Category: On the Road

May 20, 2013

NYC –> L.A.

I lived in New York for 14 years — even now, it’s strange to conjugate the verb in the past tense. But then I left as suddenly as I came. I’d been talking about moving back to L.A. to be near my family for years. When my father was hospitalized at the end of April (he’s better now, thanks), it was very easy for the apple to pick up and return to the tree.

Packing and unpacking 14 years worth of stuff has been an intense, exhausting process. Whenever you move, you are forced to sort through all of the things that represented hopes you once had — the electric guitar that never came out of its blue fur-lined box, the ice cream maker, the avant-garde dress with sculpted shoulder pads, a plastic bag filled with various international bills and coins. Then you decide which dreams come with you and which get left behind.

I had thought about doing ALL THE THINGS! I have ever wanted to do in New York during my final weeks there, but I didn’t. Besides, I told myself, I’ll be back for a stay in July. I couldn’t bear to do a goodbye tour. New York is part of my DNA. How do you say goodbye to yourself?

But here’s where I sat today at a friend of a friend’s house, sipping mango lemonade and seltzer in a sun-warmed wicker chair in front of a blooming jacaranda tree in Beachwood Canyon. (I don’t even know where Beachwood Canyon is. I have to look it up on a map when I get a chance.) Down below, the neighbors across the street had put a ceiling fan out on top of their garbage can, and its wide wooden blades spun lazily in the breeze’s lick. Just left of the frame stood a house-tall rubber tree, its broad, perfectly ovate leaves like something out of a child’s chalk drawing. My friends’ toddlers had their own table out on the deck, tucked behind the long picnic table we adults sat at to enjoy a brunch of quiche, a lively salad, and the kind of fragrant ruby strawberries you can get everywhere in California.

I’ve been starting my mornings with a run around the neighborhoods I’m staying in, marveling at my hometown’s blowsy fecundity. A leisurely jog around my block alternates between the scent of night jasmine, baby pink tea roses, and snowy gardenias from a blooming bush as tall as I am. Jewel-toned bougainvillea pours down brick walls like winking sari cloth drying in the sun. The studded orange trees’ boughs shrug, ambivalent that nobody comes to unburden them of their heavy fruit. From my barrio in San Gabriel Valley to the sidewalk-less, steep curves of Bel-Air, the same sun shines hard upon all of L.A.

It’s hot out here. I’m diving in.

October 27, 2012

Hudson 2012

Young Petra finds herself aroused and frightened by the buttless dog at the end of the strangely rigid leash.

Judy and Petra play ball in the front yard.

Here is a pic of Viv’s parents, Heej and Francis. I took this photo the first year we came here. They’re sitting at the picnic table behind the barn – you can just make them out through the screen door. It’s hard to believe I met them for the first time right here in Hudson when we went to pick them up from the Amtrak station. And now they have this gorgeous son, Viv, who makes a lot of demands when he’s hungry but is otherwise quite an easygoing and charming housemate.

I wonder if I’ll ever introduce someone new to this house and bore them with the memories and inside jokes we’ve accrued over the past seven years.

June 17, 2012

Ride to Montauk 2012

This was my first time doing the Ride to Montauk and, I have to say, I can’t wait to do it again. Though thousands of people participate, it never felt too crowded – at any given moment, I was only aware of 2-10 cyclists (except at the rest stops, of course). And cycling through the Hamptons is as good as traveling in a foreign country – albeit one where everyone drives really expensive convertibles, the streets are lined with 25-foot hedges and impeccably-manicured hydrangeas, and the gigantic mansions are just empty, cubical glass figurines that stare off into the eternity of the Atlantic. There was so much unmarred eye candy along the entire ride. The scents along the route were wonderful, too, switching between freshly mowed grass, natural floral perfume, and the sea. Bonus: you don’t actually have to talk to anybody who lives there to enjoy their incredible landscape.

