Tod (Hill) rants about Todd (Akin)

In the current storm swirling about Missouri Republican senatorial nominee Todd Akin,  pundits from all sides have been focusing on his outrageous and offensive use of the term "legitimate rape."  Even in his retractions, the man has been unable to hide his misogyny, re-phrasing, "I meant forcible rape."  As opposed to what?  Welcome rape?  Accidental rape?  Rape is rape.  It's a violent sexual crime.  I hope the controversy catapults incumbent Senator McCaskill to victory in November.  

As the controversy builds momentum, what I feel to be the most concerning part of Akin's comments seems to have slid off the radar.  Akin full statement was, "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."

Let's deconstruct the temple of ignorance represented by this second phrase:

"...the female body has ways..."

You know, that grand mystery of biology called the female body.  It has secret ways that started back when Eve ate the apple.  

"...shut that whole thing down..."

For a man who believes that life begins at conception, he's a bit casual with his language isn't he?  "That whole thing" would be a fertilized ovum implanting itself in a uterus, or in Akin's world, a citizen with unalienable rights.

And just how how does this secret process of "shutting it down" work?  Does he think women secrete RU-486 (the morning-after pill) naturally at-will?  If they did, I am sure people like Akin would have figured out how to outlaw it.  

The bottom line here is that anti-choice, anti-women politicians like Akin operate from absolute ignorance.  Akin is not just ignorant about the what language to use when describing sexual assault.   He is ignorant about the basics of human biology.  

I hope the voters of Missouri make sure he is never in the position to legislate his ignorance.

Okra, the philosopher

We have a lot to learn from Okra.

That's not the way most statements about Okra begin.  I find that people are bitterly divided about it.  "Yuck, it's so slimey," is one side of the argument.  "You've never had it deep fried," is the other side.  And then there are the converts, "I thought it was just a gooey green ingredient in gumbo until I had it grilled and dipped in sour cream."  Okra's first, and perhaps most fundamental lesson is:  Just try it.  Life is filled with things that at first whiff or taste can challenge our sensibilities.  If your first exposure to Okra was as the viscosity-provider for gumbo, you might not believe that it might be the vegetable equivalent to fried calamari.  Just try it.  Yes, it's slimey when sliced and diced.  Yes, when added to a pot it can look like airplane glue.  Take a deep breath, let it simmer, and soon the airplane glue disappears and you'll have a thick tasty stew made more tasty by the tender green nuggets that moments ago horrified you.  Just try it.  You might surprise yourself.

Buying Okra can be daunting.  Years ago I would go to the Farmer's Market and have to battle with the Laotian women combing through bushels of Okra to find the smaller, tender pods; ideally should the size of thumb knuckle.  Inevitably, I would lose out and end up with index finger-sized pods.  One can occasionally find Okra at Whole Foods or equivalent foodie palaces, but usually it looks a bit bruised and wilted.  Frozen is an option, frozen Okra works best in stews.  The lesson of sourcing Okra is: Do it Yourself.

Growing Okra brings rich rewards.  The first reward is purely visual.  Okra flowers are lemon yellow with a dark brown center and a defined pistil & stamen.  They look like hibiscus.  They bloom every morning and fade and wilt before the afternoon.  The lesson of the Okra flower:  Get up early and enjoy the morning.

The real rewards of growing Okra are culinary, but to reap the rewards requires discipline.  Ignore Okra, and the pods grow into giant, tough, inedible green missiles.  Harvested daily, your options for the tender pods are endless.  Small pods can be grilled or dry-fried, then eaten as an appetizer.  They can be sauteed with onions, tomatoes, and peppers for an instant vegetable gumbo.   They can be sliced or thrown in whole into any soup or stew.  Harvesting the small pods takes a good eye.  After a first round of snipping off the obvious pods, the four foot high Okra plants can seem picked clean.  This is the lesson of the Okra plant:  Look again.  Use a different angle.  Pull the plants aside.  Look from the bottom.  Look from the top.  Okra, and life, will give you rewards if you take a deep breath and change your perspective.

The final lessons of Okra are in the pan and on the plate and echo our first lesson: Just try it.  This odd little green pod, filled with seeds and slime, can deliver delight.   Just try it.  And try it a few different ways.  Variety is a good thing.

Grilled okra
Rinse okra.  Put on a grill.  Turn when slightly brown and blistered.  Turn again.  Toss with some salt and serve dipped in sour cream. (Variation:  Dry fry them in a cast iron skillet with a little oil.)

Instant veggie gumbo
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add okra, either sliced or if small pods, whole.  Add chopped tomatoes.   Cook until okra is fork-able.

Senegalese stew
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add diced chicken and cook through (or use left over roasted chicken).  Add okra and cook until tender.  Add chicken stock and simmer.  Take a cup of chicken stock and mix with peanut butter.  Add to stew.  Simmer.  Serve with diced tomatoes as a garnish.

Is it cheating if you use a mix?

Sorry, Mr. Krusteaz, but you should have eased up on your ego and not named your product after yourself.  Krusteaz?  Sounds like something to be removed from one's eyelids in the morning, not the basis of a delicious breakfast.  Krusteaz?  Maybe it would have worked for pie crust, "Don't fret over your pie crust, Krusteaz and makes pie crust a snap!" Krusteaz? Sounds like a Hogan's Heroes character, the bumbling Wermacht officer, Captain Krusteaz.

Poorly named product, aside, Krusteaz Buttermilk Pancake Mix is my secret weapon.  Like orange juice, it's not just for breakfast anymore.

Most summers I am overwhelmed with zucchini.  Turn your back on these squash and your garden becomes overwhelmed with obscene, forearm-sized monstrosities.  The British, who call zucchini by their french name courgette, call these over grown green giants marrows.

You can stuff a marrow with cheese, bread crumbs, and finely diced pieces of itself.  You can chop a marrow and stew it with tomatoes and eggplant for ratatouille.  You can make zucchini bread, muffins, and even chocolate cake, but by August, you're sick of it, and your friends are sick of it, and you risk an obscenity charge whenever you leave the house with a well-formed marrow stuck under your arm.

This is where Mr. Krusteaz's mix saves the day.  Grate three or four cups of a giant courgette, add some chopped herbs, a bit of grated gruyere and enough pancake mix to dust it all and you have the batter for zucchini blinis.  Spoon the batter into sand dollar sized shapes on the griddle, flip 'em, then serve them warm with creme fraiche and chopped basil.

The savory secrets of Krusteaz mix do not end with blinis.  Scared of real chile rellenos?  You know, the kind dipped in batter and deep fried? Skinning and seeding roasted poblano peppers is treacherous enough, but stuffing them and battering them without tearing the peppers into shreads? Forget about it.  Just slice the peppers in half, stuff them with cheese, and then pour a light batter of pancake mix over them and bake them at 400 for 25 minutes.  You'll save the hassle and mess of frying and probably save a few calories (but seriously, chile rellenos are probably not recommended for serious calorie counters.)

The fun doesn't have to stop there.  Eggplant torta?  Roast some eggplant --lightly painted in olive oil-- for 10-15 minutes in a 400 degree oven.  Sautee some onions and red peppers.  Mix an egg, a spoon full of yogurt or sour cream, and a 1/2 cup of parmesan with about a 1/2 cup of pancake mix.  In a cast iron skillet or round baking dish, place a layer of eggplant, peppers & onions,  batter, then a final layer of eggplant.  Top with thinly sliced tomatoes and more parmesan.  Bake at 400 for 25-30 minutes.

Embracing Husbands

In the sitcoms of my youth, husbands were often dragging their wives to important business dinners, inevitably leading to anxiety & antics.  Darren worked himself into a tizzy of worry that Samantha would reveal her witchcraft to the big client.  Maude's husband lived in fear that she would engage in a biting argument with his boss.  Even Mike Brady had to worry that dinner with the new client might be interrupted by some whacky plot line involving Carol, Alice and the kids.  In the world of sitcoms, despite plenty of tension and hilarity, these dinners would always have a happy resolution.  The presentation would win approval. The promotion would be granted.  The deal would be signed.  Usually this success was somehow related to the wife's noble, thoughtful, efforts.

