Glory Ho

In honor of a new initiative, Blog-To-Be-Fit, with my sassy new group,

. . .I am republishing my Yoga blog from January. This sums it up for me. . .

Yoga. Agoy. Ogay. Any way you move the letters around, I like the sound of it.

A few years ago, Michael and I gave his sister, Meagan, a present and spirited soul, a yoga studio gift certificate for her birthday. A few months ago, she lent Michael and I a yoga book from Baron Baptiste, life-long yoga master. Our gift had come full circle.

I’ve toyed with yoga before. Signed up for a class or two. Survived panic attacks during Bikram. But it’s always been more of a task than an experience. A line item in my planner. An event which required a careful clothing choice. An easier way to exercise than the run I am always avoiding.

Stressful, too. Where should I stand? Am I taking up too much space? I will never get my leg as straight as hers. That halter top is a-dor-a-ble. I wonder if it’s from Anthropologie. That girl with the eyebrow ring, don’t I know her? Yes, she was in my Master Program. And so on.

Do. Do. Do. Think. Think. Think It’s hard for me to stop.

This time has been different. I’m still Andrea, of course. Rereading chapters, giving self-tutorials and structuring my practice. I cannot go completely limp. I need something concrete to hold on to. And physically, it’s hard. Very. Hard.

But this time, I’m practicing alone with only my mat, my muscles and my mind.

This time, along with the instructions for Downward Dog, which inspires strength, sustainability and plenty of sweat, Baron slips in a little prose for the pose. Make a meditation in motion, he recites. Look high to the heavens, he insists. Open your shoulders to the sky and create space between your ears.

My gaze, unlike my expression during Taebo class, where I appear capable of scalping someone, should be soft and strong. The flow, from one move to the next, unlike my hurried, jolted life, should be slow and fluid. My breath is best, during both yoga and crisis, if complete and steady. I balance by bringing my hands together in prayer. I rest, when tired, by lowering into child’s pose. I lead, when ready, with an open hand.

As I learn yoga, I am learning life.

I listen to my body. I listen to my breath. I listen to this rare and inspiring sermon—one I could never find at church.

Just listen.

Last night’s party. . .by Andrea

Coffee shop profile. . .by Boudreaux

Baba’s Flowers. . .by Andrea

“And another thing. . .!” By Boudreaux

1. The accordion player on Gurko and Levsky.
2. My flip flop falling apart on Sheeshman and asking a male bookstore clerk wrap a whole lot of scotch tape around my foot and my shoe.
3. Blogging
4. Putting green apples in the fridge for later. Mmm.
5. Writing the captions, forewords and cover copy for a Bulgarian Photography Book. Project! EEEE!
6. Julie Delpy (see left) I finally found her sweet little song from Before Sunset. Remember?
7. Blogging.
8. Olives stuffed with almonds.
9. The fan that oscillates in our room.
10. Liquid Web, our web host, because they take snapshots of client’s sites every few days, which means we didn’t have to rebuild our site after the hacker drama!!!
11. Smoking ultra-thin cigarettes with mugs of 1/3 coffee, 1/3 milk and a 1/3 sugar with the girls in the Traditzia kitchen
12. Tuna, the surprisingly delicious meat in a can.
13. Blogging.
14. Walking home through fountain-spraying, chess-playing, tree-winding Sofia on a summer Friday night. . .urbanity with an aura. .dreamy. . .
15. Did I mention blogging?

Four weeks ago:

“Hi, how are you?” (My 25 year old brother, Philip, in Arizona)

“Hey, what’s up!” (Me, in Bulgaria)

“Sucks. It’s 109 degrees in Arizona and the AC in our house is out.” (He lives with his dog, Castro, and Saudi Arabian roommate, Faisal, and perhaps a slough of other dogs. . I think they’re breeding. . .I can’t keep up . .)

“Oh my God!” (truly aghast, as I consider Arizona kind of like a different planet. . .and bewildered, why does he enjoy living in a place where where car door handles can cause third degree burns?)

“Yeah. So were staying in a hotel now.”

“Wow, well that’s good.” (expressing sincere relief as I abhor being hot and naively assume that this is necessary for sane survival).

