Santa Barbara, Little But World Class (Written in Santa Barbara, June 21, 2015. Posted from Seattle, June 26th, 2015)

Arguably, Santa Barbara is my home. I say arguably because it is not where I grew up, and it is not where I live, but it is probably the single place I have spent the most time in my life. Santa Barbara is small, but world class. After my latest project, in Europe for three plus months, I came home for the tail end of what I call purple season, the May Jacaranda bloom (pictured right). Quickly thereafter was I Madonnari, billed as an Italian Street painting festival. It is a small, but world class, fleeting, extraordinary art exhibit drawn, in chalk, on the pavement outside the mission, erased by time, a mere memory weeks later.  Photo (left) early morning before the crowds and artists arrive. Photo (right) in the midday sun, as the artists work and people admire. The skillful, popping, 3-D nature of this chalk drawing on the pavement is hard to capture in a photo. Photo on Saturday (left) and then on Sunday (right) as the artist worked. Most recently, yesterday, the Solstice Parade, a glorious celebration of summer mixing Scandinavian traditions of MidSommer, with Mardi Gras exuberance, feathered grandeur and swing, some Halloween weird, a sneak-peak of Burning Man oddities, a liberal sprinkling childlike happiness, and some amazing creativity. Nonetheless, coming home this time, I am vaguely aware, somewhere, in my stomach, Santa Barbara is no longer home. This strikingly hit home by happening upon, on that same afternoon, the article “What It’s Like WhenYour Hometown No Longer Feels like It’s Your Home” by an organization (Girl Gone International) for and by women who travel extensively. The reason I can write about the above Santa Barbara experience with such delightful intrigue, is because it has transitioned from the common place experience of my hometown, to the foreign experience of the new. I have a myriad of mixed emotions about Santa Barbara no longer being home. The first and most obvious question is, if Santa Barbara is not home, where is? < This line intentionally left blank. > I don’t have an answer for that. Home is where the heart is, right? My heart is in Malmo Sweden (Sandra), Ljubljana  Slovenia (Matej), scattered across Switzerland (Pia, Louis, Michael, Michael, Dan), Edinburgh Scotland (Ruth), on ships far and wide (with so many people), New Bern North Carolina (PJ and Kevin),  New Hampshire, Seattle, …. The list is long. But, with surprise, I notice, I ended the paragraph and did not think to put Santa Barbara on that list. I suppose that says a great deal. Santa Barbara is small, and world class. I would know, as a tourist who has been a lot of places. I would know, as a tourist. Cool: Santa Barbara Stupid: The odd, albeit mild, discomfort associated with not really knowing where home is. Santa Barbara, from the air, as I flew away on June 25th.

A random collage of purple trees from around the city. Scenes of I Madonnari.

Turkish Tulips and Transient Tribes

The tulips are lovely this time of year in Istanbul. Don’t ask me how I know this. I am not really sure. I know I have been here at this time of year, sometime in the past, but I could not tell you when or in what year.

This project is coming to an end, the launching of another ship, after a grueling 30 days, many exceeded 16 working hours.

The last few hours I have been alone, for the first time in weeks. It is startling in it contrast. It’s quiet, deafeningly, loudly in some strange way, quiet.

No one calling, no one emailing, no one knocking, no one speeding up to walk next to me as a transit from one place to the next, no skype messages, no text messages, no PA announcements, no one “Can I have just a minute?”

I am reminded, by this project, both of lure of working cruise ships and its alarmingly precarious fulcrum quality, a peak between something I thoroughly enjoy, like an addiction, and something more akin to incarceration.

Today, the majority of my team went home. The one that sang at dinner, the stern mother hen, the silent one, the one with the childlike curiosity of one who has never really traveled, the one that did impressions of the lighting in the cabins (HYSTERICALLY), the brother I never had. The Brit and the one with the completely out of place southern drawl let yesterday.

And now it is quiet.

One of the reasons I loved working cruise ships is because it was a lot like college. You live, work and spend every waking moment with your friends.  The comradery and common experience, despite almost literally world away cultural backgrounds, speaks to the fundamental need and joy of being part of a tribe.

