Rounding corners
I woke up this morning and declared that I have diabetes, given all the weird symptoms I’m suffering since coming home from Positano. Sam took that moment to laugh in my face and remind me of the severe jet lag I’m experiencing. He could be right, I suppose: I have been drinking rivers of water to make up for the mere 3 ounces I consumed over the past 10 days. And I thought red wine, Prosecco and limoncello would hydrate me and make my skin glow. Instead, I have puffy eyes, dry mouth and have to pee 17 times each night. It’s sexy, I tell you.
My goal had been to post photos every day while I was gone, but I took so many of them that trying to process and then find the time to post was just too much. So I’ve worked on organizing my favorites and have put some on Facebook. I will upload all of those (and more) to Flickr when I have time later this week. In the meantime, I can’t help but offer a few more glimpses into this sigh-inducing place.
I went sauntering as often as I could and it was the many nooks and crannies I loved the most. The ceramics and cobblestones and shockingly green moss made this very old place so vibrant, it hummed.
There was beauty in the smallest details.
And in the kind, generous people.
As Ron Carlson might say, “How many views are there of Positano? About a jillion.” And each one is more heartstopping than the last. Some feel like a proclamation.
Others feel like a secret whispered by a lover into the curve of an ear.
Is it any wonder I found myself weeping—at times, sobbing—several times every day?
I’m supposed to be a writer, a person who can use language to describe a place. But I find myself lingering over clichés, falling into a wind-blown, head-thrown-back, one-shoulder-bared Harlequin trap. And this is to say nothing about John Steinbeck, who already wrote about it so brilliantly as to render my meager attempts an embarrassment. The delete key has been my good friend these last days and for now, my pictures will have to tell you how I feel about Positano.
But I will say this: Magic doesn’t describe this place. I think accurate description requires the invention of a new word. Any suggestions?
Positano: Detour
“Mama, I’m gonna give you a kiss you when you get home. I’m gonna give you a giant, giant, GIant hug when you get home.”
Positano: There Is No Crying In Baseball
To start things off, I want to tell you about the Italian Turn-Down. If you’ve never had one, you don’t know what you’re missing. On Sunday night, I left my Vera Wang nightgown and my yoga pants on my pillow and headed out to dinner.
And here’s what I found when I came back:
This gave me such giddy pleasure, I had to show it to my new friend, Sariah.
She and I collapsed together in laughter. How awesome is it that someone took the time to find and fondle my Vera Wang in such a considerate manner? Italy rules.
My room—specifically the tilework in it—is gorgeous. But it—the room—is a little on the small side. The fact that I can’t put my luggage away is sort of a bummer. As is the fact that I had to put the hotel Information Book on the floor so I’d have a place to keep my laptop. Why not just put it on the desk? you might ask. And if you did, I’d tell you that there is no desk in my room. Thank God this isn’t a writer’s workshop or anything.
Of course, I’ve always wanted to use a bidet. Who knew it was such a great spot for toiletries when there is no counter space? Really, it’s going swimmingly.
I was a little disappointed in these details but then, good ‘ole Rickey Steves tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Bitch, if something’s not to your liking, change your liking.”
My workshop leader is the masterful Ron Carlson (if you haven’t ever read his books, try this one. Or this one. Or, good gracious, this one. Go quickly). I’ve been a fan of Carlson’s writing since high school, way back in the last century, and meeting him was a big-ish deal for me. I tried really hard not to fawn, especially because I do not believe in meeting one’s heroes. Not that he’s my hero but there is, admittedly, a certain amount of reverence and often it’s better to hang onto the false image of a person than the reality of him.
But it was fine and I managed to play it sorta cool. Carlson has a proclivity for metaphors, which is good because I respond to those. He was utterly likeable, if not a bit sad, and I kind of just wanted to hug him. But that might have been a little weird. And stalker-y. Especially considering my workshop this morning, after which I came back to my room, sat on the bidet (straddling my make-up bag) and bawled. Not quiet, weepy shudders, but heaving sobs, one after another. Shortly after, I had to meet people for lunch and all I can say is that I really, really missed my sunglasses.
