Writing to remember

The last time I wrote was also to remember. That time, it was to remember after I’d gone from a place. This time, it’s someone else who’s gone. Yesterday afternoon, just months after he was diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, my grandfather passed away.

He was the sort of grandpa that could chew on a toothpick for what seemed like hours, sitting at the end of the table quietly nodding away as though deeply intent on the act of listening. Periodically, he’d interject with a witty remark or story, some more relevant than others. Each was delivered with a gutteral chuckle and his signature grin.

He was constantly clad in worn jeans and a collared, checkered shirt - just the right level of casual that he might be dropping into Meeder’s for a piece of pie after rummaging through his dusty and overflowing garage. I don’t remember ever actually seeing him work in that garage. It was very much a place to store, pile, and scavenge.

He cruised around town in his old jeep, and later in a light blue boxy station wagon that had belonged to his parents. Both cars were coated in dog hair from top to bottom, with a healthy sprinkling of crumbs. On the nights my mom was brave (read: desperate) enough to have him watch me and my brother, we’d pile in with the pups, stop at Arby’s for the world’s best curly fries (and to restock his supply of sauce packets), then amble around Gravel Pit Park and the adjacent vineyards. Combos, especially the pizza flavor, will forever in my mind be dog treats - Sally and Bruno loved them. Other nights, we played Sega in his living room. I could swear the room looked unchanged when I stopped in a few months ago, except then the TV blared John Wayne instead of Sonic the Hedgehog.

He sat at his desk in the office his father opened many moons ago, MK Bemiss Agency, and handed me a lemondrop from behind the behemoth computer monitor. The office boasts a prime spot in our town of 7,000 or so, just across from the central park on Main Street. Perfect parade viewing property for the annual Fireman’s Cherry Festival.

He swore by apple cider vinegar before it was a thing and held some questionable beliefs (misunderstandings, really) about new laundry products on the market. In many ways, though, he was just an optimistic kind of guy. He struggled to hound tenants for missing payments, or worse, serve eviction notices - Erie isn’t exactly an economic boomtown. And he attended and tracked local sports like they were top ranked professionals. Often, he’d rattle off the stats for our high school teams as if he knew my classmates as well as I did. Better, even. Small wonder he was prom king back in the day.

We were expecting it when the time came. He’d declined rapidly over the previous weeks, and after a roller coaster of good days and bad, days in which he declared to my mom “This is the day,” it at last seemed imminent. I reserved a car and told my boss I planned to head home mid-week, regardless of if or when the news came. As it happened, it came the following afternoon. I spoke with my mom, got myself organized and ran some errands, and started home the next day. The older I get the more I recognize features of myself that come from her. Like confronting challenges, especially emotional ones, with as much of an even-keeled and business manner as she can muster. Then dealing with it in her own way, in her own time.

I sang along to the radio, cursed at traffic, talked on the phone (hands-free), and smiled to myself as I thought about plans and possibilities for the coming year. Then a slower song came on and my thoughts wandered, just briefly. They conjured up an image of him, checkered and sucking on a toothpick. Flip to him tossing a combo to his beagle Sunshine on the path along the vineyard. Now to that odd little trampolene always so out-of-place, yet wholly unsurprising, in his dusty living room. And I cried. Then started writing this in my mind, piecing together those moments I’ll miss most.

Bergstraße

On my third day in Salzburg, determined to make use of the sneakers and leggings I’d hauled with me, I went for a jog along the Salzach River, aiming for the Capuchin monastery (Kapuzinerkloster) and what looked to be a good view of the city below. Turn left just before the last bridge, I thought, setting off with a mental map and a screenshot. ..Not the clearest plan. Pausing to sort out where I’d gone wrong, I took a quick look around - and immediately recognized the back of an old man who’d just lumbered past me. A similar thought must have occurred to him as he stopped, turned around, and said “Kate!”

Just my second morning in Salzburg, and I’d run into someone I knew. Which continues to blow my mind, so much so that I felt the need to write it down. The retiree-turned-painter, Thomas, greeted me with the European double kiss and set about slowly walking me back to the turn I’d missed, a winding set of stairs heading up to the monastery and, nearby, Stefan Zweig’s former home in Salzburg. “See you in Bergstraße tonight?” 