I had originally hoped to do the century, but after a bad bout of food poisoning that really only resolved itself on Friday, I worried I was going to be too dehydrated. So I joined my friend Raymond for the 70-mile ride (74 miles by my odometer); I figured that if I were to die of thirst, at least he’d be there to drag my body to the sidewalk and tell my mom.

In the end, 74 miles were plenty for me. Though most of the ride was quite flat, there is one very daunting-looking bridge sometime before the famous pie rest stop. (That Briermere Farms pie is truly excellent – it’s not just run-of-the-mill farmers market fools’ pie. Flaky crust, generous on the fruit, not too sweet.) And then the last five miles have some short but steep hills that were OMFG mentally tough so close the finish. But I powered over them! And I’m very proud. I couldn’t imagine doing 30 more miles on top of that, but maybe I’ll try it next year. However, doing the 74-mile route meant that I got to sleep in a bit since we didn’t have to start driving to Mastic-Shirley until 7AM.

Some n00b advice:

Padded bike shorts – they should be mandatory. Esp. if you don’t want to turn your nether regions into mashed turnips. Even if you do wear them, expect to feel very butt-hurt by the end of the ride.
You won’t be eating a proper meal until the end of the ride. The rest stops are for bananas, water, and, of course, a few slices of pie. Too much eating can make you uncomfortable, so keep it light.
Next time, I’m wearing sleeves – I got terrible sunburn on my shoulders.
On that note, wear sunscreen! And lip protectant. (My lips always burn first.)
It’s pretty cool, weatherwise, up in Montauk. Pack a sweater in your bag. And a towel and toiletries for the best hot shower of your life in the Porta-Kleens (not joking).
If you register early, you only have to wait on one line to put your bike into the truck. Seems worth the $8.
Bring your wristband to bike pick-up so they can identify you as the owner. Otherwise, you’ll get into an argument with the bike guards who are just trying to make sure no one steals the hundreds of bikes they’ve got lined up on 10th Ave.

Some people complained about headwind this year, but I didn’t think it was so bad. I experienced far worse in Provence and Gotland. Of course, much credit goes to my beautiful baby bike. A road bike with clips and a computer makes so much more sense when you’re doing a long ride like that, uninterrupted by stoplights and traffic. By the end of the 74 miles, I felt as much love for it as one can feel for a possession.

What ride should I try next?

UPDATE: Fauna I totally forgot to write about: I saw a turtle crossing the road quickly and with purpose (smart!); I saw a deer emerge from my side of the road and only to get hit by a pool truck on the other side of the road (I literally went, “Aww, deer…OH MY GOD!”); the Hamptons have such pretty red-shouldered birds.

October 19, 2011

I left my heart in Mpumalanga

I had never really thought about visiting Africa. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but it just never occurred to me. I travel for food and I knew nothing about the food cultures of the entire continent, save some info on northern Africa. So when this opportunity to travel to South Africa for work came up, I was excited to go, but not that excited.

Maybe that’s why it completely blew my head open. Really. I came home and told Doug about my trip and I started to cry. I was at work this morning telling my co-worker about it and I started to cry. (And those of you who know me know that I am not the kind of person who cries at work.) I feel like my heart has been cracked open and scrambled â€” but in a magnificent way. And I’ve only just scratched the surface of the tiniest mote of Africa’s dust. I can’t wait to learn more and see more and visit more. It’s the birthplace of humanity, people!

There’s much to discuss overall because South Africa is a totally fascinating place with a still shocking recent history, a real masala of cultures, and a ringing energy. But I have to talk about the magic of the veld first.

I feel compelled to write about this right now because I never want to let this feeling go. My trip was filled with these vaporous, ephemeral moments that I knew could never be captured in photos. I knew all I could do was to take a long, strong hit off them, hold my breath, and try to make the memories seep into my bloodstream.

Kruger National Park and the Singita Game Reserves look the way Africa looks in the movies — Rumpelstiltskin-spun straw; arid, ruddy dirt; crooked, threadbare marula trees. The sunlight charges the dusty air with yellow gold in the late afternoon. Its rays turn into white gold as the sun begins to set in the late afternoon, casting long, silver-lined shadows on the grass. Then the last light of the day burnishes rose gold as a fuchsia sun sets the horizon on fire. The light is unreal.