Later, on my way to meet Carlson for my one-on-one, I walked the long staircase up one floor to the rhythm of my inner dialogue, Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry. I didn’t cry (good) but I welled (dammit!) at the very beginning. Carlson leaned in toward me. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” he said. “But I’m going to get through it.”
Carlson’s honesty is striking and forever wins my heart.
It’s been a hard, worthwhile, painful, inspiring, rainy day.
But I got out—despite my periodic bouts of crying—and took some pictures. I’m going to bed now since it’s 5:00 in the morning, the sun is rising and my eyes are on fire. As a result, there will be no explanation to go with these images. But pictures are usually better that way, anyhow.
Ciao!
Positano: The arrival
I began my day at Charles de Galle airport (the pronunciation, SHALL-du-gal, is so fun, I tried to say it as much as possible before leaving France) outside of Paris and made my way through crowds of people talking in languages I don’t speak. Again: SCA-REE. My ticket wasn’t coming up on the self check-in and I had cut it sort of close, so I started to get panicky and sweaty and generally verklempt. But I ended up getting pulled out of the baggage-check line and rushed right through to the front with enough time to marvel at the coffee shop in the terminal.
Starbucks, pshaw! This here is how you do coffee in transit.
And a magazine stand. Seriously, I may have to move.
I boarded my flight to Naples on Air France and I will say, unequivocally, it was the best flight of my entire life. There was plenty of leg room, I had a seat between me and a young guy from Bangkok. The flight attendants were so nice, I thought perhaps I was at Nordstrom. The coffee was delicious and I didn’t have to pay for my rather delicious meal of crepes and yogurt. America really needs to settle down with her bad self and take some lessons in civility and how to make flying a pleasant experience.
Speaking of pleasant experience, I was met at the airport by a man named Mimi. And here is where I cried and and then kissed my driver.
Isn’t he darling? Oh, the stories he told us.
“Buon GIO-rno!” he said with that friendly smile. “Would you LIKE a cappuCHEE-no?!?”
Uh….
Which is when he set my bag next to the woman with whom I would be riding to Positano, took me to the non-Starbucks café across the hall, ordered and paid for my cappucino. Paid for it. Again: I cried.
And then he took us on a winding road, telling us the history of the land and stopping along the way saying, “UNO mo-MENT-oh! I have suPREESE por you!” He pulled the car over on a road barely wider than the car, and returned from a little shop five minutes later with a piece of wax paper filled with sliced salami. Oh, the kindness. I welled again.
And then we continued on our way, my new friend Claire and me groaning over the salami, licking every last bite from our greasy fingers, while Mimi took very, very good care of us. He pulled over and insisted on pictures.
He showed us a diorama built into the cliff side and I really have to hurry here, because I’m late for dinner. But I can’t stop, want to write every detail, this day has been that amazing. Sam, these are really for you, babe.
And then….is that another miniature town built into the cliffside?
My. God.
Je t’adore Paris.
But Postiano is lobbying for my heart.
More later!
Day Two: Paris Saunter
Somewhere between my friend’s flat and the streets of Paris, I lost my sunglasses. I’m going to revise that and say that I misplaced my sunglasses because there is still a chance I’ll happen upon them when I unpack my suitcase in Positano tomorrow (!!!). In the mean time, I had to do without. Do you think I let this little fact ruin my day? Mais non!
I went out. I braved this city all by myself and took the metro–two lines–to meet a friend.
See? Disappeared shades not a factor.
I have to admit, it was out of my comfort zone to be scooting around this city solo. Even though I’m lucky enough to have navigated this place several times, I’ve never done it alone. But I decided at one point, that—from the outside at least—I looked like I knew exactly what the hell I was doing. So I just worked it like I owned it. I left my map in my purse, stepped off the Metro at my last stop and turned right with intentional determination and long strides as if to say, See, World, I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. All while my better angel was going, I’m good enough, I’m strong enough and doggone it! People like me! And also: Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip.
