Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Ljubljana, Slovenia (December 14, 2013)

Not the greatest picture, but you get a glimpse of a
lovely near full moon, the fog wisps, the clock tower,
the castle, the hillside of lanterns, the charming
buildings, packed bustle of  the riverfront cafes, the
light adorned trees...
This city, the weeks prior to Christmas is nearly beyond description. Words burst through the mind; enchanted perhaps the most encompassing. Runner up, but not a word, is fairy-tale-esque. Given the Roman road ruins by the city center and the Wikipedia indication that records mention the township as early as 1125, the city is amazingly old.

But around the 15th century, the city entered its own Renaissance.  The center is a small castle a top what I imagine is a 300-400 foot hill; the hill is nearly surrounded, perhaps 300 degrees around, by a river. The river is lined with charming three to four story, hundreds of years old, buildings.

This time of year, with sun not yet having shown in the days I have been here, the light dim, a cold wet fog resting not far above, the city, at night, is nonetheless cheerful and merry beyond comprehension.

The streets, the buildings, the trees adorned by a spectacle of lights, the spectacle seemingly never ending, creeping upward with lanterns littering the hillside all the way to the beautifully and colorfully lit, though sometimes mysteriously obscured by fog, castle and clock tower.
The City Center.

Despite the 30 degree Fahrenheit temperature, the damp cobble-stoned streets, surprisingly filled with the warmly dressed and merry, are also lined by numerous vendors selling mulled wine, many selling food items, including roasted on the spot, warm, chestnuts.

Shops are closed in the evenings, but all restaurants and bars offer a lovely evening, and a shocking amount of much used outdoor seating.

The sounds are strange and sometimes too familiar. The language, Slovenian, is harsh and sounds to me more similar to Russian than their much closer Austrian neighbor’s language of German. However, the tones are all wrong. The language has all the harshness of Russian in the sounds, but the tone, volume, intonation is much softer to the English speaker’s ear. I would not say it is jovial, even for this time of year, but perhaps matter of fact in tone, contrary to Russian which always seems somewhat assaulting and annoyed. The town square had musicians playing everything from folky Serbian (neighbor country) music to Pink Floyd. Like I said, strange and sometimes too familiar.

Some of the river front around the castle.








The Slovenian’s are their version of meat and potato people.  Friday night, with four native Slovenia’s, we went for traditional Slovenian fare. This basically consisted of pork cook about twenty different ways and a cheese and egg noodle casserole. They have sausage, rolled loafs (a bread with pork throughout, perhaps six different varieties of pork preparation), something they called blood sausage which I would call haggis, a pork concoction which was pork with pieces of pork prepared otherways forced through it. Like I said, pork pork pork. There were consistently hints of Italy’s proximity in Slovenia food. From the very Italian coffee and coffee regiment, to the egg noodle casserole, to the pizza.
The city center from a little bit down the river.

And I am happy to say, the Slovenians love their desserts as much as I do. Again, the Italian influence apparent with panna cotta readily available, but almost everything consisted of a slim light pastry or cake substrate, topped with a nice creamy substance and powdered sugar. Their traditional dessert is roughly this collection of substances, in nine layers, and includes a sweetened poppy seed paste/jelly layer or two.

Finally, with a day off, I wandered the city. I walked into the souvenir shop. The young girl there welcomed me in Slovenian. But while I was there she slipped easily through Italian, French, and English to serve tourists. I asked; she is also fluent in German and can somewhat negotiate Spanish and Portuguese.

Everyone in Slovenia speaks English and not broken tongue-tied, word searching English. They slip into English without a thought and most speak it as fluently as someone who has lived in the US for years.  They start learning in school around aged 10, but I think the fact that nearly half of television and media is in English promotes the fluency. Not to mention almost all tourists speak English, even if they are from continental Europe. English is the somewhat the universally accepted international language.
I do not know why these guys were (fairies
perhaps?) hanging from the trees in the park,
but 
they were lively and festive.

The Slovenians are hundreds of generations of home bodies. These people do not move. It is unusual at thirty years old to live 15 miles from where you were born and where your parents have lived in since they were married. Most of the parents’ generation live on the land that their parents’ lived on. Non-urban Europeans don’t leave their little bubbles. A friend of mine, who lives in Switzerland, recently said, “I commute 35 minutes to work, but you have to understand, for a European, that is UNHEARD of. That is really far.”  For the Slovenians this is very true. I don’t have the statistics, but it certainly sounds to me that the people here probably spend over 95% of their lives with 20 miles of where they were born, perhaps an additional 4.9% within 100 miles.