One of the reasons I left, is that strong tribal bond is as intangible and consistent as the fog. Sometimes it is there, wonderful, and makes the ridiculous hours, and sometimes miserable conditions, the stage dressing of later warm stories. Sometimes that bond is allusive; you can see it in others and not feel it yourself. Sometimes it just isn't there.

I left cruise life, when month after month, it became apparent, that it was completely allusive to me.

The truth is, it’s the people. I used to always say there was a conservation law on cruise ships, the conservation law of people who annoy me. At any given point in time, there was a crew member that drove me nuts. It was often a different person in any given contract and often different people within a single contract. But, there was always one crew member that drove me crazy.

Unfortunately, there was no conservation law for people I loved. Some contracts were great, with a ton of people I adored, who made me laugh, who I would stay up talking to until all hours of the night. But in the last few contracts, this was no longer the case.

As the majority of my team went home today, I am so strongly reminded how important the tribe is. While I still have friends onboard, the tribe has disbanded.

The tulips are lovely this time of year in Istanbul and the large pod of porpoises breaching the glass-flat water off the port side is calming.

Perhaps it is just the sudden contrast that made this shift so uncomfortable, but as sadistic as it is, I must admit, I would prefer the intense work and the tribe, to the quiet beauty of nature, if I am going to be bound in this tower of luxury, my prison.

Stupid: The mind numbing, sleep deprived, agonizing intense, rattled month preceding today.

Cool: That I honestly can say the team I worked with somehow made it incredible, almost enjoyable and worthwhile.  So blessed to have such wonderful colleagues.

Thank you Matej, Sabine, Dejan, Harry, Rok, other Dejan, Barry, Michael, Jasminka, Michele, Luka and Emilie. (25% Marko.).

And by extension, Michael, Uwe, Luca, Johann and Cookie Monster.

The team on go live at 1:00AM.

Hollowness In The Wake of Beauty (Ljubljana, March 6th, 2015)

I live a nomad’s life. In the last ten years, more years than not have included twenty or more countries, in a single year. It is March sixth and I have been to six countries already in 2015.

Tonight, graced by fabulous Alpine air, the full moon casts razor edge sharp shadows through the crisp perfect air which is both ephemerally nothing and tangibly, albeit vaguely sweet, like spring is just about to caress a wispy kiss across your lips. This city is magical, with its sixteenth century buildings and its castle standing sentry above.

My love for this city is entwined by an ache which is hard to explain. It is, in my opinion, one of the most incredible cities in the world, stunningly beautiful. The castle, rivers, centuries’ old buildings of fairy tale architecture, playful dragon statues hiding in plain sight throughout, surrounded by hills of thick trees and the optical illusion of both strangely far, and somehow seemingly so close, tall oh so white Alps slicing into the popping blue sky, how could anyone not love this city?

But love is a shared experience.

It is very hard to love in isolation.

Usually love refers to a relationship, to love another.

Sometimes love refers to an object, to love a book.

But here is the thing about loving a book, or any object, while the enjoyment of the object itself is tangible and could be considered love, the true joy is in sharing it with another.

I suspect these are my last few days in this city. I have so enjoyed its magic. And while I vaguely attempt to capture the shells of its essence, posting photos on Facebook, I have not really had the opportunity to share Ljubljana with anyone.

This experience feels entirely incomplete, hollow and empty. The display of an exquisite meal, without ever tasting it. Flat, like my photos, without the sounds of the distant church bells and the rustling leaves, the air so nothing in its purity as to be impossible to explain… the weather, oh my goodness so much weather… 

Fog (whispering through the trees, a twig breaks behind you, a mischievous sprite snickering?)  and rain (relentless like a heavy weight physically pressing down on your head) and snow (mythical and absolute in its purity) and sun (enriching the colors of everything, transforming the ordinary into extraordinary) and thunderstorms (overpowering, torrential, and then suddenly inexplicably gone, everything dry and hardly a memory of water an hour later) and this strange rib cage tugging, stretching,  stillness which expands your consciousness’ unity with the universe while being simultaneously wildly unsettling, triggering something in your animal subconscious that is also the root of every terrifying, pitch black,depth of night forest story.

It is impossible to capture Ljubljana in words and photos (and clearly I have tried).

And thus, it will forever be impossible for me to really share.

Cool: Palpably rich,  amazing Ljubljana.

