Glory Ho

I’ve never been much for fantasy or science fiction books. Apart from an obsession with unicorns at a very young age, I just didn’t get it. But every few years, a new one lands on my nightstand. And every time, there seems to be some poignancy to its presence.

I read Gate to Women’s Country back in 2000, the result of a book club full of women very different from myself. These members dabbled in Dungeons and Dragons. Some crafted annual costumes for participation in the Colorado Renaissance Festival. Many owned a personal copy of the Star Wars Trilogy. They were well-read, good at HTML, lacked social skills and their intelligence often made my head spin. At 23, I sat in their suburban homes, with my hangovers and highlighted hair, desperately trying to avoid their cats. I’m sure most of them wondered how I got invited.

But they looked at life in a different way and Gate to Women’s Country helped me do the same. It’s about a “post-holocaust dystopia” which challenges the molds of traditional gender roles, exposes the weaknesses of violence and demonstrates the potential of feminist ideals in a primitive environment. I loved it. And I gained great respect for an author who could create a whole world of customs, myths and language. I realized what a different challenge it must be than writing about everyday life, relationships and tragedies. Though I did not know it at the time, the author, Sherri S. Tepper, was a former president of Planned Parenthood of the Rocky Mountains. It would be another two years before I began a five year volunteer career of lobbying, phone-banking, fundraising and rallying for this organization, but I know that somehow, this book unrolled a canvas of context for my future.

Then there was Wicked, which I wrote about a few months ago.

Last week, as a goodbye present, some Bulgarian friends (Ani & Michel gave us The Hobbit, a precursor to a little book-turned-film trilogy called Lord of the Rings. When Peter Jackson brought this story out of hibernation a few years back, it didn’t interest me much. All I knew was that I hadn’t seen Elijah Wood since the Good Son and there’d been no sign of Sean Astin since Goonies. But I was living with Boudreaux then. As a child, his father had read him most of the series. He was excited, so I went along, enduring hour upon hour of these epic productions. Again, appreciation and comprehension replaced my bewilderment. And as Homer Simpson once said to Lisa: Just because I don’t care, doesn’t mean I don’t understand.

Maybe I wanted to legitimately denounce these silly books. Maybe Poetry Thursday has made me a little more whimsical Or. Maybe. As someone who is likely to let practicality and haste squelch spontaneity and imagination, I knew it would be good for me.

And now I see how The Hobbit is an enabler. It leads me toward creation. Without excessive description, but using matter-of-fact, grandfather-in-the-Princess-Bride-poise, Tolkien tells me that goblins are good miners and that elves know all the gossip first and somehow make me believe it. And without fancy phantasmagoric adjectives, I am forced to conjure my own images of trolls, dwarves and talking eagles.

The story is about a cautious creature who has always preferred his own breakfast nook to a bodacious adventure. But because Gandalf the Wizard saw potential in Bilbo the Hobbit, and was compelled to test his courage and wisdom, he is on a quest to slay Smaug the Dragon.

I know, I know, I can hardly believe I’m reading it myself. But guess what? In the last few months, like Bilbo the Hobbit, B & I have become Internet hermits, audibly exhaling with relief as guests depart, gripping our bonneted tea mugs in sedentary comfort, reserving social interactions for those we truly adore. We take turns playing the hunter, foraging for food, and then hurry back to our hole. Like Bilbo, we have become too comfortable. Like him, we are now forcing ourselves into the unknown as we head toward Wanderlust or Bust, because that’s how we grow. Like the hobbit, we will undoubtedly find rain, bureaucracy, swindlers and spiders along the trail. But also hopefully, a little bit of treasure, too.

And as I round out the second half of the book, I learn that the Hobbit and his entourage of dwarves, due to unforeseen trouble, did not follow their “elf-road through the wood” as advised. “Only the river. . .” which they encountered due to the seemingly unfortunate imprisonment by the Elf King, “offered . . .a safe way from the skirts of Mirkwood in the North, to the mountain-shadowed plains beyond. . .So you see, Bilbo had come, in the end, by the only road that was any good.”

Let life’s events create your journey instead of sticking to the map, Tolkien says.

It seems a kindred kind of foreshadowing and a confirmation of our current mantra. It’s not about letting fate decide, necessarily. But it is about being open, physically and mentally to whatever comes your way. Sounds about right, because since we have no map and haven’t yet looked at the book, there will be nowhere to stray but straight into our own adventure.

