Campin'

Warning: Inside jokes ahead. They're probably only funny when box wine is involved, and maybe not even then. But who would know?

CAMPIN'
A Jujubes for Jesus™ How-To Guide

First, find an open road. Put them car wheels on it.

A possibly stolen talisman is essential for highway safety. Give it a common name to avoid suspicion.


Take your time. Enjoy the scenery, sample the bounty of the roadside stands.


When you reach your destination, spend a while appreciating nature's burbling.


Let your mind become peaceful, and your body numb.


Become one with the trees.




Stop and say hello to your many-legged friends.




Do not stray from the clearly marked trail.

Record your greatest hits album. Having prior hits is not required.

Stroll on back to your campsite. Play a little tune, light a little fire.

[Musical Interlude]

Wake up slightly worse for wear. Ask yourself what happened.

Consult the Semiotician to the Stars for answers. She'll want to confirm that you brought along all the outdoor essentials:

remote-controlled latern . . . check.

plastic mallet . . . check.

pedicure . . . check.

the naughty . . . check.

Decide not to sweat it. Observe your fellow campers at rest.

the tent mahal

it's for his own good

Turn and see the woodland creatures scatter. Consider the carnage.


Finally, remember this: If it starts with Franzia, it ends with smiles. Or something like them.

And if the good lord doesn't smite you down soon, the neighbors will.

kathmandon't, b.w. slim, h. mcgraw, a.m. johnson, the fiddler, ladyboy, magic hands.
not pictured: penelope.

Leave the woods as pristine and unscathed as you found them.

Half of China

The epic post-vacation photo project marches onward.

And so do I, to Big Sur. First camping trip of the year! Bringing my woolies and a warm hat.

Please enjoy some pictures while I'm away:

China (1) The 798
China (2) The Forbidden City
China (3) The Great Wall

Two unexpectedly fantastic things

Forever Stamps
Let's play a game. The one where I'm no longer 28, but magically 90. Ready?

I remember when pay phones cost a dime and stamps cost 20 cents. Not postcard stamps, real stamps. Only a handful of pennies to mail a handwritten letter or a nice birthday card to anyone all over our fine country.

But since my childhood ended and Norman Rockwell moved away, they've been jacking up the price every other month, and suddenly stamps are 41 cents! Ridiculous.

Except for this saving grace: the Forever stamp. Whether you ignore its stupid name or write it all over your Trapper Keeper, you have to admit these expiration-free stamps are the best idea America has ever stolen.

(Thanks, England! And 29 other countries.)

Tilex® Mold & Mildew Remover
OK, in this part of the game, I'm Donna Reed. You can be her doctor husband or the family dog, whatever you're into.

I love my apartment more than most things, but the shower is a serious drag to clean. Not that any shower is fun to clean, but some are easier than others, and this particular shower has an evil brand of tile with a stubborn soapscum/mildew fetish. It just can't get enough.

Until now! After trying quite possibly every brand of tile cleaner available in California, from the most organic to the most chemical-infested, I finally found The One that works: Tilex Mold & Mildew Remover.

Spray it on, give it some privacy for about 15 minutes, then come back and rinse. No scrubbing, no ruined nails, no coughing fits from all those gnarly chemicals.

Don't get me wrong: Tilex is chock full of ingredients people were never meant to inhale. But you don't have to touch them, and that's beautiful. So is my sparkly, sparkly shower.

That "new magazine" smell

Canteen is here! We had launch parties on both coasts to celebrate.

Here's what we looked like at the beginning of the San Francisco event, all frayed nerves and cautious grins:

© Susan Walther

And here we are four hours, 200 guests, countless cheek kisses, several reporters, and one Miranda July later:

no idea who took this picture

For the record, that's a bottle of mineral water. We're just happy because of all those empty boxes—we sold out of copies.

Let us now praise traveling women

In a jetlagged haze, sitting on the runway for two hours at JFK yesterday, I gave a mental salute to my friend Amy. She'd taken off from the Philly airport earlier in the afternoon for her Next Big Move: Buenos Aires.

I remembered how it felt lifting off from Boston to Paris, about this same time three years ago. Preparing for it is irrelevant, no matter how well or how much you think you have. The magnitude only hits when you're in the plane: a cocktail of ecstasy and fear, served neat.

I remembered that I meant to write this post two weeks ago, when Amy and Catherine and I had dinner in the Mission. These two are my travel ladies, the ones who get it.

They met years ago just after Catherine returned from her round-the-world trip, while Amy was planning hers. I worked with Amy at Avalon, where we put in long cubicle hours while patiently plotting international moves. Catherine and I first joined forces in Paris, when she passed through my apartment for an all-too-brief cheese coma on her way to Italy.

When we met this time, Catherine had flown in the night before from Jazzfest in New Orleans. I was recovering from Kyoto and Beijing, gearing up for New York. Amy was passing through for goodbyes in Maine, Oregon, and California while packing for Argentina.

Unquestionably, we are women on the move. Nostalgic for what's passed, giddy for what's coming up.

We counted countries—30 between us so far, with only four overlaps—and were sorely disappointed at the total. So much left to do!

Wanderlust and wine go well together, even better with friends who already have more stories than we could tell each other in a lifetime. And it's not like we're getting close to done.