Sunglasses are always good when playing this sure-of-myself role, removing me one safe step from strangers who can’t look me in the eye, while having the added bonus of providing an air of mystery. Or at least, that’s what I pretend. I felt naked which was awkward, but I channeled Rick Steves’ (“If something is not to your liking, change your liking.”) and did it anyway. I stepped out of that subway car and turned right with conviction, hoping it was the direction of the exit. Not only did I turn in the correct direction for the exit (sheer luck), but I didn’t trip or get my sweater caught in the door. Girlfriend was destined to have a good day.
I had un omelettes aux fines herbs for breakfast and can I just say? One of the great things about Europe is that the herbs have flavor. Like, actual, distinct flavor separate of the eggs. Which also have flavor. I paired it with a jus d’orange and a café au lait which had flavor, too. I was so happy as to defy description. Suffice it to say, I kissed our lovely waiter goodbye.
I could have kissed every single waiter today. They were all so charming and helpful.
I also could have taken pictures of the amazing people all day long. Pardon, Madame? Mai je vous prenne un photo s’il vous plaît? (I was actually to chicken too ask in French, so I just asked in English.) “Of course,” she said.
I think she may get that a lot. I mean: Incroyable! Fantastique! Am I right? I’m convinced this woman is somebody. I mean, I know she’s somebody but I think she must be SOMEbody. (Edited to add: Turns out, she is very much SOMEBODY. H/T Sariah). She’s mysterious with or without the sunglasses. I wish I knew her.
And her, too.
Okay, and them, too. C’est la vie.
There is so much to do in this city it almost seems ridiculous to indulge in another visit to my very favorite museum. But God was it worth it.
It’s good every time. Again: My happiness level goes to eleven. I needed more waiters to kiss to fully express this fact, so we stopped at another café and look who I found???
Could it be…? Non…! He’s in an undisclosed bunker. This is simply a doppelgänger. Moving on…
Did I mention yet that there is love in Paris?
And other stuff that feels like love.
Vivre la France!
It’s 4:00 in the morning and I have to be up for a 7:30 ride to the airport. But it’s too tragic to waste this time sleeping when I can write. And look at pictures. Already, I can’t wait to come back.
First world problems
Because I never plan my life with enough time to do everything I have scheduled, I was forced to leave for the airport today with chipped toenail polish, a much bigger deal if I were headed to a white sand beach. Then again, I’d have bigger issues to worry about—namely, my ass—if I were going for a vacation which required a bathing suit and flippy floppies. Again, due to time restraints, I haven’t straddled a bike seat in three weeks which makes for a fun little equation: No gym for 21 days + the metabolism of a barely-holding-on-to-thirty-nine-year-old = very, very tight and uncomfortable pants. Thank God we live in the era of tunics.
With a few minutes to spare before leaving for the airport this morning, I figured I’d quick give myself a manicure and at least have my fingers looking clean and Parisian. I painted them with a color that could have been mistaken for my morning yogurt, which I snarfed down between applications. No, I didn’t confuse the two, though I did sort of loose my appetite.
As soon as I’d finished the second coat, my cell phone rang and wouldn’t you know it, but it was tucked neatly into the pocket of my 5,000 pound backpack (thanks, Katie!). Instead of waiting five minutes and letting the call go to voice mail, I harkened back to my days of playing Operation and reached gingerly into the compartment. In nabbed the phone with a pincer-like movement and thinking I had it, whipped it out, smearing my nails along the inside of the pocket (sorry, Katie!). I suddenly remembered the many shocks I received trying to remove a ham-bone.
I ended up in the bathroom, cursing my idiocy, removing the nail polish I’d just applied 10 minutes earlier. My nails are naked again and they are going to Paris that way. But I’ll get ‘em all dolled up for Postiano. Or, at least, I’ll get them drunk on wine, baguettes and cheese.
Yo, people: I’m going to Europe!!! This is how I’m feeling right about now:
Love games: A radio prank makes a sympathizer out of me
“Who’re you gonna believe, me or your lyin’ eyes?”
—Richard Pryor
It was in his last column, I believe, that my colleague over there on Page 5 wrote about listening to some God-awful God-radio. I read it and thought, Jesus, Decker is losing it. Who listens to the radio anymore? And then I felt something in my eye. It was my contact, which had managed to fold in half and lodge itself somewhere up under my eye-lid, but at that point it might as well have been a log.
