Noun. Pronunciation: \'haUs-owf-gäb-lən\ Date: 2008. Etymology: German Hausaufgaben (homework); from Middle English gobelin, ultimately from Greek kobalos (rogue)
: Mischievous, often incompetent sprites, ourselves included, who work on our house, generally wreaking havoc although occasionally making progress.
As i've mentioned already, winter is my least favorite time of year, and this week's freezing rain and frigid temperatures have done nothing to lift my spirits. I also must confess to having a bit of a bah humbug attitude toward the holidays, for which i blame the American retailers who have been torturing me with Christmas carols since Halloween. It's hard to actually get excited about the holidays when you've been bombarded with exhortations to empty your wallet on inflatable yard ornaments and other useless items in the name of Jesus for a quarter of the year. This is probably why i always end up doing my holiday shopping at the last possible moment: i become so inured to the season that i end up forgetting how close Christmas is until about December 20th, which has been really good for all the overnight delivery companies.
However, all is not gloomy here, as i am never more prolific in the kitchen than during these short days and freezing nights. Since i cannot skip down the slippery sidewalks, i bask in the glow of a warm stove. To counter American consumerism run amok, i tend to take on the most arduous and intricate culinary adventures, and send to friends and family boxes of handmade chocolates and Jackson Pollack-painted gingerbread men. Truth be told, about now, the kitchen is usually covered in cocoa, there are smudges of chocolate on the refrigerator door, and there is powdered sugar and flour dusted over most surfaces as i race to finish the 8th kind of cookie so we can get them boxed up and out the door. Every year i've been upping the ante on difficulty, and last year this meant delving into the Culinary Institute of America's textbook tome on chocolate making, the end result of which was that in addition to the 8 kinds of cookies, there were grand marnier truffles and raspberry ganache filled chocolates made in a polycarbonate mold and dusted with edible ruby pixie dust.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail is one of my all-time favorite movies and certainly one of the most hilariously quotable (It's just a flesh wound!!...Look, that rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide! It's a killer!) Generally speaking, I find a lot of Monty Python movie scenes to be applicable to life's funnier/stranger moments. This little ditty gets hummed a lot when I just can't face the addition anymore (or at any other time I'm feeling less than heroic in the face of adversity/heights, which is not infrequent):
I have discovered that the best way to deal with construction woes is to bravely turn away and flee. Preferably to a hotel with daily maid service. Given that this strategy is out of the budget, I have found an even better place to escape: I call it "Chez BFF." Chez BFF is a Bi-College establishment run by two of the best hosts (and coolest people generally) on the planet. Yes, a visit to Chez BFF does require flying to Dallas. But once there, I get waited on hand and foot: BFF makes me chai before I go to work - and puts it in a thermal mug to go! They chauffeur me to and from the office! There are always smoked almonds to nibble on and champagne to sip! They plan social outings and take care of all details for me! They give free guided tours and make dinner reservations! They shuttle me to and from the airport! She can handle all medical emergencies and prescribe drugs when necessary! He knows all the best bike trails! Best of all, they are really fun, funny, insanely smart people who just make life better when they're around. A trip to Chez BFF is my new Addition Coping Strategem #2 (#1 - Denial).
Other than the sublime, world's best service one finds at Chez BFF, there is also the house. If your dream house is in a shambles or otherwise beyond your reach, it's great when you have unfettered (and free!) access to another one, especially when you and Chez BFF's owners have pretty much the same taste in art and architecture. Here are a few (low-quality) photos that still don't do it justice:
All the benefits of mid-century modern design without any of the technical limitations. I love the openness of the floorplan and the endless windows, how it brings the outside in as Uncle Frank (as Wright is known in my mother's household) would have wanted. It's light, airy, minimalist: perfect. Well, almost - that last picture goes to show you that every house has its conundrums: that chandelier hangs over a 3-story gap in the stairwell, so changing the bulb will require significant acrobatic feats.My last visit to Chez BFF also involved a trip to the Nasher Sculpture Center, which is now one of my favorite art galleries in the world. Designed by Pritzker Prize-winning architect Renzo Piano, the building itself is a work of art.
