Departing Seattle

It is with great sadness that I report that I'm leaving Seattle tomorrow morning. I'm excited about what lays beyond, but this city, which I first visited in 1990 (ouch, I'm old!) has been nothing but lovely to me since I arrived. We had hot, but when it was hot there were drinks (like bubble watermelon juice)



I got hungry, but when I was hungry there was food (from Tacos del Mar):



and when I needed a snack, there was that, too (top pot donuts):




Friends, real and imaginary who plied me with food and drink and watched me drink my volume in coffee, took me thrift shopping, invited me to ukelele sing-alongs and out to dinner to meet their wives, and came from far away, hosted me beautifully and invited me to play in their foam pits:



and with their dogs:



And Seattle trotted out one of its prettiest days of the summer for me to absorb, with sculpture:



and Chinatown gates:



And even strangers were horribly photogenic:







and here's what they saw of me, as I made my way around town.



And I may have missed the 4th of July, but here's an actual, unretouched photo of a sunset Seattle threw in my honor.



I guess if a city did that for you, you'd come back too.

Onward and southward. They call it Portland. I call it a place that used to be home.

Logistics and Creativity. Boxless thinking, if you will.

I have a couple of friends whose job it is to keep track of logistics. The logistics of packing, of planning, of strategy, and all that. I applaud them, am astounded by them, and otherwise think they walk on water. I am not really a logistics person. I get bogged down in this and that, always make a decision and then backtrack clumsily over the plans I have made, having failed to see the logical conclusion of a trajectory I have set myself upon. I also fail to include things like sleep and alone time in my plans, which is pure tomfoolery, given how much I really enjoy both.

Sometimes I will have a plan (in this case, leaving Seattle on Monday, Monday I tell you) which seemed like a good idea. Stay a long time, but not too long with my people up here in the house of sunshine and creativity (homemade foam pit for heaven's sake!) and OMG, have I mentioned the coffee, and then skip out of town to Portland, where I have some people that may want to see me. Darnit! said an old Seattle friend whose wife I have yet to meet (and they're pregnant, even), I am coming back from Italy late Sunday night! (owie, that's close). Wah, said my editor, it's better for us to see you here on Wed night! (If I'd gotten to Portland on Monday, I'd have been gone by Wed night), boo! said my friend that I'm staying with in Portland, that she wouldn't be there on Monday (but still offered for her husband and kids to put me up because they're like that).

And a confluence of factors, a quickie "mind if I stay longer?" here in Seattle, a "mind if I arrive later" in Ukiah, "mind if I change my ticket" to Amtrak, "want to go out to dinner on Monday night" and a "how 'bout if we take the train together from Seattle to Portland" later, and the logistics are as smooth as a cake that you used a hairdryer on to smooth out the frosting (seriously, I saw that in a cookbook the other day).

So while the planning aspect may not be my forte, I am flexible enough to make plans to see several people at the last minute who I otherwise might have missed and kicked myself soundly for. And I'm lucky enough to have these people that are pretty flexible and will jump over hill and dale and drive two hours to Seattle (with a two-year old!) to go tho the zoo or invite me to see them playing the ukelele or walk with me like a touristy dork to see the fish ladder and ballard locks.

And if anyone is curious, it's pirate week at my friends' kids daycare, so I shall now bid you arghwell. Will miss this family!

Good morning Seattle. And then goodnight.

After a heart-stopping jog through the Mexico City airport, a full eleven hours after having arrived, which only goes to show you that what my friend Claudio says is not true, I got on the plane headed for Seattle and was not given another sauteed mushroom sandwich for dinner, as I had been for breakfast. What my friend Claudio says, which as you all now know is not true, as do the fourteen people I had to explain my story to in the Mexico City airport, is that I never lose small pieces of paper.

Ahem, and moving right along. I was the person you saw standing outside last night at the Seattle airport, about 27 hours after setting out on her journey, holding her computer up to her face having a conversation (on skype) with her friend in Seattle's cellphone voicemail, which went something like this: Hi, I'm um, at the airport, so, I'm here kind of waiting for you. I'm outside, below a sign that says "Aeromexico" and I hope you get this message, because, well, I'm sure you'll be here soon." And she was, thank goodness, because did I ever not have a plan B.