Stupid: How something so tangibly rich, can still feel hollow.

Dedicated to Sandra Olsson whose perfect, though lamppost obsessed, company in Venice, Italy made the experience all the more delectable, fattening, and fabulous than had I walked the canals alone.

A California Girl in Slovenia Snow

Having spent most of my thirty some odd years in California, where it can be eighty degrees (27C) on Christmas day, I had never really seen snow until my February business trip to Ljubljana, Slovenia.

Unlike my colleagues, jaded after seeing and dealing with the logistics of snow falls like this multiple times a year for their entire lives, I was delighted and somewhat stupefied. 

Snow casts such a glorious and miraculous brush on the world. Words simply do not do it justice, hence the plethora of snowy included pictures, not a single one retouched. The extreme visual contrast of snow's shear whiteness against everything else is kind of mind blowing. It seems both the essence of nature and extremely unnatural at the same time. Add to the visual experience, the breathtaking silence it leaves in it wake, and I am entirely torn between feeling this is the world as it is supposed to be or perhaps there was a nuclear holocaust. 

My colleagues marveled at my wonder, more than the snow. "You are like an articulate four year old."

Snow, however, and its affects are extremely alien to me.

Thus, after several snowy days, a list came about.
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Stupid California girl comments overheard in the Slovenian Office:


1. It’s so white! (Said in awe, repeatedly, ad nauseam)
2. Why is it lumpy?
3. There is so much of it.
4. It is so slippery.
5. Why do you have to take it off the car, doesn't it fall off itself?
6. It’s so crunchy!
7. Doesn't it make you dizzy looking at it?
8. Now I understand why there are grates at front doors! (picture below)
9. What are snow tires?
10. I had no idea snow plows were soooo noisy.
11. I keep getting my boots stuck together! (My boots, newly purchases as I was completely unprepared, have lace hooks, which I seemed to magically get hooked to things, including each other.)
12. "I don't understand. Snow-on-the-beach?"
13. It is so clumpy. (After a few days when it started clumping on the trees rather than being evenly distributed.)

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California Girl Snow Incident 6th February 

Ljubljana Castle

I walk up to the castle almost every morning, just to prepare for the day. I take various trails. On February 6th, this California girl thinks “I’ll take the road less traveled,” while looking at a trail no one has taken since it snowed. “It’s is a nice trail, all fresh, untouched snow.”  

So I go walking up this trail, crunch, crunch, crunch.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Crunch, WOOSH!

California girl up to her hips in snow, says, "oh."

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On Snowmen

I do hope my Slovenian friends will forgive me, but  the Slovenians are not what I would call a warm people. This is my interpretation, rooted entirely in American cultural bias. The Slovenians do not often smile and their facial expression is affected by their language which actually requires their mouth be tight (compared to my California accent which is so open mouthed). You never see adults loud and ruckus, the way you see Americans at a bar on a Saturday night. And while their children do show more general enthusiasm than Slovenia adults, it is still more restrained than American children. 

All this to preface how utterly disjointed the widespread prevalence of creative, fun, happy snowmen seemed. It was charming. 

Ljubljana snow men, and these are just the ones I thought to talk picture of. They were seemingly everywhere. The mini guy on the right was hand-sized and on the railing outside a bar along the river.

Note the grate in front of the door.
These are everywhere in Slovenia.
I assume to get the snow off your boots.

I doubt there has been a carriage
in this area in decades, but just in case,
a sign indicating bikes yes, carriages no.

This fairly inconspicuous picture was taken for
the shadow of the tree on the house.

This building facade has nothing behind it,
but the glorious winter wonderland seen through the window frame.

Evening along the river front, with the castle above.

Evening along the river.

Stupid: Through years of exposure and logistical annoyances, that the mysticism of snow can be forgotten.
Cool: The amazing mysticism of snow, through the eyes of someone who has never seen it before. 

This post is dedicated to Luka Budin who nudged me toward blog writing again.

Feminism Is About Equality, And I Do Want It

Feminism Is About Equality, And I Do Want[1] It

In the last few months, there has been a percolating undercurrent in American culture against feminism.  Search for “I don’t need feminism” or "Women Against Feminism." You will see not just the radical minority listed in the results but results including mainstream major news organizations.