Two nights before, with all the museums closed and the maze of Christmas markets explored, I’d wandered onto the quiet side street, Bergstraße, in search of dinner and a warm place to reboot. A place advertising itself as a “music pub” sounded like me but looked closed - so across the street to a Belgian beer bar, Alchemist Belge, it was. A grand total of 2 bartenders and 3 customers turned when I opened the door. “Er… are you open?” They were, and after an awkward five minutes or so, quietly sorting through my photos from the day and texting a friend about the weird community I’d apparently just stumbled into, I was beckoned in to conversation. 

Markus, “working” as he sat perched on the bar with a jaunty cap and cardigan, designated himself translator as needed, and proved to be a kindred spirit as we talked travel, politics, beer, and 80s music. Because I would find a kindred spirit in a quirky and proudly balding Austrian watchmaker/bartender. Bar regular Pieter interjected from the sidelines, drunkenly passing out knickknacks he’d purchased at the market, until a few hours later we adjourned for a currywurst stand down the street.

Wandering through the next night, when it was again dark, cold, and beyond museum-ing hour, I stopped to see the watch shop I’d heard about the day before - and was inevitably pulled across the street to another local haunt that somehow does not exist on Google maps. There I found Thomas, a retired journalist from Vienna, two former members of parliament, and the neighborhood community that encapsulates them all. Markus proudly introduced every newcomer with a smile and “See, one big family.”

Long, unnecessary story, I know, apologies. Belgian beer bars and local haunts are a universal language, it seems. But stumbling into that community only added to the charm that had me gawking my way through Salzburg, floored by the landscape and the history and the absurd number of Mozartkugel it appears to be built upon. Passing chocolates around the table to go with our quads, or sitting in a quiet backroom at 1am while Markus described his father’s experience fighting in World War II - and how he felt going into it, remembering what the Austro-Hungarian Empire had been - was an unforgettable glimpse into that community, and how intrinsically.. human.. people can be. Of course, it wasn't all beautiful and charming. Just outside of the city center, the influx of Middle Eastern refugees is clear, and not everyone I met had the same view on that. 

But, as I said, human. In less than three full days, I’d been given an amazing view into a country and city I’d never been to before - and several very tasty beers at a third of the cost they are here in DC. Which also blows my mind. I kept a blog many moons ago, mainly for the purpose of assuring Dickinson that I was using its grant money well during my summers in Ghana and Denmark, and haven’t written much personally ever since (though friends would argue my lengthy texts are books in themselves. Sorry friends.) Every once in a while, though, I get the urge. If not to share it, or express my appreciation to those experiences or people that spurred it, then not to forget it.

"Debajo de mi lengua"*

Eight months - it'd been over eight months since my last post. I certainly wasn't lacking possible blog material, between the feisty monkeys of Kathmandu, the chilling drizzle of Bremen, the antics of my too-cute nephew, and the tourist-infested DC metro leading up to the presidential inauguration.... So why the long silence? Or should the question be why interrupt that silence now? ...or should I not bother questioning either? Huh.

The fact that there was a vague response to yesterday's post got me thinking (both in terms of a few comments kindly tossed my way and in terms the unavoidable viewer count). More to the point, Blogger's informing me of which posts had been viewed is what further got me thinking. For instance, somewhere in the world yesterday, someone stumbled on to this little blast from the past, and this one too. How'd they end up there? I'll add regarding that first one, by the bye, that I am by now a frequent user of my very own yoga mat, though I still don't partake in the non-judging of muscle kinks at the end of the session. Odd.

But I digress. Eight months is a fair bit of time. It's been far longer since I last wrote, read, or thought about those aforementioned posts, which made re-reading them now an interesting little exercise in recall and self-analysis. Heh... Thus my pausing to ask myself what happened - kya hua? Anything? Maybe it isn't entirely coincidental that that last July post sounds so much like a potential goodbye. Or again, should the question rather be why now, aside from the inspirational "shizzy" remark of the great and powerful Oz mentioned yesterday?