In coming to Bulgaria, B & I have had a very belated, but better late than never musical awakening. It’s pretty simple, really. We began listening to something besides NPR and our early 80s and 90s favorites. This discovery includes the Allman Brothers. Their music makes all of life seem like that moment when your friend comes back to the blanket with the beers.

As a worrier, I am often overly concerned about my stuff. Insurance, locked doors and running back to check on my coat while dancing in a bar (which basically ensures that I have a good idea at exactly what time it was stolen) are my habits. Yes, yes, I am plenty aware that I’m too attached to my things, and I’m working on that. But in the meantime, Mozy is storage for your less tangible treasures, like photos, documents, essays, music–everything you keep on your computer but can’t bear to lose. And it’s free.

I’ve wanted to write about this so many times. To tell the truth. But I never wanted to sound ungrateful.. I’m not. I’ve movie-quoted my life away, rewound scenes with regularity and memorized dialogue for hours, so that being in a movie seemed too good to be true. And now, after being devoured by a 25 foot snake, policing a crocodile-fearing hick town, imitating a female computer and exhibiting the focused panic of an intelligent NSA tech, each which required no more than 5-10 lines, I feel I can make a slightly more qualified judgment about the world of acting.

Because the life we glamorize, for at least a working actor, is somewhat different than the glittering lights once led me to believe.

On meeting famous people. .

Pro: This is exciting. Totally. Even if its not someone you’ve always admired. Basically, the rest of your life seems so boring when you suddenly find yourself discussing the filming of Apocalypse Now with Martin Sheen over chicken and rice.
Con: The crash following this moment of self-important superness is unexpected and comes with this enormous demystifying disappointment about life. It’s hard to explain. But by the second conversation with a given star, it’s just no longer a big deal. At all. And of course, you may not actually LIKE this person. The worst part is that some actors tend to think they are extraordinarily entertaining. And why shouldn’t they? People pay to watch them. But have you ever been around someone who’s always looking for an audience or a laugh? It’s brutal.

On the working conditions. . .

Pro: You do get a trailer. For the first time in your life, cutting in line is encouraged. YOU are an actress. YOU are important. and these others. . .these people who hold the cameras and take care of the props and sound and such? They are not. You have a hair stylist and a make-up artist. These people make you look much more fabulous than you thought possible. You have an assistant, someone who brings you a coat, kleenex, water, a phone, new shoes, coffee, anything you have the guts to ask for. You start to think you are VERY important.
Con: You start to think you are VERY important.

On the waiting. . .

Pro: Robert Deniro once said, that he gets paid to wait and he acts for free. I sat around for two days on this last set, changed my clothing, wandered in and out of other trailers, shot the shit, told stories and drank a lot of coffee. But I was getting paid. And I am NOT complaining. For some people, this work, on a long-term basis is a dream.
Con: When I have nothing to do, I become lazy, listless and mentally fuzzy. For three days, no problem. Any longer would be an adjustment. Now I’m sure Julia Roberts keeps busy on a set, but I’m talking about the many, many more who don’t have a lot of lines, and also don’t have wifi in their trailer.

On the illusion of fame. . .

Pro: When you’re a performer, you have the option of a page on
IMDB.com. The very place where you go to see who WAS that guy in tonight’s movie or where DID Brad Pitt go to college is the site where I will now take up residence.
Con: But funny thing. I haven’t received one phone call from Alexander Payne! Not one visit from Ethan Hawke, who decided he wanted me instead of Julie Delpy for the next Richard Linklater movie. The thing is, no one calls and interviews you for this page. You build it yourself. I guess being on IMDB is kind of like hearing that I’m just as cute as I think I am in that beret. By my own face in the mirror.

On the dizzying state. . .

Pro: A call from Jonas, let’s call him our agent, used to really make our day. An audition! They want me to come in for a reading! This one is for an action movie! Harrison Ford is going to be on set!! OMG! It’s a huge ego boost, a nervous time and a trip up the roller coaster tracks, one click at a time as I memorize, practice and pace. I’ve been to nearly a dozen of them (Note that I was only in three movies.)
Con: Leaving the audition, stomach twisting in anguish, recalling the director’s expressionless face and LA aloofness, I begin to doubt it all. Surely he noticed that my face is asymmetrical. That my wrists are entirely too tiny. That my calves are too fat, my fingernails too, well, absent. Because I have no training or experience as an actress, I realize that my B-movie career will be somewhat short-lived and my post-audition blues are minimal. But this kind of erratic self-esteem action, on a regular basis, this kind of judgment an actress receives, based sometimes, perhaps often, entirely on the way she looks, well, it’s gotta be tough.