As i am really bad at keeping track of artist sponsors and collectors generally (i can barely keep the artists themselves straight), i don't know much about Raymond Nasher, the founder, other than that he was obviously obscenely wealthy and had impeccable taste in art. There wasn't a piece in there that didn't capture my interest and imagination. As an added bonus, all of the explanations of the pieces were quite informative without the usual imperious pedantry one often finds all too often at MOMA or the Met or even the Hirshhorn Gallery, the kind that induce much eye-rolling and occasionally a gag reflex.
I love sculpture, perhaps more than other traditional art forms, because of its tangible nature and three-dimensional presence. Paintings can certainly move me and i can get lost in Van Gogh's Eglise d'Auvers-sur-Oise for a half-hour, easily (it happens every time i go). But there is something about an object jutting out in space that compels me to move about, to see all the angles, to imagine the feel of the clay that became the mold, the tiny taps of the hammer on the chisel that carved the marble, or to mentally reconstruct the welding, sanding, and balancing that brought the piece together.
I've included a few of my favorites at the Nasher below, but you can get an amazing virtual visit to the Gallery at their website. First, two gorgeous pieces from Mark di Suvero: Eviva Amore and For W.B. Yeats.
As preface, I have a thing for Cor-ten steel. Between an architect mother and a welder father, it's a material I've been playing on or around for as long as I can remember. The color and texture of it gets me for reasons I cannot articulate, really, other than that I appreciate the intricate variation in the texture and coloration of it. I would love to incorporate Cor-ten into our own project, but the cost of it has impeded its use as a bamboo container/retaining wall at the end of the lot. So far, anyway.
But back to the art, here's the explanation from the Nasher on these pieces: Mark di Suvero's monumental steel sculptures expand to architectural scale the constructivist explorations begun by Pablo Picasso, Julio González, and David Smith in the first half of the 20th century. With beams thrusting outward from a central core, Eviva Amore (Long Live Love) is an exclamation of passion in raw, weathered steel. The 22,000 pound structure spans 47 feet. Welded and bolted together, its carefully balanced, cantilevered elements give the sculpture both an industrial quality and elegant grace.
I agree - it does soar against the sky with incredible grace. I find it reminiscent of my childhood Tinkertoys; i love how it looks so simple, but the balancing act is fairly complex. There is a fantastic interview with di Suvero here. For W.B. Yeats is a reference to the last line in Yeats' 1920 poem Among School Children, "How can we know the dancer from the dance?" The guide states: "di Suvero reflects upon the artistic challenge of conveying feeling through form. Much like the fluid, expressive motion of dance, the sculpture balances two elements that rock and pivot on a central point. Despite its size, this kinetic iron assemblage of curves and angles, solids and voids cultivates an intimacy with its viewers, its capacity to twirl or sway enticing one's movement around the object." As it was still when we came upon it, I gave it a forceful yet surreptitious shove and watched it turn slowly, the shadows of the piece shifting in the afternoon light. It did make me think of dancing and i wanted desperately to take it home with me. Since i can't do that, if anyone wants to know what I'd like for Christmas, here it is: http://ce.corcoran.edu/course/SL2250/Introduction-to-Metal-Sculpture - Section A, please, and i'm happy to just audit. If genetics have anything to do with it, this just might be my artistic calling. Plus, i love blowtorches (doesn't everyone, really?)
Next favorite: Richard Serra's My Curves Are Not Mad. This thing is spectacular, and i had recently fallen in love with a piece (5 of them, actually) he did in Seattle's Olympic Sculpture Park called Wake. Here, the viewer is invited to walk between the two curves, which compresses and tilts the space around you, providing interesting slants of light and shifts of perspective. Actually, the experience of walking through My Curves Are Not Mad reminded me of the sensation I got walking through the Siq in Petra, Jordan. It's also a favorite trick of Uncle Frank, who routinely has tiny entry vestibules and hallways in his houses that then open into a great room or even just a bigger bedroom with a higher ceiling - the whole intention of the design is to create a physical and subsequently subtle emotional drama of compression and then release.
