of engagement, of reading something I've written that, finally, after hours of feeling like it's boring, fragmented, or not going anywhere, finally comes together when it's all done.

This is not to say that I won't despise this piece later, once it's been edited, or feel slightly nervous as usual when I see it in print, but I think this smell on my wrists is a good kick in the butt to get myself out there and start freelancing or pitching the stories that I really want to write. I'll still have to write the other ones, too, but right now, I'll take what I can get. Any maybe now, with a couple of bricks from that wall cleared away, I can start enjoying those too.

spin

I am obsessed with this article. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be humorous, in fact, I'm pretty sure there's no way it can be, but it is written in such a deadpan way and the things the candidates say are so typical that I thought I was reading The Onion for a second. Anyway, it's a study in spin, and if you're tired of hearing about the primaries already and the games everyone is playing, this is the perfect cure.

street lake

I saw this on my way to work this morning. It's about 10 blocks from my apartment.

The Brightest Star

A preview of the February issue of WJD and my first full-length, nationally published article. Perhaps you remember reading it here first? As always, this version is slightly different and slightly longer than the one that appeared in print. In any case, it appears my blog verbosity is coming in handy... though I fully expect to be enrolled in Hebrew school and forced to go to synagogue for my honesty.


Armed with a map that listed every twisty, cobblestoned, sidewalk-less, barely car-width street in Sevilla, Spain, I made my way to the procession—my conspicuously red-haired mother in tow.

As we cross-referenced our guide to the holiday parades, we chatted, quietly, in English: we were the only Americans for miles. All around us families were setting up chairs on their balconies, kids were being pushed in strollers and nearly everyone was dressed in their Easter best. The procession, or paso, as it’s called in Spanish, was preceded by the whine of horns and the smell of incense. Line after line of robe-wearing, pointy-hooded nazarenos, or penitents, some carrying crosses, others candles, stepped in tune to the music. A few of them were barefoot for what would be a 10-hour route through town.

I was three months into my semester-long stay in Sevilla. Passover was about half over and I had spent the day following floats of Jesus and the Virgin Mary around town in honor of Domingo de la Resurrección, otherwise known as Easter Sunday. It wasn’t my first choice activity, exactly, but I had pretty much given up on finding a Passover celebration in this city. After all, when I had inquired at the program activity office about local synagogues, I was told there was exactly one, with approximately five members. I had raised my eyebrows and sputtered a reply in Spanish; this wasn’t even a minyan, after all—not even close to the hundreds of students who attended my UC Santa Barbara Hillel every week, if not only for the free Shabbat dinner. But I had tried, dutifully calling the phone number (it was disconnected) and venturing past the unlabeled building (on a shady street in a questionable part of town). Ultimately, it looked like I’d have to wait till I got back to Santa Barbara for my minyan.

In the meantime, I wore my Star of David necklace.

Of course, I shouldn’t really have been surprised that there are only five synagogue-attending Jews in Sevilla. From the tiny grey churches on every other street and the large, decorated picture of Jesus on the wall over my señora’s bed, I should have gotten it: this is a Catholic country. But I’m American, after all, and in the U.S., Catholicism is just a word like any other.

Not here.

At the parade that day, during Semana Santa, or Saint’s Week, hordes of Sevillians and Spaniards from other cities turned up to view the processions—everyone dressed in suits, skirts or dresses. Some bought seats along the parade route for 200 to 500€ each. Children ran around in the nazareno costumes—robes with pointy hoods like the people in the processions—asking for candy and pictures of their particular church’s rendition of the Virgin Mary float. My mom and I watched it all—even the float depicted Jesus wearing a gold crown with bloody hands and ascending up to heaven—and I quietly fingered my necklace.

I had chosen Sevilla because it had appeal: a large student population, a moderate size and a rich cultural and religious history. I had heard tales from my friend about dating a nice Jewish Spaniard—whose parents proposed to her at Passover dinner on behalf of their son because she was the only Jew he had dated—and was sold. After all, maybe Sevilla wasn’t as devoutly Catholic as everyone said.