And then the moon! The moon, which appears simultaneously in the sky with the sun only on full moon nights, pops up on the horizon as intense and bright as lava. As it crosses the night sky, it turns platinum white.

(I swear, below, that bright thing is the moon!)

I stayed in South Africa for ten days trying to inhale as much of the country as I could. During my final evening game drive at the Singita Sabi Sand Game Reserve, we had seen everything you could want to see: a pack of nine rhinoceroses placidly grazing new grass like paleolithic lawn mowers. A herd of cape buffalo 200 deep, their Gothic black valkyrie horns cutting through the sterling light. Lions lolling in an empty, sandy riverbed with dusty manes and full stomachs. Surprisingly stocky, placid giraffes. A sleek, calm leopard wearing a collar of spots around its neck, its tongue hanging limp in its panting mouth. A family of a dozen elephants, from a (relatively) tiny two-month-old calf drinking water between the legs of the clan matriarch to a young bull who stood right next to the vehicle for an eye- and nostril-ful of our Land Rover. Sometimes it was so quiet you could hear the buzzing of a single mosquito. Other times the cacophony could give a Lower East Side street a run for its money. I could never have imagined how much richer my life would be for having seen these things. There’s something so enchanting about hanging out with the animals and seeing them (almost) as they should always be. It isn’t just the peace of knowing that humans have given these animals a wild haven; it’s also the safe space that the animals grant to you as you observe them.

Elephants at Sabi Sand from Ganda Suthivarakom on Vimeo.

My field guide, Marc Alkema (left), is an empathic, passionate veld dweller. He’s been a guide for 12 years; the David Attenborough narration was fantastic, of course, but so was the feeling of absolute security I felt with him, even around the big game. There are few pleasures greater than to be in the care of someone who knows and loves what they do. I can’t thank him enough for sharing his world with me.

You know what’s awesome? Being reminded that there are still plenty of things in this world that can move me to tears.

Have you heard of the African wild dog? They’re an endangered species; farmers shoot them because they fear for their livestock. They’re incredible predators with an 80% strike rate. They’re sometimes called “painted wolves” because of their distinct mottled markings. They trot with light feet and instead of barking, they communicate with this distinct, high-pitched wheeze.

This ostrich had the most amazing gait. It looked like a pinheaded model with long, knock-kneed gams and a voluminous, feathery bolero around its shoulders. She took one look at us, turned at the end of the catwalk, and sashayed away.

Hyenas — way more charming than they’re portrayed in popular culture. The cubs are super cute and puppy-like. Here, they’ve made a den in an old termite hill, the tops of which always point north, like a good cool-temp apartment.

Warthogs look like heshers with mullets and chops.

Did you know that leopards can carry twice their weight up into trees? Here, a leopard has pulled the body of an impala up, hanging its neck from the crook of this tree. Can you see it? They do this to keep their food from the hyenas (though sometimes lions scavenge their kills, too).

The moment that broke me happened night before I had to leave. We were driving back to the lodge when we came to a hill where a blubbery boysenberry hippo was enjoying his nightly meal, chomping on grass and paying no mind to the traffic jam he was causing. He finally mozied away and we crested the hill, driving down into the dry stone bed of a low stream. There were large, glass-like puddles of still water between wide, flat rocks. Marc cut the engine and Louis, our tracker, turned off the floodlight he had been using to sweep for nocturnal animals. The cool night air enveloped us, and without the sound of the Land Rover, the full-scale orchestra of bush sounds poured into our ears — the snorts and guttural, staccato woofs of the hippos; the low, wooded croak of toads; the high-stringed chirps of the huge katydid populace.