Hey Amy, the next story is all yours. Here's to safe travels, gentle transitions, and the unmatchable high of not knowing what happens next—except that we'll be coming to visit.

Japan highlights

Happy to report that all my Japan photos are up now, courtesy of the BCS.

But in case you're not in the mood for long posts, here are my 10 favorites. No particular order, no explanations, just some pretty pictures.

Meet the BCS

It's still a work in progress, but I'm pleased to introduce the BCB's shiny new companion photo blog:

The Business Casual Shutterbug

Please stop by to see my first few sets of pictures from Japan.

Kind time and light space

I'm proud to say that not only did I live out two complete Saturdays this weekend—one in Beijing and a Boeing 747, one in Oakland—but I also made it through two weeks of blogging without touching on the two essential stereotypes about traveling in Japan and China.

You can blame it on jet lag or whatever, but it's time to break that healthy trend. Ahem.

1. JAPANGLISH IS REALLY FUNNY.
Yes. Yes, it is. May it please the court:

It proposes the more comfortable environment.
From you, it sends to the world.

—Window ad, Midori electronics store

Pleasant Dining Bar
Kind Time and Light Space

—On the door of a restaurant

SELFISH and Snob Envamp
—Appropriate names for two pricey boutiques

Petfeeling Mink
—I really hope this place was a pet store

"LADY,S"
—This way to the women's restroom

And let's not forget the car names:

Suzuki Every
Honda That's
Daihatsu Move
Nissan Cube

But the funnier part is that all four cars are shaped like little toasters (for full-size toasters sold in the U.S., see Element and Scion).

2. CHINA IS REALLY CHEAP.
Like, crazy cheap. Let's do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

One-way subway ride
Beijing: $0.35 (all distances)
SF/Oakland: $1.40–6.15 (depends on distance)

Cab ride to airport (approx. 45 minutes, with tolls)
Beijing: $11
SF/Oakland: $65

Bottle of spring water
Beijing: $0.25
SF/Oakland: $1 and up

Sapphire & tonic at a hipster bar
Beijing: $4
SF/Oakland: $7

Cute li'l handbag (new, not thrift store or vintage)
Beijing: $8
SF/Oakland: $25 and up

60-minute deep-tissue massage
Beijing: $7 (no, that's not a typo)
SF/Oakland: $60 and up

Dinner for two (with wine and dessert)
Beijing: $20
SF/Oakland: $50, if you're savvy or lucky

Tipping
Beijing: You don't.
SF/Oakland: 15–20%, more if you used to wait tables or you're trying to impress your date

Monthly rent for a 2BR apartment in a midrange neighborhood
Beijing: $300–500
SF/Oakland: $1,500–2,500

But I'd be remiss not to include one final stat for perspective:

Average monthly per-capita income in 2006
Beijing: $227
SF/Oakland: $4,106

There you have it.

Next up: Photos! Will start posting just as soon as I get my scanning hand back in shape after an excellent long vacation.

Tea city

The best day I spent in Beijing was the most off the beaten path. Not surprising, but worth a tale.

It may be because guidebooks cover it sparingly—Frommer's gives a nice description, but no subway or bus directions—but we didn't see any other tourists during our visit to Malian Dao. This wide street stretches longer than a country mile, and every single store along it sells tea. Just tea. Nothing else, not even (as we discovered) lunch.

Several multistory tea emporiums tower over the family shops. They're not knocking out the little guys, though—they're filled with small divided stalls, market-style. We started at Cha Cheng, or Tea City. A whole city of tea! You can imagine how I felt about that.

Almost everyone I met in Beijing was unfailingly kind, and the tea merchants were no exception. The first young woman sat us down for an hour, offering tastes of half a dozen teas and explaining the countless rituals that go into serving and drinking them.*

She also proudly showed us photos of her beautiful mountain hometown in southern China, where the finest white teas are grown. We tasted and bought a white tea delivered fresh that morning, with a deliciously musky, grassy flavor.

It's hard to describe the elegance of her perpetual movements, but I'll try.

She kept a kettle of hot water at a constant boil on an electric burner set low to the ground, using it to fill a smaller pot on the raised tea tray. This clay (I'm guessing) surface had a shallow moat around its edge, an open middle, and a fleet of miniature clay animals set to one side.

Before serving each tea, she rinsed out the tiny cups twice with hot water from the smaller pot, lifting each cup delicately with wooden tongs. Then she filled yet another small pot with leaves—clay for white tea, porcelain for green and pu'er (strong black tea that grows more valuable and fragrant with age)—and added hot water.

The first steep isn't for drinking; she used it to rinse out the cups again. The second steep has a richer color and flavor, both deepening with each subsequent steep. Different teas have different steeping limits: One rose-petal tea we tasted can be steeped six times, while a particular green should be steeped only four or five.

She kept steeping and pouring out tiny shots of each type until the serving pot was tapped, then poured the extra tea water from the pot and our cups over the heads of the clay animals. The water ran into the moat and down into a bucket tucked discreetly under the table.

A woman we met later—the owner of a café in the 798 district—explained that she treats the tea animals like real pets, or even children. "You can raise one of these for 10 years, and it will grow more valuable over time," she said. The clay also changes color as it seasons, so anyone with a practiced eye can assess its worth at a glance.