But I was wrong. Sevilla is most definitely Catholic. Except … maybe not devoutly so. Because that was the interesting part: despite their traditions, it’s hard to tell how religious Spaniards actually are. The señora with whom I was boarding, for instance, never went to church, but she did pray each night before bed. Gay marriage is legal in Spain and CBS reported while I was there the country had shifted from being devoutly Roman Catholic to predominately secular in less than a generation. In fact, they also reported that while 80 percent of Spaniards call themselves Catholic, only 42 percent believe in God and only 20 percent go to mass.

And yet: printed on all the jars of green beans in the supermarket is the phrase “Judias verdes.” Literally: green Jews. (Supposedly the word comes from the shape of the Jewish nose being similar to that of the green been.) If not devoid, Spaniard have religious unity, which is something I don’t know too well. How would I when the only country-unifying holidays in the U.S. are Thanksgiving and July 4th? There are no Purim celebrations in the streets, no nativity plays for the whole community. No common hair color, face shape, type of cuisine. In Spain, everyone has the same thick, dark-haired look. Not I. And my language—well, I spoke perfect classroom Spanish. People around me ate the ends of their words, lisped the “s” and “z” sounds and said “Eh?” whenever I spoke. Perhaps most significantly, while everyone else gave a slight smile, a flick of their eye or a mindless reach for the tiny cross around their neck while walking past the many neighborhood churches, I just kept walking, hands at my sides, eyes looking ahead. There was no connection.

Now, back in the U.S., I feel so at home in part because I’m able to blend in. I speak the common language, throw in the requisite slang. My thinnish light brown hair fits right into the varying skin tones, hair colors, heights and weights. Even my Star of David necklace, with light and dark blue heart-shaped stones, goes unnoticed amid all of the tiny gold crosses, large silver crucifixes, heads covered with scarves or turbans.

But it’s more than that. In Spain, religion is intricately interwoven with the Spanish way of life: there is no separation. Here, perhaps because we’re allowed the luxury of deciding how and to what extent we want to celebrate our religion, the opposite is true. We can separate it as much or as little as we want. We may not call it from the rooftops as they do in Sevilla—there are no nazarenos bringing crosses to my door—but we are religious just the same. In fact, many take it as a matter of course that the U.S. is more religious than Europe.

As I watched the passing float of Jesus ascending to heaven that day at the parade, it was through the eye of a journalist: calm, distant, not flinching once. There was so much pomp, ritual, symbolism, so much outward display of religion. And this, I realized when I returned to the States, is not what I need. I am Jewish. I know what I believe. And it is enough.

Some would call me an assimilated Jew. After all, I wear jeans and use my cell phone on Saturdays. But that’s my way of being religious—I choose to keep most of my religion in my head.

Or, in this case, around my neck.

I should have stayed in bed

I know, all I write about is the cold. I'll get over it eventually:

It looks absolutely beautiful outside. So beautiful, in fact, that if I were in California, I'd probably call this a perfect California day.

Except it's not.

Even though the sky is a perfect blue and there's not a cloud in the sky, when I went outside today I wore 27 layers (according to my roommate) and looked something like this:


My first though when I walked outside into 5 degrees with a slight wind chill was that it wasn't so much different from 12, from 17, from 22... from all the other ungodly temperatures I've experienced so far this winter. But during my one-minute walk to the train station I could feel the difference. 5 just hurt a little more, on my cheeks, on my nose, on my fingers and toes, it made my sinuses feel stiff, my eyes water, and my nose run. I could also feel the difference when I got to the train platform. Heating lamps do nothing in 5. Granted, they do little in 35, but they might as well not be there at all when it gets below that. Why Chicago's train platforms are outdoor, and even worse, lined with cool, modern-looking metal with holes in it is beyond me. So that was me, with my 27 layers; I was dressed better than most people.

don't change your plans

The good news: Lungs can't freeze from breathing in Chicago-cold air.
The bad news: It only takes about 10 minutes for a child's skin to freeze when the temperature is 0 degrees Fahrenheit and there's a breeze.