Europeans cite language, culture, and international borders as the reason they stay. I understand that for me, moving 3000 miles away is not really a cultural, language or national adjustment whereas for them moving 100 miles might not only mean all those changes, but differs dramatically depending on direction, Italy (west) or Austria (north).  That reasoning doesn't really hold up to me, because they don’t even move to the other side of town.

But this is changing. I don’t think this will be true of the teenagers today, especially with their
The park full of the hanging, um...
I am not even sure what to call them.

expansive multiple language fluency and exposure to media in different languages. When you can watch TV in Italian, Slovenia, German or English…. It just does not seem that strange to move to somewhere where the people speak those languages, especially when German and Italian speaking countries are so close.  (I asked the break down, TV channels are roughly 50% English, 20% Italian, 20% German, 10% Slovenian.)

My time now in Slovenia is short… so I best be getting to breakfast of multiple sausage products and amazing Italian coffee.

A profound thank you to Matej Jaksa, my colleague, for a delightful time, sharing so much with me and enduring my endless questions. (And with the good humor to just start making things up. "Matej, what is the story behind that tepee thing?" His reply, "Oh that is the famous tepee monument, haven't you heard of it?" In reality it was just a covering to protect a bronze monument from the harsh winter cold, something that would never have occurred to this a warm blooded California girl.)

Stupid: The fact that I tried to get out of going to Ljubljana during the cold dark of winter.
Cool: The great fortune to have gone, somewhat against my will, during such an enchanted time.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Making My Way Home, Part 2 - The 43 Hour/Five-Flight Journey (written at various stages)

At some point, you start hoping more things will go wrong, just to make the story better....

Itinerary 1:
Ljubljana – Zurich
Zurich – Newark
Newark – LA
LA - SB

I left my hotel at 2:30 pm GMT on Sunday December 15th. I made it to the airport shortly thereafter. Upon arriving I was told my flight had been “merged” with another flight. This was their nice way of saying, we need to make another stop first. My SO anticipated dinner plans in Zurich with Louis and Pia (mentioned in my prior blog) were no longer possible as I was going to be making a stop in Frankfurt delaying my arrival some 2.5 hours and making a lovely Swiss fondue dinner, impossible.

Itinerary 2:
Ljubljana – Frankfort
Frankfort – Zurich
Zurich – Newark
Newark – LA
LA - SB


I promptly complained about this on Facebook as I was now taking five flights to get home. FIVE FLIGHTS! I was quickly informed by my friend on the ship that I debarked six days earlier, that had I stayed onboard for the Atlantic crossing, it not only would have taken more time to get home but I would have been seasick most of the way too. (Perspective achieved, suddenly five flights home didn’t seem so bad.)

I arrived and checked into the Day Rooms at Zurich Airport, at 9:45 pm GMT. (I love the Day Rooms in Zurich, a short walk within the airport to a place with all the necessary amenities of a hotel room, place to sleep, shower, at a reasonable price.)

At 4am GMT, my phone alerts me, my flight to Newark has been canceled. This baffled me 
because I had been telling people for a week, erroneously, I was scheduled to fly through Washington DC. I even had a conversation with my friend Kathy to see if we would be at Dulles at the same time as she too was scheduled to fly through DC. But United seemed to think I was scheduled to fly to Newark. So I get on the phone with United. Forty-five minutes later, I am flying through Washington DC.  It’s like I knew all along. If only United would have gotten with the program.

Itinerary 3
Ljubljana – Frankfort
Frankfort – Zurich
Zurich – DC
DC – LA
LA - SB

My new flight was an hour later, making my layover at Zurich, 13 hours, and my layovers in the US dangerously short but hopefully it would work out OK. (Of course you know it won't....)

I spent the morning working at the Swiss Lounge. The Swiss Lounge (frequent flyer lounge for Star Alliance members) has a cappuccino machine and Swiss chocolate, which really was all I felt was necessary. But being that the rest of the clientele was entirely men around 50, they also had food and beer. 

(Some noticed gender numbers during my travels: my flight from Istanbul to Ljubljana was 65 men and two other women. The Swiss Lounge was all men except one wife, and myself. )

Hour 20, I get on the plane in Zurich for a 10:30 am (GMT) departure.

And proceed to sit on the tarmac for two hours, ground stop due to fog.

