music notes

Music has been especially touching to me recently. I think it's because I'm nearly off on a new adventure & realizing all that I'm leaving behind.

At the protest on Saturday, Joan Baez sang. She sang songs, 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?', 'A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall,' that were the songs that my family used to listen to on car trips before my brother & I insisted on listening to Paula Abdul & Milli Vanilli. I hadn't heard the songs in 15 years and still knew most of the words. So I stood there in the huge crowd singing along, thinking of my family, and crying.

Last night, E and I went to the DC bar that claims to have the world's largest beer list - 8 pages & quite impressive. There music couldn't have been arranged to better pull at my heartstrings. 'Miss Misery' by Elliott Smith, which reminds me of my brother and of Portland. And an Ani song & a Fiona Apple song that F put on the mixtape she gave me when I left for Nicaragua. I remember listening to those songs when I felt homesick and finding such comfort. I did not cry at these songs, but came quite close.

and my next post will be from Europe.
So much packing to do.
Craziness.

elevators and escalators

I rode the largest escalator in the western hemisphere on Friday night. It's located at a metro station in Maryland. It's quite long, but not as long as I was hoping for. I wasn't struck by it, knowing that it must be the longest in the hemisphere.

Two housemates and I went. We brought our cameras and took lots of pictures of the escalator, us on the escalator, etc. etc. It was fun to be DC tourists in a very un-touristy location. We got lots of strange looks. I did my part for people-watching karma; we were the ones that people told their friends about that night.

And today I almost got stuck in an elevator. I was getting some casseroles from a church that cooks for the soup kitchen one day per month. I had to enter the church & go to the basement. I closed the elevator door & pressed buttons. Nothing happened. I pressed more buttons. Nothing happened. I started to freak out, remembering a NYT article I read last spring about a chinese food delivery guy who spent 4 days stuck in an elevator. People heard his yells for help & did nothing. He got stuck after he made the delivery, so he didn't even have food for sustenance. I was about ready to yell, when I reached for the door and tried to open in manually. I succeeded.

the wonders of the internet

This woman contacted me on my other blog. She seems interesting. I wrote her back, asking if she wants to get coffee. It feels vaguely like internet dating, but I suppose that's okay.

I never thought that the internet might be a part of my Belgrade friend making strategy.

Already stumbling upon friends in my new city. Setting up coffee dates before I arrive. What an amazing age we live in.

conversationally hijacked

I think there is something about me that makes women want to tell me their secrets.

A stranger in a Starbucks told me that she had an abortion that morning.
A former boss told me on my first day of work about her & her husband's struggles with infertility.
My last job was full of inappropriate-for-work disclosures from my interns.

A volunteer at my soup kitchen did much the same thing today. She's a woman that I can't figure out how to talk to. I don't know if there's something diagnosibly wrong with her or if she's just incredibly socially awkward. I usually just ask her about the Nationals & she tells me the scores for the past few games, who the next series is against, & how far out of the wild card race they are. We have this conversation a few times a week.

But today that didn't happen. She came in & told me that she was having a bad day. My first mistake: asking what happened. I learned all about her period that started this morning, how she bled through her jeans, how she was glad that it came because she thinks she's starting menopause. (I would guess she's in her mid 30s.) I didn't really engage in that topic, trying to steer the conversation back to baseball.

She then started talking about how she felt fat, which she isn't. A pet peeve of mine is fishing for compliments. I rarely play my appointed role in such conversations. "I'm sorry you feel that way," not, "you're not fat." I should have just given her the satisfaction & been done with it, because my attempt to switch the topic of conversation to "what are you doing this weekend?" was foiled.

She did not acknowledge my topic selection, but instead starting talking about high school about how she was a social outcast. She repeated the vulgar things her classmates said to her. Not knowing what to say, I left for the bathroom. When I returned, I made a point of checking on food in the oven, on the other side of the room. She started making odd noises, chirps then sirens. When she started screaming and pounding on the table, I asked if she was okay. She said she was.

At this point, my boss, whose office should not be within hearing distance of the kitchen, came in told this woman that if she can't get herself together, she has to leave. So she started crying, saying she doesn't want to leave.

I told her to go take care of herself, to wash her face & dry her tears, because we were serving lunch in ten minutes.

And after that there were no more outbursts, but she kept apologizing to me, saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" every time she saw me for the next two hours.

I don't think I understand people.

postal service redux redux

It keeps happening. (hooray for linking to myself.)

The postal service now wants me to buy a Saturn.
This is in addition to the Iron & Wine cover of their "Such Great Heights" that is supposed to make me want to buy M&Ms.

Release a new album, already!

the foodie reemerges

My relationship with food has changed a lot over the past few months.

In my old life, food was something I had control over. I chose what I and with whom I ate. And the food and company were good. Lots of whole and organic foods lovingly prepared from near-scratch. Food was something that I thought about quite a bit, trying to achieve nutrition and pleasure. Being a good cook and a bit of a foodie were part of my identity & something that I took pride in.