Driving to my job (which is on life-support, by the way) last Thursday morning, I’d had just about all I could take of KPBS’ Dwayne Brown stammering during the… uh… news… where, uhhh… news… uh… matters. The first thing you learn in Speech 103 at City College is not to say “uh” in public speaking. A beat or two of silence is better than an “uh”—I don’t care if your voice is like warmed honey-butter on cornbread. C’mon! Is it really that hard to read your lines? It’s the news. It’s traffic. It’s call numbers, for Pete’s sake. Move over and gimme that microphone.
I have the option to program 12 stations on my car stereo, but I lost interest after setting four. And so I toggle from left to right: Jazz 88, KPBS, KCRW and Magic 92.5. Jazz 88 was spinning hard-bop that morning, which isn’t my thing. And KCRW wasn’t playing music. So I settled on Magic 92.5. Sometimes, if I’m lucky enough to avoid the commercial part of commercial radio, I can roll into the office with a little Marvin Gaye-inspired tingle. One song can change the trajectory of an entire week.
Last week, though, I happened to tune in just as DJ Power Couple Jagger and Kristi™ were introducing their special segment called “War of the Roses.”
If you’re not familiar with this bit of radio shtick, you’re one of the last people on the planet to clue in, according to certain Yelpers. But “War of the Roses” wouldn’t be the smash hit it is if everyone knew about it, because once everyone’s in on it, the jig will be up. This thing has a shelf life.
The premise behind the segment is this: At the behest of a suspicious woman, one of Jagger and Kristi’s minions, posing as a representative for a new flower shop in town, calls an unsuspecting sucker at his office. The unsuspecting sucker is told he’s the lucky winner of one dozen free roses, to be sent to anyone of his choosing as part of a special promotion. All he has to do is give the name of the woman to whom he wants the flowers sent, and a short message to go on the card. Every one of the several (and accidental) times I’ve caught this show, the stooge has given the name of a woman other than the one waiting breathlessly on the eavesdropping end of the line.
If you cringed while reading that, you really ought to tune in to this show to get the full impact of just how uncomfortable a morning drive can be. Dwayne Brown’s word-fumbling is like a hot-stone massage by comparison. But once the sound of a phone number being dialed comes through your speakers, you can no more change the station than you can believe Toyota has a sticky-floor-mat problem.
The latest episode I caught involved a mild-mannered woman named Maria, who was mystified when her new flame, Romero, spent Sunday washing his car instead of hanging out with her. As if this weren’t enough, he didn’t call her that night like he’d said he would. Now, I’m no Dr. Drew, but this chick didn’t need a prank to figure out her guy wasn’t all that interested. But dammit, she needed proof. Public, humiliating proof.
So radio minion “Leonardo” called up Romero, and when it came time for Romero to dictate his love note, he told “Stella” that he just loved spending more and more time with her. And that’s when Jagger and Kristi™ delivered the somber news that, Romero, you are on the air with a trademarked husband-wife team who, after all these years, have miraculously not divorced and/or resorted to punching each other in the face, and, well, Romero, you are in la niche du chien.
At this point in the show, the jilted lovers usually maintain a state of calm disbelief only to become progressively enraged to the point of FCC-necessitated bleeping. Every time, without fail, there are the I-knew-its and the You’re-so-pathetics. Last year, one of the spurned women was all, “Oh my god. I can’t believe I did your laundry last night!” You could practically hear her smack her forehead with her palm.
But this Maria girl, this sweet thing—who agonized over why her man didn’t want to see her on her day off in a maybe-I’m-making-this-up kind of way—she lost her shiznit immediately. You bleeper! she hissed.
And poor Romero. At first he played dumb: What? Who is this? Maria? What’s going on? And then he lied: I don’t know what you’re talking about. And then he got real: I went out with my boys and forgot to call you. Stella is my ex-girlfriend. And then he laid out the silver lining: “Here’s the cool thing! I stay friends with all my exes.”