I complain via email to my coworker that I don’t think I am ever going to get home. He mentions he hates Mondays and nothing is working. I agree as my entertainment system for my nine hour flight plus two hours on the tarmac is dead. This by the way was followed promptly by discovering the book I downloaded for the flight corrupt beyond use. Eleven hours on a plane with nothing to do. (How on earth did people take road trips with kids in the 1960's?)

Hour 32, I arrive in DC at 4:05 pm EST (10:05 pm GMT) which by the way, is exactly the same time as my flight to LA starts to board. I turn on my phone to an email from United. It says, “If you do not make your connection, you have been rebooked on the following flights. Please simply proceed to the new gates.”

Itinerary 4:
Ljubljana – Frankfort
Frankfort – Zurich
Zurich – DC
DC – Denver
Denver - SB

I cannot tell you how awesome I think that is. I open the United App and I have new boarding passes.  No hassle, no talking to people or waiting in the enormous customer service line I eventually passed, no discussion. Just done.

And it was a good thing as it took me another 90 minutes to make it through passport control where it was 95 degrees F, there were about 225 people in front of me, and by strange confluence, only five people behind me for all ninety minutes.

Due to the extreme wait in passport control, I would have missed the new flight too had the new flight, now to Denver, not also been delayed. (Yes really.)


So, I can’t tell you much more about the trip home as I slept the rest of the way, including from the gate where I landed in Denver to the connecting flight gate to SB. I am sure I made it from one gate to the other, since I woke up in Santa Barbara, so it must have happened….

Hour 43, December 17th, 9 am GMT, I arrive in SB.

And no big surprise here, my luggage did not.

I go to report my missing luggage. There is a line of five people. I decide I am too tired. I am really too tired to care.

It has been 43 hours since I left my hotel in Slovenia. I want a shower to wash off the sweaty 90 minute wait in passport control.  I take a cab home ignoring my lost luggage entirely.

The next morning, I drive to the airport to pick up my luggage which I am 95% convinced will simply miraculously be there. (This comes from years of travel experience. If your luggage doesn’t make it with you, you can go report it missing and sometimes it has made it in on a flight before you did. Most of the time though if you just show up 12 hours later, it will be there waiting.)

The beach is adjacent to the Santa Barbara Airport.
So I stopped to enjoy on my way to pick up my luggage.

Santa Barbara airport being the tiny little stop that it is, there was me and the woman behind the United counter and we were pretty much it. (I am sure someone else was at the airport, but I did not see them.) I wait two minutes at the counter, while the woman looks baffled at my luggage tags from Adria airlines (because really, how often do people start the day on the national carrier of Slovenia and end in Santa Barbara). Deciding not to even try to decipher it, she just walks back and looks. 

My luggage is there waiting.

Stupid: 43 hours to get home
Cool: Work that takes me a world away, and the fabulous perspective provided by my friend Alex Tan who reminded me the alternative to 43 hours and five flights, was 11 days of being seasick.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Making My Way Home (Written in Flight from Barcelona to Istanbul, December 11, 2013)

I am on a plane from Barcelona to Istanbul, as usual, happy as a clam to be flying.  I will be in Ljublijana, Slovenia, tonight. I am excited to be going to Slovenia. It is a new country to add to my list, and those are fairly hard to come by. I have been to over thirty countries this year, yet I think only Japan, Korea and soon to be Slovenia are new countries on my list of countries visited.
So this was not by flight to Istanbul... but
some flight on November 22.
Seemed a fitting picture anyway.



I have such a weird wonderful life.  I have just spent a whirlwind of 17 days onboard a ship I once called home. I got off the ship all of an hour and a half during those seventeen days, mostly because my mother insisted I get her a postcard from Casablanca. And I, as usual, bought a bag. (For a girl who virtually NEVER carries a handbag, I seem to have a strange fixation with buying them.) And though I love the ship, I would have loved to have gotten off more. But the project I led turned out to be about six times the amount of work anticipated.

There is so much interesting to say about this past trip I hardly know where to start. Strangely, I think I will start with making my way home.
This was added after my original post
thanks to a friend who had it on Facebook.

I got off the ship in Barcelona and stayed, for a day, with my girlfriend Kathy who has a flat right off the water front.  I am flying through Istanbul, which will make it the fourth or fifth time I have been in Turkey this year, I think. I am in transit to Slovenia, where I will work a few days in my company’s office there. From there I am headed to Zurich “for dinner” with friends.… and then finally from there I will fly home. I have friends all over Europe asking why I am not stopping by.  I would love to visit everyone, but as Christmas nears, the ticket prices soar and I would like to be home for a traditional Christmas dinner, which, naturally means Chinese food. (I am not Chinese; I am Jewish. Google it: Christmas Jews Chinese Food. It is a thing.)