And with a loss of control & money everything has changed. Food is only rarely a source of pleasure. It is most often simply fuel. My lunch is whatever is vegetarian at the soup kitchen: often just bread and fruit. And dinner is whatever my mostly not-so-skilled-in-the-kitchen housemates prepare. Sautéed frozen vegetables in some vaguely curry-esque sauce is a good meal, one I get excited about. Canned vegetable soup, ramen, or still hard in the middle rice are more typical fair.

And it's been really hard. My body feels like it is shutting down. My skin is strange. My digestive tract is messed up. The flu that bowled me over last week is still hanging around. I feel like I had forgotten what good food can be.

But there are signs of hope. F and R sent me a care package containing some delicious bread that I have been rationing myself at breakfast, making sure it lasts until I leave.

I picked up some food for my soup kitchen at a farmers market on Wednesday night. I got apples and mustard greens. After moving the food into our refrigerators, I walked home in the dusk eating spicy mustard greens and a granny smith apple so tart and sweet I couldn't keep my eyes open, remembering that food is good.

And in a week, I'll be living by myself, in charge of my diet again.

on dental dams

On Friday night, W and I, after going out for ice cream & Daily Show clip watching marathon [my horoscope said I would meet my dream date that night. The stars have reconfirmed Jon Stewarts’s status as my imaginary boyfriend.], we ended up bored, sitting in a room with a guitar. W started playing and making up songs. The most epic of her creations was a song about a dental dam. Not destined to be a top 40 hit, but entertaining. I bet her a dollar to go perform it for the most fratboyish of the housemates who were downstairs drinking Natty Light (W had accidentally called it Natty Ice earlier in the night & they were offended.) and watching West Wing DVDs.

W performed the song with gusto, earning her dollar, & the boys didn’t react. We learned later that they didn’t know what a dental dam is. One of them made the argument that dental dams must be fictional because if they were real, he would have heard jokes about them in the high school locker room. Another couldn't figure out why they were necessary and asserted that they would "ruin the mood" and present logistical problems.

But dental dams do exist. And these boys, all sexually active, all children of red states who insist that they did not go through abstinence-only sex education, have never heard of them. I was and continue to be amazed and flummoxed. Their educators should be held criminally negligent. [W told me later that last year there was a herpes outbreak at her Brethren college. Everyone involved was a virgin.]

I explained the sex education that I received growing up Unitarian Universalist, how I learned that being gay is okay, how we had discussions about how to have physically and emotionally safe relationships, how we watched film strip and animated porn, how I learned that one of the little kids in the church was an accident “you need to get a new diaphragm after you have a child,” how they took us condom shopping, how the Planned Parenthood lady taught me what an abortion really is. Everyone was amazed that such things could happen in a church. I always knew such things were rare, but I was reminded again Friday night of their importance.

So W is not planning to convert, but she wants her kids to become temporarily UU for a few years in their early teens.

excused absence

I’ve had the flu for the past week. So has my roommate. There's something so sad about having the flu in September. It's a February disease, for good reason. It’s hard to think of anything less comfortable than having a fever when it is 90+ degrees and very humid. We woke each other with middle of the night coughing fits & then debated whether or not we were feverish or just really hot and sweaty. Not recommended.

It’s nice to be back to my not-needing-to-sleep-12-hours-a-day lifestyle.

one true love

Fabulous roommate W and I joke a lot about finding our "one true love:"
--"Let's go out tonight for felafel and coffee and people watching and meeting our one true love."
--"Do you want to watch West Wing or Muppet Show DVDs tonight?"
"Barring true love, let's watch West Wing."

It's funny and light and absurd and entertaining. We amuse ourselves. It's comforting to have a shared joke. . . but it is constant.

Yesterday, we were reading our horoscopes over breakfast. I was directed to be 'neither naive nor cynical.' W was told to 'follow your inklings. You might just "inkle" yourself into a new relationship.' So we joked about how she was going to meet her one true love. She'd call the South Korean embassy on behalf on Senator Clinton, & the clerk she would talk to would be so charmed by her professionalism that he would come to her office to seek her out. They'd see each other across the maze of cubicles and fall madly and deeply in love.

As we finished crafting this entertaining yarn, M asked why we talk so much about true love. I explained because such things entertain me, that it's fun to joke & be girly, that the whole concept is so strange & prevalent that it's in need of mocking. And he told me: you are like a the stereotypical jaded woman at the beginning of a romantic comedy.

And I was horrified. M says he didn't mean it as an insult, but I think any comparison to some Bridget Jones-esque, profoundly unhappy, scarred, all-her-happiness-dependent-on-finding-the-right-man character is terribly, terribly insulting. I do not want to be seen as anything remotely resembling that.

***

I vowed to tone down the "true love" talk, but my vow lasted about 10 hours. The City Paper, DC's weekly rag, came out yesterday. I picked one up at the library & brought it home. I came into the house & joined W & M in conversation. I idly picked up The City Paper & turned to the 'I Saw Yous.' I really enjoy reading them. It is my not-so-secret desire to be the object of an 'I Saw You.' [Yes, it's silly. Why would I want someone who lacks the social skills to approach me in real life to write a paragraph about me for an entire metropolitan area to read? Completely nonsensical.] So the conversation turned to such things, especially when there was one that was almost about me: place, time, & hair color were correct.

