...and then, all of a sudden, summer was over.
Getting off the plane today in Miami, hearing Spanish again for the first time in over a week, it hit me that my vacation, my whole summer vacation, is about to end. My realities came rolling in as a little silver Jetta rolled into the G terminal of the MIA airport carrying my two housemates. The Jetta left the airport with two more passengers and a whole lot of luggage, taking me far from my travels and the life of leisure.
Still, as I sit here listening to the sleepy southern rhythms of Iron & Wine, I can't quite let go of summer. I had such good intentions of blogging about my sojurns into the wilderness this season; my stays on the mountainsides of St. John and the rocky Boundary Waters Wilderness offered many opportunities for reflection and contemplation, but somehow my brain just doesn't seem up to it. What it did do, thankfully, was renew my interest in photography. One of these days (oh, that eternal resolution, never fulfilled) I'm going to take my portfolio, fix it up, and show it to somebody who knows something about these things. What exactly "these things" are is as of yet unclear: photography, 'art,' selling things, presentation, etc.
Our family's trip to the Boundary Waters was short, only 5 days instead of the usual 10 or so, and I think that's one reason that I don't really feel like I've left Minnesota yet. The Hagen Family Reunion, 2005, was low-key and over pretty painlessly. All the people I like were there, and I was happy to introduce Dave to the whole crazy bunch. If only my mother would stop telling everyone "this is a friend of Thea's." Can we please speak clearly? I guess "This is Thea's boyfriend, Dave. He lives with her in Miami, but we don't know how long he's going to be there, and I [this is voice of Cathy] don't really know his intentions towards my daughter" doesn't have the same mysterious ring to it. Anyway, apart from some lewd Ole and Lena jokes, a raucous night in the hotel bar/poolroom with pitchers of Boulevard Ale, and bad small-town Minnesota cuisine, it was standard fare.
The weather was picturesque for our entire five days in the BWCAW [insert, for the uninitiated: Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Wilderness], and yes, I did take many pictures. Dave and I made quite the little pair, day-tripping through the lake country, portaging, and living life in the wilderness. We had a fun time eating dried camp food, cooking fish, putting up tents, swatting black flies and mosquitoes, swimming in the shallows, filleting fish, reading, drinking hot chocolate around the campfire, telling fish stories, hiking rockslides, eating wild blueberries and raspberries, oh, and fishing. I unwittinly initiated Dave into the fishing frenzy by putting a rod and reel in his hands and teaching him how to cast. He subsequently (in the three days left of the trip) out-fished all the other participants, catching the largest smallmouth bass and northern pike of the trip. Dad didn't catch anything bigger than his outrageous lures. I guess as long as you have fun, the trip is a success.
All in all, it's a great way to spend time with my family, whom I have missed greatly this past year. Instead of FIU, Central, and my presence in Miami, the only time I thought about my present life was when I would pull out my driver's lisence to order a drink at a bar. Each time I was a little surprised to see the bright green stripe emblazoned with "Florida." There was much laughter regarding past trips, shared family memories that were now transferred to Dave, and on the whole many high spirits. There's something about pike fillets sizzling over an open fire that makes everyone happy. I just wish that my break from the world could have lasted a few days longer. We rushed back from Ely, Minnesota last night as an orange sunset lit up the horizon in front of us, driving 5 hours to Minneapolis, close enough to the airport to catch our 10:30 ride south.
Being in the Midwest is so odd; I can't quite put my finger on on what it is: the flat farmlands, the perpindicular roads, the whiteness of Middle America, or some underlying malicious prejudice. It unsettles me in an uncanny way; by uncanny I do mean the full Freudian sense, because my familial roots are there. It is strange, foreign, and all my relatives live(d) there. My trip, like all good periods of reflection away from whatever I define as "normalcy," made me see that South Florida is quite a good match for me. Miami is a place of immigrants as well as migrants from all over the United States. Nobody is "from" Miami, we all are just living here for a while until we figure out what we really want to do.