In regards to going to Zurich “for dinner,” as quoted in the sentence above, I should say the quotes are intentional.  Much as I wish I could say, I am flying to Zurich “for dinner” with Louis, Pia, hopefully Dan but regretfully not Michael, it is more that all flights from Slovenia to California passed through Zurich. Thus I am taking advantage of a layover and having dinner with friends.

But it sounds SO much more posh to say, “I am flying to Zurich for dinner with friends” so let’s go with that.

I want to say I have a thing for countries that start with the letter S. Sandra in Sweden, a gaggle of friends in Switzerland, my endearing friend Ruth technically in the UK but I am going to skirt her in under Scotland, and my coworkers in Slovenia. That is just Europe. I have so many friends in South Africa, Facebook thinks I am from there.

It was snowing in Istanbul when I landed.
Snowing in  Istanbul!
I didn't even know that was possible!
In re-reading this post, I cringe. Kathy and I were talking about our lives and how we really do hide our crazy traveling lives. (And I should go on record as saying I am significantly less traveled than Kathy.) This whole post reads as a brag… “Isn’t my life awesome!”

The post reads as, “Isn’t my life awesome!” because I think it is awesome. I love this life. But it could just as easily be a complaint about being on the road for over three weeks, with crazy flights including a STUPID twelve hour layover in Zurich, that I missed Thanksgiving with family, so I could work 17 hour days, half a world away on a ship under re-construction with no air conditioning and was thus sauna hot, that I have been subjected to conditions that the UN has banned as arguably "torture" (blog on that to come), etc and so forth.

Making my way home is a strange statement too. I stay at my parents’ house when I get back to California. I have given up on having a place of my own. As someone who has been out of the country more of this year than in it, add to that hotel stays all over California and a trip to Florida, it just makes no sense to have a place called home.

It is not a life for everyone.

But it is the life for me.


Isn’t that awesome.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

The Motivation Behind My Embarrassing Secret (Santa Barbara)

I am a grown woman, thirty- (covers my mouth with my hand to muffle the rest of my age).

I travel a lot for work, and lately when I am not traveling, and honestly, even when I am, I have been staying with my parents.

Thirty-something, professional, living “at home.”

The spirit of this came to a head this weekend with a lot of animosity between my parents and me.

Basically, why am I “mooching” off my parents… forget about how undignified and how embarrassed I am by living with my parents. (Not to mention the fact that I have to run to a storage unit to grab stuff at least once a week because most of my stuff is there so as not to invade their space.)

I make a good living. Why am I living at home?

One word: Cancer.

It is not that I have cancer.
It is not that my last bout with cancer left me in debt.

It is that the next time I have cancer, which is not a statically negligible likelihood, I estimate I will need to have $70,000 in the bank to be comfortable for treatment.

That $70,000 is the cost of treatment, the cost living and the cost of comfort (nice scarfs for my bald head) for approximately one year.

I have always been a penny-pincher. But this has been monumentally exacerbated by having had cancer.  I had frugally saved for years, and it afforded me the luxury of living, without worry, off savings for 2011’s chemotherapy and 2012’s multiple surgeries.  It was a luxury and a comfort, but it did empty my coffers. So now, I am saving up to have cancer, again, because if there is one thing healthy me, can do for sick me, it is afford myself the comfort of not having to work while sick or even worry while being sick.

And you know what, if in five years, I don’t need to use it, well gosh it will be an awesome fund for an extended South Pacific vacation.

In the meantime, as I weigh the merits of every nickel I choose to spend, I hide this reality, both the motivation and the day-to-day choices, from friends and family alike. I know my family would say “we will take care of you” and my friends would say “you can’t constantly be planning on having cancer.”

All cancer patients make some dramatic change in their lives in an attempt for control. Usually this manifests in eating choices, next most common is an exercise lifestyle, a little less frequently it manifests in work changes, rarely but sometimes in relationship choices, often ending relationships.

I admit I am doing it a little differently. I am not trying to prevent cancer by living only on blueberries and pomegranates. I am just trying to prepare to be comfortable if it should happen again…. A very boy-scout approach if I do say so myself (but I do understand those who see it as twisted if not outright perverse).

Please don’t judge me for my choices, as post-traumatic stress induced as they are.

Just allow me to cope the way I need to.

Stupid: Cancer.
Cool: Being healthy enough to be making headway in my rainy-day (aka cancer) fund.