Okay, moving on: Joan Miro's Moonbird, Magdalena Abakanowicz' Bronze Crowd (another piece where walking through the sculpture is key to understanding it), Henry Moore's Working Model for Three Piece No. 3, Vertabrae, and Aristide Maillol's La Nuit (see explanations here, here, here, and here)
Regarding La Nuit, my friend, the Structure of Cities major (who thus had lots of art history course requirements), was narrating from the brochure and paused after reading the description, cocked his head thoughtfully and said, "I thought she just looked really bummed." This still cracks me up.
One of the most unique "pieces" was James Turrel's "skyscape" called Tending, (Blue), which can only be described as a sort of meditative experience. The photos don't begin to capture it so I didn't put any up - but check it out here.
Well, you've all probably had enough of the art tour now, so I'll just give you a quick view of some of my other faves from the Gallery. A prize (batch of homemade gelato, perhaps?) goes to the first person who correctly identifies the artist and title of all the following:
The art tour was the end of my visit to Chez BFF, unfortunately, but the escape did much to restore my sanity and serenity, enabling me to face the dragons chez nous.
I left it all to you, my dear (handful of) readers, and (all 5) of you (plus the 5 on Facebook - or are you the same people?) who voted in my Mac or PC poll . And what you said, in a vote of 4-1 (or 7-3, maybe) was to suffer the slings and arrows of paying an outrageous fortune, so based solely on your advice, i ran back into the arms of Apple. (This way, if this ends badly, I can blame all of you. And I know who 3 of you are.) I realize that i've given the ending a bit of a surprise twist, but i realized that i could get a vastly more powerful iMac for less than a PowerBook, and the fact is, i don't really even take my laptop anywhere, so why limit myself to such a tiny screen and confining keyboard? And there she is, in her 27 inches of minimalist powerhouse glory. I am so in love, even if we don't yet speak the same language (Is alt now control, or alt, or that weird infinity-meets-number-key command button? Where is my Windows Explorer button?) It's okay - hand gestures seem to be enough to get by on for now.
There's glare on the screen from the windows behind my desk, so i'll have to take more shots at night (which is generally when i use it anyway). But my, oh my, ohhhhh myyyyy is that screen and its resolution mind-altering. I get sucked into the screen savers like hypnotized cartoon animals whose eyes become little swirls. For example, and this doesn't even do it justice at all, but here is what editing a photo on this thing looks like:
To give you a sense of scale, that's a full-sized keyboard (Look, Ma! No wires!) Then there's the fact that I finally uploaded (downloaded?) all 750 photos from Barcelona (6 weeks later) and another 800 or so stills for a stop-motion movie I'm making on making danishes from scratch (to be posted soon, although be forewarned, it's going to fall into the film noir category). These photos are huge digital files on my Canon EOS 30D, so they take for-flipping-ever to transfer. Normally. On the new Light of My Life, it took approximately 1.5 seconds per photo. This used to be about a minute per photo, I swear. My life is forever changed. Plus, iMovie is really fun and pretty intuitive, since I've never done movie editing in my life and put together my little film (the first 3/4 of it) in about an 30 minutes. I even did my first guitar lesson - the E major chord - on Garage Band (my fingers still hurt 3 days later, though, so I'm not sure about my future as a singer-songwriter). So, you'll all be happy to know that the acquisition therapy seems to be working, and I promise to post some happier things.