We only stopped at three stalls all afternoon, because each merchant spent at least an hour with us. Everyone working in the shop—cousins, aunts and uncles, childhood friends—sat down and tasted with us, while telling stories about each tea and the history of tea (or calligraphy or jade or antiques). There was never a hint of pressure to buy from any of them.

It felt like visiting family, down to the last semi-awkward moment where we had to politely excuse ourselves before I floated away or began twitching from overcaffeination.

"I was about to offer you a special black tea," the merchant explained, one grown near the most exclusive tea trees in China. There are only seven, and they produce just six liang (about 50g each) of tea per year. Only emperors and prime ministers get to drink this tea, and he had the next best thing.

"But it's fine," the merchant said with a quiet smile. "This tea is always here for you when you come back."

* Big kudos and thanks to Stacey for his intrepid translation during this trip and the rest of my stay. I would never have spoken with so many locals, if any, on my own. Meeting them was easily the high point of experiencing Beijing.

Scaling the walls

Inside: The Forbidden City
They're not kidding about Tian'an Men Square. It's wicked big. That portrait of Mao over the entrance? Big. The Forbidden City? Big, big, big. But only from the outside—or so it seemed.

For some reason, walking the length of the Forbidden City (hereafter the FC) didn't take me that long. Spend hours there, say the guidebooks, but they must have a higher tolerance for small historical displays in Chinese than I do. After a few explanations of concubines and armor, I'm set.

I was there for the buildings, the passageways, and the massive walls. Burned through film in the Imperial Garden—beautifully sculpted and ready for its closeup—but otherwise the FC looks like a series of large, mostly empty courtyards paved with broken stone. A near overdose of grey.

Yes, it's palpably old, and the scale is impressive in the same way as St. Peter's: Even when there are several thousand other people within eyesight, it doesn't feel crowded. You'll have welcome moments alone with the age and significance of the place. As a historian's kid, I do appreciate that.

But it only took 15 minutes to stroll from the Imperial Garden (at the far end of the innermost courtyard) back to the main entrance. Respectfully tipping my hat to any ancient weapons and ladies-in-waiting I may have missed along the way.

On Top: The Great Wall
Lest you think I've succumbed to Grumpy Traveler Syndrome (and maybe I have, just a little bit—went a few extra subway stops to find a Starbucks this morning), let me sing the praises of the Great Wall.

Even with the choppy two-hour bus ride, hordes of other tourists, strange Wagnerian soundtrack blasting from strategically placed outdoor speakers, and postcard hawkers up in your face every hundred yards . . . the Great Wall is awesome.

It takes your breath away, then gives it back in the form of clean, delicious mountain air that your tired lungs lap up like nectar after the smog of downtown Beijing. The views are magical. The angles are dizzyingly steep, so you get a killer workout while you gawk at the sheer length and size of this world-famous thing your feet are touching.

If I had to pick just one "Holy crap, I'm in Asia" moment from the last two weeks, walking the Great Wall would be it.

In Between: Hutongs
Trying to follow a well-meaning but misguided walking tour from Frommer's Beijing today, I got pleasantly lost in the hutongs.

These crumbling alleys used to be all over the city, but many have been razed to make room for giant shopping malls and apartment buildings (including the one where I'm staying). The remaining hutong neighborhoods in this section of Beijing have a quiet, workaday feel I never expected to find right next to the congested ring roads.

My other surprise of the day was a series of pretty lakes, with groups of men and their fishing poles lining the banks. Some were in business suits, just escaped from the office; some sunburned and wizened after spending all day tending their lines. It looked like the city had grown up around them.

The lakes are tucked just off the main drag near Jishuitan Bridge and the Second Ring Road, separated from urban madness by a stone's throw and the low, narrow walls of the hutongs.

The 798

Beijing is refined chaos. I'm never sure what I'll find next.

Stacey, my old friend and host for the week, lives in a sort of hipster industrial zone, full of clothing and music shops, food stands, construction, and people. It's gritty compared with Kyoto—and even with Oakland—but it has a cheerful and relaxed personality that's a pleasure to soak up.

Yesterday, we went gallery-hopping. Stacey is the art editor for TimeOut Beijing, so he spends quality time in the Dashanzi district, also known as the 798. It's a sleek neighborhood with clean, minimalist architecture and a serious concentration of small, colorful art spaces.

I've never experienced as vibrant an art scene firsthand in any U.S. or European city. There were at least four or five openings happening at once within a few blocks of each other, all crowded, showcasing new and established Chinese artists. Their work ranged from a little weird to truly disturbing, but it was all worth checking out.

The final show of the day was the finest—a shy, sweet 28-year-old named Jia Aili. He's a small-town kid who just finished art school, but his paintings reach out and expand your mind. I didn't like all the pieces, but they were mature and moving in a way that was impossible to disregard. Crossing my fingers that he gets noticed.

Way on the other side of the spectrum, I spent today in the Forbidden City. But that deserves its own post and it's getting to be dinnertime, so please accept a raincheck.

Sakura revisited

Hard to believe as I sit here immersed in the bustle of Beijing, but I really was in Japan a few days ago. So were the cherry blossoms.