I turned to my left and saw what Marc knew was there – thousands of fireflies bobbing and sparkling, their phosphorescent tails glowing bluish-green at eye level. The insects’ spectacular light show blended seamlessly with the stars of the southern hemisphere — the southern cross and Scorpio and Aries and the pearly smear of the Milky Way twinkling all around us in an infinite curve. It was a moment of beauty I wanted to sear into my heart forever. I’ll never, ever forget it.

This experience made me grateful for those precious moments of splendor and reminded me how generous the world can be with them when you pay attention. I cried quite a bit that night and I cried again the morning I had to leave. On our way from the airport, the man in my shuttle with kind eyes tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I was moved to see you so touched by Africa. We all are. Is this your first time?” he asked.

I nodded sheepishly.

“Well,” he said, “I know it won’t be your last.”

June 22, 2011

Cool ———- Creepy

There’s a guy walking down 4th Ave. about 10 feet ahead of me. He turns around to look at me.

GUY: Excuse me. You’re gorgeous.

ME: [laughing] Thank you.

We walk about five more steps.

GUY: Can I give you my number?

ME: [laughing] No, thanks.

We walk two more steps.

GUY: Well, I had to ask.

We continue walking up 4th Ave., he about 15 paces ahead of me. He doesn’t turn.

We reach the end of the block. Dammit! Now I feel weird. I can’t decide if I should slow down or not.

I duck into the gas station to hide for a few minutes, wondering, am I being weird? Or is he being weird?

So who IS the weirdo here?

June 20, 2011

The best canelÃ© I have ever had

This is the remainder of The Best CanelÃ© I Have Ever Had. It is the canelÃ© that finally made me understand what the BFD with canelÃ©s is. The satisfying crunch of the fluted, caramelized edges is keyâ€”makes the contrast with the rummy clafoutis center that much better. It was crisp and brown on the outside, boozy and soft on the inside, kind of like me after my trip to France.

Here’s the thingâ€”we got it at the Boulangerie Paul on rue de Buci. I know it’s a chain, and you don’t have to believe me on this, but I’m telling you, it was amazing. For the rest of the trip, we bought and ate canelÃ©s wherever we came across them and none lived up to the one pictured here. We even went to another Paul near our hotel and the canelÃ© was just like all other canelÃ©s I’ve had, which is to say soft and boring and WTF? Makes me want to go to Bordeaux and root out the original.

I’ve heard there are good ones at Pierre HermÃ©, but I didn’t get over there this trip. Anyway, if you’re near rue de Buci, pick one up and tell me what you think, you lucky bastard.

Paul
17 and 21 rue de Buci
6th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 55 42 02 23

UPDATE: Look, an NYC canelé crawl! Looks like I have to make a trip to Balthazar, though that extra-dark Michael Allen one looks like the jam, too. This San Francisco canelé looks pretty amazing, too (via Chow).

June 20, 2011

My Parisian affairs

I didn’t take any vacation in 2010. It’s true! I tried to, but then I had to come back to work to resolve some issues and then – poof! – 2010 was over.

My friend Jenny and I had been talking about going to Paris and Provence pretty much since my first trip there in 2009, when I fell in love with the City of Light. So when we bought our tickets in the beginning of the year, the trip felt millennia away. But I put my nose to the grindstone, looked up for a second and – poof! – it was time to go!

My love for Paris has no context, really. I was never one of those English majors who wanted to chase Hemingway’s ghost through the Left Bank. Nor have I ever been an art nerd interested in dedicating long afternoons to the Centre Pompidou or the Louvre. I’m not a fashion fiend or a chef chaser.

I just really like soaking in the beauty of the place. I decided that for this trip, I didn’t need a fancy reservation or a firm itinerary; I just wanted to cycle around, pick up each scene between my index finger and thumb and gobble it up.

What’s so great about Paris? I think it’s the life I can imagine for myself when I look at all of these people. Parisians aren’t just gorgeous, they’re confident, assured about their beauty. I want to be them AND to be with them. My French is trÃ¨s mauvais, which means I really have no idea what goes on in their inner lives; maybe that’s why I can crush on them so hard. As I observe them, there’s a montage of Parisian scenes I sort of mentally deposit myself into.