Which reminds me of a story (as all things do). One day, a BFF and then-roommate of mine and i came across an interesting discovery. After crap-on-crap weeks (possibly months) for both of us that left us each wallowing in deep and wide pools of self-pity, my friend's mother offered - nay, demanded - that we borrow her Audi TT convertible and go for a drive on what was in my memory still one of the most gorgeous summer days DC has ever had. So, we put on cute summer dresses and made a plan to drive up and down the GW Parkway and then get cocktails at the Georgetown waterfront. About halfway into the drive/flight, with the engine purring as the trees, the curves of the road, and the Potomac whizzed by, and with the wind in our hair, sun on our shoulders, and music in our ears, I turned to my friend with a grin from ear to ear and said "You know, money actually can buy happiness. How can you be unhappy in this car?" (Rumor has it that this story has made it to someone who works for Audi and may show up in some marketing campaign, so if it does, this entry will be proof that they stole it from me. It's okay, for a TT of my own, they can have it.)
When I was growing up, I always loved autumn. I loved the way the air suddenly felt cleansed of summer's humidity, how the skies were suddenly more blue, and how all the trees burst out in infernos of red and orange. Although my leo heart belongs first and foremost to summer, being an only child, autumn meant the end of lonely days when my friends were on family road trips to exotic sounding places like Saskatoon or The Badlands. Best of all, autumn meant going back to school, which always held the promise of new classes and adventures, maybe making new friends, and growing up, which, when you're not an adult, is Priority Number One. As a kid, I would have my first day of school outfit picked out a week ahead of time and would barely sleep out of excitement and nervousness the night before, a feeling that really only left me by year three of law school. I know, I know, you're thinking I was a geek and probably a teacher's pet, the latter half of which is true and the former not too far off the mark, I suppose. As my mother was also getting her degree through much of my childhood, fall meant a new semester for her, too, and I spent a lot of time on the University of Nebraska campus as the architecture department mascot. I loved the smell of art markers, the click of mechanical pencils, the rustle of drafting paper, the way classes were give and take instead of rote learning. I couldn't wait to go to college and took every opportunity to spend more time there, so I lived for Model United Nations, which was held there and run by college students; this in turn led to me dating college students, which upped my social status with my peers, if not my parents. I was ecstatic to finally be invited to real dinners that didn't take place at shopping mall food courts and to have intelligent conversations, both of which are hard to do, I suppose, if your only income is a $10 weekly allowance and your hormones are fogging your vocabulary skills. And once I finally got to college and later to grad school, it was and wasn't everything I thought it would be - growing up was a lot harder than I'd imagined - but I can say with certainty that those years were unequivocally the most intellectually enriching of my life, and I was pushed and pulled into shapes I didn't know I could make. Most of my closest friendships were forged in the fire of late nights philosophizing about the meaning of life over bottles of wine. My time at Bryn Mawr especially very much shaped me, even if the seeds planted while there didn't fully bloom until much later, and when I think of my alma mater, I always think of the view of Rhoads Beach from my senior dorm window, with the trees in their finest fall regalia, lit behind from the sun.
Autumn was in many respects the halcyon of my youth. And passing through the arbor of autumn leaves that surround me these days (a few shown above) reminds me of one of my favorite poems, one of the few I can (almost) recite from memory, because I read it at a French poetry reading contest held at the University - one of my first forays onto the campus not associated with my mother. I chose Verlaine's Chanson d'automne at the time because I loved the sound of it and the images it conveyed, both of which have stayed with me ever since:
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
There's a lot here that's lost in a literal translation, but you can find some versions here. The funny thing is that the poem is now a favorite for different, sadder reasons, namely that I am old enough now to understand what Verlaine was talking about. At 14, one has no old days to cry over, really. I think in some ways, the hardest part of being an adult is the monotony that can ensue once one chooses a career path and a hometown and is responsible for a mortgage and dealing with contractors. Whereas autumn used to mean new clothes and excitement, now it's just the leaves that change. I suppose this is different if one has school-aged children or if one is an academic by trade. But I find that where each period of my life used to be so clearly demarcated every year with the falling of the leaves, now the seasons and what I do from year to year is generally a big blur. I can tell you, for instance, where I was, when it was, and more or less what I did for every year I was in school; after that, it is hard to place any event in time. Sometimes I forget that the 1990s were now 20 years ago; half the time I can't remember how old I am. My grandparents tell me that this phenomenon only gets worse with age.
