Brew fest

Yesterday we went to the apple orchard again to swim and spend the day brewing beer. The smell of warm barley and hops filled the air while we ate cookies and went swimming. Why was I so convinced that I would never want to live in California? It must be the lack of good coffee shops.

On Day One of thesis writing I walked into what could potentially be the coolest coffee shop in town: an old railroad building with open rafters and stone exterior walls. The room was full of coffee smells and sounds and coffee people. I dropped off my backpack at a table near a window and looked down to make sure there was an outlet. There was a laminated sign covering my outlet that read DO NOT PLUG IN. If you plug in you will be asked to leave. I thought to myself for a second, then proceeded scan every outlet in the room: all covered up. I was offended.

Realizing in an instant that this would NOT be my coffee shop for the summer, I walked to the counter, ordered a coffee and asked What's up with the outlets? In the most friendly and curious voice I could find. The barista gave me an unfriendly and lengthy explanation. People will stay too long, we don't want cords hanging everywhere, it is a liability issue, it uses our electricity... thinking, this must be one messed up city, maybe it is city code?!?!... I asked are all the coffee shops in Santa Rosa like that?

Yup. You might be able to plug in at Borders or something.

Two cups of coffee and a dead computer later I left and went on a mission to find other coffee shops. So, this morning I spent hours outside on a patio to myself with internet access and great organic shade grown coffee listening to a fountain, knowing that I could walk in and plug my computer in at any moment. Yup whatever. Cool railroad coffee shop isn't so cool anymore. They might be getting a letter soon as to what coffee shops are supposed to be like: like the ones in Portland.

Apple orchard

Today I found myself paddling across Tomales Bay by kayak with a group of friends. We scared up some boats from the guy who knows how to get things, while Sea Bass and Caitlin packed us a lunch. We set out like a band of pirates across the bay, over the kelp bed where the dragons (and sharks!!!) hide and paddled to our new island.

Climbing and sardines and kelp wars, a game of big booty and 1 beer later, we paddled to the other side of the bay for lunch. Sea Bass called Stick War! And the boys all grabbed sticks and fought to the death. We bouldered around the crumbling rock, using barnacles for foot holds and scraping our feet against the stone for balance. Scraped bodies, breathing in the sun we were happy as clams.

We fought a mean wind on the way back, though the thrill of surfing waves and feeling the swells of the water outweighed the burning in our arms and frustration of being blown backwards and in circles. The other double kayak almost sank; we submarined ours in the back of a wave and almost went in.

We finished the day with a swim in the pool and a soak in the hot tub in the apple orchard at Sea Bass's. he played bar tender and we threw apples into the pool for apple bobbing, and pulled them directly off of the tree for a taste of early summer bitter sweetness. It was the kind of day you want to have everyday. The kind of day spent playing with good friends in the sun, a kiss under the apple trees. It felt good to feel the breeze on my mostly bare skin, to close my eyes and feel the sun and see the warm pink glow of the afternoon on my eyelids; to breath in the all the smells of warming raspberry leaves and grass and apples.

A game of ultimate frisbee carried us to a sushi bar where we filled our bellies. On the walk back we picked apples and plums and blackberries for dessert before we headed home to wash the remainder of the salt off our bodies and climb into bed.

transition

There is a special poignancy in the moment of transition, which has its analogue in the pleasure of lingering in a doorway, the transition between spaces. The coming of the Midwestern spring, the setting of the sun, the turning of the leaves in New England, the arrival of the first heavy snow, all heighten the senses of the passage of time.

-kevin lynch

Admittedly the setting of the sun sometimes brings a sense of excitement and warmth, but not always. Sometimes it brings with it a sense of urgency. A reminder of the things I have not accomplished that day, though time seems to have passed without my noticing until that very moment. It sometimes brings a sense of loneliness i can't explain, a need for introspection. Once the last traces of the sun are gone and the stars are shining, or the moon highlights the trees, i'm happy again. It is a feeling I don't understand but one that has always been with me. Content with time, realizing that the day isn't really over and time has not stopped i carry on and wonder about why I sometimes feel this way, even though I fight it with all my might. So I tell myself 'Just walk through the door, and the stars will come out. The transition never feels good.'

I fight it like I'm fighting the familiar settling sense of loneliness of a new place without close friends. I always think i'm going to do it right this time. I'm going to be crazy and independent and meet people and get involved. I remind myself as I always do in a new place that my close friends have not gone anywhere; I can call them, write to them and share with them everything I'm thinking of. I should feel fulfilled. I've met a ton of people and explored the city. Last night I found myself with a group of friends at the farmers market urban climbing then sharing beer and stories and planning a sea kayak trip for this weekend. I wrestled in the Ivy and talked about going climbing at the gym tonight. Yesterday Jerry dog and I drove to my grandma's old house and walked along the creek we played in as kids and scoped out bike routes. But the days are filled with scheming of how to be more independent before I drive my few friends crazy with neediness. Also, I don't like being needy. Also, I like being independent and crazy. Also I like being busy and motivated and connected. I've talked to a lot of people, but have not made any good connections. Craigslist friends, solo bike adventures in hopes of meeting new people to add to our group of friends, work opportunities? But how then will I finish my thesis?

don't get me wrong. I'm enjoying myself, but new places always seem to be more challenging for me than for other people. how do people make connections so quickly? It is just not one of my greatest skills, but i'm working on it.

Time. Sometimes it just takes too long for my taste. The doorway seems to last forever in a new place.

Day one

Today is day one of thesis writing. My goal for the summer is to finish writing, present my thesis at the beginning of fall term and actually graduate.