I’m the French counter guy at the Rose Bakery. My accented English is close to impeccable because I practice every day with the American pastry chefs who man the ovens, baking coffee mug-sized muffins and gluten-free loaf cakes for the many tourists who have breakfast here. I scoop surprising sides like black sesame roasted potatoes and radish-cucumber salad into takeaway boxes for the locals at lunchtime. I’m having an affair with the wispy English rose of a waitress. I love her mascaraed eyes, her tiny waist, and the way she pronounces “assiettes des legumes” with a grass snake hiss.

I’m that teenage girl at the Tuileries straddling my boyfriend behind the hedges and making out. What do you mean, aren’t I embarrassed? OF COURSE I’m not embarrassed. What’s embarrassing about TRUE LOVE? I’m going to put our lock on the Pont des Arts and throw the key into the Seine. If anyone tries to cut our lock I’ll throw myself into the river, too. I MEAN IT.

I’m Auguste Rodin living in my big ass mansion with my big ass rose garden and my big ass hedges for my big ass statues. Ne me dÃ©rangez pas! Je pense.

I’m that young lady in the tulip skirt sitting at the bar by myself. I came to Marcel, a cafe on the most beautiful, dappled street tucked at the top of the Montmartre. The wooden cubbies on the wall are lined with cans of Heinz Baked Beans and Tabasco sauce for purchase; it’s like a little bit of Williamsburg in Paris. I cozied up to a plate of creamy moules with golden frites and a glass tumbler full of Eton mess, brimming with mara des bois. That cute waiter has asked me twice if I want a coffee. I wonder if my French is convincing enough for him to think I’m from here.

I’m that dazzling racehorse of a woman who joins her businessman companions halfway through their lunch at Marcel. I’m in my early forties; I’m sleeping with the older businessman, but I could nail the younger one with a single come hither look. No one has ever rocked a heathered V-neck and belted white jeans like I can. My tousled auburn bedhead is richly striated and subtle – sure, it’s my own hair color, artistically speaking. I’m as thin as a centime except for a few strategic slopes and valleys. Really, darlings, this is nothing; you should have seen me sunning in Saint-Tropez.

I’m in kitten heels, stripes, and Ray-Bans riding a Velib’ bike* to work in this glorious weather. My perma-pursed lips are a little orange-red heart punctuating every sentence and my wavy hair is perched in a haphazard pile atop my head. I’m going to pick up a baguette on the way home â€” any baguette from any corner shop â€” which will come in a 10″-sack that only protects half of the baton’s length from the elements, preserving the crackle-chew of its crust. I’ll also grab some dark and gamy raspberries from my favorite greengrocer. He’ll pack them neatly in a paper bag for me so they don’t fly around the bike’s wire basket.

I’m the Middle Eastern man steeping thÃ© a la menthe in bulbous copper kettles all day, perfuming the air around the Canal St. Martin. I pour the sweetened, fragrant tea into little plastic cups and top with a teaspoonful of toasted almonds. Go ahead, take a delicate fleur d’oranger honeyed almond paste sweet, too. You know you want one. My fluffy Maltese sits by my stand and barks at my customers all day, but nobody takes her very seriously.

I’m the bespectacled, scarf-wearing, bald hipster in for a late night dinner of dessert and Gauloises at Le Dauphin. Thank god for the small plates in this place; my gut wouldn’t be able to handle a whole meal next door at Le Chateaubriand. My blue chambray looks smashing against the cool gray marble of the Rem Koolhaus room. But those mirrors, those mirrors! Trop de la vÃ©ritÃ©, I tell you. Turn this room on its side, take 15 kilos off me, and it would be just like that summer I spent up my nose when I was 21. You know, if it weren’t so unfashionable to be this fat, I’d have that dreamy squid ink risotto, its hot ooze as black as my heart. As it is, I’ll content myself with a strawberry rhubarb crumble showered with elderflowers, or a bit of this cool frozen fermented milk with olive oil and thyme. Mademoiselle, another adorable bottle of the pink bulles, please.

