Anyone who knows me at all is familiar with how much I love to iron. In the past I have refused to leave the house without first pressing everything I'm wearing, and a significant part of getting ready for school at the beginning of each week has included a Sunday night ironing session of a week's worth of potential outfits. For my thirtieth birthday Jim Browne got me neither jewelry nor flowers but the top-of-the-line Rowenta iron and I could not have been more delighted.
Living in Yosemite as I have been for the past ten weeks has not been so conducive to pressing my clothes. Since returning to civilization here in Berkeley a week or so ago I have continued to wear the exact same set of H&M tank tops and Gap shorts that I've worn all summer...until yesterday when I reserved a Zipcar, drove to my storage space in Alameda, and dragged home a trio of boxes labeled "things I'll want when I get home from camp".
Ahh, how luxurious it felt to get Rebecca's iron out of the laundry room, plug it in and hear the familiar sound of steam gushing forth at the simple push of a button. My green JCrew chinos, unearthed as full folds as an origami paper crane from one of the big cardboard containers that now take up my entire room, hang smooth as silk from my waist as I sit here typing this and at least one small bit of order has been reassuringly restored in my world as a result.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Hot Like Jerusalem: A Day at the California State Fair
Today to distract myself from my endless email, phone calls, planning, and to-do lists I went with Wes and Sofia, and Sofia's friend Tess, to the California State Fair in Sacramento. After a few false starts we left about 1:30 and realized once we arrived that our plans to avoid the hottest part of the day were useless because the ENTIRE day was the hottest part of the day. Driving through the city to the fairgrounds, I read the time and temperature sign beside above Saturn of Sacramento: 103 degrees.
By the time we walked from the parking lot to the entrance gate all of us were red-cheeked and damp. The girls were remarkably well-tempered about the heat, and Wes and I did what we could to be enthusiastic. Standing in the shade between rides, pausing at the fountain beside the handwashing station to drench our hair and have a water fight, and spending time in the somewhat-cooler livestock buildings admiring the cows, goats, and pigs were all good solutions but nothing changed the fact that it was over a hundred degrees. At our mid-afternoon ice cream break I realized I had sweat all the way through my shirt--not a cute look but not much I could do and checking out my fellow fair-goers I saw that I was not the only one. I have not been hot like that since Jerusalem in July...
Following an afternoon of corn dogs, lemonade, and photo ops on rides with names like "The Dragon Wagon," Sofia and Tess were on the verge of a mini-meltdown but a trip to see the baby pigs, born just this morning, perked them up. After a quick trip to what Wes called the "Get-Stuff Area" where everyone chose something by which to remember our sweltering day we went to the restroom and got back in the Jetta for the trip back to the East Bay, blessedly air-conditioned and traffic-free.
I did not get a chance to revisit my competitive hog-calling skills from the Iowa State Fair a dozen summers ago, but somehow I was less disappointed by that than I thought I would be.
By the time we walked from the parking lot to the entrance gate all of us were red-cheeked and damp. The girls were remarkably well-tempered about the heat, and Wes and I did what we could to be enthusiastic. Standing in the shade between rides, pausing at the fountain beside the handwashing station to drench our hair and have a water fight, and spending time in the somewhat-cooler livestock buildings admiring the cows, goats, and pigs were all good solutions but nothing changed the fact that it was over a hundred degrees. At our mid-afternoon ice cream break I realized I had sweat all the way through my shirt--not a cute look but not much I could do and checking out my fellow fair-goers I saw that I was not the only one. I have not been hot like that since Jerusalem in July...
Following an afternoon of corn dogs, lemonade, and photo ops on rides with names like "The Dragon Wagon," Sofia and Tess were on the verge of a mini-meltdown but a trip to see the baby pigs, born just this morning, perked them up. After a quick trip to what Wes called the "Get-Stuff Area" where everyone chose something by which to remember our sweltering day we went to the restroom and got back in the Jetta for the trip back to the East Bay, blessedly air-conditioned and traffic-free.
I did not get a chance to revisit my competitive hog-calling skills from the Iowa State Fair a dozen summers ago, but somehow I was less disappointed by that than I thought I would be.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Back At Camp
It is Friday and after less than a week away, I am back at camp. I got here yesterday morning after a record-breaking three-hour trip in the staff van piloted by Marqus and stuffed full of eight Tawongans plus luggage, and spent the afternoon preparing some learning for this weekend's Summertime Family Camp. Falling asleep in my camp house, in the bed where I've slept the past ten weeks, was both strange and familiar. I will say that in recent days at Mark and Rebecca's I had gotten very used to sleeping in the same building as a bathroom.
This morning I taught a class for parents about celebrating Jewish holidays with your kids: we went to Arts and Crafts to make decorations for Sukkot, sat at the picnic tables and played dreidel for Chanukah, took a nature walk to identify different plants that grow food for Tu B'Shevat, and amidst much jealousy on the part of the kids had a water-balloon fight for Lag B'Omer. Are they really paying me for this?!
Tomorrow is Shabbat and then on Sunday we all go back home, wherever that is. Lots of people are going directly from here to Nevada for Burning Man and in some ways I am jealous--I have never been able to go since it always conflicts with the first week of school, and somehow being absent the first five days of a new year has seemed less than ideal. This would have been my one year to spend the week before Labor Day in Black Rock City, covered in dust from the playa by day and wrapped in an assortment of otherworldly costumes by night, but despite numerous groups I could have joined I am going not to Burning Man but instead back to Berkeley. Regardless of my new-found comfort with getting dirty and sleeping outside, I think the two hundred-plus dollars it costs to buy a ticket for six days in the Nevada desert will last me a lot longer than the better part of a week in Africa or India sometime this next year.