It was in the spirit of this grand tradition of spousal duty that I joined Peter at a dinner with his legal colleagues last night.  It was a diverse group of colleagues from his firm and an array of cooperating firms from his current litigation.  Peter barely knew some of them.  I only knew the hosts.  Subsequently, the beginning of the night was filled with introductions.

There are three basic types of social introductions.

The first is the re-introduction.  I usually do this one myself.  "Hi, I am Tod, we met at that Holiday party a couple of years ago."  By diving in, I save the other person the potential embarrassment of trying to remember my name and save myself the embarrassment of the blank stare if they actually have no clue who I am.

The second is when one is introduced to someone connected to the introducer, in this case Peter, whom you have heard about and are genuinely happy, if not excited, about meeting. To a colleague who knows of my existence Peter needs to say nothing more than, "This is Tod."  My relationship to Peter is clear because he talks about me constantly in glowing terms.

The blind introduction can be the most uncomfortable.  In the case of last night, it is when Peter barely knows the person (and may even be struggling to remember their name).  "Hi Bill, this is Tod," does not suffice because Bill has no clue of my existence.  In this case, it is incumbent upon Peter to make clear to Bill who I am.  And who I am is Peter's husband.

Since October of 2008, Peter and I have been legally married in the state of California. After 14 years of being "partners" (a term which has complications in a room full of attorneys), as far as the state was concerned we became "spouses."  We never adopted that term, but lately we have been trying to use husband.  Every married woman I know calls her male spouse her husband, why shouldn't I?  I have to admit it has not always rolled off my tongue.  I don't want people to think I'm using air quotes or being ironic in anyway.  I don't want to have to explain to people, "We're part of the 28,000 couples who got married in the window before Prop 8 passed..."

Putting that potential verbal and social awkwardness aside, I have started to embrace the word husband.   Partly because I want better short hand in social situations to describe who Peter is to me.  Partly because to believe in marriage equality does not mean applying second class euphemisms to your marital status.  And partly, I admit, as an act of defiance.

So last night, on no fewer than ten occasions Peter introduced me as "My husband Tod."  The response from a not uniformly progressive crowd was interesting to observe.  Some people visibly winced.  Others appeared to be struggling to avoid appearing as if they were struggling.  Others appeared to struggle to process simultaneously the information that Peter was gay and that this tall man standing next to him was the man he lived with (and probably fucked) legally.  A few seemed un-phased, but still had a quizzical look on their faces, as if looking for the air quotes around the word.

The evening had none of the poignant resolution of those sitcoms.  I did nothing to embarrass Peter, win over his client's wife with my charm, or help to nail his big promotion by talking sports with his boss.  We were just a couple at a social function organized around business function.  Two husbands giving each other the signal when one of us needed rescue from a boring conversation about the expert witnesses at last week's trial.  Two husbands, quibbling over who would be the designated driver.  Two husbands relieved to head home once we agreed we would no longer be the first to leave.

Math isn't hard. It's beautiful.

The stem of a true mint is square.  I learned this last year.  Not sure who told me.  Turns out it's true.  Peppermint, spearmint, chocolate mint, pineapple mint, all square at the stem.  Right angles.  Even sides.  Rigid geometry in fragrant form.  It freaks me out to tell you the truth.

It's like the Fibonaci scale.  The pattern of arithmetic progression that flower petals and plant leaves follow.  Mathematics in bloom. I suppose I think nature should be allowed its beauty without the burden of physics.  A yellow rose and its leaves should be more than a result of molecules aligned in sequence.  A rainbow should startle wonder that transcends the theory that light against a prism breaks out into a spectrum of its inherent colors, especially when the light is shining through a sudden spring squall.  The bees should swarm the lavender with a busy hum not because of chemical compounds and secretions that convert into sugar molecules.  The bees should swarm the lavender because the sound means Spring is almost over; because the glory of lavender is made more glorious by their presence.

I spent yesterday with an advocate for STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math) learning.  He recited statistics about workforce development and shared the shocking fact that California ranks 50th in digital learning.  Then, he shared a revelation.  STEM learning offers the only chance we have to bury No Child Left Behind and the drama of the over-tested child.  STEM learning will bring creativity and critical thinking back to school.

The square-stemmed mint giggles in delight.  The leaves of thyme count off, Fibonaci style, as each leaf shouts hurray.  As the bees return to their hive and construct the perfect hexagon maze of their honey comb, they buzz in agreement.  We, the dumb humans, may start to get it.  The beauty of nature is not there in spite of, or because of, the math and science.  The math and science is the beauty.  Electrons and neutrons doing a digital dance for no reason other than the beauty of it all.  Atoms combining into harmonious notes of molecules.  Molecules aligning into songs and symphonies of compounds.  Cells counting to three, then five, then eight, before becoming rose petals.  No reason to feel uncomfortable just because it's math.  It's all beautiful.  That's one thing you can count on.

In praise of delayed gratification

The plants are sitting happily in loamy topsoil, surrounded by nests of half-decaying rice straw.  A protective perimeter of organic slug killer outlines each raised bed.  They've been fed healthy meals of rotting fish juice. The irrigation drips for 12 minutes every midnight.  The tomatoes and tomatillos have been staked and caged to tame them upwards.  The peppers lean against their bamboo teepees.  The Roman beans are starting to find their way to their poles.  The marigolds stand ready to attract the good bugs and drive the bunnies away.  So now the waiting begins.

The advantage of my hybrid city:country lifestyle is that once a week I say good bye to my garden and allow the unwatched pot to boil into abundance.  The rest of the week I am like a child during Advent.  In my waking dreams I wonder if the eggplant is going to shake off the earwig infestation and establish itself, when the fist padrone peppers will appear, whether the zucchini will start to blossom.  By the time I arrive back home I am bursting with curiosity.  I park the car, release the hounds, and rush down to the garden to witness the week's progress.

Satisfaction comes. The pumpkins and squash have started to shoot out tendrils.  The tomatoes need to have their suckers pinched off (non-fruiting green growth that starts in the elbows of the primary leaves).  The Armenian cucumber plant has doubled its circumference.  The basil has doubled its height.

And, a little disappointment comes.  That one tomato in the corner by the fig tree is still stunted.  The french beans have a failure to thrive.  One of the eggplant starts has disappeared, victim to a slug who somehow managed to navigate the sluggo mine field successfully.  The Tuscan kale looks like it is about to bolt.  The artichokes are nearly done.

In the next couple of weeks, the weekly rush to the garden will reveal cherries, a spring crop of mission figs, and the first raspberries.  There will be a lull filled by squash blossoms, rainbow chard, a few purple potatoes, and the first zucchini, tender and small.  Then, the thrill ride begins.  I'll find the first tomato, a flash of red in a forest of green.  I might bring it to the kitchen to share.  Or, I'll give in to impulse and pop it into my mouth right there, a burst of gratification well worth the wait.

As we step forward, lets remember the global struggle for LGBT equality

Dear Friends

Yesterday was a historic day.  President Obama’s support for same sex marriage represents a cosmic shift in the struggle for LGBT equality. Although there are still setbacks and disappointments, including Tuesday’s vote in North Carolina to outlaw same sex marriage and civil unions, no one can doubt that the global movement for LGBT equality is gaining strength and public support. 

Here in the United States we may be bracing ourselves for another election year where LGBT equality is used as a wedge issue in swing states.  Globally, however, the struggle can be much more fundamental.  In fact, more than 75 countries still criminalize homosexuality, some with the death penalty. 