So now Chanson d'automne strikes a more haunting chord with me. Every fall reminds me of my dear friend Matthias, whom I met one Halloween and lost to leukemia three autumns later. He taught me everything I know about painting a house correctly, which he learned painting houses in Germany during summers spent visiting his father there, so when I say correctly, I really mean with a level of exacting precision bordering on obsession. He was an exceedingly patient teacher, which is why he succeeded in getting me to pay attention to the details (every single cotton-picking one of them) where so many others had failed. He would be mostly pleased with the work I've done on the addition to the house he helped me rip apart and put back together back in the beginning (although he'd have long ago fired the contractors), but he would be exasperated that I didn't dovetail the baseboard ends where they overlapped, and there are some spots on the ceiling that I should even out with a sanding sponge. He'd give me an A on the wiring and an F on the hookup to the rainbarrel on the roof, which is totally gerry-rigged and I should really paint the barrel brown so it blends in to the wall. I hear him chiding me in my head every time I try and do something half-assed, but I also hear him telling me to lighten the hell up over the whole thing and be patient that it will all get done eventually. He had a great sense of humor and adventure, and he really knew how to give adversity the finger. He made me jump swimming pool fences after midnight and go for motorcycle rides. In doing so, he taught me how to live in the moment and really appreciate the gifts life hands you. He also made a mean peach cobbler. He had zero tolerance for moping or self-pity, so I try to remember these things when I miss him, and how fall is also about Halloween (my favorite holiday), picking apples and pumpkins on farms out in the country, perfect hiking weather, and a great time to beachcomb shells at Assateague since the crowds and mosquitoes are finally gone. Fall will always be the most dramatic and beautiful, if also sentimental, season, whose soundtrack goes like this:
This is the tree that was given to me by the Alexandria Environmental Policy Commission and several City staff members as a thank you for helping develop the Eco-City Charter and Environmental Action Plan 2030. The Eco-City Alexandria effort has brought together people from every level of the community - from citizens of every age and income level wanting to learn more about the issues, to Virginia Tech professors, City Council members, and the dedicated members of the EPC - to put together a sort of environmental Magna Carta for our city, an effort that has already garnered major awards and is already making our city more sustainable. I don't know that my efforts truly deserve special attention, as I just happened to be the one holding the gavel during the meetings, so I jokingly think of that tree as my cat herding trophy. But the truth is that I poured my heart and soul and 2.5 years of my life into that effort (as did everyone else involved), and still believe that it will probably be the most positive thing I ever do. I am truly just happy that I got to be a part of the team. That tree actually means the world to me, both because it is the kindest and most unexpected gift I have ever received and because it came from a group of people i admire and respect immensely. As my friends and colleagues led me to this red oak with a red ribbon and gift card tied around it on the grounds of the school across from our house, I imagined it growing tall and providing shade for kids a hundred years after I am gone, and no thank you gift could be more fitting. Trees always represent life to me in all it's forms and cycles, even as they do now in fall, the most bittersweet season, when summer's last and most fiery sunset is burned into every leafy finger while the cold air whispers that winter is near. And they are the first harbinger of hope when their green buds poke out against the grey landscape to remind everyone that even the dead of winter has an end every spring. I'm probably happiest on summer days spent reading under shady canopies rustling in the breeze.
I walked by my tree seeking its solace today, a gloomy day for anyone who truly cares about the environment, but where gold and crimson leaves should be there are instead parched and barren branches. Every other tree managed to survive the drought but mine. It's really just too symbolic of the state of my heart right now, which feels like there is far too little compassion or love left in the world, and that trying to make the planet a kinder, gentler, happier place is essentially a sisyphean task. I mean honestly, what is so funny about peace, love, and understanding?