This morning I taught a class for parents about celebrating Jewish holidays with your kids: we went to Arts and Crafts to make decorations for Sukkot, sat at the picnic tables and played dreidel for Chanukah, took a nature walk to identify different plants that grow food for Tu B'Shevat, and amidst much jealousy on the part of the kids had a water-balloon fight for Lag B'Omer. Are they really paying me for this?!
Tomorrow is Shabbat and then on Sunday we all go back home, wherever that is. Lots of people are going directly from here to Nevada for Burning Man and in some ways I am jealous--I have never been able to go since it always conflicts with the first week of school, and somehow being absent the first five days of a new year has seemed less than ideal. This would have been my one year to spend the week before Labor Day in Black Rock City, covered in dust from the playa by day and wrapped in an assortment of otherworldly costumes by night, but despite numerous groups I could have joined I am going not to Burning Man but instead back to Berkeley. Regardless of my new-found comfort with getting dirty and sleeping outside, I think the two hundred-plus dollars it costs to buy a ticket for six days in the Nevada desert will last me a lot longer than the better part of a week in Africa or India sometime this next year.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Second-Longest Day of my Travels So Far
The Sunday in June that I moved to camp felt like the longest day ever to me: getting up early after not having slept, the airport, the movers, the storage place, the Bay Bridge, the full-to-the-gills Subaru, the carpooler pick-up in the Mission and the drive to camp, the campfire, unpacking, bedtime snack, a midnight shower and finally some rest.
I can say now that there might be a tie for the longest day, that the day I moved out of camp certainly did not overshadow but at least rivaled the day I moved in. Waking up early after a debaucherous staff banquet the previous night (at which everyone wore costumes but I will only tell you about mine if you email me directly) with dinner and dancing lasting until beyond the wee hours of the morning, all of us who had lived together the past ten weeks sang our songs and said our goodbyes and got our paychecks and were headed home…
Except that my two carpoolers, whom I was driving to the East Bay in a van belonging to the camp therapist, were not at all ready despite my requests they be packed in the morning. This prompted huge stress on my part because I had promised the therapist her van would be back in Oakland and ready for her to pick up at a certain time, which now seemed impossible and as a result disrespectful of her letting us use it to get home.
Finally in the van and headed down the curving mountain road that connects camp to the rest of the world—if the rest of the world can be considered Groveland, California, the nearest town or perhaps a better word is "hamlet", about 25 minutes down the hill from Tawonga—we came upon the staff bus, stalled in its efforts to take those with no cars or rides back to the Bay Area by the fact that it was pulled over on the side of the road. A complete caravan of cars full of camp staff soon joined us on the shoulder and those who had been on the bus but needed to get back to the city in order to catch flights home were swiftly distributed among us since it was impossible to know how long the bus repairs might take.
Piled into the van we now had my original carpoolers, Aaron and Ariela, along with two of the Israeli staff, Tamar and Ayelet, and myself at the wheel. We drove into Oakdale moments after the bank closed at 2 p.m., arriving at the Wells Fargo just fifteen minutes too late to cash the Israelis' paychecks before they left on an international flight that evening.
Next stop Manteca, California, a town with a Spanish name that in English means "lard." Thanks to my constant super-hero, Wes Reeves, I had found a Wells Fargo branch open until 4 and that is where we stopped next to try and get Tamar and Ayelet their money. The teller and later her manager told us they would not cash the checks without being able to speak directly with an agent of the organization to verify their validity since they were for relatively large sums of money, so it was looking like we had driven all this way and spent all this time for nothing. "But it's a Jewish organization, it's closed today for Shabbat, we don't even usually DRIVE today…" Ariela was trying to explain to the Latina bank teller with a large, gold crucifix around her neck who knows nothing about and couldn't care less about the business practices of the Jews.
Think, Sarah, think…I knew I had to be able to find a way to solve this problem. I had already gotten all of us a ride, had already found a Wells Fargo branch open late on a Saturday afternoon. I was not going to be daunted by some minor financial policy verifying check values. I was feeling stuck until inspiration struck moments later on the sidewalk outside the bank—of course! I have not established all these connections, complicated as they might feel at times, to the San Francisco Jewish community for nothing. An unanswered phone call followed by swiftly-returned text message gave me the information that, despite the fact she was on the windblown upper deck of a ferry sailing back to Seattle from Bainbridge Island, Deborah would be more than happy to vouch for the validity of the checks with the Wells Fargo teller so that the Israelis could get their money.
Of course the person who verifies the checks has to answer the phone and the number printed on the organization's check…foiled again. Claiming semi-victory at getting Ayelet's check cashed, admitting semi-defeat that Tamar still didn't have her money we went to the neon-lit twenty-four hour check cashing place advertising, among other things, the skills of attorneys specializing in bankruptcy and divorce on flyers that plastered the windows. After waiting almost twenty minutes we were told that Tamar could have $500 of her money but would have to come back Monday for the rest. "She lives in Israel, she's not going to BE here Monday," I tried to explain to the woman behind the bulletproof glass. No luck.
By now I insisted we stop to eat something because it was four o'clock and although we had snacked on trail mix and strawberries much of the way down the mountain, none of us had had a proper lunch and anyone who knows me is aware that like a very small child I require frequent feedings. Aaron chose a real, live taqueria for us and while waiting for my nachos to be prepared I hatched the next part of our plan.
It only took a few phone calls to learn that Aubrie was in the city having tea with Sofia at the Palace Hotel. Time was running very short as far as getting Tamar and Ayelet to the airport in order to make their flight to Miami and on to Cancun and a check-in with my info man Wes confirmed my fear that traffic across the Bay Bridge was at a total standstill. I decided that we'd drive together as far the Dublin-Pleasanton BART station where Tamar, Ayelet, all their stuff, me, and my daypack would get on the train while Aaron and Ariela—neither of whom usually drive on Shabbat—would take the van and all our luggage the rest of the way to Oakland so Jessica could get it back at some time relatively close to what we'd agreed upon originally.