This morning I was greeted by my friends' chipper five year old son who proclaimed, at 7:30 AM, "boy, did you ever sleep in!" Which was true, since in my body it was three hours later, but I did have that brisk jog at the airport yesterday. Have I mentioned that yet?

Today I was treated to one of those extraordinary Seattle days with blue blue skies and sharp shadows and bright sun and whoah, was that ever a lot of coffee and walking exaggerated distances and taking far too many pictures (coming soon, maybe), and a salad with fried tofu on top, and yes, ROOT BEER. Dinner with friends and conversation and Seattle is so cute someone should shrink it down and make it into a postcard. It also smells heavenly. Kind of like Patagonia but greener somehow. And fewer murtilla berries, but there are strawberries growing in the planter by the front door, and would you hold it against me if I told you I ate one on the way in not once but twice today?

I also tried to put on T. Rex claws today, but found that they were too small. Dratted 5 year olds and their tiny wrists. Remind me to tell you about the foam pit that M, A's awesome husband has built. If I ever get to be a kid again, I want to be born into this family. I wonder at what age Seattleites get to start drinking brewed-at-home pump-driven espresso. Any thoughts?

And now I must say goodnight. Buenas noches. Que duerman bien.

You can't say that in Spanish. Oh wait, maybe you can in Mexico

I'm "reporting" live from the airport in Mexico City. The Mexico City airport, if you will. Jeff assured me that it was horrible and confusing and poorly signed. I would have to agree, as I walked around with my second boarding pass in hand for a solid 15 minutes trying to figure out where to go while everyone I talked to instructed me to stand on lines that had nothing to do with me. And you know, it's not like I don't speak the language.

Except that on the juice they served on the plane, it said, "sin conservadores" which I'm sure means without preservatives, careful on this one, perserverativos is not your word here, in Chile we say conservantes. Conservadores sounds like there are no conservative people in your juice, which is, I suppose, just as well. They say too many fascists spoil the juice.

They don't?

Well, they should. Is anyone writing this down?

In other language news, I have been gifting my signature left and right. Anyone who wants it has to ask for it like it's an autograph, as though I were famous, which, despite a long-ago neighbor having narrowed down what continent I live on by having seen an article I wrote which she said just “sounded like me,” I am not. Maybe someday. In the meantime, anyone wishing to pretend that people really want their signature are advised to visit Mexico. I seem to recall they did the same thing to me in the Dominican Republic. Made me feel famous, that is. (regalame tu firma, they say, gift me your signature). As though that scribble were worth something. Way to grow my ego like a chia pet. The ram, not the head.

Also, what in the world is jicama and why is it so delicious with chili powder on it, and who translated the jerky sign from carne deshebrada (shredded meat) to read: crushing, 500 grams? 500 grams is not very crushing, unless you are an arthropod. And even if you're one of those, like the frighteningly huge spider I woke up to staring at me a few summers ago sleeping in a shelter in the Amazon, a package of meat a whisper heavier than a pound probably wouldn't do you too much harm.

Can you read how sleepy I am? Lucky for me I have another 5 hour flight. I'm just glad I don't have to do that for the viaje redondo (this is really what they say for "round trip" in Mexico. Don't try literal translation at home kids, that should be ida y vuelta. And call me conservative, but this word-for-word replacement is really crushing.

Steel vs. Iron, a study in words. Bearshapedsphere opines on language, again!

Although the packing fairies and cleaning patrol failed to show up, the ants in our pants brigade did a fine job of acceleratedly standing up and sitting down to back up the external hard drive onto another external hard drive, while doing the packing and cleaning for the missing fairies and aforementioned patrol. This mega backup task is one that I've had on my whiteboard next to "call dentist" for longer than I should probably admit. At least I can erase one of them now.