***********************************************************

But since then, it’s been triple digit hot here too. For a few days, the weather actually lollygagged between 100 and 106. No AC. But its the walking around that kills me. That and the fact that most places do not offer AC either. I’m one of those people who starts to panic in high temps. I experienced my first hot flash at 19. . . . I can still remember running from the lecture hall during an advertising class. (Menopause should be interesting.) The hair dryer is now my enemy. Cooking is out of the question. I feel I’m being marinated by a massive turkey baster over and over again. And I keep thinking: if I could only appear sweaty but composed, like Sandra Bullock in A Time To Kill.

However, this is a terrific lesson in life tolerance for me–and good preparation for the Sudan. It’s remarkable how 92 can actually FEEL lik 82 when YESTERDAY was 102. I think I am still in awe that at a certain point, I don’t just faint. Even when its over 100 degrees, life just keeps going on (!!) And at some point, you get so wrapped up in finding the right tram or digging for your phone that you actually FORGET about the heat.

And. . .most importantly. . .while stepping outside honestly feels like I’m diving head first into a toaster oven, never once did I consider moving to a hotel.

Perhaps I am making progress as an RP (recovering princess).

It’s been a few years since I read about the little green babe, Elphaba. I never did see the musical (sniff), but I listened to the soundtrack thanks to Erin. A far cry from the lollipop kids, this book shook the original Wizard of Oz free of its clean candy-covered borders and zigzaged the lines of our own life into entertaining satire and a swirl of slippery sloping questions. . .

**Is a child born evil or do they have evil thrust upon them?
**Do we discriminate now in such a way that will shame us in years to come? It happened to our ancestors, why not us?
**Are fairy tales simply a foundation for the confusing lives we all attempt to escape?
**How do we decipher between the good intentions and self-interested initiatives of our leaders?

By inserting significant society issues into a fantasized world, the author uncorked a new pause for ponder in me. When you see familiar issues riding their horse against a sky of a different color, you gain a new perspective.

And that’s good stuff.

P.S. For years, I scoffed at fantasy novels. They just didn’t interest me. But after reading Wicked and another book, Gate to Women’s Country, I gained enormous respect for an author’s ability to create a whole new world. Still not often my choice, but a significantly different challenge than penning about our everyday lives.

A few days ago, we watched The Lives of Others. It was recommended by my dear friend Maury. We were up for a quality film. In the last two years, we’d seen a lot of Will Farrell, Steve Carrel and Seth Rogen. I have great affection for these guys, but. . .

Whether it was our PC crowd (college-ish), a lack of cinematic options (foreign films displayed only Bulgarian subtitles), or simply no supermarket checkout lines or billboards (from which to warn us about crap comedies), our standards had lowered. We were more easily entertained.

I’d read about this phenomenon before. In addition to the above excuses, because expats are so hungry for fresh American culture, they’re more easily satisfied with the Hollywood repeats. As long as the railings are shiny, the medians landscaped and the kitchen islands nice and big, viewers experienced a sense of relief. . .that somewhere, all was right with the world.

Up until now, I’d been okay with it. Before Peace Corps, I felt I’d become somewhat of a film snob–unable to just relax and enjoy. Too obsessed with the staged dialog, mediocre acting or formulaic plot. (I blame this directly on my friend, Amy, btw, whom I simultaneously worship for helping me understand a good film when I see one). But I needed balance. Just because I could appreciate the Esquire , shouldn’t prevent me from cuddling up to the Odeon.

And on a complete tangent. . .what a riddle huh. . .movies, poetry, art– its all subjective. . .who is to say? Who has good taste? Certainly not the Oscars. Then again, as Carrie Fisher once said: “Everyone thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor, but they can’t all possibly have good taste and a sense of humor.” (Thanks to this blog , I found that quickly) Wagon-wheel coffeetable anyone?

But I was ready for a movie that I’d be thinking about for a few days (rather than quoting for a few months). So back to The Lives of Others. It was well done. A film detailing the big-brother-witnessed lives of East Germans in the early 80s. The corruption, the secrets, the escapes, the informers. The power of a communist government. It specifically details one agent’s moral struggle when he realizes his subjects are real people with real lives.