The night before we left for the reunion, Dave and I went down to South Beach for a free screening of "The Thin Man," a delightful murder-mystery from 1934, and then proceded to promenade down Ocean Drive, stopping in the ever-so-trendy American Apparel store. As the cashier rang up my purchases, we chatted for a bit, entailing the question of "where are you from?" She seemed shocked to hear that I lived here, so I qualified it with the fact that I wasn't a native Miami-ite. With a practiced roll of the eyes, she laughingly replied "honey, nobody is."
This comment floated back to me through the waves of time-zone-transfer that washed over me as I left my plane this afternoon. True, this city is full of transitory people, trying to have fun and make a living; many of us are just living in the moment, week to week and month to month, but for now that's okay with me. All of the stability, "settled-down-ness" that I saw in my relatives back in the Midwest made me a little jittery. It shook up my present relationships with people and with my own life plans, reminded me a little too clearly that my Teach for America commitment won't last forever, and yes, I will have to actually make a *decision* soon about my real life. Gasp. Yikes.
For now, though, it feels good to be in Miami. I'm proud to be indecisive, to be in a state of flux, ready to go wherever my fancy (or, perhaps my heart) should take me after I'm done with teaching, and who knows when that will be? I sure as hell don't. In the midst of other temporary residents, I feel right at home in my ever-changing city.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Americana Part I: Daytrippers
After somewhat recovering from the mystery-neck-spasm incident of Thursday, sleeping all day Friday, and taking it *very* slow on Saturday (cooking two whole meals from scratch: pancakes and grouper!, even, gasp!, getting some exercise), I decided that even though I wasn't going anywhere exotic for the long weekend, we could at least get out of Miami-Dade. Dave somewhat reluctantly agreed to particpate, and was fortiutously surprised with the results.
Our day-trip destination was Naples, Florida: the hitherto-unseen West coast of the state. Upon first glance, this does not sound like the most fun-filled outing, but as with most of our trips, the best parts arrived upon us with an air of the aleatory, completely unplanned. In fact, apart from packing sandwiches, water, and snorkel gear, the only research we did was about 10 minutes of Google searching for beach locations. With sketchy directions from a discussion board for "Barefoot Beach," we hopped in Fiametta and said to ourselves "Westward ho!"
Throwing towels, snorkel gear, and wallets in the car, we meandered through Miami-Dade until we reached SW 8th Street, the Tamiami Trail. Bidding a very sweet adieu to Florida International University, we motored on into the Everglades on a beautiful blue-clear day. 100 miles of swampland, airboat tours, and indian reservations passed by as we relaxed and settled in to our trip. Fortuitously, we took a break at one of the state park rest stops and had the chance to walk over the sprawling cypress swamp on wooden boardwalks. Standing alone in the middle of grassy wetlands, the contrast from sprawling Miami is that much more acute. It's nice to know that there is real wilderness left around, where lizards aren't afraid of you, and bromeliads grow free.
Aaw, now wasn't that prosaic?
Surprisingly pleased with our route of transit, we pulled into Naples still following SW 8th, stumbling upon none other than a street art show. Of course, it was absolutely necessary to wander through the stalls for an hour or two to observe the beachey themed products. Honestly, the designer boutiques along the street were more interesting than the show, but I did manage to get suckered in to a cigar box purse. My wonderful rationalization facilities told me that this particualar one was 1. built better, 2. cheaper, and 3. cooler (Cohiba XV lacquered box) than all the ones I'd seen before. Dave concurred, and thus I am now the proud owner. Aside: I tested it out this week when D. and I went to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Indeed, I felt cool.