I don’t know what women against feminism think feminism is.

Feminism is “the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.”[2]

At its core, feminism is about EQUALITY. To be against feminism, is to be against gender equality.

I can’t believe women really don’t want equality. (I shudder at the thought.) I have to believe they are simply ignorant of the definition or perhaps living in blissful bubbles of equality rendering the concept's necessity strangely foreign. 

The world I live in is still completely gender biased. I need only make one statement to illustrate this fact unequivocally: I now regularly speak to the CEOs and VP of companies, and there is not a woman among them, not one.[3] (People… it is 2014!)

I will admit (no doubt needlessly), I am a feminist.  I am what I call a Nouveau feminist.

As with any movement, beliefs change over time.  The feminism of my mother’s era, what I would call 1980’s feminism, meant women got to compete in a man’s career world, if they conformed to the man’s world, clad in a boxy gender suppressing suit, with an overcompensating aggressive persona. Nouveau-feminism means I get to wear flowy pink dresses and the men in the room still have to treat my ideas EQUALLY on their merit, regardless of the pink attire, the gender beneath, and/or the happy-go-lucky attitude.

Let me tell you what feminism means to me, a woman, with a man’s[4] job, in the man’s[5] world of software development, with a man’s[6] college degree (physics).

Feminism means I get to be anywhere my ability warrants. I am EQUALLY entitled to be in an engineering program as any man, if my scholastic capability qualifies my acceptance. And chances are, I am going to be better than some men (AND WOMEN), and worse than other men (AND WOMEN).

If choose not to have a career, in order to raise well-adjusted citizens of tomorrow, I am both respected and valued for my contribution. And feminism is also about the fact that choosing not to have a career, in order to raise well-adjusted citizens of tomorrow is an equally respectable and valued contribution by a man.

Feminism is about equality in policy. Health care expenditures around my sexuality (such as birth control) are equally covered to health care expenditures around a men's sexuality (Viagra).

A woman's choices are equally valid to any man’s. Her choices are equally respectable. Her pursuits are of equal merit. And her decisions should be absent of societies gender based stereotypes.

Feminism means anything, choices, pursuits, decisions are of equal worth regardless of her or for that matter his gender. The anti-feminist movement concerns me because feminism is not about femi-nazis (with a supremacy streak) or victimization (with a coddling air) or entitlement (bending the rules to falsely enable parity).

Feminism is about equality and respect, not because we are women but regardless of the fact we are women.

And if that is in fact what women do not need, then the nicest thing I can say is that I very much hope their movement and clout is very short lived.

Stupid: Viral social movements based on ignorance.

Cool: The fact that feminism of yester-year has created the world where I can be me, a smart, ambitious, cheerful, professional, clad in pink regardless of the fact I am a woman in a field still regretfully predominantly of men. And the last portion of the sentence is why not only I NEED feminism, but you do to. (After all, the AIDs virus was discovered by a woman, Francoise Barre-Sinoussi, nuclear fission was discovered jointly by Lise Meitner, groundbreaking fundamental stem cell discovers were by Gail R. Martin…. We are stronger together, equal.)

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[1] Forgive the semantics, but I am going to replace the mainstream movement’s use of “need” with “want.” Technically no one needs feminism any more than they need freedom, love, religion or equality. These concepts are not needs; they are conceptual and culture constructs we want.

[2]  https://www.google.com/search?q=feminism&oq=feminism&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.1430j0j7&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=93&ie=UTF-8

[3] My experience is arguably an accurate representation of the greater American economy where only four percent of Fortune 500 companies are run by women. A girlfriend of mine would be irritated by this statistic and my resulting conclusion that the world is biased. She would say, maybe women just don’t want to be CEOs. I very much respect her view. I even agree with the hypothesis that the percentage of women pursuing the CEO career path may not be nearly as high as the percentage of men pursuing the CEO career path. Nonetheless, I still believe the number of women in major CEO positions underrepresents the number of women who BOTH want to be CEOs AND are legitimately qualified.

[4] I consider my job a man’s job, because the vast majority of people who do my type of work are men.

[5] I consider software development a man’s world because the majority of people who work in software development are men.

[6] I consider a college degree in physics a man’s degree because the vast majority of recipients are men.