Oh, Apple, je t'aime. I have loved you since I was doing cutting-edge BASIC programming on the Apple II in my gifted class, circa 1980 (50 IF A$ "Yes" THEN GOTO 120; 120 PRINT "You are TOTALLY AWESOME", U$) . That was pretty shrewd marketing on your part, hooking me on your drugs at age 8. But I was willing; you were so cool. If it had been me buying the computer instead of my father, we would never have bothered with the two Trash-80s (although I think there is now a certain cache to having actually owned the one with the cassette tape drive), nor would we have thrown money down the drain with that Amiga 500, but you know, the old dudes were hooked in their youth on IBM.
Though largely a slave to the Macintosh side of the college computer lab, once free to spend my (parents') money on the computer of my choice (as opposed to the obligation I/my father had to replace my friend's half-typewriter/half-computer in Paris after my confusion as to whether or not it needed a 110-220 converter (it did) led to its immediate and fiery demise), I ran straight back into your loving arms my senior year of college. My trusty PowerBook Duo with docking station saw me through an 80 page thesis on how democracy and Islam were inherently compatible (as would surely play out in Algeria), preparation for oral philosophy exams (requiring relearning and regurgitation of 4 years of study), and then three years of law school.
But then, entry into the legal field required working with Word Perfect. And while I maintain, to this day, that WP is a vastly superior product to the crap Microsoft cobbled together in an extremely poor imitation thereof, the fact is that you and Corel never got along. And thus, I was finally required to cross over to the dark side of PCism. I'm so sorry, Apple, you know I didn't want to do it, but you made me. Had you been a less belligerent company regarding software, or not been so half-assed about allowing me to flip between operating systems, I never would have left you. Your ridiculous and spiteful ways regarding Microsoft have always left those of us who love you unable to work with you. And now you're doing it with Google, too, you idiots. J'accuse, Apple!
Still, I cannot escape my addiction to you. The fact is, you are the most beautiful thing with two USB ports. (Who needs 3, really?) Growing up with a modern architect who insisted on all white walls and no knick knacks, of course I love your minimalist design. In short, I was born to love you, 15" Macbook Pro, with your beautiful (recycled!) aluminum unibody and glass construction, the magical Multi-Touch Trackpad, backlit keyboard with ergonomic keys, brilliant HD display, and high-end graphics card. And you are Energy Star rated, with an 8-hour battery life (if I'm not running anything). I really, really, really want you.
And the truth is, I have, with the advent of the new laptop system at work, been freed from my absolute need to have a PC at home. And even though our new laptop system came with a new tech system that no longer supports Lotus Notes on Macs, the truth is that I have this old Acer here that I can use if for some reason I'm working from home and didn't lug home that 10 lb piece of crap Dell laptop the USG provided me. And to be honest, I don't know which I hated more - the old HP I had (which was produced under Carly Fiorina's tenure there and does nothing to inspire any confidence whatsoever in her ability to produce a useful, working product, much less state government), or the Acer I now have. Why Acer felt the need to partition my 80 GB hard drive into two unmergeable 40 GB drives, thus leaving me insufficient memory to run anything, is beyond me. People say, "d, d, whenever WILL you put up the pictures of [the house/the trip/your really cute kitty]" and I have to reply, "Well, I've been trying to upload them for 17 days now and I'm still only halfway there!!" And then there is the whole nightmare of trying to run Adobe Photoshop when your computer is essentially powered by a really tired, old, fat hamster. I'm so tired of the random BSOD periods that are apparently related to the graphics card that has never properly worked, which take over my computer for entire days at a time and then disappear as if there's no problem at all. I'd like to be able to run my iPhone on my own computer (instead of my spouse's) for a change, since there isn't enough room for Windows, Word, Photoshop, and iTunes on this doorstop-cum-laptop. Not that I don't appreciate my spouse's generosity, but I'm tired of the eyerolls I get when I ask him to download my favorite ELO or No Doubt CD, and I'd rather just cut off his ability to sneak in the entire Morrissey catalogue in the (vain) hope that I will learn to worship The Moz. Of course, if I turn back into your cold embrace, Apple, I know that I'll have to fend off his theft of you, just like when he railed against you for years but then promptly stole my 2Gen iPod.