At the BART station my usual constructivist nature fell away quickly. I did not ask Tamar and Ayelet "How do you think you might use the ticket machine? What makes you think that? What clues does it give you?" I did not even use the didactic but still somewhat engaging approach of saying "First you look on this chart to figure out how much your ticket costs. They you go to that machine and put in your money. If you need change you subtract value from the amount you put into the machine…" I made them both give me ten dollars, shoved all their money into the machines, got them their change, printed their tickets, and herded all of us, filthy and heavy-laden with backpacks of various sizes as we were, through the fare gates and up to the platform. The train pulled up just as we got off the escalator which was the only thing that saved us since had we missed it, the next one would not have come for 20 minutes and we would have been late to the airport for sure.
The ride from Dublin-Pleasanton to SFO is not one I had ever made before but I learned by doing yesterday that it takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. During this time, when not in the tunnels, I was texting madly with Aubrie about what time I'd meet her at the airport and fielding phone calls from Aaron's "I cannot hear you now" cell phone about what stuff was mine in the van and when I was coming to pick it up. Off the train and into the terminal, our adventure seemed almost at a rushed and hectic yet successful end when we made it to the American Airlines ticket counter. Until…
"They cannot travel with these tickets," the reservations agent told me. "Do they have others?"
"No," I answered, confused, "these are their tickets."
"They have one-way tickets to Cancun but no return?" the agent asked.
"Yes, they are traveling overland to Guatemala and will purchase their return travel there. They don't leave the states until December so they haven't made all their plans yet, for now they are just traveling," I explained.
"You can't 'just travel' into Central or South America on a one-way ticket," the agent retorted. "If they travel with just these tickets they will not be allowed through Mexican customs and will be deported to the States immediately."
"Mah? What?!" Tamar was asking, confused as Ayelet, who had understood the conversation, slumped to the carpet in front of the ticketing desk and started crying.
After much negotiation, many conversations with the manager on duty, and with only twenty minutes left until their outbound flight took off we bought the women $900 dollars worth of fully-refundable tickets on Mexicana for dates they had no intention of flying, solely for the purpose of getting them through Mexican customs after which they would cash the tickets back in on the other side of immigration at the American desk in Cancun.
After quick, tearful hugs outside security and a huge rush through the x-rays and metal detectors I watched Tamar and Ayelet sprint towards their gate down exactly the same hall I had to run when headed home for Christmas with Jim Browne one time, the time I vowed never to fly American again—a vow only finally broken last summer on my way to summer school in Jerusalem, San Francisco to New York to Zurich to Tel Aviv. Frequent flier miles much?
The Israelis safely on their way, or as safely as one can be on the way when a hurricane is threatening your final destination, I went outside to find Aubrie at passenger drop-off where she and Sofia were waiting in their new Subaru wagon to pick me up and take me back to the East Bay. We swapped stories and chewed endless globes of bubble gum and the quote of the day, after everything that happened, was inarguable attributed to Sofia when she said, "You know what? You were gone too long, Kotleba…" I agree, kid, I agree.
We got my luggage from Ariela's cousins' house and dropped me off at Mark and Rebecca's where the cats, having been left alone since the day before when their guardians drove to Los Angeles for a wedding shower, had flooded the bathroom. After visiting with the Reeves, cleaning the bathroom, doing laundry, and packing for my own departure to Burbank at seven in the morning to meet my housemates for the shower Mark's mom was throwing them at some air-conditioned villa in The Valley, I went to sleep at 3 a.m.
Such a day as this better have earned me some karma points for my upcoming travel this next year is all I have to say…
I can say now that there might be a tie for the longest day, that the day I moved out of camp certainly did not overshadow but at least rivaled the day I moved in. Waking up early after a debaucherous staff banquet the previous night (at which everyone wore costumes but I will only tell you about mine if you email me directly) with dinner and dancing lasting until beyond the wee hours of the morning, all of us who had lived together the past ten weeks sang our songs and said our goodbyes and got our paychecks and were headed home…
Except that my two carpoolers, whom I was driving to the East Bay in a van belonging to the camp therapist, were not at all ready despite my requests they be packed in the morning. This prompted huge stress on my part because I had promised the therapist her van would be back in Oakland and ready for her to pick up at a certain time, which now seemed impossible and as a result disrespectful of her letting us use it to get home.
Finally in the van and headed down the curving mountain road that connects camp to the rest of the world—if the rest of the world can be considered Groveland, California, the nearest town or perhaps a better word is "hamlet", about 25 minutes down the hill from Tawonga—we came upon the staff bus, stalled in its efforts to take those with no cars or rides back to the Bay Area by the fact that it was pulled over on the side of the road. A complete caravan of cars full of camp staff soon joined us on the shoulder and those who had been on the bus but needed to get back to the city in order to catch flights home were swiftly distributed among us since it was impossible to know how long the bus repairs might take.
Piled into the van we now had my original carpoolers, Aaron and Ariela, along with two of the Israeli staff, Tamar and Ayelet, and myself at the wheel. We drove into Oakdale moments after the bank closed at 2 p.m., arriving at the Wells Fargo just fifteen minutes too late to cash the Israelis' paychecks before they left on an international flight that evening.
Next stop Manteca, California, a town with a Spanish name that in English means "lard." Thanks to my constant super-hero, Wes Reeves, I had found a Wells Fargo branch open until 4 and that is where we stopped next to try and get Tamar and Ayelet their money. The teller and later her manager told us they would not cash the checks without being able to speak directly with an agent of the organization to verify their validity since they were for relatively large sums of money, so it was looking like we had driven all this way and spent all this time for nothing. "But it's a Jewish organization, it's closed today for Shabbat, we don't even usually DRIVE today…" Ariela was trying to explain to the Latina bank teller with a large, gold crucifix around her neck who knows nothing about and couldn't care less about the business practices of the Jews.