© Ann Pemberton

© Mia Lipman

© Ann Pemberton

Thanks to Ann and her digital habit for giving you this quick glimpse while my photos are still tucked away in undeveloped rolls.

Demons and gangsters

Join me as we travel back in time . . . way, way back . . . to Wednesday.

Iwakura, the suburb where Dad and Ann live, has a little local rail system they've dubbed the "toodle train." It runs from Mt. Hiei to Kurama Onsen (hot springs that feed into public baths) on the other, with the Iwakura stop just about in the middle. This route makes for a great outdoors day, even a greyish misty one.

We headed up the mountain first, leaving the cityscape behind after only a few stops. At the end of the line, we switched to a sturdy cable car that took us almost to the top, then a precarious rope cable car covered the last leg. We shared it with a cheery Irishman who was traveling alone and wanted to chat, so we adopted him for the morning.

Our band of four hardly saw anyone else during the hour we spent walking to the Enryakuji complex, founded in the 8th century by a group of warrior monks (warrior monks?) who soon numbered in the thousands.

At some point, there were 3,000 separate temples on the mountaintop. Only 200 or so remain—but hey, still a lot of temples. We narrowed in on a few, including one with two oil lamps that have been burning continuously for 1,200 years.

The views were incredible. Kyoto is laid out like a horseshoe open to the south, giving it ideal feng shui. Tradition says that demons always attack from the northeast, so temple complexes like Enryakuji are built high in the mountains to fend them off.

Makes sense to me. May as well stick it to them before they swoop into the valley to steal my mochi. Or my soul, I guess, but seems like they might want dessert after the long trip.

In the afternoon, we took the cable cars and trains all the way back down, then up again into the facing hills for a dip in the baths. With cinematic timing, it began pouring just as we arrived.

Project yourself into any Japanese scroll you've ever seen: Sitting in a pool of steaming mineral water with a closeup view of a lush mountainside, listening to the rain.

As we were leaving, Ann pointed out the attendant who came in to tidy up the changing room. "It's a good thing we're already dressed," she said.

Apparently, to keep out gangsters and other rabble from the onsen, they forbid anyone with tattoos to bathe there. I figured they'd probably have made an exception for a young female gaijin, but as I learned yesterday, rules are rules around here.

Another lucky break. But have to admit I'm a little disappointed—it's the only time in my life I'll even come close to being mistaken for a gangster. Would've made for mad street cred (at least in these parts) and a hell of a story for the grandkids.

Oh well. Leaving for Beijing first thing tomorrow, maybe I can get into some trouble there.

Sumimasen

Today was a day of cultural learning.

In other words, I made some mistakes. But they were funny, or at least I thought they were, and there isn't much a "Sumimasen" can't fix.

This handy word means "pardon me" (may I get by?), "pardon me" (for the grevious offense of handing you money for this purchase), "pardon me" (for the grevious offense of accepting your money), "please," "I'm sorry," "you're welcome," and some variation on "hello" and "goodbye."

I've witnessed entire conversations consisting only of "Sumimasen" repeated endlessly in different tones. If one sumimasen doesn't work, try a dozen.

Please benefit from my clumsiness by taking note of these tips on getting by as a gaijin in Kyoto. Like the garden display we saw at Ginkakuji labeled Very Important Moss (VIM), these are Very Important Lessons (VIL).

1. Do not write anything down with a pen in a museum.
When visiting the Kyoto National Museum of Modern Art, you will be handed a list of all the paintings you're about to view. If you're the note-taking type, you're likely to pull out a pen and start writing things down on the list about the paintings you like.

Soon, you'll become aware of the eyes. The watching eyes. The eyes of the lady gallery guards.

As you stand contemplating one of the works, try not to jump out of your skin when the guard on duty—motionless just moments before—leaps from her chair and points frantically at your pen. "Pen!" she'll exclaim, followed by a stream of Japanese.

Thinking she wants to borrow your pen, offer it to her. She will vehemently refuse. "Wait! A minute. Here," she'll say, then sprint across the gallery at Olympic speed.

Soon, the guard will return, with pleading eyes. She will offer you a pencil. Accept the pencil. Discreetly tuck your pen away and pretend it never existed.

Assure the guard that you will return the pencil to the front desk at the conclusion of your visit, because you're pretty sure that's what all the gesturing means. Say, "Sumimasen." Say it again. Smile. Nod. Bow. Smile. Nod. Bow.

Note that you are the only person in the gallery at this time, and all the paintings are behind glass.

2. Do not go out the In door.
There is an In door, and there is an Out door. They are not the same door. The friendly attendant at the information desk will direct you—manually, if needed—toward the appropriate door. Say, "Sumimasen." Nod. Smile. Laugh self-deprecatingly. Exit through the Out door.

3. There's something very important printed on the bottom of that mochi.
Don't be fooled by the fact that the mochi you wish to buy is wrapped in plastic, sealed, and sitting on the same plate as all the other mochi. Don't be fooled just because there's a sign in front of the plate that says Y105.

When the saleswoman turns the mochi over, points to something on the printed tag, asks several rapid-fire questions you don't understand, then waits expectantly for your answers—say, "Sumimasen." Nod. Smile. Repeat until she shrugs and rings up the purchase, which comes to Y105.