Still, the global LGBT movement is at a critical stage in its history and maturity.  Vibrant LGBT rights movements and leaders have emerged in most of the world’s nations, and mainstream human rights organizations have become more inclusive of LGBT.  Many nations have acknowledged the importance of LGBT rights and made attempts to integrate basic protections into their laws and policies. 

However, increased visibility for LGBT rights movements has led to backlash – particularly in the Global South and East.  This backlash has made the need to support emerging rights movements even more vital, because every day LGBT people face harassment, arbitrary arrest and detention, separation from partners and children, and even murder – simply for trying to live with dignity and honesty.

The urgent need for a strong, global LGBT movement is why I joined the board of the International Gay & Lesbian Human Rights Commission (IGLHRC).  With staff in the Philippines, South Africa, Argentina and the US, IGLHRC supports local movements in Africa, Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean, the Middle East and North Africa.  Our work begins on the ground level, listening to, partnering with and training human rights defenders.  Then we help bring their voices to national, regional and international stages, including the United Nations, the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, the Asia Pacific Forum, and the Inter-American Commission for Human Rights.

To learn more about IGLHRC’s work, check out their website: http://www.iglhrc.org/

IGLHRC’s work is funded primarily by private foundations, and government agencies, including the U.S. State Department that supports our groundbreaking work on Iran. 

I am writing in the hope that you will join me in helping to expand our support to include more individuals.  Individuals like you and me who were moved by President Obama’s groundbreaking announcement.  Individuals like you and me who understand that the struggle for human dignity does not end at our borders. 

To support IGLHRC’s important work, you can go directly to the IGLHRC the Donate Now  button on the IGLHRC web site.   If you plan to be in the New York area in July 16, you could also consider attending our annual event, Celebration of Courage where we are honoring Congresswoman Tammy Baldwin.

If you have any questions about IGLHRC, please let me know and what I can’t answer I can refer to our talented staff.

With hope and love,

Tod

Yesterday was a good day

I'm walking across Union Square, a bag of marked down shoes in one hand, my cell phone in the other, and I come across a beautiful scene of men and women of all ages, shapes, colors, and sizes dancing a tango to the rythmns and beats of a live band.  I'm smiling at the San Francisco-ness of it all and my cell phone jiggles.  I look down and it's a note from my father, "Let's have an Obama toast on Sunday to celebrate!  It is fitting to combine Mother's day, mom'/ Ann's birthday, with this wonderful moment for America."  Quite suddenly my smile turns to tears.  I am deeply moved.  I am deeply grateful.  16 years ago, Peter and I held a commitment ceremony where my father gave a heartfelt toast about the "real family values" present at this celebration of his son's love for another man.  My father was 16 years ahead of the President.  My 48 year old self tears up thinking about that event, yesterday's email message, and the good fortune I have to have such a father.  My 14 year old self -- he's still in there -- cannot believe what happened yesterday.  That boy could not imagine a day when the President of the United States -- at great political risk -- would stand up for the rights of gay & lesbian people in such an absolute way. That boy could not imagine the overwhelming joy of a moment like yesterday. 

Spring hurts so good

My neck is red.  My hands are dry and chapped.  My palms are sliced and scratched.  My fingernails are filled with earth.  My fingertips are raw and not yet calloused.  My nostrils are dusty.  My back aches and my knees buckle every time I climb the stairs.  Three weekends of solitary construction and creation.  Just me and the dirt and the black spaghetti tube irrigation and the post driver and the chicken wire.  I am the architect of the canals of Tenochitlan.  I am a slave building the aqueducts of Carthage.  I am an eight year old boy losing an afternoon in his Lincoln Logs.

Just me and the seedlings that I nurtured myself.  Nine varietals of heirloom tomatoes whose identities got jumbled in transport.  Pumpkins from Provence.  Eggplant from Japan.  Tomatillos from Oaxaca.  Squash from Martinique.  Kale from Tuscany.  Beans from Calabria.  Basil from Genoa.  Sweet, hot, red, green, orange, and chocolate peppers.   I am the designer of an edible Versailles.  I am the son of the Earth Goddess.  I am a United Farm Worker.  I am a Woody Guthrie song.  I am content.

Okey dokey artichokey

Anyone with a home garden knows the juicy deliciousness of a tomato fresh from the vine.  In the winter, fresh beets eaten right after they are pulled from the ground are not only sweeter, they give you a rush of vitamins and flavor that can make your head spin.  Fresh chard and spinach can give you the same rush.  And nothing beats raspberries picked and eaten as you wander through the berry patch.  Most anything grown in your own garden tastes better, but given farmer's markets and upgraded produce aisles, we can usually find fruits and vegetables that come within shouting distance of the home grown product.  Among the few exceptions are artichokes.  If you want to dip artichokes leaves in butter or aioli, go ahead and buy those big globes at the store, even though home grown and fresh picked artichokes may taste a bit sweeter.  It is next to impossible, however, to find good quality fresh baby artichokes.  Unless you grow them.  For the past month or so, at least once a week and sometimes two, I snap off three or four artichokes the size of a baby's first, trim them, slice them up, soak them in meyer lemon juiced water, dust them with flower, then pan fry them in a little olive oil and butter.  Sometimes I add a thin sliced meyer lemon.  I've tried this with store bought "baby" artichokes but it just doesn't work.  The store bought babies are a bit more like bitter adolescents than the sweet, rich, babies I can grab from my own artichoke shrubs.  In a few weeks, as the weather warms, my artichokes will find their thistle DNA and rush into flowering.  They'll take over their corner of the garden with gangly silver green foliage and purple flowers.  Still worth looking at, but no longer worth eating.  Just in time for the zucchini blossoms -- part of the limited late spring bounty that just can't be bought.

Paris, Peru, Peking, Potrero...Papito

Today at lunch, after a rousing heirloom seed exchange, my friend Kepa and I headed up the hill to the miniature gourmet ghetto at the intersection of Missouri and 18th Street in Potrero Hill.  Our options were not limited.  Mediterranean tapas, upscale French, downscale French, upscale comfort food (Plow), Thai, Korean, pizza...we landed at the relatively new Papitos featuring organic mexican food.  The gimmick is not subtle.  Serve slightly updated, all organic taqueria food and charge 40% more than you can charge down the hill at the corner of 18th and Mission.  I felt like I was back in Mexico City trading value and indigenous atmosphere for printed menus, table service, and arty posters on the walls.  The posters, however, were vintage Air France posters from the 60s advertising the France-Mexico route.  Papito, you see, is part of the network of restaurants that include Chez Papa and Chez Maman on Potrero Hill, Chez Papa Bistro next to the old Mint, and numerous other French restaurants located in every corner of San Francisco.   

The French roots of Papito are not revealed in the menu, the kitchen crew, or the decor, but the wait staff is borrowed directly from Chez Papa's network of French and Quebecois hotties of both genders.  The mostly local, neighborhood clientele notice that the wait staff speak accented English, but most probably don't bother wondering if the accents come from Mazatlan, Madrid, Montreal, or Montepellier.  They just care if their ceviche appetizer comes before their duck confit quesadilla (duck confit? shouldn't that give away the restaurant's French origins?).  

As Kepa and I enjoyed our guacamole and selection of three different salsas (none of them spicy enough for my tastes), the diners next to us ordered their food from the lithe brunette server.  The diners were of Asian persuasion in their fifties or early sixties, chatting enthusiastically with each other in unaccented, Northern Californian English.  When the server asked them for their order, the female guest spoke first in fluid Spanish, "Tacos de camarones, ponga la salsa al lado, y una limonada por favor..."  (Shrimp tacos with salsa on the side and a lemonade please.)  The server flashed her a bewildered look.  "I am sorry, I am French.  I don't speak Spanish. Where are you from?"  Turns out the woman was from Peru.  Spanish was her first language.  