And what's packed is packed, and what's clean is clean, and what isn't just isn't. There's no more to say about that. Except that I hope I get invited to a summer dress fashion show, because after all this jeans and sweaters for months on end, the idea of purple and pink and brown flowered and patterned and strappy dresses was too much for one indecisive girl to deal with. And yeah, I may have overpacked a little.

But now I'm in the airport, feeding off the wifi like a remera fish, but not a ramera, which means tshirt in Argentina, but prostitute somewhere else, and also not really like a remera because the wifi is nothing like a shark and our relationship is more parasitic than symbiotic. Maybe I'm an epiphyte. Less poky though.

There's something that's always bothered me about the airport, besides the reggaeton on the TV that is washing over me, and which made a friend that I just talked to on the phone ask "where are you, anyway?" The thing that bothers me is that one of the buildings you pass on the way here is for Carlos Herrera, Master en Acero. I am incapable of not thinking behind words, and the word most similar to Herrera is herrero, as in "casa de herrero, cuchillo de palo" which means, in the house of the blacksmith, there are wooden knives (see: shoemaker's kids go barefoot). Herrera reminds me of the word blacksmith. And then it says master en acero, or steelwork. Steel? Iron? Different! How can a blacksmith work in steel? It's just so linguistically upsetting. But now that I have aired my grievance, I can turn my attention to just how many times the gent sharing this bench with me can whack the back of the seat while he talks to his girlfriend on the phone. They don't seem to be in a fight, he's just a seat whacker. It's not very relaxing. I wonder if his last name is Paz (peace).

Happy trails y'all. Next time from Mexico.

Me, myself and I, or the long, slow road to Blogher and beyond

If ever you desired to feel morally and otherwise superior to me, I want you to know that I have a boatload of things to do before blowing this popsicle stand (and ceasing to be a popsicle, myself), and that they sit unattended. I have not, for example, defrosted the fridge, cleaned the kitchen or packed. I also have the index card of doom sitting right beside my left knee, where it taunts me in its blue-on-white silence. But as a friend of mine (who shockingly, does not blog!) recently pointed out, the only thing you really have to do before you leave is turn everything (gas, electricity) off. Everything else will take care of itself. And I know she's right, but I have this policy about keeping everything tidy so that when I return to Chile I am happy to be here. Which is an investment in future happiness, which Still Life (who sadly, I said goodbye to today) calls "being kind to your future self."

I like this future self idea, and also of being kind to her. I would also like to call out my past self for all the sheer idiocy she has imposed on my current self (suddenly that De La Soul song, Me, Myself and I is making a whole lot of sense).

To wit: Tomorrow night I take the bus to the airport, wait the alloted hours to get on the plane, during which time I will surely eat a tuna wrap with avocado from Dunkin' Donuts (after you go through Interpol/Security), and then I will attempt (possibly unsucessfully) to use the airport wifi to do some last minute work. I then get on the plane, do not get DVT (deep vein thrombosis), and arrive seven hours later in beautiful Mexico City.

But wait? You're going to Mexico (you ask yourself)? No! I am not going to Mexico. I am spending ten hours in the Mexico City airport to wait for my flight to Seattle, where the lovely A and M and their little one J will wait for me with open arms and cans of chickpeas at the airport and spirit me into the land of (dare I dream? rootbeer (blame planet nomad for this new obsession) and summer temperatures).

This is what I mean about my former self apparently not liking my future (now present) self very much. Why would she book me this ridiculous ticket, which will only lead to unpleasantness, being hot (do not like, though is better than a DVT), and probably the added expense of buying Mexican nibblies in the airport? There is a possibility that future/present me will amble about the sprawling summertime metropolis during her layover, but there is also the possibility that she will make sad doggie eyes at someone who has the right to go into the fancypants lounge and get them to get her in as a guest. Or she will sit by an electrical outlet and play satellite office at the airport in the cheap seats. For ten hours. Did we mention that?