Most importantly, the cinematography is so succinct, the scenery so free of anachronisms and the environment so drab with its hummus and carpet brown colors, that you actually feel like it’s an older film.

I went to bed wondering why I didn’t enjoy it more.

Maybe I just didn’t like it. But is it possible that the communist blocks and doors and woodgrain walls were as broken and crumbling as the Bulgarian world I live in? That I’m eager for shinier, happier people because their in short supply over here? That escaping America to see a depressing indie film is more exciting when you return home to a cupboard of polka-dotted dishes?

Maybe if I’d seen it at the Esquire, it would have splashed in distinctive contrast to the American world. Here, the movie was closer to the world I live in.

Thoughts?

I’m at the roof door.
Sweating hours before.
But a chill has touched down.
It doesn’t belong.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.
But the wind is whistling to his own invisible Ipod. No one answers me.

But I know. I know what comes when extremely hot weather patterns mix with extremely cold weather patterns. It means danger. It means words across the bottom of the TV screen. It means the sound of a train and the woosh of the Mississippi soaking the wall of our house.

It means tornado. A shake up. A change.

The pink flowers of my summer dress huddle, attempting to take cover,seeking more time in bed, more sleep. But my skin is up at once, stretching toward the next adventure, bursting through those flimsy lycra blooms in an orange-peel-feeling pattern of goosebumps.

It knows best.

Yes, Andrea, you exist. You are here, it says.
I nod.
I stand.
But I can’t move.
Not yet.
I’m not quite finished.

The sky is a silver helmet on Bulgaria’s rippled and red-roofed head of curls. The head is shaking with laughter or tears?

The rain.
The dusky hallway with closed doors, pursed like vertical lips.
The circa 1940 elevator with its open-faced walls now slid still

They are all frozen. They wait for me to move first. I am in charge.

Downstairs thirty volunteers who have become something like cousins to me by now are wondering if this can really be over and inside I’m rushing up to meet that thought too and for a few seconds I stand refusing to move from this spot ever, ever, ever, because isn’t it fascinating how your identity is clearest when you juxtapose against something so very different from yourself and why oh why would you want that feeling to end?

There on the top floor with a banana in each hand.
Watching the storm.
Feeling Peace Corps end.

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You might have noticed that our website is called Glory-ho. It is unfortunate that variations and typos of this phrase bring the viewer to porn (particularly ass porn), but we’re not changing our name. Were not going to just “go by Mike”. Because after all, why should we change when he’s the one who sucks.

So what is a Glory? Well, it’s just above there, in the navigation and it comes from tall guy named John Steinbeck. Go on, just do a quick read. I’ll be here when you get back. ******See I’m still here. So, now you understand? Not exactly?

So my GLOW (glory of the week) is karaoke.I know not everyone will experience a Glory armed with only a bad voice, a tendency to close their eyes when they sing and a few dance moves. But Michael and I do. Oh, how we do. We sang and sang and sang and sang. Not Ready to Make Nice and Build Me Up Buttercup and Take Your Mama Out All Night and the Devil Went Down to Georgia. And I belted and thrashed and squiggled and crooned. It’s like ripping off the covers of life and standing on your bed and looking down at the big wide world and knowing exactly what to say. It is a moment when, as Milan Kundera so beautifully wrote:

“The crew of her [your] soul rushed up to the deck of her [your] body”

And that’s how a Glory rolls.

What a great guy Douwe Osinga (hear pronunciation here) is. . .he’s from the original Haarlem–did you know that’s in the Netherlands? There’s also a Brooklyn there. And of course, even old New York was once New Amsterdam (I do love TMBG). But I digress. This Google employee created a def cool program so I can note all the countries A & B (that’s me and Michael) can mark off on our Life List. Cheers to Ali for giving me the idear. Such a shame that Europe takes up so little space in the big scheme of the world’s surface!

create your own visited countries map

“Sometimes you just have to put on your Petzl, look deep inside your own cave, remove a few rocks and find a path. . .”

–Michael Boudreaux, July, 2007