I’m a teacher living on Rue des Rosiers in a rooftop apartment with a slanted ceiling and two balconies. Would you like to come over for some cold rosÃ©? Ah, thank you for the beautiful gariguette strawberries. Let me spoon some crÃ¨me fraÃ®che into a bowl for dipping.

Let’s walk across the Pont Marie to Le Petit Pontoise. It’s hard to beat the sunset behind the tented fingers of Notre Dame. It’s late; I don’t think we’ll need a reservation. It’s a Monday night, and things are pretty quiet on the left bank. Look, a table out front for us! What beats a warm camembert with honey and almonds? Pass me those sweet, tawny crevettes and cool, tender haricots verts. Mmm…taste this velvety foie de veau and mashed potatoes! Let’s split a bottle of white burgundy and sip the final dregs of cornflower from May’s 23:00 sky.

***

Rose Bakery
30, rue Debelleyme
3rd Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 44 78 08 97
Closed Mondays

Le Dauphin
131, avenue Parmentier
11th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 55 28 78 88

Le Petit Pontoise
9, rue de Pontoise
5th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 43 29 25 20

Hotels in Paris can be tough. My last trip to Paris was spent in the dankest hostel with loud, messy college kids climbing up and down bunk beds with NBA player feet. For this trip, we spent most nights in the clean Hotel Turenne le Marais, which was fine except that the room was a shoebox, the two narrow beds about the size of electric guitar cases. On our last night, we stayed at the charming Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais just around the corner, which was a touch quieter and roomier. It seems to be quite popular, so it can be hard to book a room, but I really enjoyed our brief stay there and recommend it.

Hotel Jeanne d’Arc le Marais
3, rue de Jarente
4th Arrondissement
+33 (0)1 48 87 62 11

View Paris 2011 in a larger map

*You CAN rent Velib’ bikes with a chipless American credit card! The machines take American Express cards only (neither my Mastercard debit nor credit card worked). It costs 8 Euros for a 7-day membership and 29 Euros for a one-year membership (which is amazing). The stations are everywhere. Download the Velib’ app to find the bike station near you. In well-populated areas late at night, it can be hard to find an empty parking spot for the bike. Don’t fret, thoughâ€”the next bike station is usually not more than a few blocks away. The bikeshare program makes so much sense in a dense city of Paris’s scale. I love that you can park a bike, walk a ways, then pick up a different bike wherever you want to. Drivers are quite aware of cyclists and people seem to follow the traffic rules (including stopping at red lights). One thing to know: while people love to ride their Velib’ bikes down the hill from Montmartre, not many people like to take the bikes up the hill TO Montmartre, which means there are lots of empty bike stations up there.

And I’ll tell you who I’m not â€” I’m not this lame-ass tourist couple sitting on the steps of the SacrÃ©-CÅ“ur with interlocked arms reading aloud from a single copy of Le Petit Prince. Pardonnez moi, I just vommed all over them.

May 21, 2011

France, Je Viens!

AAAARRRRGGGH! I’m going to France on Sunday! AAAAAAAARRRRRGHGHHHGasdlf jalsdkfj!

I can’t believe it’s already here. I’ve been planning this trip for ages. Now that I’m only two days away, the Dominican lunch counter beef stew I had for dinner refuses to yield to my digestive system. Despite my bust of a trip across Gotland, the idea of a bike tour still thrills me. This time, my very fit pal Jenny is coming along to shame me when my doughy ass meets a hill. We’ll be going to Paris, then taking a train to Avignon and doing a self-guided tour there. (It’s the same trip that was written up in the NYT a few years ago.)

I bought a book that assured me I could learn French in 15 minutes a day. It looked pretty good; alas, I only looked at it once. And I don’t even remember what I learned.

My iPhone is dead so I think I will go without it which I’m kind of psyched about, though I realize it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have working GPS. This means no tweeting, which I also think will be good for me. Perhaps I will get better at forming thoughts with fully-enunciated words and proper serial commas. Also, I will be relying on the old point-and-shoot for pics. It’ll be old-school EDOW up in dis bizzzz.