Think, Sarah, think…I knew I had to be able to find a way to solve this problem. I had already gotten all of us a ride, had already found a Wells Fargo branch open late on a Saturday afternoon. I was not going to be daunted by some minor financial policy verifying check values. I was feeling stuck until inspiration struck moments later on the sidewalk outside the bank—of course! I have not established all these connections, complicated as they might feel at times, to the San Francisco Jewish community for nothing. An unanswered phone call followed by swiftly-returned text message gave me the information that, despite the fact she was on the windblown upper deck of a ferry sailing back to Seattle from Bainbridge Island, Deborah would be more than happy to vouch for the validity of the checks with the Wells Fargo teller so that the Israelis could get their money.
Of course the person who verifies the checks has to answer the phone and the number printed on the organization's check…foiled again. Claiming semi-victory at getting Ayelet's check cashed, admitting semi-defeat that Tamar still didn't have her money we went to the neon-lit twenty-four hour check cashing place advertising, among other things, the skills of attorneys specializing in bankruptcy and divorce on flyers that plastered the windows. After waiting almost twenty minutes we were told that Tamar could have $500 of her money but would have to come back Monday for the rest. "She lives in Israel, she's not going to BE here Monday," I tried to explain to the woman behind the bulletproof glass. No luck.
By now I insisted we stop to eat something because it was four o'clock and although we had snacked on trail mix and strawberries much of the way down the mountain, none of us had had a proper lunch and anyone who knows me is aware that like a very small child I require frequent feedings. Aaron chose a real, live taqueria for us and while waiting for my nachos to be prepared I hatched the next part of our plan.
It only took a few phone calls to learn that Aubrie was in the city having tea with Sofia at the Palace Hotel. Time was running very short as far as getting Tamar and Ayelet to the airport in order to make their flight to Miami and on to Cancun and a check-in with my info man Wes confirmed my fear that traffic across the Bay Bridge was at a total standstill. I decided that we'd drive together as far the Dublin-Pleasanton BART station where Tamar, Ayelet, all their stuff, me, and my daypack would get on the train while Aaron and Ariela—neither of whom usually drive on Shabbat—would take the van and all our luggage the rest of the way to Oakland so Jessica could get it back at some time relatively close to what we'd agreed upon originally.
At the BART station my usual constructivist nature fell away quickly. I did not ask Tamar and Ayelet "How do you think you might use the ticket machine? What makes you think that? What clues does it give you?" I did not even use the didactic but still somewhat engaging approach of saying "First you look on this chart to figure out how much your ticket costs. They you go to that machine and put in your money. If you need change you subtract value from the amount you put into the machine…" I made them both give me ten dollars, shoved all their money into the machines, got them their change, printed their tickets, and herded all of us, filthy and heavy-laden with backpacks of various sizes as we were, through the fare gates and up to the platform. The train pulled up just as we got off the escalator which was the only thing that saved us since had we missed it, the next one would not have come for 20 minutes and we would have been late to the airport for sure.
The ride from Dublin-Pleasanton to SFO is not one I had ever made before but I learned by doing yesterday that it takes about an hour and fifteen minutes. During this time, when not in the tunnels, I was texting madly with Aubrie about what time I'd meet her at the airport and fielding phone calls from Aaron's "I cannot hear you now" cell phone about what stuff was mine in the van and when I was coming to pick it up. Off the train and into the terminal, our adventure seemed almost at a rushed and hectic yet successful end when we made it to the American Airlines ticket counter. Until…
"They cannot travel with these tickets," the reservations agent told me. "Do they have others?"
"No," I answered, confused, "these are their tickets."
"They have one-way tickets to Cancun but no return?" the agent asked.
"Yes, they are traveling overland to Guatemala and will purchase their return travel there. They don't leave the states until December so they haven't made all their plans yet, for now they are just traveling," I explained.
"You can't 'just travel' into Central or South America on a one-way ticket," the agent retorted. "If they travel with just these tickets they will not be allowed through Mexican customs and will be deported to the States immediately."
"Mah? What?!" Tamar was asking, confused as Ayelet, who had understood the conversation, slumped to the carpet in front of the ticketing desk and started crying.
After much negotiation, many conversations with the manager on duty, and with only twenty minutes left until their outbound flight took off we bought the women $900 dollars worth of fully-refundable tickets on Mexicana for dates they had no intention of flying, solely for the purpose of getting them through Mexican customs after which they would cash the tickets back in on the other side of immigration at the American desk in Cancun.
After quick, tearful hugs outside security and a huge rush through the x-rays and metal detectors I watched Tamar and Ayelet sprint towards their gate down exactly the same hall I had to run when headed home for Christmas with Jim Browne one time, the time I vowed never to fly American again—a vow only finally broken last summer on my way to summer school in Jerusalem, San Francisco to New York to Zurich to Tel Aviv. Frequent flier miles much?
The Israelis safely on their way, or as safely as one can be on the way when a hurricane is threatening your final destination, I went outside to find Aubrie at passenger drop-off where she and Sofia were waiting in their new Subaru wagon to pick me up and take me back to the East Bay. We swapped stories and chewed endless globes of bubble gum and the quote of the day, after everything that happened, was inarguable attributed to Sofia when she said, "You know what? You were gone too long, Kotleba…" I agree, kid, I agree.
We got my luggage from Ariela's cousins' house and dropped me off at Mark and Rebecca's where the cats, having been left alone since the day before when their guardians drove to Los Angeles for a wedding shower, had flooded the bathroom. After visiting with the Reeves, cleaning the bathroom, doing laundry, and packing for my own departure to Burbank at seven in the morning to meet my housemates for the shower Mark's mom was throwing them at some air-conditioned villa in The Valley, I went to sleep at 3 a.m.
