Things I did this weekend for the first time in the my life

* drove a BMW
* drove a motorboat
* participated in a sailing race
* jumped off the boathouse roof into the lake (see picture above)
* jumped off a high rocky ledge into the lake (see picture below)
* saw a hummingbird up close
* painted a dock

Vive le lac d'écorces!

Abuelita Marita

Tomorrow is my grandmother's 96th birthday. She's been very ill for the past year or so, with a rapidly advancing case of senile dementia. This, after an incredibly vivacious, outgoing, life-loving, 95 other years.

My favourite thing about my grandmother is that, if you asked her, she would say the happiest day of her life was not the classic: not her wedding and not the births of any of her four children. "No, abuelita?" Meh... no. It was her first communion, and she can tell you *everything* they served to eat that day. It was around 1918.

My grandmother, abuelita is what I call her, has enjoyed a love affair with food for most of her life. Any memory -trips to Spain, vacations, special occasions- is linked mostly to what she ate, and you could never go anywhere with her -when she was still capable of moving around by herself- without stopping for some pastries.

Once I told her I liked fried chicken and french fries. I must have been 11. From then on, and until I became vegetarian, she always had homemade fried chicken and real french fries especially for me when I visited. And I could never go to her house without being offered, actually *pressed* to accept, something to eat. If you accepted a glass of wine, tuna salad and bread, you were in for a surprise when that turned out to be the appetizer and there were still two more courses plus coffee and dessert left! Everyone knows I'm not much of an eater, but how can you say no to this kind of love?

This is sort of the cute side to her, but more importantly, I never felt I had had much of an emotional education until I really got to know her. I have obviously known my grandmother my entire life. My mother took me to Chile when I was 2 weeks old and I visited about every 3 years. But until my 20s, she just seemed so different from us, my nuclear family, that I could only see her caring as meddling and out-of-place. We were cold, dysfunctional, broken and silent. She was talkative, demanding, opinionated, fulls of compulsory hugs and kisses. We were stripped bare and she was ornate.

I started talking to her, just the two of us, mostly listening. I discovered I loved listening to her. Her stories and their related opinions (about morality, the demise of family values, the leftist conspiracy, the benefits of authoritarian rule, the importance of marrying young and having babies) were not about me. I think this is what made it easier for me to listen without judging or becoming defensive than if, say, I felt she had some power over me, like my parents would. I had never given her any power, so we were free to relate to each other as independent souls, but I did end up giving her power, because I fell in love with her.

I noticed that our eyes were the same. I have memorized the wrinkles on her chubby hands, the chipped red nail polish, the costume jewellery rings. I should interrupt myself here and explain that when I fall in love, it is invariably with the so-called ugly parts of a person. I'm not interested in perfection, it's disturbing. I like the cracks. In her case, I'm familiar with the rolled up knee-high stockings, the worn out pumps, the way you can see her scalp through her thin perm. I recognize the way she pulls herself out of a chair, how she looks for someone to support her weight. She wipes the bread crumbs off the table like a bad habit. She spills food on her chest and stains her dresses. She would kill me if she read this.

When I broke up with my fiancé, though, I knew I could tell her the truth about why I could not get back together with him, ever. I knew I could trust her with this painful information I had. You don't want to hide pain from a woman who's lost a grown child and a husband; who was born in a city of 300,000 people and now lives in the same city with 6 million other people. I learned what perspective is when she told me about a boyfriend she had who was killed in some war. She said it like it was no longer important, in the grander scheme of her life. An anecdote of things long past. She gained my trust when I decided to move out of my mother's apartment against all Chilean societal convention, and although she disagreed with the decision she agreed to support me in it. She always enquired about my happiness and insisted I make it a priority. She told me the secret to her own happiness was "accepting what you're given in life" and I try to live that way.

Besides her eyes, which I haven't seen in almost three years, I noticed something else I inherited from her. We can cry over anything at the drop of a hat. (If you didn't know this about me, you can thank my mother for all lessons in stoic self-control). We are emotional beings, thrown into an unfair world that will leave us behind if we don't run along side it, and so we run, and we don't ask too many questions, we just run, sometimes we cry, and we make sure as many of our loved ones are somewhere near us as possible.

Horoscopic Therapy

This is what our friend Rob Brezny suggests for me this week (I should cultivate the attitude described in the following poem):

A Modern Version of the Way the Rosary Was Once Said Throughout Western Europe in the Late Middle Ages
by Dara Wier