She will then release your mochi. Unwrap and enjoy.

Ancient-school moves

Just read about the madness over at Virginia Tech. Taking a moment to be saddened and disillusioned by it.

Unfairly—in the grand scheme of things—it's gentle and peaceful in Kyoto. Cars honk so seldom that it's startling when they do. I ran around a small park near the house this morning, and two teenage paddle-tennis players silently paused their game and stepped aside to let me pass on every lap. A city of unobtrusive navigation.

Yesterday, we visited Nijojo Castle, with its elaborate front gate and nightingale floors. The interior rooms looked older than they are, and the wall paintings seemed crude and bold in a country known for delicate art.

Afterward, we stopped by fantastic Morita Washi to stock up on Japanese paper, then wandered through the endless shopping arcades—block after block of underground market stalls selling anything edible, useful, and useless you can imagine. Let's just say that Dollar Tree has nothin' on the 100-yen store.

We spent most of today on the Path of Philosophy, a beautiful three-mile walk along a narrow canal lined with cherry and maple trees.

Along the way, we stopped to explore the elegantly sculpted garden at Ginkakuji and a few of the Buddhist temples at Nanzenji.

This was all by way of reaching Maruyama Park, which leads to the Gion neighborhood and its celebrated teahouses. Every April, apprentice geisha perform seasonal dances (known as Miyako Odori) for the public, and we managed to score a few seats on one of the balcony tatami mats for an afternoon show.

The dancers were graceful and charming, and the older geisha lining the stage had crazy shamisen skills and deep, haunting voices—but I was mostly blown away by the sets. Colorful and elaborate, they were changed entirely every 10 minutes or so by some manual sleight of hand performed backstage.

Take that, Hollywood. I'd bet a Kyoto stage crew against your CGI budget anytime.

Sea legs

I love airports. I don't love planes, but I do love being early for them. It forces a stretch of open, unscheduled time.

What to do with it? Sit, read, drink water, call your grandma, listen to the cacophony of languages bouncing off the walls. Wander through duty-free and talk yourself out of that Clinique travel pack, because it's a stupid thing to carry around for two weeks. Be wise, save your money for cool Asian stuff.

The flight was long and painless. Three movies, The New Yorker, Vogue, a couple of novels, minimal chitchat with my neighbor. A glimpse of sleep. Then, during the golden hour and a light spring rain, an unusually long shuttle ride. 20 hours door to door, all told.

But where did Sunday go? Is it out in the ether somewhere? You had one, I didn't. Some people think God and man and love are the great mysteries of the universe, but I think it's time zones.

We took a stroll around Dad and Ann's neighborhood this morning. It looks and feels like a compact English suburb, with much smaller people walking pocket-size dogs. Everyone is engaged in constant conversational and physical ritual.

About one person out of 10 wears a surgical mask on the street. Why?, I asked. Because they're sick, and don't want to make anyone else sick. Logical and civilized, if a bit Orwellian. Dad talks about the non-Fascist regimen of daily life in Japan—carefully and consciously executed, but not dictated. Behavior is entirely ingrained.

This afternoon, we'll see a castle, a temple, and some lovely trees.

The day after and the day before

Too tired to think straight after a red-letter week:

We finally sent Canteen to print, complete with 11th-hour printer drama and a flurry of correspondence. But it's the prettiest magazine you'll ever see, I swear. Especially the green.

And I'm getting on a plane to Kyoto tomorrow. Cross your fingers for clear skies, plus a few brave cherry blossoms hanging on long enough to star in some photos.

Two of the best feelings I've ever known: 1) Seeing the tangible, substantive results of what used to be only an idea. 2) Landing in a wholly new place.

Both those experiences inside seven days can only be called a coup.

Now it's time for this lucky girl to sleep.

The lives of others

A divided country, a handsome woman, a beautiful man, the secret police, subversive elements, malleable witnesses, powerful mustaches, stairwell intrigue, a prolonged dedication, an unexpected reversal of sympathy, and a whiteboard discussion of typewriter fonts.

Find a theater where it's still playing, and please go see this film.

Mad geekery

If you've ever talked to me for than a few minutes, you probably get that I'm a word person. Now I have a collection of shirts that tells total strangers the same thing. Here's the latest:

i'm a noun!

I'm in love with it. Would it be really gross if I wore it every day for a while? Maybe just as jammies?

Sorry for all the backward photos, by the way—my only digital camera lives in my MacBook screen, so perspective is limited. But hey, all the better for dressing up my desk chair in different outfits when I get home. Every girl needs a hobby.

Also I haven't evolved to the stage of narcissism where I post closeups of my chest all over the Internet. Sorry. Luckily, my chair has some convenient phantom breasts:

good grammar costs nothing!

This one gets extra credit for cleverness:

bad grammar makes me [sic]

Because nothing says humor like a little editorial Latin.

This next shirt started it all, and it's so good I had to get it twice:

reading is sexy

Also—let's be honest—I can't wear yellow. The chair looks cute in it, though. I look much less like I have jaundice in this version:

reading? still sexy.