I sit here torn constantly between the desire to get to know this place, to create a community for myself and to begin to finish what I started 3 and half years ago. So, today, instead of exploring all the new bike trails I've heard about and read up on and mapped out, instead of looking for more cool coffee shops to work in, instead of exploring the city or going swimming or wine tasting, I am going to start to write. We'll see how this goes.

fake graduation

I spent the weekend surrounded by some of my favorite people. Not because I was actually graduating, but because I decided to walk in our graduation ceremony. I invited only a few people, no fancy invitations involved. My house was stuffed full of family, both the kind that is related and the kind that isn't. I love them all. The weekend was a crazy blur of new beginnings, old friends and warm fuzzies.

We snuggled on the floor of my old house in a big dog pile and talked until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. The morning was consumed by goodbyes disguised as conversations about when I'll be moving back to Oregon. But for now i'm in California stuffing my bag full of maps and information about wine and bike trails and blues festivals and farmers markets. I'm in California where it is sunny everyday, I can swim and get sunburnt and complain about how hot it is. I'm in California where I can ride my bike past hills of grapes to the ocean and back home to a certain someone I never want to leave.

a different kind of warrior

The end of the term is often accompanied by a strange mix of nostalgia, excitement and the desperate need to cram 27 breakfasts, drinks, dinner parties and costume parties into the four days between finals week obligations and summer plans.

The warrior party was one of the greatest uses of time in the last few days before summer is officially here. The theme was open to interpretation, the party: sure to be full of design students with crazy ideas of what 'warrior' might mean. With 5 hours notice i thought for a while, continuing on with my work until only a couple hours were left to decide on a theme and a costume.

The process is usually a fun one. It often involves trying on my entire wardrobe in inappropriate ways, and searching for tools, string, wax, footwear, hair accoutrements from the shed or searching for other ordinary things to use in unordinary ways. I was simultaneously searching for stray bike parts for Julie's bike warrior costume as I thrashed my bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, tool shed and living room for my costume.

My black skirt became a cape. A belt became a warrior shoulder sling. Another belt was a knife sling for the upper thigh. The outfit was designed around the need to wear my grandma's 1960's red retro roller skates. I wasn't sure if I could in fact remember how to roller skate, but as I searched for the rest of my costume, I stumbled around the house spinning or running into walls to stop my momentum for practice.

Jerry was confused.

The party itself was a hit. Warriors of all kinds everywhere. Bike warriors, a whole clan of Q-tip warriors, sexy warriors, traditionally painted warriors, 80's warriors. I was cut by a real machete, I could have been taken out by a seriously deadly bike warrior weapon in battle mode. I was bruised by my own knife.

we look fierce, don't we? :)

I could lie and say it was a very tame sort of warrior party, but I should admit that there was wrestling, sword fighting, dancing, roller-skating, singing, beer pong and general mayhem.

navigating grass blades completely by feel

In a conversation with a student recently we were talking about how motion evokes creative thought and introspection. A famous philosopher, and I can't remember who for my proper noun memory problem, said that the best thinking and writing is done while moving. So my student rides her bike with a microphone attached to her ipod and writes out loud.

I have thought of this conversation many times since and thought of how many times I have written what i thought would be a great post in my head while biking, driving or walking, and noticing when I sat down at my computer I just felt.... blank.

I was thinking of this as we walked through a forest in Point Reyes with motion only perceptible by feel and sound, as the night had fallen and the moon was obscured by heavy fog. It must not be only visual cues of motion, but a complete haptic sense of motion that evokes creative thought and introspection.

As we set out up the meadow path into the darkening night I learned from Devon and Andrew about the difference between trunk beer and trail beer, trail beer in hand.

Trunk beer is beer that lives in the trunk until set break at which point it walks with owners preferably to the train tracks to be ingested for a much cheaper price than set break beer.

Trail beer is self-explanatory. Andrew opened his, we traded, he opened his again and traded with Devon and pried the bottle cap off the last so that the beer I was originally holding ended up with Devon, I had Andrew's, and Andrew drank Devon's. Cheers to trail beer, it's the little things that make me smile.

The fog thickened as we wound our way through the trees and over the roots, identifying plants by smell and touch and vague silhouettes. The rhythm of our feet was only interrupted by the occasional misstep onto or into a root or into a puddle at which point the person in front would quietly call out "root" or "step up" or "hole" or "rock" or "puddle". We reached the meadow and the quiet light illuminated ghosts of giant trees at the meadow's edge.

The light colored path leading through the middle of the meadow faded into the forest again. And we followed this time completely by feel; Andrew leading, me in the middle and Devon in the back. There was almost no light. The only visible objects were Andrew's gray hoodie (if he was within 5 feet of me), my light colored jacket, the occasional sword fern on the trail edge or the trunks of nearby trees. All else was black. We walked in silence listening to our footsteps and the fog dripping off the trees or our legs brushing against the foliage if we began to veer off the path. It was as if we were walking with our eyes closed in an attempt to experience place by all other senses but sight.

We turned back to avoid missing the next trail and headed back towards the meadow this time in reverse order and this time with some familiarity of where the dips and the puddles and roots were and how far the meadow was by how far our feet had carried us and what direction we seemed to be walking, how close we seemed to be to some sort of solid wall we couldn't see.

The fog lifted as we neared the trailhead where we started and we looked up at the silhouettes once again of the trees.

Andrew asked me

-- what does that look like to you?

and as i had already been looking at that same tree and been thinking about it, I said immediately

--an alien with pigtails

he asked the same question of Devon

--a Bay