Stereotypes be damned.  Servers in taquerias named Papito who speak with accented English don't speak Spanish.  They sass back to their bosses in French. Asians are not from Asia.  Some are from the Andes and speak Spanish as well as they speak English.  And the bald guy from San Mateo is capable of eavesdropping on everyone.  Capable of it.  And enjoying every moment.

In search of Irish cuisine

I am sure in Dublin there are some innovative chefs deconstructing traditional Irish food to create brilliant dishes like corned beef infused foam injected into "ravioli" made from cabbage leaves.  In San Francisco they're doing Irish-Eritrean fusion at food truck called Eiretrea (I am not making that up).  That said, an internet search for "gourmet irish cuisine" came up relatively empty.  All of the recipes for Irish stew, corned beef and cabbage, and champ (mashed potatoes) sounded fine, but none of them sounded all that unusual or interesting.  Not prepared to invent nouveau Irish cuisine on my own (my foam maker is on the fritz), I gave in and made a solid, decent, hearty meal centered around the color green and a little inspiration from my web research.   We started with miniature potato pancakes, mixed with parsley (for the green) and cheddar cheese, served with green tomato jam as a garnish.  To go with the pancakes, we invented two cocktails.  The first, a midori-bitters-Irish whiskey concoction that I would not recommend.  The second, a vodka martini with a kiss of Midori achieved its green goal and slid down a bit more easily than the first experiment.  The main meal was something you might have at a quaint pub down a wooded lane outside of Killarney.  A lamb stew braised in Guinness Stout (highly recommended).  Champ (mashed potatoes, with chopped bacon, leeks, and spring onions).  Sauteed kale.  Steamed broccoli.  For dessert, I channeled my inner Mrs. Patmore (Downton Abbey's cook) and made a trifle sort of thing: lady fingers soaked in Irish whiskey, a layer of rhubarb compote (it was green rhubarb), a layer of lightly sweetened whipped cream (with a zest of lime), repeated, then topped with shaved almonds.  Not bad.  That said, I don't think I'll be booking any trips to Dublin soon.

Awfully good Cauliflower

It's usually the neglected item on the crudite plate.  Bulbous dull-white florettes whose primary purpose, other than color scheme diversity, are as a delivery mechanism for blue cheese dip.  We pick around the poor cauliflower and likely throw most of it into the compost.  I have never been a big fan of what the French call chou-fleur (cabbage flower), but nonetheless I decided to plant it in my winter garden this year.  Home grown vegetables always taste better, but sometimes home grown vegetables are a completely different and better beast, so to speak.  Home grown tomatoes explode with perfect sweet-acid balance.  Freshly harvested artichokes are among the best things ever to pass my palette.  Cauliflower, usually bland and boring, when picked fresh, offers up flavors that are rich, earthy and spicy.  I've had it dipped in a warm dip of garlic/anchovy/olive oil/butter.  In a vegetable curry the cauliflower added to the flavor profile, instead of just soaking up the other spices.  And I found exquisite simplicity in a gratin of chopped cauliflower and gruyere cheese.  My cauliflower harvest is over, but I will no longer sneer at it when it shows up on my plate.  Even the usual bland piece of cauliflower dipped in Ranch dressing will likely stir the memory of my new favorite winter vegetable.

Bagna Cauda
Finely chop a head of garlic (more or less)
Finely chop one can of anchovies
Heat one cup of olive oil in a small sauce pan
Add the garlic and anchovies, cook over medium heat until the anchovies are dissolved and the garlic is softened (be careful not to allow the garlic to brown or burn)
Add half a stick of butter
Heat until mixture hits a strong, steady simmer

Bring the mixture to the table (use a small chafing dish or fondue pot if you have one).

Enjoy with an array of raw or parboiled vegetables: carrots, broccoli (parboil), asparagus (parboil), red peppers, AND cauliflower.

Cauliflower curry
Heat a little oil (olive or safflower) or ghee if you have it in a sauce pan
Add:
One onion, finely chopped
Two shallots, finely chopped
Garlic (optional)
Curry spices to your taste

Cook over  until onions and shallots are soft

Add:
One large carrot, diced
One red pepper, seeded and thinly sliced

Cook until the peppers are loose and soft

Add:
One head cauliflower, coarsely chopped (one inch chunks)

Cook for about 3-4 minutes on high heat, stirring/tossing constantly, until cauliflower is soft and is thoroughly covered with the spices.

Add:
One cup chicken broth OR
One cup light coconut milk
Up to one cup water (to achieve your desired consistency, don't add too much or you'll regret it)
Bring to a simmer

Serve over rice

Optional additions once the base of the stew is complete:
Chick peas
Tofu
Diced boneless chicken breast (cooked)


Cauliflower Gratin
Finely dice one head of cauliflower
Toss with 1/2 cup milk
Add to a buttered baking dish
Top with small dots of butter
Cover in grated Gruyere cheese
Bake uncovered in a 400 degree oven for 25-30 minutes, until cauliflower is soft

Rice-a-rena, the San Francisco Treat

A series of errands lead me to various corners of San Francisco this cool, sparkly morning.  I started south of Market where we dropped Peter's car off to be serviced and encountered a power outage.  Without traffic lights, each intersection became an awkward dance of the hesitant.  Drivers seemed to forget the basics of stop sign etiquette.  You go first...no me...no you...okay me...wait you...  Eventually, we wound our way through one way streets to one that would lead us across Market for me to drop Peter at his French class in the Tenderloin.  A few minutes early, we waited outside his teacher's apartment on what we call our "stake outs."  Self-consciously we wonder if we look like under cover cops (in an orange Honda Element), as we watch a steady stream of neighborhood characters.  Transvestite prostitutes walking confidently to their favorite corner.  Unbathed men projecting drug dealer/pimp energy skulking slowly in the entrances of tenement apartment buildings and SROs.  And the occasional junkie shuffling zombie-like past our car windows.  At 7:45 Peter exits the car and I move on to the Wells Fargo ATM at the mood-lit Safeway on Market followed by the used-to-be an ARCO gas station at Castro.  Cash in my pocket, gas in my tank, I roll down 18th Street towards the Mission towards my ultimate goal of a cafe where I can recaffeinate and do a little writing.   As I approach Church Street, I get caught behind my latest pet peeve: a car driving well below the speed limit, missing their right of way turn at Stop signs, remaining parked at green lights until the last minute.  Obviously someone texting or playing Words with Friends while they drive.  Vehicular manslaughter in-waiting.  My state of annoyance is lifted when I look out at the tennis courts in Dolores Park and see a dozen elderly Chinese doing a vigorous Tai Chi on one of the courts.  In unison they stretch their arms forward, palms facing up.  They cross arms to opposite shoulder.  They reach their hands to grab their buttocks and swivel their hips in a gentle, geriatric rotation.  And then they all leap forward in unison.  Oh my God.  Is it the Hokey Pokey?  No, it's the Macarena.  Or, in this case, it's the Tai Chi version.  I'll call it the Rice-a-rena.   Maybe it's the newest thing in Shanghai, but I bet not.  Only in Dolores Park.  Only in San Francisco has the graceful, elegance of morning Tai Chi been fused with 1990s dance craze once named by VH-1 as the "greatest one hit wonder of all time."

Carb footprint

Since Thanksgiving at least three times a week I drag my long-waisted, big-footed body on to a road or trail for a run.  My joints might ache or the ibuprofen regimen may be fully functional.  It might be brilliant winter drought sunshine or bone chilling winter drought tule fog.  It might be in Golden Gate Park or the Russian River levee in Cloverdale.  Aches, weather, and location may vary, but the point is, I do it.