Are there more? Perhaps. But I'd guess you're a little scared by now, maybe even deleting your bookmark to this blog or writing a long list of things I could do to fill my time better, like chopping up my credit card and never shopping online again.

That's cool, I'm OK with your constructive criticism. I'm a noun!

Drinking my words

Enough with all this tedious chitchat about work. Let's talk tea.

Growing up with an English mum, I've always lived with a full tea cabinet. But unlike most Brits, our mom—or "Ma," as we call her, with that long American a—drinks it weak and plain, without milk or sugar.

My earliest kitchen memory is learning how to make a cup for mom: Pour the boiling water, dunk the Lipton teabag about three or four times, toss the bag, add some cold water. As you might imagine, this horrifies all our Yorkshire kin. That's not tea.

But much like my mom's fondness for Rene Junot (terrible white plonk that she thankfully doesn't buy anymore) shaped my early perception of wine, this light-brown liquid always meant "tea." I wouldn't touch it.

My stubborn refusal lasted until college. The first day of freshman year, I made a fantastic friend named Kate. She tried fruitlessly to woo me to the tea side for months, giving me boxes of tea and sprinkling tea all over birthday presents, etc. A valiant effort, and I still love her for it. But it didn't work.

Sophomore year, I was chained to my desk during finals. I'd figured out how to avoid tests by writing endless essays, all due at once. I kept a running page tally on my door. It pretty much turned me into a lunatic for two weeks each semester. Friends knew to stay away when they heard snarling inside.

Then my buddy and hallmate Kipp managed to find himself an Earth Mother girlfriend who didn't know any of us that well. She floated by sometimes and said hi, but she's the last person I expected to knock on my door when I hit page 70 or so and my last few brain cells.

"Here," she said, handing me a steaming mug. "You need this." Best thing I'd ever tasted.

She was so right, and Kate was so right, and I was so wrong. Almost every day begins and ends with tea now. I even leave the empty mugs all over the house, just like mom (but I still won't touch Lipton—there are limits).

Put on the kettle, luv, and we'll 'ave a nice cuppa.

Frog gigging

Just when you think you have a decent vocabulary, along comes a niche hobby you know absolutely nothing about—but millions of other people do, and they have their own language.

Copyeditors traditionally make a style sheet for each project we handle. We turn it in with the edited files to let our clients know we don't just gloss over any words we don't recognize. Like good corporate citizens (and obsessive word freaks), we look them all up and list them neatly.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world of RVing, courtesy of Moon Florida Camping.

adventurist (n)
aquacize (n)
Biketoberfest
bonsai-like (adj)
bunco (n)
camo (n)
cathole (n)
chautauqua (n)
chickee hut (n)
Choctawhatchee beach mouse (n)
cobblestoned (adj)
Coggins test (n)
Disneyesque (adj)
eco-tour (n)
fifth-wheel (n)
first-magnitude (adj)
Flagler, Henry
frog gigging (n)
Good Sam Club
gorp (n)
inflatables (n)
honeywagon service (n)
houseboating (n)
junebug worm (n)
jungly (adj)
long-termer (n)
melaleuca (n)
moo-head (n)
motorboating (n)
motorcoach (n)
motorhome (n)
nasties (n)
noddy terns (n)
paddler (n)
palmetto pounders (n)
parimutuel betting (n)
pétanque (n)
pileated (adj)
pine flatwoods (n)
poisonwood (n)
pokeno (n)
pop-up (n)
powerboater (n)
RaceTrac
riverine (adj)
roadmaster (n)
RVing (n)
RV port (n)
sabal palm (n)
salvor (n)
sandhill (n, adj)
sand pine scrub (n)
saw grass (n); sawgrass (adj)
sheepshead (n)
shellcracker (n)
shell-rock (adj)
sinkhole-like (adj)
“6/6” plan (n)
skeeter (n)
slideout (n)
snorkeler (n)
sooty terns; sooties (n)
Spring Breaker (n)
stern-wheeler (n)
stormproof (adj)
sunbaked (adj)
tenter (n)
Tin Can Tourists of the World

hop on board, roadmasters

Clear signs

I worked about 12 hours yesterday and 11 so far today, drove home in a daze, and tried to open the front door of my apartment by pressing the car-door button on my VW key. Repeatedly.

You could do the research, but I'm pretty sure that means I need a vacation. Good thing I'm taking one.

Two words: Kyoto. Beijing.

Just as soon as the wave subsides.

Comme d'habitude

For as long as I can remember, I've meant to volunteer more. Aside from the occasional shift during KQED radio pledge drives, my day job + freelance + Canteen lifestyle doesn't leave much room for good works.

It's a poor excuse—there are plenty of busy people who volunteer. It's just hard to fit it all in while maintaining some kind of sanity and balance. Also it's nice to sleep now and then. Still, the intent is always there.

This weekend, I finally got to act on it at a Habitat for Humanity project in Daly City. Windy, chilly, foggy Daly City.

The project site includes 12 basic, sturdy homes slated to take about a year to complete. There's an onsite staff of five or so, plus 10 to 30 volunteers on any given day. We had a big crew, including a dozen nice older folks from the Church of the Innocents (I almost wound up in their group photo by accident—had to excuse myself with, "Oops, I'm not one of those.").