Thank you, Chicago Tribune, for making me never want to go outside again. Yesterday, it was raining, then snowing, then icing, the temperature dropping about 20 degrees over the course of the day (that still amazes me--California temps doesn't change that much between summer and winter) and I was proud of myself for not letting the weather change my day-off plans. I lugged a bottle of laundry detergent through the snow and I braved possible snow drifts (and mice) to bring my laundry down to the basement to wash. I can't change my plans according to the weather in Chicago, I thought, because if I did then I'd never do anything.

Now I'm trying to plan my weekend so I won't have to go outside: 6 degrees, "feels like -11" on Saturday, around the same if not a little warmer on Sunday. I do think I'm allowed a little wimping out, this being my first winter here and all, but I shouldn't let in get in the way of the little trips I want to make, to the gym, to the grocery store, to the coffee shop down the street. I'm 18 days into the 62 January and February days that make up the actual winter here, not counting the days it's still cold and snowing in the months after that... I doing fine with the cold so far, I don't really mind wearing my Antarctica-weight coat, my hat, my scarf, my mittens, my boots, and my wool socks every day. But we're heading into uncharted territory here, again. So maybe I'll just hibernate in my down comforter this weekend. Hide from the germs that are making nearly everyone sick: just stay home.

R.I.P. Nelson

I had a pet mouse.

It did not come with a plastic cage with a bag of shredded newspaper, a wheel, or a water bottle and I did not name it Nelson*. It was thrust upon me quite unwillingly Saturday morning at approximately 5:30 am when I awoke to the realization that someone--or something--was trying to scratch through the wall next to my bed. As it turned out, I wasn't thinking quite rationally at 5:30--walls are pretty thick--but something was enjoying the collapsed boxes under the bed, every so often scurrying out to rustle the plastic bags in my closet. I glimpsed it on one such occasion, as it sped across my floor--or its floor, as it had been for the last weekend--I was unable to contain my scream at the sight of the small, dark body and long tail, so I grabbed my bedding and left.

I put up a good fight for my room Saturday, spending the better part of the day sitting on the windowsill in my dining room (the furthest place from my room that's still inside). Later I pawed through my stuff with a broom, trying to catch it in a box and take it down to the park. It refused to cooperate, hiding in the shadows of the late-afternoon sun, so I set out four plastic graves filled with glue and peanut butter, thinking I would find a stuck, still mouse when I returned home. Well, it was alive and kicking, speeding across its floor at the switch of the light, grinning at the fun it had this weekend, leaving dark pellets all over my clothes, tearing my paper, and doing whatever the hell else it is mice do to make people despise them so. It was alive and kicking, that is, before the pest control man came to fight, armed with more sticky sheets.

Poor Nelson. It fell from heaven into my room and, this morning, it fell from my hand into the dumpster downstairs. To be sure, I won't soon forget him. He will be the first thing I think of every time I enter my room, every time I stick my hand in a dark crevice or box, every time I lay my head down to go to sleep, every time I hear a rustle a squeak or a scratch. Thank you, Nelson, for bringing so much to my life even though you're so small. I hope you enjoyed your accommodations in my room. Excuse me, your room.

Note: Credit where credit is due... Pronoun "I" has been used in place of "he" or "she" on some occasions, especially those where "I" came into direct or indirect contact with my pet/pest.

*My roommates and I named him after the pest control guy, Nelson.

trial by ice

It was 8 degrees when I was walking to work this morning, and 15 once I reached downtown. Yes, that's fahrenheit.

This was really my first experience with the really cold, with the exception of last night when I ventured outside for the first time all day at 7 to have dinner... I don't know how cold it was exactly, but I heard rumors that it was 6. I did OK for a Californian. I forgot my hat and I didn't wrap my scarf right, but I had two hoods that kept my head warm and the scarf, though not covering my face as much as it should have, kept my neck warm. In truth, I'm not sure I can tell the difference between the cold and the really cold, but I probably won't willingly be venturing outside very much so I can learn. Anyway, the cold just becomes a part of life. Like putting on my shoes and underwear in the morning and before I go outside, I also put on a scarf, mittens, a hat, and a big coat. That way, whether it's 32 or 2, I'm prepared.