When I started running, I wondered to myself, "Does it ever stop hurting?"  For six or seven weeks that question remained.  Short runs or longer runs, it hurt every time. My hamstrings, glutes, and calves always felt on the verge of cramp or muscle spasm.  My ankles, knees, and hip joints always felt on the verge of surgical replacement.  My feet lived under the threat of heel blisters and the occasional cracked and bloody toe nail.  Sometime in late January, the pain changed.  Each run starts out a little stiff and slow, but ten minutes into it I start to feel better.  Twenty minutes in, the slow motion jog opens up and my stride lengthens.  As long as the hills are minimal or angling in my favor, I start to feel like I could run forever, or at least the ten miles to the First Street bridge and back.

The amazing thing about my running is that it kills my appetite.  I don't walk in the door after a run feeling ravenous.  In fact I don't feel like eating much at all.

Until the next morning around 10:30am.

I used to enjoy a scone with my coffee and make it to a late lunch without a problem.  I still enjoy my morning scone, croissant, or bowl of granola but it doesn't hold me to lunch.  By 9:30am I feel peckish.  By 10:00am I feel hungry.  And by 10:30am I feel desperate.

For carbs.

And the faster they can be accessed, the better.

Some of these carbs require barely any preparation: Matzoh eaten dry (just bought a box at Costco that could feed a kibbutz); a bowl of cereal, Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran and Granola (and then another bowl); cold leftover pasta (I can't be bothered to heat it).

And then there are some that take minute or two: Quinoa cooked on the stove, finished with a bit of butter, milk and cinnamon;  Tortillas quickly heated in the microwave with melted butter (just one, then two, then what the hell there are only three more left in the package....);  a sweet potato peeled, cubed, and quickly fried in olive oil with a bit of manchego melted on top.

Fortunately, this diet and exercise routine seems to be working for me.  I've lost close to 30 pounds on the Doctor Tod method.  It's easy.  And it works.  Just quit your job, run more than twenty miles a week, and gorge yourself on Israeli couscous or Girl Scout cookies every morning at 10:30.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls(scout cookies)

Yesterday I gave in to the aggressive sales pitch of a pack of green-frocked bullies and purchased five boxes of cookies.  Last night I made one of my favorite desserts, Dirty Drunken Girl Scouts.

Here's the basic recipe:

Two girl scout cookies
Small slice of ice cream, the same diameter as the cookie
Make a sandwich

Repeat with different cookie flavors until you have enough (generally two to three per person)

Place on a plate, cover with plastic wrap and place in the freezer for at least one hour

For serving, place piping hot water in a small bowl.
Pour a shot of your favorite after dinner spirit in a glass
Place glass in bowl of hot water

Serve the shot and the cookies

Eat a cookie sandwich with your hands
Sip the shot
Use the warm water in the bowl to clean the melted ice cream and cookie crumbs off of your fingers
Repeat

Variations:
> Dirty Drunken French Girl Scout (use cognac)
> Dirty Drunken Gascon Girl Scout (armagnac)
> Dirty Drunken White Trash Girl Scout (bourbon)
> Dirty Drunken Puerto Rican Girl Scout (aged puerto rican rum)
> Dirty Drunken Mexican Girl Scout (aged tequila)
> Dirty Drunken Oaxacan Girl Scout (aged mezcal)
> Dirty Drunken Italian Girl Scout (grappa)
> Dirty Drunken Russian Girl Scout (vodka)
> Dirty Drunken Irish Girl Scout (irish whiskey)
(you get the idea)

Mullahs of the Mission

Ten days ago I was soaking up the cultural and culinary offerings of Mexico City.  Since returning, the reality of my unemployment has hit.  I awake every morning to a blank slate.  I can exercise, or not.  I can fill my day with chores, or not. I can network with colleagues and potential clients over breakfast, lunch or cocktails, or not.  Today, my focus has been on exceeding my running distance in Golden Gate Park (up and back without stopping!), delivering a donation of clothing to the thrift store, and finding a decent place to write.  

At the moment I am in the midst of a Goldilocks-like  quest to find a cafe in the Mission District where I can comfortably create.  This morning I checked out Ritual on Valencia and 22nd.  I liked the coffee and the instrumental loungey background music, but the space was a bit drafty and cold.  I returned to Lundys Lane and attempted to write in the studio, or as I am going to start calling it "Ridgeback Cavern."  Surrounded by three occasionally fussy but mostly dozing dogs was conducive to napping, but not to writing.  At the moment I am at Four Barrel at Valencia & 15th.  It's still a bit drafty and cold, even though the sun is shining.  The chairs are flat, wooden and uncomfortable and I am sharing a table with two chatty women who are alternating between their conversation and texting a recently pregnant friend.  The music is a bit loud and grungy and includes vocals.  The coffee seemed watery. This one is definitely not "Just Right."  My search will continue.

As I sit here, it is impossible not to notice that one, by one, there has been a steady stream of fully bearded men in their twenties and early thirties.  More than half of the men fit this profile. The same is true at Ritual.   Their haircuts are relatively trimmed-- they are not going for a hippy look -- but their beards are full, bushy and flowing.  No goatees or flavor savors.  A disturbing number of the beards have the unfortunate gnarly appearance of facial pubic hair.  Many of them are wearing stocking hats.  They look like members of the Taliban, only hipper.  

As I sit here with my relatively new full beard, I am faced with a crisis of personal aesthetics.  I have never been one to attempt coolness, but I wonder if my decision to grow a beard was a subconscious effort to appear younger and hipper?  Given the distinctly silvery nature of the beard, one could argue that I look older, but maybe my inner hipster wanted to fit into the cafe culture of the Mission.  With this realization, maybe my anti-hipster instincts are going to lead me to reduce the beard to a goatee.   Or maybe remove it completely and grow my remaining locks into a flowing Ben Franklin.  (Not going to happen.)  Or maybe, I'll continue to tour cafes and just sit back and enjoy the show.  A man just walked in with a heavily waxed handle bar moustache...

I may not be cool enough for this town

This morning I moved from my apartment to the Hotel Condesa DF, an Australian-owned, impeccably deigned property in an old belle époque building across from the Parque Espana in my favorite neighborhood, La Condesa. Thanks to ten nights of business and personal travel, my night here at the ultra chic Condesa DF is 100% free. I am currently sitting at the hotel bar situated at the edge of the hotel's open atrium. I am currently surrounded by some of the best looking and best dressed, in a casual way, people to whom I have ever had proximity. Since 1:00pm the hotel's open air bar, on the 4th floor terrace with a view to the tree-lined hipness of La Condesa, has been hopping with youNg, gorgeous locals. The pounding music interrupted my siesta plans, but encouraged me to venture to the downstairs bar where everyone took refuge after a sudden rain shower. I feel exceedingly old and gringo, but thanks to a beer, spiced peanuts, and a shot of tequila anejo, I am very content.

Content. Contento. Enchanted. Encanto. These are the words that have entered my vocabulary the past week.

Last night, I had an echanating experience at a restaurant called Lampuga (Mahi Mahi). In contrast to today's overwhelm of hipness, last night was like being transported back to some bygone age. My friend David surprised and delighted me by coming down From Los Angeles for a quick break this week. On the recommendation of the web site Chilango.com we wandered our way to Lampuga. We ate very well. Grilled octopus for a starter. A fine bottle of Syrah from Argentina. Filet mignon with Roquefort sauce for me, a beautiful piece oF grilled fish for David. For desert, coconut flan and apple tart, topped off with aged rum and port. The food was exquisite. The service was warm, inviting and attentive. All of this would have made a great evening, but the kicker was that for the nearly three hours that we sat at our table, we were entertained by a quartet of musicians: a singer who reminded me of a Latina Adele, a talented (and cute) bass player, a guitarist, and a virtuoso on the contralto sax and flute. They performed a mix of bossa nova, classic salsa, Cubans, and jazz. And they NEVER stopped.
I have paid to hear music with my dinner in the United States, but never have I had such a beautifully relaxed musical dining experience. It might have been an experience that was easily accessible in some bygone day, but these days I think I need to cross a border to have this anachronistic adventure. Last night, I might have been a fuddy duddy, but I felt cool.