Wednesday, November 06, 2013

Addicted (LAX/Houston)

(Written at United Club at LAX,  intended to be posted from Houston… but I forgot cause I was enjoying the airport)

Recently, I spent 18 consecutive days in one city.

Sounds unremarkable, but for me it was exceptional. It was the first time in over a year I had spent more than ten consecutive days in a single city.

I am a traveler.

And I am addicted to this life.

Very little makes me happier sitting, with an hour to spare, at the airport, waiting for a journey to begin.

As I drove into LAX this morning, happy as could be, if not euphoric, about the day ahead, with two airplanes, three airports and three time zones, I tried to figure out the appeal because it’s obviously the airplane food.

Part of it is the complete forced disconnect, no phone, no email, no way of getting in touch, which I regret will be going away with the prevalence of wifi on planes. I know arguably one could do this at any time, by just turning off the phone, but the difference is, when flying, it is entirely socially and corporately acceptable. It is the “get out of jail free” card for the business world, explaining away why you did not reply to that email promptly and within four hours.  (And by the way, did you notice that the world did in fact continue to turn without my instant reply?)


But for me I think the travel appeal, actually, just the airport appeal, it is far deeper than that. When I was young, my mother and father, divorced more than a decade, lived about a hundred miles apart. I would take a bus between the two. At some point way back then, at all of perhaps 13, I pondered, “Where am I really me?” 

It is an exceptionally deep question for a child (and truth be known one I continue to ask). I was aware that my mother’s house, my mother’s rules, my mother’s way crafted my thoughts, actions, and feelings while I was there. Approaching my father’s, a metamorphosis would occur and my thoughts, actions and feelings would morph to the requirements of my new location, my new company and their expectations.

As a child, I wondered, if I was really me in either location.

And, as a young teen, I decided, in the two hours between locations, I was perhaps only really myself, during precisely those two hours, outside of the crafting contextual hands of either location.

Now, happy as a clam, sitting at LAX, I can’t help but wonder if that very same notion is what appeals to me about travel. Travelling frees me. Not free as in, I can go anywhere, but free as in released from expectations. This is liberating not just because it means I don’t have to answer my emails, but because it also means I don’t have to think any particular way.

Follow me for a moment down a tangent. When I proof read, I often change the font of what I am working on so that I literally see what was written differently. It sounds ridiculous, but try it and you will be sold. It is amazing how much the font can change what you “see” in the same written words.
I feel traveling provides the exact same adjustment. It is not that I feel confined when I am in any one place. It is more that I find the slip into heuristic action, lulling, and dulling the thought behind actions.

Traveling activates my mind, like running and finding the high. In the new context, freed from the ephemeral location specific forces sculpting choices, default decisions made without thought day-to-day are suddenly questioned,  “but do I really like eggs for breakfast, given all the choices here…” and some decisions are dramatically simplified, after all, I only brought one pair of shoes.

There are the curiosities; the person over there, with the strange hat and accent, what brought them here? What did they see? How has it changed them?

It is the empty slate factor. Sure, I have this ticket for Houston, but I am here. I could fly to ….

Which leads to, where would I want to fly to?

Which leads to dreams, and hopes and aspirations.

I know for a lot of people, the fact that spending an obligatory hour waiting at the airport gives me time in which I am spurred to think differently and that this is something l get high on, seems crazy.

I guess I can’t explain it and really, what addict can really explain their appetite or experience within their addiction.

But, here, at the airport, in between places, at the beginning of a journey, with a child’s volume of hope and excitement for the days ahead, here is where I feel most at home, most free and most alive.

Cool: The pleasure of my addiction

Stupid: Like all addictions, the distance it pushes between my friends and family.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Why I Hate October (Mountain View, California)

Welcome to Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Would you like pink ribbon yogurt?
Would you like a pink ribbon coffee mug from Starbucks?
Would you like any product, any product at all with a pink ribbon from any major company in America, because chances are, they have something?

Recently a friend posted something on the sexualization of breast cancer awareness with campaigns like “Save Second Base.”

As a woman who had a double mastectomy in her thirties, single, and who today commemorates the birthday of her breast cancer buddy, who was not so fortunate as to live, I have a very unique perspective on this.

Breast cancer is not pretty, and it is not pink, and having lost my hair, my breasts, and just about everything else which defines me as female, I hate the Barbie-ification of breast cancer awareness.

