Becoming a Woman, Again, After Cancer (Seattle, September 25, 2015)

I stopped chemotherapy about a year ago.  Having been on that regiment for three some odd years… it took about six months for my body to wash all the residual toxins away, and trust me, I marked, in red, the day the effects were gone.

Aside from being furnace hot and never sleeping two continuous hours, I would have said that there were no side effects from the chemotherapy.

Superficially, I am now aware of many more physical side effects, from my slendering physique to the frequent compliments on my skin's glow.

But these are the fairly inconsequential. 

Having been off chemotherapy for nearly a year, I was categorically wrong on so many fronts about the side effects.  As I sit here, a tumultuous mess of emotions, I am aware of how emotionally castrated I was by the chemotherapy.  In some ways, this was exceptional. I was never terribly bothered. But on the other hand, like a depressive waking from a winter fog, the world is just so much more rich now. For the most part, this makes me seem a ridiculously happy person from the outside. I would say, it is actually pretty damn true to the depths of my core. But man, when I get upset, I feel like a two year old having a tantrum, beet red, face a splash of tears, snot dripping from my nose, trembling with over powering emotion. And I can see the irrationality. And I can feel the chemistry. And I am as confused by it from the inside as I am overpowered by its force.

The castration, for far too much information, was very physical as well. At thirty something, to effectively go through puberty for the second time in life, is a bizarre experience. I was sitting on the bus one day, feeling mentally uncomfortable and not able to figure out why. It was an experience I cannot properly describe.  Uncomfortable in my own skin.  The next day, I was reminded, this sensation… PMS.

After seven years of various forms of hormonal manipulation related to cancer, I got my period, unanticipated, clearly, for the first time in years, six months after stopping chemotherapy. Having fallen asleep at a platonic coworker’s, I completely saturated, like a slaughtered pig, his white linens.

While we pass at work, we have never spoken again.

Every girl has their pubescent accident story from her teenage years. Try it on when you are thirty something, your accident is about two pints of blood (well, it felt that way), the sheets were brand new white, and he is a platonic coworker.

I am startlingly willing to share, with the world, my mortification perhaps because, it seems alien to me. Perhaps it is just one of the funnier indignities gifted to me by cancer.

This whole being a woman thing, which I took a time out from for so many years, it is just fucking crazy.

I am batshit in love with this guy, from a distance, like a fourteen year old girl with posters on her bedroom walls.  It is the most absurd, distracting, intoxicating, biological magnetism. How on earth does anyone get anything done if they ever feel like this?

And this goes to something else I feel cancer took from me. While all my friends were pairing off and finding love, I was textbook interested, but I was not compelled or animalistically driven to it like I am now. I honestly question if I could fall in love when I was on chemotherapy. I really feel that love is a physiological ability, biological function, primal instinct, cellular attraction, an ephemeral, intangible sensation, that was simply amputated, like my breasts, or perhaps shed, like my hair.

No longer on chemotherapy, I know the world is the same place, but my experience of it is so much different.

Cool: On the right day, which is pretty much most days, the joys of biology when happy, or in love, or in bed….

Stupid: How on earth do you people get anything done with all these hormones in the way. Seriously!

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.
----------------

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.