I'm not sewing velvet patches on a woolen blanket,
not putting silver buttons back where they belong,
not sweeping or folding, not in my right mind,
not knowing what I owe or to whom I should
bow down or thank or praise, no neither am
I putting aside, not storing up good deeds
I'll need when I need bailing out, not putting
my house in order, no, not preparing
to meet my maker, no, nor do I wish to settle
old scores, no not keeping wolves at bay,
and I'm not disturbing antbeds, not in touch
with fine madness, no, I'm not skipping rocks,
not counting how long it takes a ship's wake
to subside, nor waiting for the big one
to wash ashore and overwhelm its itty bitty
ancestors, no, I'm not trying to fathom a stew
of rotten flowers and rainwater I'm not pouring
from a vase at the left-hand backcorner of a
freshly white-washed tomb, no, I'm not getting
ready for company, not biting my tongue, though
a little bit of chafing can feel good, not baring
my soul, I'm not hiding under the kitchen table
not wanting to listen anymore, not lost in a
camphor-reeking satchel inside a chiffarobe,
not stretching under a bed on a cool linoleum
floor, no, I'm not sitting on top of a mule
surveying the sun and the moon, nor am I watching
strands of hot sugar fall into cool water, no
I'm not climbing into a fig tree to be close
to mockingbirds and out of the way of hoopsnakes,
and I'm not falling asleep next to a crate of melons,
nor am I staying awake in case I might miss something,
no, I'm not staring forever into a fire,
nor walking through a rainstorm into a cypress
grove, no, and I'm not waiting for lightning
to strike, no, and I'm not pulling aside a
curtain so I can't see a man with a raccoon
looking over his shoulder or a woman holding
a cup of steaming coffee or hear what's passing
between them, or see a man at the end of a day
taking off his shoes, or a boy dressed in clerical
clothes dispensing frankincense, or a hand
shifting into reverse, or a hand turning numbers
to get into a safe, no I'm not sitting on top
of a mule surveying the sun and the moon.

Girls!

Surprise!!

So... came home at 2 am to this: no bathroom! The positive side is that it's clear they're building me a new bathroom. But, surprise! And it's not done yet. Good thing my neighbour, who is a star at watering my plants, was up and I used her loo. We talked for about an hour and I hit the sack at 3am. Then this happened:

5:50am : stupid downstairs neighbours back at it. Usual inner turmoil initiated in my head.

6:45am: called the cops. Screw it. Screw you. Shut up or get out, I've had it. The cops came right away, and would you believe these kids wouldn't open the door? Anyway, that made them shut up. I spoke to the administrator today and she says they are probably going to kick them out, not surprisingly. While I was gone, the girl above me, that's 2 floors above them, called the cops too.

7:45am: knock on the door, keys in the lock... it's the guy to fix my bathroom! "Sorry, I didn't think you were coming home until later today" "No, came home last night very late, please come back later". I knew I should have been more specific...

8:45am: knock on the door. "I'm busy!!!!!" I yelled. When he was gone I put up a sign saying "I came home at 2am, was woken up by my neighbours in #5 at 6am. Please come back after noon at the earliest. Thank you" [note from the Editor: translated from the bad French. Is it "ils m'on reveillée" or "ils m'ont reveillée"?]

Sometime before I got up at 11am, Mr. Fixit started working on the apartment upstairs, but compared to everything else, this was as pleasing to me as the sound of my dad snoring. I know this is weird, most people don't like snoring, but I have always found it a somewhat comforting noise. Most of the time.

Epilogue: I was given the key to an empty apartment I'm allowed to use for bathroom purposes. I'm even encouraged to leave my toileteries there since I have the key. Estimated time of job being done: 3 days. Any bets?

What a girl wants

As I sat in my Italian Fango Mud Bath at the Mermaid Spa in Sebastapol for the second half hour of my “treatment”, I had to admit that the only way to describe this intense self-pleasure was: love. Taking a bath in a commercial establishment, for US$65 an hour, at first may seem weird. I know it did to every man I told my plans to, including the Hertz reservations guy at the San Jose Marriott. And honestly, it even seemed a bit off to me when I initially sank in the tub and wondered why this was so different from doing it at home, given that I have no kids, pets or significant others to interrupt my me-time anyway.

At home when I take a tub, or anywhere besides the Mermaid Spa when I’ve prepared myself a hot bath, I’m usually not in it for more than 15 or 20 minutes, tops. I suppose I get bored, fidgety, and anxious to move on to the next thing, even when I have a book. Here, I had paid to give myself one full hour of pleasure, whether I enjoyed it or not. For the first half hour, I have to say, I was kind of looking forward to the woman walking in and telling me it was half over. I had been left in a room with a beautiful deep tub, candles, a glass of flavoured water, an apricot face scrub, a washcloth and a bucket of ice water to cool myself off with. Being the insufferable stoic that I am, I immediately told myself I wouldn’t be needing the ice water. Ha. Hahaha. HAHAHA. I was trying so hard to relax the way I imagined one should. Lying just so, as though when the woman came back I would be judged on how correctly I was relaxing. That’s so me.

After she did knock –and did not give me an approving or disapproving look, one way or the other- and the second half hour began, that’s when I really got into it. I threw the whole “ought to” idea of relaxation out the non-existent window and just gave in to whatever I wanted to do. I took pictures of myself (see my Flickr account for one), I sat up, I rolled over. I turned on the jets. I lay incredibly still and watched the reflection of the ceiling lamp until I felt I might not exist at all. I soaked the washcloth in ice water and just left it on my head. I was a mess. I was one, big, happy as love mess. It was amazing. And when the woman came back to tell me the hour was up, I couldn’t help but respond “noooo…”. I would have stayed in that tub forever. The only reason I accepted to get out was because she promised to end my hour with a foot rub and my feet were simply too tempted to pass it up. They were laughing, they were so happy.

Other highlights of Napa’s Weekend of Indulgence; finally getting a chance to tan by the hotel pool and sit in the wicked hot Jacuzzi; drink 3 glasses of champagne –sorry, sparkling wine- atop a French-style castle overlooking endless vineyards; rolling over the countryside in a Spyder convertible; eating bread and cheese in the park in Sonoma; and buying a floppy, colourful sunhat in a boutique full of beautiful things. Not to mention, spending the time with Elvira, the most awesomest travel companion.