The few volunteers with actual carpentry skills scampered up the scaffolding to shingle, side, and trim things, while the rest of us attacked cleanup. The houses run along the top of a small hill that was covered with construction debris: wood, rock, rebarb, plastic, plywood, insulation, and lots of trash. The crew chief—a wiry, tough, smart woman about my age who could destroy all of you one-handed—said it was only three weeks' worth.

For about six hours, we lifted and hauled and sorted and stacked and discarded. It didn't feel like symbolic charity; it felt like manual labor. It was a long, cold, satisfying day. We got really dirty. I came home depleted, took a fantastic shower, and slept for 10 straight hours.

My back and shoulders aren't too happy with me, but good intentions don't make your muscles sore. Only action can do that. I should remember more often.

End of an era

In 1999, I worked in a little office at Sansome and Lombard. There were only a few other businesses in the building, and I never saw anyone in the halls who wasn't a colleague.

Except for one sunny day in late summer, when I came back from lunch to find an impromptu sidewalk sale. The guy behind the blanket said he was hocking things for an artist who was moving her studio somewhere else. My miniature salary didn't lend itself to impulse buys, but there was a nice green mug on the blanket, so I paid $5 for it and went back to my desk.

It's been my office mug for eight years, and today I'm officially retiring it. Green mug, loyal friend, you've traveled with me to four jobs in as many cities, and you're as sturdy as they come. But even the soapiest scouring can't clean you now. It's time.

Also it turns out you were really from Pier 1, and not lovingly crafted by a dotcom artisan—but I didn't find out until a year ago, so we can pretend it didn't happen. Rest well. All is forgiven.

we hardly knew ye . . .

The DJ who lives in my brain is fired

Songs stuck in my head today:

1. Rock Me Amadeus
2. Hard to Handle
3. Dites-Moi Pourquoi
4. Electric Avenue
5. Pore Jud Is Daid
6. Baby, Baby

I should probably confess that Amy Grant has been on my default mental playlist since around 1992, along with "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" and the gross childen's song "Baby Bumblebee."

Or maybe this kind of information is best kept to myself.

Veggie quandary

A few of you have asked what I'm holding in the photos below. Let me set all your curious minds at ease: It's an avocado.

The best reaction so far came from my mom, who said she could tell it was an avocado, but wasn't sure it was a real one. "I thought it might have been a fuzzy toy avocado."

'Cause, you know, I keep a lot of those around the house.

Some days are stagnant, some are like this.

I went outside with no shoes and no jacket today. All my bedroom windows are open.

Yoga class felt like 15 minutes instead of 90, and there was a parking space right in front of the library. I spent a couple of hours at the café, reading and drinking jasmine tea. If you think I might have eaten a cookie, you'd be right.

Walking home from the market, I finished writing the chorus to a blues song in my head. It's been brewing for a week or two. There's fresh basil on the counter downstairs. The Kyoto guidebook I ordered should be here next week, and the Netflixers just delivered a shiny new season of West Wing, bless their anonymous red-enveloped hearts.

Long and short of it is, I feel good. How good? I just registered for another half-marathon.

If it rains tomorrow, please remind me that everything is easier the second time around.

Sunday Sunday SUNDAY!

Last weekend, I went to my first ever event with "Monster" in its name. Never been one for giant trucks, but I'll ride along to a Monster Drawing Rally anytime.

In true Bay Area style, it was packed. Wall-to-wall, sweaty-high-school-gym packed with urban folk out to see our local creatives do their thing. Like a performance art prom, down to the '80s soundtrack and frenetic pheromones bouncing off the walls.

In the center of the room, about 25 artists sat at long tables arranged in a square. Hordes of people wandered around the perimeter, stopping to watch the woman sewing onto parchment paper or the guy painting with his own blood. (I didn't see that one, just heard about it.) "Drawing" was loosely interpreted.

After each one-hour shift, all the finished pieces were carried to the walls by special handlers, hung on display, then sold for $50 each. No exceptions. When bidding wars broke out, they were somehow settled with a pack of giant playing cards.

San Francisco, you are weird and great.

Cityscape

I'm back in real life. It's warmer and more sedate. I'm always surprised by how few travel days it takes to shred your usual perspective into tiny bits, then paste them back together, ad infinitum. Must be why we go.

New York is numbingly cold in winter, let's just say it once and move on. Hearty New England blood, not that you were ever good for much in my case, but you're gone.

Friday night found me at Canteen headquarters in Brooklyn. It's wide and easy there, a familiar blend of Oakland, SoMa, and any industrialized global sister city (Rome, Tel Aviv, Barcelona). Art galleries and cafés and clever graffiti tucked away in blocky brown and grey corners.

There was eating, and there was drinking, and there was morning. The second day.

* * *

Morning might be a stretch. Lunchtime, honestly. The meal came with a nomadic partner in crime, Amy, who traveled from Philly to spend the day with me because she's a rockstar.

On our way to MOMA, we had an eerie moment: Total silence. The usual crush of people, cabs, lights, Saturday in Manhattan—but for about 15 seconds, nothing made any noise. No sirens, no horns, no conversations (once we stopped ours). It might have been ominous, if it weren't so pleasant. Think how many factors must have been aligned.