Un viaje con Bea la Fea (a journey with Ugly Betty)

Instead of instruction, for my final day of class the school planned for us to go to Xochimilco, the maze of gardens and canals in the south of the City.  Maria Luisa stayed at the school for students who wanted to stay in the classroom and  Hector called in sick, so Maria Luisa recruited Aurora, a substitute teacher and university student.  Alessandro, Malcolm, Charley and I waited patiently in a classroom, chatting with Maria Luisa when the 4' 11" Aurora made her entrance.  I had to suppress my giggles.  Either Aurora had deliberately studied the personal style of America Ferrara's Ugly Betty character, or the Ugly Betty character was based on Aurora.  Her hair was clean but flat, a little past shoulder length with a well-defined and probably-too-short bangs, accentuated by purple framed glasses.  Her smile sparkled with a full rack of silver braces.  She wore a lavender down vest, over a turquoise t-shirt, accentuated by a hot pink wool scarf, tightly wrapped around her neck.  On her back was a small backpack with a Mexican version of Hello Kitty embroidered on the front.  On her feet were white track shoes with lavender racing stripes.  You could tell she was thrilled with her assignment for the day.  Her enthusiasm was like that of a kid sister tagging along with her brothers for a day trip.  I  wanted to hug her.  I also wanted to ask her if she knew that she looked like Ugly Betty, but I am happy to report that I was able to control that impulse for the whole day.

Taking a field trip with four men -- an Italian, a Brit, and two gay Americans -- may have been a new experience for Aurora, but she handled it well.  She took charge and guided us through the first decision, whether to take a forty minute cab ride or the Metro.  We decided on the Metro (subway).  Two hours later, we arrived at Xochimilco.  The ride demonstrated the absolutely vast nature of this city.  After a transfer, we rode to the end of one Metro line, then transfered to a light rail line.  We rode through the unbroken urban-ness of Mexico City, bustling with cars, people, billboards, and the occasional Walmart.  The walk through Xochimilco to the canals reminded me a bit of my experience in smaller cities of Mexico, like Oaxaca.  No building was more than two stories high and a uniquely Mexican smell of dust, diesel, ripening fruit and burning wood was prevalent.

The embarcadero (launch) for the canal was packed with dozens of wide, covered flat-bottomed gondolas called platineras, each topped with an arc like sign with its name, always a female.  We were guided to our platinera, Maria Elena, took our seats and faced our second decision: how much were we willing to pay for a trip around the canal?  Maria Luisa had told us not to pay more than 400 pesos for the whole boat, about 30 dollars.  The opening bid of the operator was 500 pesos per person, 800 for the full tour.  Some people treat bartering & haggling like a game.  It makes me embarrassed and anxious.  I decided to keep my mouth shut, hoping that Aurora might take over.  Despite the fact that she was our guide and obviously had the more fluent language skills, the operator, in what was likely a combination of typical machismo and experience of dealing with tourists, ignored Aurora completely.  This worked out well for us, since she was willing to cave at 350 pesos per person.  Fortunately, Malcolm would have none of it.  He organized us to initiate an exit of protest from the boat that moved the operator to 250 pesos.  At that point, I stepped in, asserting that I only had two days left in Mexico and did not want to spend more time haggling over the price.  The group relented, we paid the 250 and embarked on our tour of the canals of Xochimilco.

The canals are a remnant of how much of Mexico City was organized in Aztec times when the Valle de Mexico was a series of large lakes, connected by causeways and organized around man-made islands where people lived and farmed.  There are floating mariachis and marimba bands.  There are floating vendors of pulque, beer, tacos and tchotchkes.   There are islands with nurseries selling roses, poinsettias, and lilies of all colors and sizes.  There is an island (la isla de munecas) where for years people have attached dolls to trees in a creepy display that relates to the song, la llorona, which tells of a ghost searching for her murdered children. On paper, I could make Xochimilco sound compelling and romantic.  In reality, it's a kitschy tourist trap.  A tourist trap mostly for locals, but a trap nonetheless.  As 
a group, we embraced the kitsch.  Allesandro bought a muneca (doll).  Charley paid mariachis for songs and then sang along, in full voice.  We all took our turn at navigating the palinera with the long tree branch used to push the boat through the canals. Aurora got a little tipsy on pulque and beer.  And maybe I did too.  I dared Malcolm that I would buy him a poncho with an embroidered Mexican flag if he could haggle the vendor down from 800 pesos to 300 provided that he wore it the rest of the day.  30 minutes later, Malcom was wearing the poncho (and continued to on the subway home).

By the time we returned to the embarcadero, all of us were happy for the experience, but relieved that it was over.  We grabbed lunch at the vast food market, where I enjoyed a huarache (grilled tortilla shaped like a sandal) with huitlacoche (corn fungus).  Standing in the crowded trains, slowly, but surely, a warned side effect of pulque began to emerge.  I wish the side effect was intense hallucinations, but it was intestinal bloating.  A living organism, the pulque continued to ferment in my stomach.  By the time I arrived at my apartment, I felt like I was 5 months pregnant, just starting to show. I was happy to be home.

Building confidence

Every morning before class, I walk out of my neighborhood, la Zona Rosa, across a hectic intersection of Sevilla and Chapultapec, and meander my way through Colonia Condesa before arriving at class.  Along the way I pass a dizzying array of architectural diversity.  Sleek modern towers.  Ugly concrete boxes filled with offices.  Former mansions with fading belle epoque facades.  Buildings that tilt slightly from sinking land.  Classic mid century modern apartment buildings.  Sexy newly constructed condominium towers.  As a fan of architecture, my morning walk, as well as my daily wanderings, have been filled with visual delights.   Yesterday afternoon, I added a visit to the museo de arte moderno to my afternoon tour and much to my delight there were exhibits of two Mexican architectural masters, Felix Candela and Max Cetto.

Check out: http://mam.org.mx/exposiciones/actuales.

Candela is famous for dramatic, elyptical structures.  Cetto  designed, among other things, breathtaking homes that rival Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water.  He was also born in Frankfurt and had to flee Nazi Germany after writing Himmler a letter criticizing the Reich.   His work made me want to transport myself magically inside the photographs and models, including an exquisite home built directly over a lake, with the lake fully integrated into the design.

Typically when I travel, I am in a bit of a desperate vacation mode, attempting to squeeze as much relaxation, enjoyment, entertainment, and stimulation as I can out of each experience.  This past week in Mexico City, not book-ended by 10 hour work days, has been a revelatory experience.  Although the trip is finite, I am not rushing about trying to take it all in.  Having an afternoon to do nothing more than revel in modern architecture truly moved me.  As I develop a new life outside of a full-time permanent job, I need to remember and tap into this mood and pace.  I don't think I need to be immersed in another culture to find it.  I just need to find it in myself.

Just call me the bug eater

I had my Andrew Zimmerman moment today.   Today at lunch we all went next door to the little Oaxacan restaurant for tacos de chapulines (dried, spiced grasshoppers).  Our teacher, Maria Luisa, shared one taco with Malcom (the Brit) and Halvard.  Alessandro, Charley and I each ordered our own.  Monique, the Australian and Bridget (new today from London)  both bailed.