The truth is, former me was only protecting present/future me's credit card from unfettered spending, and when she made the decision to make this trip, it was certainly some middle of the night type time, when none of us were really awake, and when saving a piddling sum of money seemed like a way to honor us all.

Oh yeah, did I mention? I'm leaving town.

If you're in Seattle, look for me until the 13th, Portland until the 15th and then on a long, lonely train ride to a bus to a pickup in a Burger King parking lot to be spirited away to the land of book binderies, sustainable living and baby goats. I should resurface in SF on around the 19thish. Want to see any of the mes? Make contact. Especially if you're in SF and want us to sleep on your couch. And drink all your root beer. After that, Blogher, Travelblogexchange, DC and NY/PA/NY. Oh! and then we fly home via San Salvador and Lima! We are so pleased with ourselves right now!

besos.

Inédito! (Unheard of!) Pecan pie in Chile! And language musing.

Today on my way to the land of pink and trivia games and measuring of pregnant bellies with soft woolen yarn (darnit, didn't even come close!) I took the metro. I did this because, despite major obstacles, such as the great pecan seizing of 2008 and also the very overpricedly available pecans and Jumbo and Santa Isabel (2990 CLP for 100gr, or about US $25 a pound), and then the finding of pecans, but in their blasted shells, which lands! are they hard to get out (especially with no nutcracker), I had made a pecan pie.

See how pretty?



So because of the pecan pie, which upon leaving the house, I could see at least looked prettyish, and this I did not wish to destroy with the jostling that is biking from my house to mountain-backdropped Las Condes, I decided to hoof and metro it up to the baby shower. On the way, I clutched the pie, and became mesmerized by the LCD display which repeatedly scrolled through information such as the metro schedule, the busses you could take when the metro closes (11ish most days), and asking you to please not talk on the phone on the stairs and escalators, not to run on the stairs (escalators ok, apparently) or on the platforms (shout out to Abby who learned this word in English the other day), and to not sit on the floor in the metro cars. The metro also seems to doggedly be pursuing the word punta instead of peak (said with Chilean accent) to describe rush hour, an effort which goes completely unnoticed by everyone, as we all still refer to rush hour and the price the metro costs during that time as "horas peak."

Among the messages being blipped across the screen was one instructing me to (I believe, I got distracted by the word choice, as you'll see) charge my BIP (say: beep) card at off times, to avoid... something.

The word they chose here was aglomeraciones. I don't argue with the use of this word, exactly, even if the informal Chilean word and the word I would normally hear or use for crowd is choclón (from choclo, or corn, see how crowded the kernels are?) You can hear a very dapper sounding Spanish speaker say the word here, if you were so desirous.

I'm not arguing with aglomeración, I'm sure it's a perfectly legitimate word for crowd. I think of congestión, maybe a taco (Chilean for traffic) peatonal, mucha gente, even muchedumbre, but hey, the person who programmed the LCD screen is more of a Spanish speaker than I am.

But as an English speaker, I was thinking of myself as one of a number of particles, and thinking how if we were to clump together, or agglomerate if you will, it would be harder for us to get out the exit gates of the metro. The thicker the solution, the slower it moves. Which is exactly what I was waiting for last night at about 7 PM when I called my personal 24-hour cooking hotline, also known as Mamaj (get your own) to find out how to know when my pecan pie was done. She wasn't there, so I had to rely on the second string, someone's uncle Google.

Did you see how pretty it looks? I also made fudge (for another party, zero pregnant people there, also no pictures) proving that I'm good at changing phases of matter. If I ever participate in guerilla public service announcement vandalizing effort, you can bet I'm going to do a play on words. Avoid thickening! viscosity! solidification!

... end of post

post-post! I violated Smith family tradition and made this pecan pie recipe, rather than the one on the corn syrup bottle, using 1.5 cups of pecans because darnit, I'd already (painfully) shelled them. I also did not use Texas pecans, and do not hold the authors responsible for the deliciousness that resulted.

post-post-post! I imported the corn syrup from the United States for the pre-pecan seizing plans I had in November. I don't know of any local equivalent, choclo be darned.