Such a day as this better have earned me some karma points for my upcoming travel this next year is all I have to say…
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Movin' On Up...To The East(ern )Side
On Sunday night I left camp with my friend Dave for my last day off of the summer. We drove all the way through Yosemite and camped near Mono Lake amidst moon-like plants with branches the color and shape of bleached and broken bones. After setting up camp in the dark we sat outside on the warm, sandy ground and watched the Perseid meteor shower during the day and time it was supposedly at its absolute peak, and by 2:30 a.m. we had seen 39 falling stars.
A guided tour of the lake and its habitat was the next morning's activity, the mountains ringing the valley obscured by heavy smoke from a far-off forest fire. In the afternoon we drove to Bishop where we ate massive amounts of ice cream for lunch, bought more groceries for dinner, and finally drove up a rocky, steep and winding road to an elevation of 11,000 feet up in the White Mountains.
There are not words to describe the colors and shapes we saw in the sunset as the light faded away over the ridge to the west, twisted and tortured as they were by the smoke that hung just above the soaring peaks. We counted 28 meteors that night, and I was amazed to see them falling as late as 3:30 in the morning when I got up to solve a problem with the tent.
Tuesday morning we packed everything up and made ourselves breakfast at Schulman Grove in the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, a place that is home to Methuselah, the world's oldest tree. Driving west towards Yosemite and eventually to camp we stopped at a place that both Aubrie and Aaron told me I should go: the Whoa Nellie Deli. This restaurant is located, surprisingly/horrifyingly enough, in the Mobil station at the eastern entrance to the park and seems to be the pride and joy of the town of Lee Vining, California. Between the five-star chef who cooks at the Whoa Nellie and the massive trapeze set up on a wide swath of grass next to the gas pumps, I was completely speechless.
Almost every part of the two days offered an opportunity for me to do something completely new. While elements of the experience were at times somewhat strange and frightening, most of it was totally exciting and affirming. I am glad we went, despite the numerous logistical problems that had haunted our planning process. The East(ern) Side of wherever we were (still not completely sure how to accurately describe it…I know it's called the Eastern Side, but of what?!) was like nothing I'd ever seen befor and was definitely nothing like where George and Weezie Jefferson used to live.
A guided tour of the lake and its habitat was the next morning's activity, the mountains ringing the valley obscured by heavy smoke from a far-off forest fire. In the afternoon we drove to Bishop where we ate massive amounts of ice cream for lunch, bought more groceries for dinner, and finally drove up a rocky, steep and winding road to an elevation of 11,000 feet up in the White Mountains.
There are not words to describe the colors and shapes we saw in the sunset as the light faded away over the ridge to the west, twisted and tortured as they were by the smoke that hung just above the soaring peaks. We counted 28 meteors that night, and I was amazed to see them falling as late as 3:30 in the morning when I got up to solve a problem with the tent.
Tuesday morning we packed everything up and made ourselves breakfast at Schulman Grove in the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, a place that is home to Methuselah, the world's oldest tree. Driving west towards Yosemite and eventually to camp we stopped at a place that both Aubrie and Aaron told me I should go: the Whoa Nellie Deli. This restaurant is located, surprisingly/horrifyingly enough, in the Mobil station at the eastern entrance to the park and seems to be the pride and joy of the town of Lee Vining, California. Between the five-star chef who cooks at the Whoa Nellie and the massive trapeze set up on a wide swath of grass next to the gas pumps, I was completely speechless.
Almost every part of the two days offered an opportunity for me to do something completely new. While elements of the experience were at times somewhat strange and frightening, most of it was totally exciting and affirming. I am glad we went, despite the numerous logistical problems that had haunted our planning process. The East(ern) Side of wherever we were (still not completely sure how to accurately describe it…I know it's called the Eastern Side, but of what?!) was like nothing I'd ever seen befor and was definitely nothing like where George and Weezie Jefferson used to live.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Homesick For Jerusalem
This is the first time in four summers that I have not lived in Jerusalem. I know that my grandmother, never happy about my travels to the Middle East, is delighted but I am sad. Trading email the past few months with everyone from Aeli, my housemate from Rehov Amatzia to Sabrina, my ulpan chevruta (Hebrew class study partner) from Hebrew University has reminded me of so many things that became central to my Israeli life these past few years:
•shopping in the shuk (open-air market) each Friday morning before Shabbat
•riding the bus through Jerusalem to get to summer school or to visit friends, my fellow passengers everyone from religious women always eating stone fruit with their countless young children in tow to eighteen-year-old army kids carrying semi-automatic weapons
•shopping at my favorite jewelry store Turquoise925 on Yoel Solomon Street where Yitzik and Lev would let me try endless pieces of one-of-a-kind handcrafted jewelry from artists throughout the Middle East
•demanding that taxi drivers actually turn on the meter since haggling over cab fare is pointless because it always costs exactly the same amount of money to get anywhere (twenty shekels) whether you argue with them about it or not
•sitting in the Space That Sees in the sculpture garden at the Israel Museum, my back against the cool flat marble and my eyes intent on the slice of sky above to reveal to me the answers to all my many questions
I know I will return to Jerusalem soon but that does not mean I don't miss it now. Recently two colleagues of mine have returned from the Land and each has shared her travels with me in a unique way. Batshir brought me a new yarmulke from The Kippah Man on Rehov Yaffo, a beautiful green purple blue yellow pink black one that she and Renee picked together, and Sarah sent me a photograph of my note to God being placed in the cracks of the Kotel. I feel like these reminders both reassure my heart and whet my appetite, and I know now how Dorothy felt trying to use her ruby slippers to get back to Kansas. Do you think it works with filthy green Chaco sandals?