How do I pack for 4 days in Paris (Posh Spice) and 4 days cycling in Provence (Sporty Spice)?? How do I leave enough room for the edible souvenirs I will bring back? Should I bring my pannier or leave it? Will the bike I rent even have a rack??

The weather is in the mid-70s in Paris. It’s in the low 80s in Avignon. I just bought three pairs of pants with elastic waistbands. BRING ON LE BEURRE.

I have no restaurant reservations anywhere and I am not eating anywhere fancy (except maybe Chateaubriand if we can get a 10pm table).

GAHHH! France!

January 6, 2011

Things I think about when reading bleak literature

Cans I would be extra-psyched about coming across while foraging the post-apocalypse wasteland of The Road:

Canned pears! In “lite” syrup, of course. I love that soft, grainy texture and their non-flavor flavor. Bonus: pop-top, so no rusty shiv skills required to open.

Condensed milk! Pour some in the kid’s coffee — not like he has to worry about caffeine stunting his growth.

Pumpkin! Crust or no crust, I can’t resist that specific pasty texture. There’s probably lots of fiber in there, too — like a pipe cleaner for underused plumbing.

British Heinz baked beans! Also pop-top. Would be awesome even mopped up with a biscuit made of pond water and ground meal sieved of rat turds using some window screen. Must teach my son about the superiority of the English stuff — the American beans are too sweet.

***

And what I would toss to the raggedy old man in the road who tries to steal our shopping cart:

Canned peas! Blech! Gassy smell, grainy texture, weird vegetal sweetness. This mushy peas business is where the English get it all wrong.

–

Actually, as a kid, I kept an old teal Jansport backpack in my closet filled with food in case of an earthquake emergency. I think it had a big can of grapefruit juice, a tin of bamboo shoots, pickled mustard greens, and whatever else I found while rooting around in my dad’s pantry. I thought I would save my family with my forward thinking in hoarding provisions. At the first sign of The Big One, I’d dash into my closet, grab my pack, ride the quake out in my door frame, and run out of the rubble with enough food to feed all four of us for…6 hours.

June 14, 2010

Memphis and Me, part 1: Don’t Be Cruel

“Don’t stop thinking of me

Don’t make me feel this way

Come on over here and love me

You know what I wanted you to say.”

– “Don’t Be Cruel”, Elvis Presley

Your first impression of a city is often the bird’s eye view you get from the airplane. That initial picture can be a Welcome! postcard or a portentous vision of dread. It can be your preliminary study of an alien land, or it can be the final home frame at the end of a roundtrip. LAX is made of traffic jam strands, like endless strings of white and red Christmas lights. In my favorite view, the one by New York’s La Guardia Airport, Manhattan hurls its glass and steel points at one side of the plane, the weight of passengers’ craning necks seeming to tilt the flying machine into its turn towards the runway.

Once we cut through the storm clouds, Memphis was a surprise of bushy green trees, as zaftig as afros. The city has built itself quietly around the undulating curves of the puce Mississippi. It struck me that this aerial shot must have made Elvis Presley’s heart lurch every time he came home.

Like so many Memphis pilgrims, the King was a main draw for me. My Pau was/is/always has been obsessed with Elvis. He was all we listened to in the car, with occasional interludes by Paul Anka and Chinese pop star Theresa Teng. And it’s not like my dad was a completist, with B-sides and albums. No, he listened to all of the hits he’d been listening to since he was young, and he has listened to them on repeat ad nauseum for half a century.

So it was funny that flying into Memphis made me recall a weird obsession I had during my childhood. I thought that I was the reincarnation of Elvis Presley. The math didn’t quite work out – he died a few months before I was born. But I guess like every little girl, I wanted more of my father’s attention – and what better way to get it than to imagine that it was MY music he loved, that mine was the voice that accompanied him on every drive, that mine was the sound he never tired of, that I was the limitless source of joy and comfort to him.