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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
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.
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.
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