The museum space itself left me flat, too white and too square, like they hadn't finished decorating yet. The art compensated.

Highlights include a display of Emigre covers in one of the graphic design rooms:


This tasty salad:

salad ingredients, irving penn

And the end table for the Guggenheim Bilbao, or so I'd like to think.

forgot to write this artist down . . . it might actually be gehry

The view from the third floor gets points also. Took this shot through a gridlike screen over the window, curious if it would show in the picture. If anyone can tell me why it doesn't (not a trick question—I have no idea), you'll win a prize.


Amy, who's moving to Buenos Aires this spring and has enough spirit and drive for a dozen people, is much more focused than this shot:


That night, we met up with two friends of mine from Paris who recently moved to New York via their native England. I'd give myself extra Euro snob points for the description, except that between them, they've been to 70 countries—at least 10 in the last year. So basically, I got no game.

There was eating, and there was drinking, and there was an accidental trip to Queens (as usual), and there was Pete's Candy Store, and there was morning. The third day.

* * *

Sunday found the Nomad and the BCB in Chelsea, around the corner from this venerable institution for your tired, your poor, your huddled writing implements:


And we brunched. Because a day isn't a day without mini muffins.


Then we went to the World Trade Center site, where I'd never been.


It looks like any other urban construction project—like the naked foundations for parking structures all over Oakland and San Francisco—except for its vastness, the crowd of tourists, and the 9/11 exhibit on quiet, powerful display.

photo within the photo by steve simon

On the way back to Brooklyn, I passed through a subway station decorated with mosaics. It made me happy, a gift for my eyes and brain after countless wallpapered ads. Can't remember which station, of course.


Sunday night was my official Canteen meeting with Stephen (publisher) and Sai (art director). The editor-in-chief, Sean, is a local friend out here. If we ever land a grant or two for the magazine, I'll ask them to earmark enough to buy me a name that starts with S.

A meeting? OK, yeah, a real meeting. But it included cocktails and goat cheese gnocchi. Business duly conducted, we retired to the bars of Williamsburg.

There are pictures somewhere, because Sai has a beautiful digital SLR camera and he graciously let me get my shutter-happy groove on. Don't quote me on this, but I'm pretty sure a lot of coasters and straws were immortalized that night.

And there was Woody Allen, and there were cookies, and there was morning. The fourth day.

* * *

Suburban Interlude

On Monday, I hopped a train to Rye Brook to see my old roommate, who recently married a sweet guy from Brooklyn and moved to a little town about an hour away. We looked at photos, watched wedding videos, caught up.

Commercial Interlude

Then I headed back to Chelsea for dinner with a college friend who's taking NYC by storm with his ring business, which I'll shamelessly plug—even without being asked—because I think it's a great idea. May my enormous readership all be in the market for a custom piece of jewelry soon. You know who to call.

And there was night, and there was morning. The fifth day.

* * *

On Tuesday, it dawned lukewarm and slushy. There was chocolate shopping, cheese tasting, tea drinking.

Then I flew home.

Notes from the planet

True to my name, for once—I'm on the road. The road called Brooklyn. It's -4 degrees outside, and the moon is a delicate sliver. Hijinks have ensued.

More when I'm back on the left coast. Just didn't want you to think I don't care.

Come on, give us a hug. That's better.

The NYC BCB

Locally Grown: Retail

I live in one of those neighborhoods without an official name, or even a clever mishmash nickname like Tendernob. It's North Oakland, but that covers a lot of ground.

This might be disconcerting, except it means I'm a stone's throw from several great hoods whose recognizable names make them more expensive and crowded than mine. Dwelling at the crossroads is really very handy.

Somehow, in this anonymous wilderness, a handful of small businesses have managed to put down roots. I can't say they're thriving, but they seem to mosey along comfortably. I'm not talking about pawn shops and Korean barbecue joints, though there's no shortage of either. I mean actual retail.

Adding to my already big love for this corner of Oakland: We just got a used bookstore. It's so close I could stumble over in my jammies, pick up a few $3 Penguins, and be home before the snooze alarm went off. It's also cute as a button—there's a play space for kids because the owner has a little girl, and it feels like somebody's living room.

They'd just gotten the credit card machine up and running the first time I went in, and they were tickled pink about it. "We're going to make labels for the shelves next!" said the fuzzy, bespectacled guy behind the counter. Good call, man.

I'm most excited about the bookstore, which replaced a bizarrely high-end lingerie boutique. (Most folks coming out of the liquor store next door probably weren't looking for a $250 bra-and-panty experience.) But there are other gems also: A kids' store owned by a slightly crazy but friendly lady who makes all the clothes and custom stuffed animals herself. She seems to open and close it at whim—there's usually an index card taped to the door saying something like, "Jenny has a soccer game, back later."

Then there's the fancy paper store. It's about the size of my kitchen, has no internal doors (only blank walls), and doesn't seem to sell anything. The pretty display cabinets always look empty, and there's never anyone inside. But a friend who used to live across the way loves this store, and stops in to visit the owners whenever he's in town. If it weren't for that, I'd swear the place is a front for something. Black market Hallmark cards?

Neighborhood X . . . stay elusive and sweet, and you'll always have a fan in me.