There's no place like home, there's no place like home…
•shopping in the shuk (open-air market) each Friday morning before Shabbat
•riding the bus through Jerusalem to get to summer school or to visit friends, my fellow passengers everyone from religious women always eating stone fruit with their countless young children in tow to eighteen-year-old army kids carrying semi-automatic weapons
•shopping at my favorite jewelry store Turquoise925 on Yoel Solomon Street where Yitzik and Lev would let me try endless pieces of one-of-a-kind handcrafted jewelry from artists throughout the Middle East
•demanding that taxi drivers actually turn on the meter since haggling over cab fare is pointless because it always costs exactly the same amount of money to get anywhere (twenty shekels) whether you argue with them about it or not
•sitting in the Space That Sees in the sculpture garden at the Israel Museum, my back against the cool flat marble and my eyes intent on the slice of sky above to reveal to me the answers to all my many questions
I know I will return to Jerusalem soon but that does not mean I don't miss it now. Recently two colleagues of mine have returned from the Land and each has shared her travels with me in a unique way. Batshir brought me a new yarmulke from The Kippah Man on Rehov Yaffo, a beautiful green purple blue yellow pink black one that she and Renee picked together, and Sarah sent me a photograph of my note to God being placed in the cracks of the Kotel. I feel like these reminders both reassure my heart and whet my appetite, and I know now how Dorothy felt trying to use her ruby slippers to get back to Kansas. Do you think it works with filthy green Chaco sandals?
There's no place like home, there's no place like home…
Thursday, August 9, 2007
From Haight Street Hipster Haircut to Hydroponics on Hermann Street--A Great Day Off, Indeed!
On Sunday night Aaron and I realized we had the same day off this week and quickly decided to team up and make the great escape from camp to the city for a thirty-hour midweek dose of modern urban civilization. Yesterday night after the 5 o'clock meeting we piled everything into his VW and flew down from the Sierras to San Francisco in under three hours, him the driver and me the DJ, stopping once in Oakdale for gas and ice cream. Powered by A Tribe Called Quest we rolled across the bridge into the city, the darkness long since descended and the fog greeting us with welcome-home caresses.
He dropped me off at Batshir's house where everyone was still up. Bedtime stories, leftovers for a late-night dinner, cozy borrowed pajama sweatshirts and an inflatable bed...I could not have been happier. Once Dean and Renee were ensconced upstairs with Harry Potter Batshir and I got cozy in "my bedroom," a.k.a. their front room and we drank tea and told stories and what can I say? I adore her completely and she is so amazing...
Almost but not quite as amazing was the opportunity to sleep in for the first time in eight and a half weeks. As I looked outside the window upon finally opening my eyes I remembered that in this part of town the presence or absence of sunshine is not a good predictor of time of day, especially in early August when the fog is ever-present and the days move very slowly, at times luxuriously and at time deliriously so. We finally got up and dressed, going out for crepes omelets potatoes salad french toast and coffee for breakfast before parting ways until the afternoon.
I walked down to Haight Street and accidentally got an overwhelmingly priced haircut, then decided to let it go. It's the first in, and likely the last for, a long time. I shopped my usual recycled-clothing haunts for a dress to wear to next Friday night's staff banquet, finding nothing and eventually resigning myself to the fact that despite an entire box of cute frocks in my storage space, I will be wearing Kelly's hand-me-down black v-neck sundress while everyone else wears something spunky and adorable. I *have* spunky and adorable dresses, just not here. Such is life…
I spoke on the phone to Eyal for the first time in about a month, sharing with him my travel plans and trying to wrangle out of him a promise to pick me up at the airport in Tel Aviv when I arrive but no such luck—yet. A lunchtime bagel sandwich at Ali's in our old neighborhood was followed by a bus ride out to the Richmond where I met up with Renee and Yael for ice cream at Joe's and mani-(them)-pedi-(me) indulgence at Sandalwood. OPI colors tell a lot about the personality of she or he who chose them: Renee's new nail polish claims "The Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It". I finally, more than a year later, cast aside Aubrie's bad karma around Lincoln Park After Dark and now have glossy, CLEAN aubergine toenails. Fabulous!
Aubrie herself came over for dinner, Dean came home from work, and I ordered an insane amount of Indian food for the five of us. We had dinner, then all piled into Batshir's (yet another) Subaru and drove Aubrie to Hermann Street, right by that one hydroponics store ("What kind of place is THAT?" Renee wanted to know) to meet her sister before we headed back home, giddy but exhausted, to the curry-colored house on Cabrillo Street.
I could not have planned a better day off, one that was exactly what I wanted and needed, than this had I tried.
He dropped me off at Batshir's house where everyone was still up. Bedtime stories, leftovers for a late-night dinner, cozy borrowed pajama sweatshirts and an inflatable bed...I could not have been happier. Once Dean and Renee were ensconced upstairs with Harry Potter Batshir and I got cozy in "my bedroom," a.k.a. their front room and we drank tea and told stories and what can I say? I adore her completely and she is so amazing...
Almost but not quite as amazing was the opportunity to sleep in for the first time in eight and a half weeks. As I looked outside the window upon finally opening my eyes I remembered that in this part of town the presence or absence of sunshine is not a good predictor of time of day, especially in early August when the fog is ever-present and the days move very slowly, at times luxuriously and at time deliriously so. We finally got up and dressed, going out for crepes omelets potatoes salad french toast and coffee for breakfast before parting ways until the afternoon.