And while I agree that it is important that people are aware of breast cancer, I have to be honest, I just don’t think it warrants the publicity it receives. I think hunger in America is a more important cause to be shown on cereal boxes in the grocery store than pink ribbons.

But here is why I really hate all of it.
It reminds me, constantly, of things I don’t want to think about.
It reminds me of my friend who did not make it.
It reminds me that my body is now deformed.
It reminds me that I lost about a year to chemotherapy treatments, radiation treatments and surgery recovery.

And as I sit here, flushed, drenched in sweat, mildly nauseous from the ongoing treatment, fundamentally feeling and, truth be said, believing I am less attractive for the experience, I am outraged by the concept of “Save the Tatas.”

There is a shirt out there that says, “Of course they are fake, my real ones tried to kill me.” My real ones tried to kill me. Why should I try to save them?

I think the concept behind “Save the Tatas” is fundamentally flawed. Who the fuck cares about the tatas. Save the PERSON.

But no, in our culture, it is not the person…. It is the tatas.

So I guess that is all we, breast cancer patients, are at the end of the Barbification of breast cancer.

Just some tatas for saving.

And my tatas… they weren't saved.

In loving memory of Mananya Tantiwiwat who would have made the world a better place had she lived to today, her 31st birthday.


Stupid: Cancer.

Cool: Still alive to write this post. (Fuck Cancer.)



----

This post has been up less than 12 hours and has gotten a bit of backlash. So let me say this a different way. My problem with the breast cancer donation industry (because that is what it is, an industry) is its emphasis. Breast cancer is NOT about breasts. It is about cancer. 

Thursday, September 12, 2013

21 Bras (Newport Beach, California September 12, 2013)

I am moving again, the third time since my double mastectomy a little over two years ago.

When I moved the first time, I moved over 40 sized-38D bras. Forty bras, I would never wear again. They were in the third drawer of my dresser. Everything in the dresser went into a box. At the new place, after the dresser was placed, all the stuff in the box went back into the dresser, including the 40 bras.

If you are wondering about the rationale behind this, let me save you some time. There was no rationale.  Arguably there was anti-rationale. I just couldn’t think about it.

I would like to wear those bras again or one for the first time, the one I bought just days before my recurrence which still today has the tag on it, or the one which I got for a special occasion, or the one for that sweater with the funky neckline or the really nice purple one which I just really like. 

I will never wear them again because I will never be a 38D again. (When I say this statement, people often say “Implants.”  Forgive the sarcasm but, “Thanks people, because that is an option that had never occurred to me.”  Trust me when I tell you, what multiple reputable post-mastectomy plastic surgeons told me, current medical science cannot make me a 38D again.)

And then there was the analytical, quantitative side of me, in complete denial of my post-cancer PTSD. I would say to myself quantitatively, I can’t really throw away those bras. I mean, my average bra costs $30. Do the math, we are talking about a $1200 multi-year investment. That is real value. (I had been told, erroneously, charities do not take bras.) 

I move in two days. I have decided not to move the dresser. 

And since I am not moving the dresser, I kind of have to confront the contents, specifically the contents of the third drawer, the lacy, the functional, the sporty, the playful, the comfy, the push up, the minimize, the pretty….

And in a whoosh, they went into a bag, labeled 38D; they were marched down to the Post Office where they were send to Bras for a Cause, P.O. Box 5011, Parker, AZ 85344. 

Drawer empty.

Drawer empty.

And let me tell you what that empty drawer means. 

Yes, my double mastectomy really happened.

Stupid: Cancer PTSD.
Cool: The firm hope that the bra that made feel special, will make someone else feel special; the one that made me feel pretty, will make some other woman feel pretty; the one that was super comfy, will make some other woman super comfy….

(In case you are wondering why this is entry is called 21 bras and not 40 bras, it is because over the last couple of years I manage to whittle down to 21 bras, by donating, throwing out, or giving away. Today, 21 bras went in the mail.)

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Support Ticket Submitted Today (Lorient, France August 28th)

I love my job when users provide so much amusement. Actual support ticket submitted today:

____________________________________________________
To: Computer Help Desk
Subject: Time Sheet

(Blah blah blah program specific stuff, things are broken, crying, whining, hissy fit. Yes, I am paraphrasing, but stick with me. The support ticket concludes with...)


I also can no longer modify the past.

(Sincerely,)

Boris
____________________________________________________

And my reply, cause I could not help myself...
___________________________________________________

Dear Boris,

Since the dawn of time, there has been the desire to modify the past.

Much as I would like to believe this was once or will one day be possible, all evidence seems to be to the contrary, despite movies like Back to The Future, etc.