And so we were flipping through the personal ads musing on true love once again.

dead white guy

I almost saw my first corpse yesterday. Unfortunately, William Rehnquist's casket was closed. Had I know that in advance, I might not have spent an hour in the hot sun eating ice cream, eavesdropping, and chatting with coworker-housemate M.

We went for the spectacle. I didn't have to work yesterday afternoon & there isn't much to do on a Tuesday afternoon in this town, except study Serbian. Besides, the Supreme Court's within walking distance. And I thought it would be open casket. William Rehnquist was to be my first corpse. It would make a good story. Also, the catafalque on which his casket was set also supported the dead bodies of Lincoln, Kennedy, and a host of other now-dead luminaries. That's kind of cool.

The other people in line had more honorable reasons for waiting. The man in front of us drove down from Philadelphia because he "really respected Rehnquist's judicial philosophy." I wanted to punch him.

I was interviewed by a young woman from some sort of media outlet (I forgot to ask which) - she had a big fancy microphone and recorder. So if you heard someone with my voice say "I came for the spectacle & didn't really like Rehnquist very much & have my doubts about Roberts," it was probably me.

DC is redeemed in my eyes

My parents are planning a trip to Portland in a few weeks. It was hard to talk to them about it Saturday morning. I want to be there. And so my mother consoled me with the reasons that DC is better than PDX: I am doing work that I enjoy. The museums are amazing and free.

And, most importantly, DC has the world’s best people watching. Just this weekend, I have seen:

Packs of people on rollerblades covered with flashing lights.
A half-naked man cavorting in a public fountain.
A crowd of college freshmen singing “Lean on Me,” “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough,” and “Build Me Up, Buttercup” while waiting for a metro train.
The cutest reunion I have ever seen: a man & woman half-skip half-run to each other across a square, followed by hugs & kisses.
A dancing street performer with a passing-by three year old girl shaking her booty right along side her.
Parents at the Lincoln Memorial saying, “kids, this is the Emancipation Proclamation” while pointing at Lincoln’s second inaugural (the best speech ever).
A gaggle of gothy girls on the subway loudly discussing porn, specifically masseuse-themed porn involving lots of elbow-asshole action. I missed E intensely at that moment.

So DC is okay.

So that's what all the fuss is about.

I got high from marijuana for the first time Friday night. I’ve smoked up before, but nothing has happened. The kids in my house use a contraption made of a cut up gallon milk carton & part of a diet caffeine free coke bottle for such things. Classy. Two of us smoked up & lay on an out-of-town housemate’s bed while she told me stories about her family -- her gay dad infected her now-dead mom with AIDS in the mid-80s -- and how she’s in love with one of my housemates and very attracted to another. She wants to sleep with the boy whose bed we were in. I could see why – it’s the most comfortable bed I have ever known, like sleeping on a cloud.

You know you want it.

So I've just signed up for Google Talk. You should sign up too. Then we'll be able to talk for free, even when I'm in Serbia.

(My user ID is the same as my hotmail address, but @gmail.com)

Sounds good, no?

triumph

I have now mastered the cyrillic alphabet. I would show off my prowess, but I don't know how to type those characters. I transliterated my housemates names & made place cards for dinner last night. No one seemed to appreciate it particularly, but that's okay. It felt like success.
(blantantly copied from my other blog: pustolovina.blogspot.com It will one day be my primary blog, while this will remain my outlet for the stories that I don't want the grandmother to read.)

Many of the cyrillic letters are new to me. When I write them, it all ends up looking crooked and not like the letters in my Teach Yourself Serbian book. I write like a first grader.

In other Serbia-related news, I gave up reading Bosnian Chronicle. It's written by Ivo Andric, the only Serb to ever win a Nobel Prize for literature. It was painfully boring. I read a hundred and fifty pages in which: a Napoleonic French diplomat is dispatched to Ottoman Travnik. He hires a local assistant. He fires said assistant. He gets a new assistant, a Frenchman. Tension develops between the Frenchmen. Main character's family arrives & they move into a new house. An Ottoman messenger dies; the local vizier holds onto power.

Quite ironic that this icon of Serbianness writes about French people. My fingers are crossed that he is not a national hero, that I will not have to sit through long sessions others praising his genius.

It's 5:34 am.

I've already been up for an hour.

I woke up with anxiety. When I'm anxious, I tend to focus all of my worried energy on one tiny thing. This morning, instead of being worried about learning Serbian or adjusting to a new culture or not getting gassed on the Geneva-Belgrade train, I worried about mail to the extent that my stomach tied itself in knots. There are a few pieces of mail that I have been expecting, but have not yet recieved. So I stopped tossing & turning full o' anxiety & checked to make sure that I sent out the correct address to everyone when I last moved. I did.

But now that I'm already entertaining myself on the internet & chatting with the brand new housemate who managed to lock herself out of her room & would be getting up in an hour and 45 minutes anyway, why not just call it a night & make cyrillic alphabet flashcards?