So many questions, always so many questions. The minute these ones came to mind, though, as I sat cross-legged with my right hand well-curried in the midst of breakfast chai and roti, my thoughts immediately went from blogging to people. Is there some breaking point in our conversations? Can or should it happen, or be allowed to happen, that at some point there's just too much to say? We fall silent, with little idea of where to go from here. Be it a new acquaintance, an old and dear one, a conflicted one... the deafening silence of it all. It can be enough to make you laugh or cry, want to hit someone or hug them all at the same time, search your brain for what to say or run off and maintain the silence as it is; it's easier that way. ...Isn't it?

Don't get me wrong, I love silence. If there's an empty roof or balcony nearby and I go missing, it's likely because I've gone off to occupy it. A cockroach pulled me out of my reverie on the hostel rooftop earlier this week, but I press on! Still, these questions are there, even in that deafening silence. But for now... for now, it's nice to see you again.

*"Debajo de mi lengua," or, directly translated, "under my tongue," is a favorite of mine by Julieta Venegas. Debajo de mi lengua se escondan las palabras... se esconderan mis miedos... etc. Here's a rough translation of the lyrics for ya.

  

Arey, yaar - main India mein hoon

Under the rattling fan, my mattress snuggly covering the remaining floor space of the hostel room, one bleary eye peaked down at my frantically blinking phone. It was 4am in Bangalore, and I was awake enough to be pulled in by the unusual number of alerts then calling my attention. Over half a dozen emails at this time of day - something must've happened. Sure enough, Latin America is now short one notorious Venezuelan.

The NYT "breaking news" update awaiting me was enough to have me popping up in bed, freakishly alert while the other girls snoozed around me. Must see the news! Must tweet! Forgetting the fact that it was then going on a rather muggy 5am, I switched into twitter mode and was quickly engaged in a brief back-and-forth to the East Coast (damn time zones). The resulting 140-character-or-under updates led me here, thanks to the concluding comment of one ever-eloquent and inspiring fellow: "You best be blogging that shizzy!" I promised I would, so long as he kept the word "shizzy" somewhere in his repertoire.

It's been a while, my dear blogosphere you. Now don't feel jilted, I've tossed around the idea of a new post now and again, even drafted a few, but the Cancerian in me ran from sharing mode before the mouse could reach "Post." That, and there's my on-going conflict with writing: the necessary belief that what I have to say is somehow worth your taking the time to read it. Serendipitous, maybe, but my last post seemed a suiting final word anyway.

But then, writing is a never-ending process - a bit masochistic, that whole business. In any case. July to now has carried me through the end of my time in India, brief visits to Nepal, Germany, and DC, wandering and working in DC, and, most recently, back to India. So now that we're all caught up... let the games begin.

"anywhere i go you go..." -e.e. cummings

Somehow it’s always in the wee hours that my mind starts really going. While I sit snacking on cold spaghetti and watching “Who’s the Boss” in the living room, friends snore comfortably in the two adjoining rooms of this newly-acquired Chennai flat. Maybe it’s because I’ve recently filtered through all of my contacts, having discovered a shocking mass of them when I switched to a new phone a few days ago. Maybe it’s the too-cute 35 second clip my sister-in-law just posted of my baby niece, far away back home, rolling over with her mother’s encouragement in the background. …It’s the little things. But then, when it comes to people, it often is.

I haven’t been around all that long; last week marked the successful completion of a brief 22 years. In that time – the past few especially – what strikes me most are the people. That ever-growing list of contacts that has collected itself on my shiny new phone.

Pennsylvania, DC, Ghana, Denmark, India, and everywhere in between. The ones I’ve had the pleasure of knowing through thick and thin, and the ones I wish I knew better. The ones I know I’ll see for years to come, and the ones I’ll likely never see again. The ones I haven’t seen or talked to in ages, but could never forget…. They’re all there, floating around back here in the slightly misty chasm that is my head late at night.

Too many words, stories, and memories are floating around back there as well; it’s difficult to get a grip on them all and pull them down to the ground, line them up. They’re simply not meant to be lined. The connections with these people certainly aren’t neatly aligned. We’ve met in the most dull, bizarre, exciting, and awkward of moments. We’ve shared, given, and received words of happiness and pain, times of care and of frustration. Some of those times we’d give anything to relive, and some we might prefer to forget. Each of those people are there, though, and each with a story (several with innumerable stories).