I walked down to Haight Street and accidentally got an overwhelmingly priced haircut, then decided to let it go. It's the first in, and likely the last for, a long time. I shopped my usual recycled-clothing haunts for a dress to wear to next Friday night's staff banquet, finding nothing and eventually resigning myself to the fact that despite an entire box of cute frocks in my storage space, I will be wearing Kelly's hand-me-down black v-neck sundress while everyone else wears something spunky and adorable. I *have* spunky and adorable dresses, just not here. Such is life…
I spoke on the phone to Eyal for the first time in about a month, sharing with him my travel plans and trying to wrangle out of him a promise to pick me up at the airport in Tel Aviv when I arrive but no such luck—yet. A lunchtime bagel sandwich at Ali's in our old neighborhood was followed by a bus ride out to the Richmond where I met up with Renee and Yael for ice cream at Joe's and mani-(them)-pedi-(me) indulgence at Sandalwood. OPI colors tell a lot about the personality of she or he who chose them: Renee's new nail polish claims "The Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It". I finally, more than a year later, cast aside Aubrie's bad karma around Lincoln Park After Dark and now have glossy, CLEAN aubergine toenails. Fabulous!
Aubrie herself came over for dinner, Dean came home from work, and I ordered an insane amount of Indian food for the five of us. We had dinner, then all piled into Batshir's (yet another) Subaru and drove Aubrie to Hermann Street, right by that one hydroponics store ("What kind of place is THAT?" Renee wanted to know) to meet her sister before we headed back home, giddy but exhausted, to the curry-colored house on Cabrillo Street.
I could not have planned a better day off, one that was exactly what I wanted and needed, than this had I tried.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Shabbat Picnic
On Saturdays Aaron, who due to the scheduling of his department has the day off but even if he didn't wouldn't work anyway, gets a big huge meal pack-out from the kitchen and a bunch of us all meet at 12:30 on the porch of the Wilderness Building and have a big Shabbat picnic. We spread out blue tumbling mats to sit on and Ariela lays out colorful scarves as a tablecloth for all of the food. There is always so much to eat, a combination of pack-out and of the care package Aaron's mom Judy sent from Zingerman's Deli in Ann Arbor a few weeks ago. Lemon curd and crunchy peanut butter, artfully-carved grapefruits and the huge salad made with delicious things grown in the garden were among my favorite parts of this particular midday meal.
A bunch of us come and eat together, Aaron and Ariela and Nitin and myself. This past Saturday Ariela was gone which was disappointing but the visiting rabbi came and joined us so that was very nice, to have a special guest. We all sat on the floor and told stories and ate a peaceful and delicious meal. A group of other people who work in the wilderness department came back from a backpacking trip while we were resting there and they ravenously sat down to join us. I laid down on my stomach with my eyes closed and my arms a pillow for my head, feeling the warm wind blow over us and listening to the very blue-eyed Annah and the very bearded Michael sing from the Livnot prayerbook. It almost made up for the fact that from Friday morning at eight until Saturday night at ten I am in charge of nearly every program that takes place at camp. I was so happy to not be answering any questions more complicated than "Can you please pass me the hummus?" Ahh…Shabbat Shalom kulam, good Shabbos everyone. What a delicious way to spend an afternoon.
A bunch of us come and eat together, Aaron and Ariela and Nitin and myself. This past Saturday Ariela was gone which was disappointing but the visiting rabbi came and joined us so that was very nice, to have a special guest. We all sat on the floor and told stories and ate a peaceful and delicious meal. A group of other people who work in the wilderness department came back from a backpacking trip while we were resting there and they ravenously sat down to join us. I laid down on my stomach with my eyes closed and my arms a pillow for my head, feeling the warm wind blow over us and listening to the very blue-eyed Annah and the very bearded Michael sing from the Livnot prayerbook. It almost made up for the fact that from Friday morning at eight until Saturday night at ten I am in charge of nearly every program that takes place at camp. I was so happy to not be answering any questions more complicated than "Can you please pass me the hummus?" Ahh…Shabbat Shalom kulam, good Shabbos everyone. What a delicious way to spend an afternoon.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Kotleba Family Reunion
About two weeks ago I got email from my cousin Anne whom I have not seen in a year and a half, since we were all in Chicago at her brother's wedding.
Even though she and I have not seen one another in awhile, I am totally excited to hang out with my cousin Anne and am thrilled at the prospect of seeing anyone who knows me from my real life.
Hi Sarah!I wrote her back and this is what I said:
How's life going for you??? Just wanted to drop a line and see if you were going to be around San Francisco around the July 30th-August 1st. I am currently road tripping through the west with a friend and San Francisco is on the list of places to hit up. I'm in Scottsdale, AZ right now, but probably won't have internet until the 28th when I get to San Diego. But, if you are going to be around then I would love to hang out for a little bit, catch up and talk about life as a Kotleba and such. Here's my phone # xxx-xxx-xxxx you could maybe leave a message there, I'll probably get cell phone service before I get wireless internet…the desert's good like that. But, yeah, let me know!!
And she wrote back…
Hey Anne,
I would like to point out with great delight that in the Kotleba family, not-so-large as it is, there are two kinds of cousins: the kind that get married, stay home, BUY homes, have pets and kids...and the kind that care less about whether or not they have those things and instead make it their business to travel the world and create adventure for themselves along the way.
category one=Steve and Nathan
category two=Anne and Sarah
I am writing to you from my office at a summer camp in Yosemite where I moved about a month ago after getting rid of my car, being granted a year-long teaching sabbatical, moving out of my apartment, putting almost everything I own into storage, and preparing to travel for the next twelve months. So yes, I would love to see you and during the dates you describe I'll be here at camp...my guess is if you're going to be in the city 7/30-8/1 you might be moving north after that and if you're on your way to Tahoe/Mammoth/Bishop at all you should come my way, I'll take a day off and we'll go camp in the park for a night. Yes? I hope you can!