So, I'm ready, Apple. I'm ready, but it's the extra $800 I'd have to spend to own you that has come between us. I've priced the Runner Up (the Vaio), Miss Congeniality (the new Samsung), and the Ugly Duckling (ThinkPad), and in order to get what I am told I should probably have for what I want to do (mostly photo work, running my iPhone, working from home once in awhile, and maybe some Garage Band action): 8GB RAM, 500 GB hard drive, i5 processor, 15" HD non-glare screen, and MS Office, everyone else is considerably less than you. No, they aren't made from recycled materials, no they aren't as pretty, their batteries are shite, they aren't as energy-efficient, they don't run as well, and they don't have your magic Multi-Touch, and I know these soft variables do have value but they are so hard to quantify, especially when you're still trying to pay your contractor to finish your house. It's just that I'm not sure your extras add up, especially since I'm still going to have to go track down some student or teacher willing to buy me a copy of Photoshop CS5 Extended and then I'm going to have to come up with tuition money to figure out how to use it.
I know, I know, you're reminding me of my earlier post about buying cheap crap and asking me to put my money where my consumer and aesthetic moral mouth is. But really, are you even worth the extra money or are you just trying to gouge me the way you always do, you evil, heartless computer pusher? You are the Ligne Roset of computers. But still...you'd look soooooo good on my desk.
After saving up a year's worth of vacation (and home improvement injuries to body and soul), I have finally taken a real vacation - three whole weeks off! (You'll never see an American strike over having to work a few extra years, good little drones that we are!) This long absence is in part why there has been no news on the home front; in solidarity with the French, who I can't help but love for being one of the last populations willing to hold its entire society hostage to fight for a culture of leisure, and also with the perhaps more noble and certainly more justified textile workers of the 1900s whose protests are immortalized in poem and my Bryn Mawr class song, I have gone on strike. My life shall not be sweated from birth until life closes - give me bread, but give me roses!!
And so, even though I've been home a month now, I'm still (mostly) on home improvement strike and instead of amusing you with my latest construction calamity, I am taking you, fair reader(s?), on a tour of my new favorite U.S. city - Portland, Oregon - also known as The City of Roses, and home to amazing food, excellent beer, stellar design, sustainable living, and, most importantly, the company of near and dear friends. There is also, apparently, a stubborn libertarian nudist streak (we saw bumper stickers lauding the joys of naked hiking, jogging, and biking in our few days there), which only adds to its charm from a visitor's perspective. In short, despite the weather, I would put Portland ahead of even New Orleans as what America can be when we take the best of what the world has come up with and make it uniquely ours.
In many respects, Portland shares a similar feel to DC - it is based on the confluence of the Willamette (Will-AH-mette, by the way) and Columbia Rivers, upstream of the Pacific Ocean by a couple of hours. Portland proper has about 500,000 residents, but the greater area is about 2.2 million people, which is a lot bigger than I had thought. The city itself is superbly planned, with incredible public transit (free to all in the main 3-mile downtown area, and each rail car and bus equipped with bike hooks/racks) and bike lanes everywhere (I give the Portlanders extra kudos for biking in all that rain). There is not only recycling but also city-wide composting. Portland is the U.S.' most sustainable city and one of the top 10 in the world (some say #1, some say #2, but to be totally fair, I think Freiburg, Germany has been wrongly dismissed in the lists - not only can you basically not have a car in certain neighborhoods, but not even Portland has laws limiting how much heat can leak from your house). Green space abounds throughout the city, with Forest Park, the largest wilderness city park in the U.S., covering 5,000 acres, and the lovely Washington Park, perched on a hill overlooking the city and home to the International Rose Test Garden. Apparently all that rain makes for good rose growing. I agree:
Can't you just smell these? White roses have been my lifelong favorite, although after seeing the beauty and smelling the most perfectly delicate perfume - an almost half rose/half lavender scent - of the pale purply-pink ones below, I think there is at least a tie. There were so many unique and interesting specimens, it was hard to pick a favorite.