Our day neatly segued from the urban back to the natural as we set out to find our beach. Not only did we find a cute, shell-lined beaching area on the muddy-colored Gulf of Mexico, it also happened to be a refuge for the floridian Gopher Tortoise. Who knew? We bonded with the plodding reptiles, the spoonbills and pelicans, and the egrets who stalked the surf. I felt so free of responsibility; no watches were allowed, and I left my cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Shell-hunting on the beach, I found some tiny coquinas, hearkening back to my younger days at Kiawah and Cocoa Beach, with sunbleached snowy hair, eternally sandy feet, and bathing suits with ruffles. Completely regressing to infantile behavior, I sat in the surf watching live coquinas retreat downwards into the sand after incominf waves, powered by their glassy mollusk feet.
Completely refreshed from the paragon "day at the beach," we packed our salty selves back into the van. Perhaps it was my dehydration, perhaps the saline in the water, or it could have been my irrational desire for something else 'American,' but I had an insatiable craving for watermelon. Publix, Publix, where are you?! So, on that summer afternoon, exploring the coast aimlessly, we finally stumbled upon a grocery store. I then proceeded, while Dave took the wheel, to devour nearly half a watermelon before we reached our dinner destination. It was divine.
Stopped to see some wading birds on the salt marshes (yes, folks, I am becoming my parents) near Bonita Beach, then finally settled down for 30 cent oysters and coronas at The Fish House pier. Does it get much better than this? Fresh seafood at happy hour prices? Only in America. As the sun set on our day, brimming with sights, sounds, and flavors of the sea, we set of for Miami. Lo and behold, what should we find? A homemade icecream stand! No, I can't take it; no more; too...much...good...food. Alas, we gave in: me to blackberry cheesecake and Dave to butter pecan. I was one tired hushpuppy on the way home, so after indulging in a few chapters of Zorro, I drifted off to dreamland as the mosquitoes pounded the grill of the van through the darkened Everglades on highway 75. What a beautiful day.
Our day-trip destination was Naples, Florida: the hitherto-unseen West coast of the state. Upon first glance, this does not sound like the most fun-filled outing, but as with most of our trips, the best parts arrived upon us with an air of the aleatory, completely unplanned. In fact, apart from packing sandwiches, water, and snorkel gear, the only research we did was about 10 minutes of Google searching for beach locations. With sketchy directions from a discussion board for "Barefoot Beach," we hopped in Fiametta and said to ourselves "Westward ho!"
Throwing towels, snorkel gear, and wallets in the car, we meandered through Miami-Dade until we reached SW 8th Street, the Tamiami Trail. Bidding a very sweet adieu to Florida International University, we motored on into the Everglades on a beautiful blue-clear day. 100 miles of swampland, airboat tours, and indian reservations passed by as we relaxed and settled in to our trip. Fortuitously, we took a break at one of the state park rest stops and had the chance to walk over the sprawling cypress swamp on wooden boardwalks. Standing alone in the middle of grassy wetlands, the contrast from sprawling Miami is that much more acute. It's nice to know that there is real wilderness left around, where lizards aren't afraid of you, and bromeliads grow free.
Aaw, now wasn't that prosaic?
Surprisingly pleased with our route of transit, we pulled into Naples still following SW 8th, stumbling upon none other than a street art show. Of course, it was absolutely necessary to wander through the stalls for an hour or two to observe the beachey themed products. Honestly, the designer boutiques along the street were more interesting than the show, but I did manage to get suckered in to a cigar box purse. My wonderful rationalization facilities told me that this particualar one was 1. built better, 2. cheaper, and 3. cooler (Cohiba XV lacquered box) than all the ones I'd seen before. Dave concurred, and thus I am now the proud owner. Aside: I tested it out this week when D. and I went to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Indeed, I felt cool.