I am beyond excited that you left the amazing city of San Francisco and moved somewhere even more amazing in Yosemite! How fabulous. I have to agree that the Kotleba women are way more fun and adventurous than their siblings, and I am ok with that. I'd rather be on this side of it. I'm happy you are fighting on the good side (not that I'm judging our brothers...just saying)I got very excited about the sisterhood of the adventurous Kotlebas and the possibility of us having our very own mini-family reunion here at camp. So, yesterday on the phone I gave her all the directions to get here from the city and this afternoon she called to say they'd gotten a late start so right now it is after dinner and I am trying to be patient for them to get here but it is hard. After they arrive tonight we're going to pitch their tent and chill out on my porch and watch the stars of the High Sierra come out while trading stories of what it meant to grow up Kotleba. Maybe if they have a lot of energy we'll go into town to the bar with fish mounted on the walls where there's karaoke and $3 drinks every Thursday night, but maybe not. Tomorrow morning they're leaving early to drive into the park and tomorrow night they are climbing Half Dome, so they might just want to rest.
Anne
Even though she and I have not seen one another in awhile, I am totally excited to hang out with my cousin Anne and am thrilled at the prospect of seeing anyone who knows me from my real life.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
L'Hitraot, Hobbit Bed
When I moved into my camp house, my other two housemates were already living there. Their beds were made and their cubbies were organized, while mine both stood empty and waiting for me.
As I unpacked and began to put my things away, I noticed that they had done something to me that I absolutely would have done to them: of the three beds, two were twin-sized and one was not. Both short and narrow, the empty bed waiting for me was suited less for a person (short and narrow that I am) and more for a hobbit.
In the six weeks that have passed since then, I have been sleeping in the hobbit bed every night. Unlike my other housemates, both of whom sleep other places at times for various reasons both personal and professional, I always sleep in our house and I always sleep in the hobbit bed.
When I left at session break last weekend and went back to what for my own mental health, and because I think it is accurate, I have started to call "my house" in Berkeley I stayed in my full-sized bed for five whole nights and when I stripped the sheets off it Sunday morning before leaving I was so sad at the thought of returning that night to my hobbit bed at camp. Returning via bus duty meant I only got here just before the campers which felt rushed so I hurried to get my stuff out of the luggage van, then run down the hill behind the office to our house. Throwing the door open and piling my stuff inside, what did I see?
Over session break one of my housemates, Jessica the social worker, had moved out and so her regular-sized bed was empty. Unmade and forlorn in the corner, it was practically begging for someone to adopt it. YES!
I stripped the sheets from my mattress and for the next ten minutes I sweated, grunted, shoved and pushed my own bed out of its corner and into the middle of the room, hoping the new social worker wouldn't arrive and walk in on me stealing her regular bed. I lifted Jessica's old bed into the place in the corner between the two windows where the hobbit bed had been, ripping the map of the world hung above my un-headboard (no such structural feature on hobbit beds) and knocking down two of the cards Kelli has sent me, all of which I hang up there so I can see them when I am sitting and writing letters during rest hour or lying and waiting to fall asleep at night. Propping my new bed against the wall, I climbed underneath to retrieve everything that fell down and also moved my cubby over to make more room, then shoved the twin-sized bed into my spot and slid the hobbit bed where Jessica's had been.
Did I feel kind of badly putting my sheets onto my new mattress and then lying down, all sixty-four inches of me fitting comfortably as I stretched out completely unlike before when I had to sleep on my side with my knees bent? Kind of. A little. Maybe not so much. In Hebrew there is an expression you use when you are leaving someone: l'hitraot, which means "see you later." L'hitraot, hobbit bed—my back feels better already.
As I unpacked and began to put my things away, I noticed that they had done something to me that I absolutely would have done to them: of the three beds, two were twin-sized and one was not. Both short and narrow, the empty bed waiting for me was suited less for a person (short and narrow that I am) and more for a hobbit.
In the six weeks that have passed since then, I have been sleeping in the hobbit bed every night. Unlike my other housemates, both of whom sleep other places at times for various reasons both personal and professional, I always sleep in our house and I always sleep in the hobbit bed.
When I left at session break last weekend and went back to what for my own mental health, and because I think it is accurate, I have started to call "my house" in Berkeley I stayed in my full-sized bed for five whole nights and when I stripped the sheets off it Sunday morning before leaving I was so sad at the thought of returning that night to my hobbit bed at camp. Returning via bus duty meant I only got here just before the campers which felt rushed so I hurried to get my stuff out of the luggage van, then run down the hill behind the office to our house. Throwing the door open and piling my stuff inside, what did I see?
Over session break one of my housemates, Jessica the social worker, had moved out and so her regular-sized bed was empty. Unmade and forlorn in the corner, it was practically begging for someone to adopt it. YES!
I stripped the sheets from my mattress and for the next ten minutes I sweated, grunted, shoved and pushed my own bed out of its corner and into the middle of the room, hoping the new social worker wouldn't arrive and walk in on me stealing her regular bed. I lifted Jessica's old bed into the place in the corner between the two windows where the hobbit bed had been, ripping the map of the world hung above my un-headboard (no such structural feature on hobbit beds) and knocking down two of the cards Kelli has sent me, all of which I hang up there so I can see them when I am sitting and writing letters during rest hour or lying and waiting to fall asleep at night. Propping my new bed against the wall, I climbed underneath to retrieve everything that fell down and also moved my cubby over to make more room, then shoved the twin-sized bed into my spot and slid the hobbit bed where Jessica's had been.
Did I feel kind of badly putting my sheets onto my new mattress and then lying down, all sixty-four inches of me fitting comfortably as I stretched out completely unlike before when I had to sleep on my side with my knees bent? Kind of. A little. Maybe not so much. In Hebrew there is an expression you use when you are leaving someone: l'hitraot, which means "see you later." L'hitraot, hobbit bed—my back feels better already.
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