My mind almost reels as it goes through the vast mental rolodex, spending plenty of time on some cards and carefully talking myself into putting aside others. Even those few that are set to the side, though, probably won’t be there for long until my subconscious comes by and picks them up again – my streak of OCD cleaning generally applies to people, too. I’m absolutely terrible at just setting them aside and leaving them there.

In less than a month, it will be time to pack my bags and head out – for now. I don’t make a habit of sticking around one place for terribly long (always recalling a friend’s “vision in passing” comment), but I have a feeling I’ll soon be back to this one. And either way, the people back home, here, and in between seem to follow me from place to place, whether any of us realize it at the time or not… 

"i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"

"Watching... with millions of questions..."

Funny thing: I've thought about blogging quite a bit lately and actually began a post about a week ago, but then got into conversation about the topic in mind (South and/vs North India/ns, in short) and decided it was far too much to be digested into a blog post at the moment. heh... In any case, hello to all; still alive and well. Most recently, I've kept myself busy driving out to Bangalore for a weekend wedding and later making a day-trip to Mahabalipuram, a little over an hour south of Chennai and home to Pallavan Dynasty temples (roughly 700 BCE) now listed as UNESCO world heritage sites. The town also tends to serve as an escape for those feeling otherwise trapped in Chennai, but for now I focused on the UNESCO side of things.

What finally pushed me into this post, however, is something much simpler and briefer: a Facebook comment (shake your head in disappointment if you will). After seemingly perusing my latest photos from "Mahabs," a friend turned to photos posted a year ago, while I was working in Denmark. He asked where it was and a few basic cultural questions, and I responded. Then he said something which, once I got over the potential creepy sound of it, was rather interesting: "You became [a] very knowledgeable girl. That is good. When I met you first time, you were a little girl, which eyes were watching the surrounding with millions of questions. Now you are not anymore that little girl. Hahaha" ...I met him in the winter of 2009.


Keeping it brief, for the sake of efficiency and in the interest of sleep: I sincerely hope we can all still be described as having eyes that watch our surroundings with millions of questions. ...that, at least, I hope I've maintained, and strive to maintain. Thank goodness there's always more to be seen, and always more to be asked. Otherwise, we might as well be in a Simon and Garfunkel song, eh?


As for things I've had the pleasure of seeing recently, though, the online albums as they currently stand: a few Bangalore photos have been added to the recent Chennai album uploads, and Mahabs called for its own album entirely. Passing an elephant on the road back from Bangalore, however, had to be one of my favorite moments. heh...


Chennai/Bangalore: online album here
Mahabalipuram: and here

Randomness in Chennai (and a bit of Bangalore)

Admittedly, I'm overdue on posting, I know. Safe to say it's been a bit busy. Currently in between projects at Eureka, I've done some meandering around Chennai, taken a spur-of-the-moment road trip to Bangalore with friends, and a few things in between. Plenty of chai and coffee, dosas and chutneys, mutton (read: goat, in this case) biryani, and some shwarma here and there. Oh, eesh, and at one point, goat brain and sparrow. They truly shouldn't have told me it was goat brain *before* my trying it, though I do think I should get extra points for still trying it. Props on the spicing, but the texture was just... bah. The sparrow was entirely safe and tasty, though I felt about as guilty as I did the first time I tried lamb. 

In any case, the photos. Scenes around Chennai and a late night stop for biryani en route to Bangalore, etc. Ah, and a recent front page of the Chennai edition of The Hindu, attempting one of the things I most hate to see: numbering and ranking intelligence. A topic for another day.

On the lighter side of this weekend, have to say, I found myself pulling up to a huge beach house turned private Tamil club and after-party, complete with DJs, dance floor, fog machine, and private bar. Chennai closes at 11 only for those who don't know where to go next - and my DJ friend knew where to go. I watched in awe and amazement; absolutely blew my mind. It was like a cultural treasure-trove in the midst of an otherwise notoriously conservative society.... Don't worry, Mom, I was too busy gawking at the underworld Tamil party scene to get into any trouble. Don't worry about the non-mehndi-ed hand, either; I just lacked grace one morning getting off the bus. Things happen. :P