To the giggles of Maria Luisa, when the tacos arrived the other men groaned, laughed nervously and muttered obscenities.  I, on the other hand, was starving.  I was half way through my taco before the others could open their tortillas to see the dozens of crickets inside.  As they squealed like high school sophomores struggling with frog dissection, I calmly added more guacamole and salsa to my second and third mouthfuls.  As they collectively strategized about how to take the first bite, "Just don't look at it...add more salsa," I sipped my beer, and struggled to slow down my usual wolfing tendencies.  Maria Luisa attempted to coach them through it, "It's like salted peanuts...or crunchy spicy shrimp..." One by one, they began to tackle the taco more confidently, but their faces showed their internal struggle.  Charley ate deliberately, but when a chapuline slipped out of the taco and fell on the table next to his plate, he visibly shuddered.  Halvar sucked his third of a taco down in one bite and quickly washed it down with a long swill of beer.  Malcolm nibbled slowly, like a child struggling to eat a piece of broccoli.  Alessandro made a valiant effort, but politely left about 40% of his taco on the plate.  By the time the waiter came to clear our plates and make way for main dishes, my plate was licked clean.  To my good fortune, before clearing Alessandro's plate,  the waiter asked, "Doesn't anyone want to eat these chapulines?"  I was quick to reply, "Absolutamente!"

By the end of the meal, I had probably consumed close to 100 grasshoppers.  That's 200 grasshopper antennas, and 600 grasshopper legs.  I think I also gained a little more respect from Maria Luisa.

A lot like Paris, only with taquerias

Our North American stereotypes of Mexico City are daunting.  Overwhelming poverty.  Air pollution that makes your eyes sting and lungs heart.  Traffic congestion that rivals Mumbai.  Police who demand bribes to avoid jay walking tickets.  Buildings crumbling from neglect, earthquakes, and bad zoning laws.  Rampant street crime and random kidnappings.  Narcoterrorists waiting to gun you down at every corner.

In my previous visits, I have learned to dismiss those negative visions of Mexico City.  Instead, I have developed a deep appreciation for a city filled with some of the best museums in the world, public art around every corner, tranquil parks and plazas lined with cafes, broad boulevards that rival the Champs Elysees, and architecture that is a unique mix of colonial beauty, art deco majesty, and contemporary design.  It's a lot like Paris, only with taquerias.

On this trip, I have been surprised by what is undoubtedly becoming the new, emerging Mexico City.  It is not just that it is a vibrant cultural center and an economic engine for Latin America (the eighth richest city in the world), Mexico City is also...

> Fitness-crazed.
On Sunday, they close the Paseo de la Reforma, the broad boulevard that bisects the center of the City, and allow runners and bicyclists full access.  At every intersection there are ad hoc bike shops, refreshment stations, and free yoga classes.  This morning on my way to class through the Parque Mexico, there was a fully equipped free access outdoor gym, including elyptical machines, filled with people of all shapes, ages and sizes.  Can you imagine a free elyptical machine in the middle of Dolores Park?  

> More gay male-friendly than San Francisco.  
I have seen more public affection between men in the past four days than I ever see in San Francisco.  Young men holding hands casually as they walk down the street.  Older men kissing sweetly in the window of restaurants.  A man stretched out on a park bench, his head resting on his lover's lap.  It's not just in a gay ghetto.  There are gay bars, adjacent to straight bars, with people blending together as they pour out on to the street. Same sex marriage is legal in Mexico City and discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity is strictly banned.  In fact, public establishments must post the anti-discrimination law at their entrances.  Clearly the political change has been lock-step with a broader cultural change.

> Filled with very well-behaved, well-cared for dogs.  
This morning in the Parque Espana I happened upon a dog park filled with dogs, some playing together, some patiently sitting on the side watching the action.  On Sunday, every fourth person on a bike or jogging had a dog in tow.  Like in France, there are dogs in restaurants and cafes.  I have yet to see a single stray dog or (my favorite) hippy street person with a golden retriever with a bandana collar.

> Moving forward, together.
I admit that I have a limited, subjective, tourist-eye view of the sociology of the city, but its gestalt is cooperative, respectful, and forward thinking.  In the US cities of which I am most familiar (NYC, DC, SF), I always sense mistrust, tension and anxiety.  We don't invest in public space or the collective well-being.  We are in it for ourselves and it shows.  Our nation's politics reflect this mood, as anything initiated for the public good is considered flawed or suspect.  Here in Mexico, despite the intensity and chaos, there is a flow of energy between people that just seems more agreeable.  Even when cars ignore red lights and narrowly avoid pedestrians.  Even when you see people crammed like sardines into the Metrobus.  Even when they are vehemently protesting corruption in the government.


Today in class, Hector taught us some new ways to call someone an asshole.  He described that a stereotypical North American approach to a cancelled medical appointment or a disappointing meal in a restaurant would be to complain and demand a refund.  He warned us that to engage in such behavior in
Mexico would risk being called a "mamon." In contrast, he said that the Mexican approach to such situations is essentially to roll with it, "Ni modo, ni hablar."  Essentially, "don't worry about it." Maybe we in the US should adopt a bit of that approach.  Otherwise, we risk becoming nothing but a nation of mamons.

Do you believe in God and the after life?

There I was, gun to my head, and that was the question posed to me.  If I told my truth, would I face a horrible fate?  If I lied and said I believed, would it even make a difference?  And by the way, what kind of question is that for an Advanced Beginner conversation class?  I decided to tell my truth, by saying with irony, "One life is enough."  And then I sputtered on about how we're all energy, and after we die our energy continues in the universe among those who know and love us.  I was second to last among the six students.  Charley, from New York, spoke about how he loved going to church for the music but did not  believe in God.  Maria Luisa, the teacher, summarized the theological discussion by letting the class know that she was very Catholic and believed in heaven, hell, and purgatory for the sinners.

Sinners like my classmates.  Halvard, the Norwegian, answered the question with an expected level of Scandanavian skepticism.  Monique, from Sydney, told the class that she believes in "algo" (something) but not God.  Then continued to share her belief that she lived in ancient Rome in a past life.  Malcom, the Brit, did not even know who Adam & Eve were.  Not sure if biblical ignorance of that level is something to cheer, but go Malcom!  Only Alessandro, from Rome, professed to being Catholic, but his was definitely a cafeteria cultural catholicism.

I tried to make up for my atheism by answering Lucia's question about whether people liked tequila with an enthusiastic, "Absolutamente, tengo un collecion de tequila anejo." (Absolutely! I have a collection of aged tequila.)  Rather than winning her over, she appeared to roll her eyes as if she was thinking, "Of course you do you pretentious gringo heathen."

My greatest sin, however, was probably that I answered the question, "Do you like to dance?" with a definitive, "No me gusta bailar."  Lucia looked at me like I had just said, "I enjoy oral sex with aardvarks."  Even Malcolm, recently released from the British navy, professed to enjoy dancing, provided that he was drunk.  Halvar said that if he had drugs he enjoyed dancing.  Charley actually demonstrated the cumbia to the class.  Apparently, Lucia enjoys taking her classes out dancing.  She said, "I like to take my classes dancing.  Hector, the grammar teacher likes to take classes out to pulque bars.  I guess you won't be coming with us."

Fine with me.  I have always wanted to go to a pulque bar.  Besides, Hector is a very cute, very hip young man, with pierced ears and a pierced nose.  No doubt he knows the best pulque bars.  (Pulque is a drink dating back to Azetcs made of fermented agave.)

How do you say vertigo in Mexican?

My first of nine mornings in Mexico City started with the discovery, one block away, of a locally owned coffee place that not only was not Starbucks (they are everywhere), the coffee was great.  I may have butchered the colloquial way to say "small latte with an extra shot of espresso" but I got my point across.  I sipped the coffee on my way to El Bosque de Chapultapec, the massive urban park that houses four major museums, a zoo, and more chicharones vendors per hectare than any place on earth.   Relying on my map and my memory, I headed down Paseo de la Reforma to what I remembered to be a grand entrance to the park, the monument of Los Ninos Heroes.