You bleeper bleeper! Bleeping bleeper bleep bleeeeeeeeep!
And maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Maybe he really wanted to rub his car more than he wanted to rub Maria. And maybe he really did need to go out with his boys on Sunday night. Or maybe he was rubbing Stella and rolled with his boys. Who knows? All I know is that every single time I get sucked into this program, I am sympathetic with the targets. Because any woman who can’t walk away from her man without the validation of radio-show entrapment deserves to be cheated on.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Who needs representatives when we have guys like Stupak?
While listening to an interview between Michele Norris on NPR and Bart Stupak, Democratic member of Congress from Michigan, I became outraged. Go figure. It’s so rare for me…
Anyway, I wrote about why I’m incensed over at The Women’s Colony. Check it out and see if you don’t agree. And if you wait long enough, the conservatives will come slithering along to tout their I-Got-Mine attitude throughout the comments section. Some of them will probably call me names, too. Oh, goody!
In the meantime, people, IT’S FRIDAY and I don’t have to go to my shit-sucking job!!! And my friend Justin posted the following video to my Facebook wall today so things are really lookin’ up. Gosh darn it, if I don’t adore Olivia Newton John. She was, and still is, totally awesome. Watch this and be happy with me despite all the craptastic news, won’t you?
C’mon, Californian’s: Let’s demand better
I ran into the mother of one of Ruby’s little classmates yesterday when I was picking my girl up from school. We’d barely gotten past the daily niceties when she said, “Well, I got my pink slip today.”
She’s a teacher and like previous years, as the state of California faces a never-ending and unfathomable budget crisis, pink slips are distributed mid-way through the school year. This year was even earlier than last. Now she’ll finish her work knowing she doesn’t have a job in the fall, wait to see what budget our deadlocked legislators hammer out and then hope to be rehired next year. This is just one teensy, tinsy corner of the tip of the iceberg-of-a-problem facing the schools in this state. Good things kids aren’t the foundation of our society or anything.
Think about this: The San Diego Unified School District is facing budget cuts somewhere in the $175 million dollar range for the coming year; the state is looking at a $3 to $6.5 billion-with-a-B deficit. (I know, your eyes are glazing. But I’m almost done with big numbers so STICK WITH ME, HERE!) Meanwhile, back at the ranch, certain decision-makers felt it was more important to put $300 million dollars toward digital whiteboards in classrooms of SDUSD schools, than it was to put it toward building repair. Now the teachers—those that are left—need additional training (with all their free time) on how to use the glorified chalk boards. And when a $200 light bulb burns out, the school is asking parents to pony up. It’s that or let the new-fangled technology gather dust and force teachers and students to get by with—gasp!—chalk. How primitive. Almost as primitive as trying to learn in a building with no heat or a leaky roof or which doesn’t have drinking fountains.
I’m not even in the public school system yet and the whole thing is totally demoralizing.
The news on education is bad. It’s bad everywhere but I’m speaking specifically of California. And to highlight just how dire things are, today is a nationwide day of action. My friend, the teacher, and her colleagues—and my daughter, but that’s pretty much a given—are all wearing pink to raise awareness. I’ll probably try to dig up something pink, too. (I’ve seen elsewhere that people are wearing red. Whatever. I think it would be best if people just make sure to wear clothes.) Throughout California, activists are going to be raising awareness about cuts to higher education through a flurry of activities.
Then tomorrow, a group of activists, including the California Federation of Teachers (CFT) and other unions, labor leaders, religious leaders and business leaders (yes, business leaders, too!), will begin a 7-week march from Bakersfield to Sacramento. The purpose of this March for California’s Future is to engage people and create a dialogue about the realities facing this state and the dire need to change the course we are currently on. To understand the purpose and goals of this march, please read this short piece. This isn’t just about education. This is about the future of California (hence the name, go figure) and, too, the rest of the nation.
I will be writing about this over the coming weeks, and posting excerpts from an interview I did with Jim Miller, a professor at San Diego City College and one of the organizers of the March. And I will be hoping that that all this hard work pays off, that my friend has a job in the fall, and that the education system gets better before my child is ready to graduate high school.