And if it is ever possible… our programmers will not be the people who accomplish it.

Just saying...

Sincerely, 
Your IT Department
___________________________________________________

Stupid: That something actually has to be fixed.
Cool: The hilarious way users sometimes communicate issues.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Pink Rebellion (Livorno Italy, August 4th, 2013)

I have always been a woman in a man’s world. I think my mother, in the pursuit of feminism, gave me too many Hot Wheels as a child. (Hot Wheels are an older American brand of children’s toy cars.)

I played water polo on the boy’s team in high school. (My step-mother meanwhile regularly lamenting, “I wish you would wear some nail-polish and maybe something pink.”) I was the only woman in my physics undergraduate class. I am a network administrator in a man’s information technology world. (Footnote 1)

The other day as I sat in a ship’s conference room surrounded by blinding officers’ white (Captain, Vice Captain, Chief Engineer, Chief Electrical Engineer, Senior IT Officer, etc), 12 men, probably 30 stripes between them (rank indication), myself the only woman in the room, and in my first ever pink top no less, I could not help but be reminded of my persistent existence in a man’s world.

I used to be very comfortable in this world. I still am in many ways, but as I sat in my pink top, out of uniform, I realized I have become part of Nouveau-Feminism. The "fuck the business suits, uniforms and masculinity, I can be a girl and play in this realm” attitude. (Insert mildly aggressive/feminine hair toss to emphasize this point.) (Footnote 2)

What is perhaps so odd about this role assumption, is that, honestly, I am more comfortable in the treat-me-like-one-of-the-guys role.

Strangely, the reason I have switched roles has to do with cancer. I spent six months of 2011 breast-less, hairless and estrogen-less. Everything which from an outsider’s perspective associated me with femininity was stripped from me in my fight for my life.  Suddenly, femininity, which I had spent most of my life suppressing (and compressing), along with my somewhat voluptuous female form, was taken from me.

And suddenly my need to be recognized as female was acute.

Upon return to my life, living and working almost entirely with men, I have become, “I am female, fuck you.” (I am not really sure who that fuck you is directed to, cancer, my male colleagues or just the world in general.) With that has come make-up, frilly skirts and jewelry.

I am sitting here, overlooking Livorno Italy, in high-heeled white sandals, a flowing pink top and way too tight white Italian jeans.

This new flowing pink top, the whole outfit really, part of Sorrento’s (Italy) damage to my visa, is a strange experience in a way. (By the way, Italy’s damage to my visa was extensive. As a person who would much rather hike ten miles than go to Nordstrom’s... well shopping is not one of the feminine traits I got, though maybe like pink it is starting to grow on me.) I am just not that comfortable being girly.

But the compliments on the top today have abound.

I would still say that femininity and traditionally masculine work-roles do not necessarily gel. I don't think a young woman fresh out of college could really get ahead in masculine disciplines with a feminine attire. But at this point in my career, and my life post cancer, I take a great deal of pleasure in my pink rebellion.

Stupid: The man’s world still very much exists.
Cool: Italian shopping and my personal pink rebellion.

Footnote 1: In case you are wondering, yes I love getting phone calls where the network hardware, cold-calling salesman says, “I am sorry. I was looking for your company’s network administrator. Can you please transfer me to him?”  Can you say, “CLICK!” Actually, what I should do is say, “Well you got her, but I am going to have to have a word with my secretary as HE should not be transferring calls to me from sale people.” Anyway...

Footnote 2: In the sentence, "The 'fuck the business suits, uniforms and masculinity, I can be a girl and play in this realm' attitude," the choice of the word "girl" instead of "woman" was an interesting one. Somehow I feel a woman would wear a business suit and adhere to the expectations, but a girl can fly in the face of that expectation. Somehow a woman is not allowed to have that attitude.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Finding Religion (Barcelona, August 11)



Exterior of La Sagrada Familia
I am not a religious person. A physicist by training, my religion can roughly be summarized by: Gravity is the only universal force that has no opposing force; isn't that nifty.


Given that substantial religious bent (facetious), the following post is all the more indication of the beauty beheld, the spirit endowed, the grace bestowed.



Strangely, when I go to see sites, I try to go with very little information, contrary to most people’s method. I find that with no expectation and influence, my experience is more my own, untainted by general information or other’s commentary.



Staircase looking up within one of the towers
I went to see La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, mostly because that is what you do in Barcelona. I knew roughly that it was a cathedral of sorts. It has been in the building process for over a hundred years. The architect had fanciful ideas and much of his design aspirations were lost, though how his plans were lost I don’t recall.