Unfortunately, where I thought the entrance should be was a massive construction project.  The only way into the park appeared to be over a temporary pedestrian bridge made of aluminum framing wrapped in yellow warning tape.  Dozens of locals, including women carrying large baskets, young children in various states of running, and elderly people with canes, were casually making their way up the stairs, over the 50 foot bridge, and down to the other side where they could wind their way to the park entrance.  I anticipated no problem.  Then I started up the staircase.  The whole structure appeared to shake with each of my huge gringo steps.  The railings, though likely to code in Mexico, appeared to be six inches below my high center of gravity.  Slowly, carefully, grabbing on to the railing with each step, I made it to the top.  Next, the bridge, created from a series of sections of mesh metal, to enable a nice view of the roaring traffic below.  As old women balancing laundry baskets on their heads skipped over the bridge, I took deliberate, slow steps, trying not to look down, which was difficult given that I had to make sure there were no gaps in the sections before I took my next step.  When I got to the middle, as a twelve year old skateboarded by me, I froze.  It reminded me of a panic attack I had traversing a 18 inch path between two volcano craters in Costa Rica.  That time, I made it across by scootching on my butt.  This time scootching was not an option.  I tried to breathe my way through it.  Deep breaths, then a tentative move of my left arm over my right while gripping the railing and a slide of one foot over a few inches.  Then repeat.  The mocking glance of a pregnant woman with two young children in tow did not help (they were small enough to slip right through the gap of the railing, what if one of them slipped...)  Perhaps the transfer of my anxiety to the children caused a shift, but after they passed me, I started walking gingerly, but facing forward, and made my way to the base of the opposite stairs.

In some masochistic twist of fate, the past two days I have continued to find myself at the peril of my vertigo.  It's hit me while riding the glass elevator to the top of the Monument de la Revolucion, traversing another pedestrian bridge (this time a permanent one) over a highway, and staring at the Rufino Tamayo mural across the four story atrium of the Palacio de Bellas Artes.  It's almost like I forget that I have a fear of heights, and then, duh, I find myself at the top of a 20 story monument in a cold paralyzing sweat.  Or maybe, in a dictionary definition display of stupidity, I start the climb thinking this time will be different.  Whatever my subconscious motivations, one thing is true, I am still here.  I am happy to report that I did not fall to my death in the marbled Art Deco splendor of the Palacio de Bellas Artes, nor did I exercise an involuntary impulse to leap from the top of the monument, and I did not end up as a surprise on an unsuspecting driver's windshield.  Maybe that's what keeps me climbing.

Unlocking my potential, part 2

In the days leading up to my arrival in Mexico City, I was feeling very anxious.  Ten days by myself in a big city.  Going back to school.  Taking a spanish class for the first time since I was 16 years old.  And Mexico City itself.  Huge, vibrant, and exciting.  The place where I was mugged thirteen years ago.  I could have been in the warm embrace of some ex-pat community in Cuernavaca, but instead I chose to face my fears.  

I arrived at the airport after a pleasant flight, with a complimentary upgrade.  I grabbed an official taxi, suffered through some traffic, but eventually arrived at my apartment at #7 Calle Tokio, in the Zona Rosa, one block from the Paseo de la Reforma.  My host Francisco was supposed to there to greet me.  He was not there.  Five minutes went by.  Ten minutes.  I was a few minutes early, but now he was late.  The anxiety started kicking in.  My phone does not work.  What will I do if he doesn't show?  Is there an internet cafe somewhere close?  Twelve and a half minutes after my arrival, Francisco arrived.  Conversing entirely in spanish (let the immersion begin!) he showed me to the apartment, a beautifully appointed, ground floor one bedroom in a 40s building.  Anxiety relieved.  The apartment was going to be a great base for my time in Mexico.  

After an hour of unpacking and settling in, I decided to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  I went to the front door of the building's courtyard.  I could not figure out how to open the door.  I put my key in the lock, it would not turn.  I pulled a little lever, but it would not pull.  I unscrewed a pin in the lever, but it would not unscrew.  My mind was racing.  Would I be trapped inside the apartment all week?  Could I reach Francisco via email?  I tried a combination of pulling the door, turning the key, and...the key jammed in the door and it cracked the frosted pane of glass in the door.  Absolute panic set in.  I left the key in the lock and went back to the apartment and frantically emailed Francisco, Airbnb, Peter, anyone who would listen.  About twenty minutes into my panic, the doorbell rang.  A neighbor, or perhaps one of the construction workers, was able to open the door.  Turns out the little pin in the lever pulls out.  Quite easily.  It didn't for me.  I pulled it too hard, or tried to unscrew it when it pulled out easily, or thought that there was some kind of secret puzzle that I had to solve to open the door.  

I know that a key to my Spanish experience here is that I am going to need to allow my archived spanish knowledge to rise to the surface, on its own.  Desperately trying to translate every word I hear will only slow me down.  Worrying about perfect verb endings or gender pronouns will only get in the way.  To unleash my existing knowledge and build more, I will need to pull the pin out slowly, easily.  Allow it to open.  Otherwise, I'll jam it and maybe even crack something. 

The same goes for this new self I am working on.  It was easy to grow a beard.  I only saw the new man in mirror when I stopped trying to find him.  

Unlocking my potential, part 1

When I quit my job a month ago, I committed myself to avoid drifting into a haze of anxious puttering and Law & Order re-runs as I waited for the next thing to emerge.  Consulting projects and income would come.  What I needed was something of a personal re-boot.  I had allowed myself to become trapped in an uncomfortable cocoon of stress and dysfunction at my former job.  It was time to allow a new version of myself to emerge.   

Step one:  grow a beard and stick with it.  I've dabbled with vacation stubble off and on for years, but this time I would suffer through the itchy weeks and live life as a bearded gentleman for a while.  A few weeks into it, I had a remarkable experience.  I had just negotiated the final details of my exit from my job and took myself out to lunch for a vietnamese bun sandwich to celebrate.  After lunch I went to the restroom to wash up and as I washed my hands in the sink I took a glance at the man looking back at me in the mirror.  For the first time in months, if not years, I saw myself.  The stress of my job had created a veil that obscured an essential part of my spirit.  In a split second, my internal voice rattled off a conversation, "There you are.  Good to see you again.  Ready to move on?  Let's do it."

Step two:  Exercise.  I have often said that "I don't run."  A lifelong swimmer, sometimes at a competitive level, my chosen exercise was always in the pool.  The problem with swimming is that you need to find a pool with either a team or very low attendance during lap swimming hours.  Otherwise, swimming becomes a crowded freeway of frustration, avoiding the heads-up breaststroker who errantly found his way to the Fast lane, dodging the too-wide stroke of the triathlete who thinks they are faster than they really are, or gasping in amazement when the woman in the flowered cap decides to circle swim in your lane. When I left my job, I had been out of swimming shape for months.  I was ready for something new.  I would try running.   My first day was an utter disaster.  Taking the advice of my ultra-marathon runner Paul, I decided to do a mix of running and walking.  Two miles into a disciplined routine of 2 minutes running, one minute walking,  I found myself knocked to the ground on Crissy Field, with a leg cramp that felt like a ruptured tendon.  Little by little, I've worked out the cramps and have run as much as 6.5 miles up and down Golden Gate Park.  I run on the levy along the Russian River where I've been greeted by a coyote.  I have perhaps prematurely boasted that I want to do a marathon before I turn 50 (in 17 months), but as I progress, I can start seeing that goal as achievable. 

Step 3:  Go on an adventure.  To mark the change in my employment situation and open this new chapter, I decided I needed to get out of town.  I thought about a road trip, but early January, with short days and iffy weather, was probably not the best time to drive to the Grand Canyon.  I thought about a writing workshop, but (surprise), I could find no workshops open for enrollment two or three weeks before they started.  So, I landed on doing a Spanish immersion program in Mexico.  I debated between an array of cute colonial cities, Oaxaca, Morelia, San Miguel de Allende, but ended up deciding to spend ten days in Mexico City.  I enrolled in an intensive five day program with five hours of classes each day. I found an apartment to rent on Airbnb.  I bought my ticket and started anxiously awaiting the trip.