Our day neatly segued from the urban back to the natural as we set out to find our beach. Not only did we find a cute, shell-lined beaching area on the muddy-colored Gulf of Mexico, it also happened to be a refuge for the floridian Gopher Tortoise. Who knew? We bonded with the plodding reptiles, the spoonbills and pelicans, and the egrets who stalked the surf. I felt so free of responsibility; no watches were allowed, and I left my cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Shell-hunting on the beach, I found some tiny coquinas, hearkening back to my younger days at Kiawah and Cocoa Beach, with sunbleached snowy hair, eternally sandy feet, and bathing suits with ruffles. Completely regressing to infantile behavior, I sat in the surf watching live coquinas retreat downwards into the sand after incominf waves, powered by their glassy mollusk feet.
Completely refreshed from the paragon "day at the beach," we packed our salty selves back into the van. Perhaps it was my dehydration, perhaps the saline in the water, or it could have been my irrational desire for something else 'American,' but I had an insatiable craving for watermelon. Publix, Publix, where are you?! So, on that summer afternoon, exploring the coast aimlessly, we finally stumbled upon a grocery store. I then proceeded, while Dave took the wheel, to devour nearly half a watermelon before we reached our dinner destination. It was divine.
Stopped to see some wading birds on the salt marshes (yes, folks, I am becoming my parents) near Bonita Beach, then finally settled down for 30 cent oysters and coronas at The Fish House pier. Does it get much better than this? Fresh seafood at happy hour prices? Only in America. As the sun set on our day, brimming with sights, sounds, and flavors of the sea, we set of for Miami. Lo and behold, what should we find? A homemade icecream stand! No, I can't take it; no more; too...much...good...food. Alas, we gave in: me to blackberry cheesecake and Dave to butter pecan. I was one tired hushpuppy on the way home, so after indulging in a few chapters of Zorro, I drifted off to dreamland as the mosquitoes pounded the grill of the van through the darkened Everglades on highway 75. What a beautiful day.
Friday, July 01, 2005
My Day Off
Yesterday, whilst the Gear-Up kids went to a waterpark, I was to have a day of vacation. The night before, my roommate asked me "So, what do you have planned for tomorrow?" I told her, in a rare fit of sagacity, "Well, there are a ton of things that I could be doing, but if I make any plans, I'm just going to be depressed that I didn't get them done."
Plan-less and stress free, I went to bed.
When Cervantes woke me up at 9:12 wanting to be fed, I obligingly got out of bed to pour some nuggets into his kitty bowl. However, as I rolled out of bed, I realized that I couldn't move my neck without getting these weird, jarring pains. Managed to feed the cat, and as I was walking back to my room to lie down, bam. Out cold on the floor. I still have a lump on my head and elbow. Damn those tile floors.
Figured it probably wouldn't do to lie around on the floor all day, so when I woke up, I crawled back to bed and slept for another 6 hours. When people started to call me, I realized that I was going to have to do something about this bizarre phenomenon. Mary drove me over to Mt. Sinai's ER, where they whisked me through triage and stuck me in bed 5.
I've been in an ER before, for lame ankle sprains, but not a whole lot happens in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. As nurses, residents, doctors-in-training, and paramedics swirled around me, I continued in my dazed state and did what they told me. Then, all of a sudden my only duty was waiting for head x-rays, so I settled my stiff neck into the bed and took in the drama of the ER.
In some bizarre fashion, it reminded me a lot of the eponymous television show: personalities begin to emerge, the same stock phrases get thrown around, and then comes "the call." Drowning victim from Miami Beach, on his way with paramedics. People started moving a little quicker, got out the crash cart and cleaned up 'room' 4, right next to me. When the ambulance pulled up to the swinging doors, the news crews were right behind them, flashing cameras and asking questions. What a strange society we live in, where freak accidents are 'newsworthy' and people's private injuries make the press. Outside, the press team accosted the hospital PR squad, while inside in curtain 4, the anonymous 23 year old swimmer's heart stopped working. There was little yelling, none of the dramatic scenes from television, just a bunch of people trying very hard to do their best job. Eventually, there were less and less doctors in the stall next to me, and then finally the lights went out. It was over.