In addition to the amazing Test Garden, there is also the most lovely Chinese garden I have ever come across, the Lan Su Chinese Garden right in the middle of downtown. I am a huge fan of Japanese gardens and had never really seen a formal Chinese garden, but there are lots of similarities:
In general, P-town has a pretty funky artsy industrial feel to the place, and they've done a lot to revive old warehouses. Everywhere you go, there seems to be either cool art and/or great design.
Portland also has an incredible music scene whose sound seems to match the weather. If i'd included a soundtrack to this post, it would feature The Shins, The Decemberists, Blitzen Trapper, and my very beloved M. Ward. Also, keep your eyes open for the debut of Aquavit! Our friend's band practice space is perhaps the coolest one ever, housed in a former industrial warehouse and complete with center stage free for any of the bands to use for concerts, and guitar strings in the vending machine:
Then there's the food and the beer. Portland has nearly 30 microbreweries, the best pinot noir in the country, and generally has fabulous food everywhere. Best of all were the prices, which were usually the equivalent of taco night in Alexandria, no matter how nice the place. (This might have something to do with Portland's 25% unemployment rate.) The city also has a burgeoning foodcart scene, complete with every kind of food you can think of, even if it wasn't one you thought of actually eating:
But the pies at this place looked pretty awesome:
They even best DC with having one of a handful of US Teuscher chocolate boutiques (one of my desert island foods is a Teuscher champagne truffle)...
But as usual, they were closed at an absurdly early hour (i have a growing collection of photos of closed Teuscher stores). I guess the Swiss keep Bahnhofstrasse operating hours, no matter where in the world they are.
If you're into Asian food & architecture and keep late hours, Biwa is a dream come true. Kobe beef sliders with sake and seaweed salad at 11pm. It's also housed in some sort of architecture school, so even the bathrooms are uber cool.
While technically outside of Portland, I also have to say that the best wood-fired pizza I have ever had was at Solstice Wood Fire Cafe in Bingen, WA. You may not have thought blackberries, mascarpone, and prosciutto belonged on pizza, but you would be oh so very wrong.
There was also quite the taco scene, much to the delight of my spouse, who is planning to apply for the Head Lab Researcher/Taste Tester position here. If he gets it, I expect we'll become a bi-coastal couple:
And then, there is Broder, home to the best bloody mary on the planet, made with fine Danish aquavit and homemade pickled vegetables instead of a celery stick. I asked for the recipe, but given their total silence, I'd say it's a trade secret.
Although perhaps my favorite meal of all was the lovely breakfast our friends made for us at their beautiful bungalow apartment in Irvington, complete with home-grown tomatoes:
As well as being a great city, Portland is surrounded by natural beauty, including the Columbia Gorge, where the two rivers cleave the Cascade mountains into a swath of cliffs and waterfalls, and which was one of the last stops for Lewis and Clark in their nearly 3 year ordeal/exploration of the United States. Multnomah Falls, the most famous of the string of waterfalls along the Gorge, is the second highest in the U.S. at 620'.
Bridal Veil Falls is another really famous fall in the Gorge:
But the clear favorite was Latourelle Falls, whose scale and colors defy explanation.
What is amazing is the scale - here is a shot with the guys waving from behind the falls (the two red dots):
After I returned to work, I was walking down a hall in a distant part of the building, and passed a framed poster for National Public Lands Day that has probably hung on the wall since the 1990s, and suddenly realized that it was almost this very shot.
Sadly, four days in Portland just isn't nearly enough time to take it all in. As it is, we missed Pine State Biscuits by 30 minutes. But that's okay; aside from the best reason to visit (two of our favorite people on the planet), it's always good to save something for the next time.
(Stay tuned for Part 2 of our Western Exploration, where we hit the San Juan Islands, the Olympic National Park, and Whistler, Canada. As soon as I sort through the 700 photos, I'll get a few up on the blog.)