Beyond that, I went with little information.







And was OVERCOME.

The Familia is a celebration of light and color and form.



Be sure to notice the spiral staircase on the right.
I entered the basilica, somewhat bent out of shape by the previous day which was a 15 hour work day, and also annoyed by a mishap on the metro just twenty minutes before. I was wound a little tight. Sure the outside of the basilica was interesting, but I was just vibrating on a negative frequency if you will.















The light is just glorious.
At first, the interior structure seemed solid, light colored, simple, a tremendous contrast to the dark, ornate, delicate fine embellishment of traditional cathedrals.

Then my eyes were drawn to the morning sun pouring through the east facing stained-glass rainbow mosaic, and with the morning light came also the dawn of my enlightenment of the vision.

A celebration of god’s light and color, painting across man’s attempts to shape beauty and worship from the stone provided.

The interior’s airy simplicity is a deferential acknowledgement of god’s ethereal complexity.

The vast color spectrum is painted daily, no moment by moment, across the plain, gray surfaces, by the true, one and only creator, making colorful, bright, organic and extraordinary what had merely been basic, cold and functional.









There was a spot, I will call The Spot of Awe. People would meander around a corner, and drift
The Spot of Awe, with an awe d admirer. Also notice how organic and warm the
cold beam behind her appears.
from shadow into the warm light cast through a particular set of stained glass windows.  Taken from the relative darkness into the light, their gaze drawn mysteriously upward, they would look up, their jaw would slacken, mouth fall ever so slightly agape,  awakened to the grace, anointed by the spirit.
The picture I did not take was the herds of people, awash in warm light, faces calm, at peace, chins pointed upward toward heavenly illumination.

Gaudi’s fanciful external architecture is interesting and nontraditional  But I must say, I don’t think his whimsical architecture is not the essence of this house of god.

The poorly captured inspiration for
The Spot of Awe.
The somewhat plain, humble, functional, structure within, illuminated by heavenly light, cast through a nearly infinite glass pallet… to me, that was the truest embodiment worship I have ever seen structurally embodied. It is an acknowledgement of god’s light, giving, warmth, complexity, and a deferential celebration of god’s creativity.

(All this has me wondering if my aversion to traditional western religion is partially just a strong distaste for its dark architecture and cluttered décor.)

If you ever have the opportunity to see La Sagrada Familia, go in the early morning so you can truly appreciate the light cascading through the windows.

I walked in, “vibrating on a negative frequency,” annoyed, irritated, stressed, tired and distracted.

And though it took the basilica some time, the warm light drew me in, reminded me that beauty abounds, and erased the day’s taints from my essence.


Stupid: That my pictures do not do anywhere near justice to the beauty. (And the way blogspot handles photo arrangement.)

Cool: Um, everything?

More seriously and perhaps strangely, I have a better understanding of religious because of this basilica’s architecture.  I would say Gaudi was a prophet, but unlike those before him, he did not speak the word of god and worship, he conveyed it through structure.


Fascinating.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Email Sent To My Boss At Midnight on a Saturday Night (Barcelona August 10th)

The below email is nearly verbatim what I just sent to my boss, at midnight, Saturday August 10th.

{Italicized bracketed text inserts are additions/explanations/commentary for non-ship people. Names were changed to protect the innocent.}


Take Away: We may need MTN {satellite communications provider} service soon.

Now the story:  
So, I am in bed {in my cabin on the ship}, lights out. It is midnight. My phone rings.

I answer, naturally, “Good Evening.” (Yes, really.)

“Hello? Isabel?” It is Jerrard, fire patrol. {Think shipboard fireman.} “Your equipment? In the safety office?” {Only now is the irony of my equipment being in the “safety” office occurring to me….}

“Yeah?”

“It’s burning.”

Yeah… what exactly do you say at this point?

Seriously, what is the right response?

Um, “Excuse me?”

The phone is wrestled out of his hand and the Adam comes on, “Isabel? Can you come up here? To the bridge?”

Really? The bridge? I am thinking maybe abandoning ship might be a good idea, but, um, “Yeah, OK. I will be up in a minute?”

Phone is disconnected.

Needless to say, the equipment was not on fire and thankfully the rest of the story is frightfully mundane.

I won’t miss being called at midnight to report to the bridge, but I will certainly miss the stories that comes from calls like this.

Stupid: Lack of sleep from this life.

Cool: The stories from this life.