Thursday in the Miami Beach ER was far from over, for patient 5 (that's me) and others. Next on the list was what the staff called an "irrational." No, not a fraction, but a woman with a drug overdose kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, I've had some morphine and valium to make me ever so alert and coherent. Three hours after I arrived in the ER, I finally got my x-rays, then an hour later I was ready to go home.
Apparently, the chief resident believes "in holistic medicine. All these pills aren't going to make you better...[she taps my temple] *YOU'RE* going to make yourself better." Well, lady, that's nice, but the morphine's wearing off again and I still can't move my neck. So she wrote me a prescription for some hard-core muscle relaxants for my apparently routine neck spasms. When they say that "people come in all the time" with this, I'd really like to know what "all the time" is. Every week? Every month?
Feeling not much better physically, and not a bit dazed, Mary and Dave arrived in a much welcome chariot to shuffle me off home at 7:45 pm, four hours after my arrival. Damn. I guess it's really a good thing that I didn't make any plans for yesterday. And hey, I even got a doctor's note to stay home from work today =). Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to turn my head to the left.
Plan-less and stress free, I went to bed.
When Cervantes woke me up at 9:12 wanting to be fed, I obligingly got out of bed to pour some nuggets into his kitty bowl. However, as I rolled out of bed, I realized that I couldn't move my neck without getting these weird, jarring pains. Managed to feed the cat, and as I was walking back to my room to lie down, bam. Out cold on the floor. I still have a lump on my head and elbow. Damn those tile floors.
Figured it probably wouldn't do to lie around on the floor all day, so when I woke up, I crawled back to bed and slept for another 6 hours. When people started to call me, I realized that I was going to have to do something about this bizarre phenomenon. Mary drove me over to Mt. Sinai's ER, where they whisked me through triage and stuck me in bed 5.
I've been in an ER before, for lame ankle sprains, but not a whole lot happens in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. As nurses, residents, doctors-in-training, and paramedics swirled around me, I continued in my dazed state and did what they told me. Then, all of a sudden my only duty was waiting for head x-rays, so I settled my stiff neck into the bed and took in the drama of the ER.
In some bizarre fashion, it reminded me a lot of the eponymous television show: personalities begin to emerge, the same stock phrases get thrown around, and then comes "the call." Drowning victim from Miami Beach, on his way with paramedics. People started moving a little quicker, got out the crash cart and cleaned up 'room' 4, right next to me. When the ambulance pulled up to the swinging doors, the news crews were right behind them, flashing cameras and asking questions. What a strange society we live in, where freak accidents are 'newsworthy' and people's private injuries make the press. Outside, the press team accosted the hospital PR squad, while inside in curtain 4, the anonymous 23 year old swimmer's heart stopped working. There was little yelling, none of the dramatic scenes from television, just a bunch of people trying very hard to do their best job. Eventually, there were less and less doctors in the stall next to me, and then finally the lights went out. It was over.
Thursday in the Miami Beach ER was far from over, for patient 5 (that's me) and others. Next on the list was what the staff called an "irrational." No, not a fraction, but a woman with a drug overdose kicking and screaming. Meanwhile, I've had some morphine and valium to make me ever so alert and coherent. Three hours after I arrived in the ER, I finally got my x-rays, then an hour later I was ready to go home.
Apparently, the chief resident believes "in holistic medicine. All these pills aren't going to make you better...[she taps my temple] *YOU'RE* going to make yourself better." Well, lady, that's nice, but the morphine's wearing off again and I still can't move my neck. So she wrote me a prescription for some hard-core muscle relaxants for my apparently routine neck spasms. When they say that "people come in all the time" with this, I'd really like to know what "all the time" is. Every week? Every month?
Feeling not much better physically, and not a bit dazed, Mary and Dave arrived in a much welcome chariot to shuffle me off home at 7:45 pm, four hours after my arrival. Damn. I guess it's really a good thing that I didn't make any plans for yesterday. And hey, I even got a doctor's note to stay home from work today =). Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to turn my head to the left.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)