We are now on our 9th day without hot water. Yes, 9th!

Oh, haven’t I mentioned it? No, I guess I’ve been too busy carrying the tea kettle between the bathroom and the kitchen; rubbing lotion all over my bloody, knicked, razor-burned legs; searching for some twinkle in my morning reflection that will justify not taking a shower.

And remember, we do NOT have a bathtub.

Funny things happen when you not only lack hot water, but have only freezing cold liquid coming from the tap. You’re cold a lot. Washing the dishes is a frigid task. And it doesn’t really work, either. They’re left with a greasy grime that is matched only by current state of your hair.

Every time I see the “super”, this short, rumpled, bottle-job-red-haired lady with a jumble of teeth and a stubborn look in her eye, in the hallway, I say:

“Topla voda? (Warm water?)” with a look that I hope demonstrates my desperation.

And she says “shessnisti” or “awesomnisti” or some other date in the near future, which never turns out to be quite right.

Then she says: “Oojus!” (The horror!) and nods her head.

And I say: “Oojus!” (The horror!) and shake my head.

And we continue our opposite ways.

The cockroaches have returned, too. They came back a few months ago. It’s just like old times. As if they never left. Flying across the floor in broad daylight. Wandering around wherever they please. And with less than 15 days to go, I’ve altered my strategies. Before entering the bathroom, I simply turn on the light and wait for them to scurry into the walls. Only if one dares come out while I’m on the toilet will I attack with a bottle of stinging air freshener, which seems to do the trick.

Ah, it really is time to go. Time to move on. Time to say goodbye to Bulgaria.

Last night, a guy named Ota couchsurfed his way into our world. A Czech hitchhiker who lives on the sale of domain names, English-teaching, an organization called TongueSwap (which you should totally check out) and his unfloundering optimism and flexibility.

What an education Ota was. We learned how light colored clothing (makin g you appear clean and safe) encourage cars to stop. How a guy with a guitar is more likely to get picked up than a couple. How a single guy trumps a single girl. How hundreds of girls hitch alone every year in New Zealand. How most Europeans don’t hitchhike in America because it’s too risky. How hitchhiking, in most places, ISN’T risky. How a Hitchhiker challenge (the kind he is on) from Oslo to Mumbai (yes, that includes Pakistan) has a few rules: No maps. No signs. No money spent on accommodation. Cash only for food.

But when you think of hitchhiking, what comes to mind? My head goes straight to the word “dangerous” and refuses to move. As a child, I was taught not only never, ever EVER to hitchhike, but also never, ever, EVER to pick one up. I mean, who hitchhikes? Assumedly, people without a vehicle. People without money. People living on the edge. Each by themselves, no problem, but together, they deliver a scary desperation. And unlike Europe, in America, hitchhiking just isn’t all that popular. Vast distances, cheap gas, poor public transportation, available loans and inn-school driver’s ed mean that most people have a license and a vehicle. In addition, aimless travel is not the norm. Hence, in America, people who DO hitchhike are not only taking an alternative route, but usually have a higher potential to be unpredictable company.

So you can imagine my slight alarm when on a fall day in 2002, my husband brought home a couple of hitchhikers.

When he came in through the front door, I knew something was up. And when he approached the back office, his face twitched with both wonder and worry.

“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Well, I brought some people home with me,” he answered.

I looked at my yoga-panted, glasses-faced, freelance self with a considerable margin of panic at the idea of playing hostess, thinking he’s invited colleagues back for beers.

But the two Native American women on our porch were not his colleagues. They were smiling, silky-haired members of the Ojibwe Nation of Minnesota, hitchhiking cross country toward a Vision Quest, a traditional American Indian ceremony of fasting and ritual, which results in visions and spiritual guidance.

Brenda and Angie were calm and kind. Content to answer our questions. Grateful for this hospitality. We learned that they are both mothers with grown children. That they had lived most of their life on a reservation. That unfortunately, one had begun menstruating and therefore, would be barred from Vision Quest participation, a huge disappointment. After a couple hours, we invited them to stay for dinner. Michael whipped up some Sinopoli spaghetti. We slurped wine, told stories and lit cigarettes by candlelight on the back patio. Their skin blended into the dark.

They asked to camp in our backyard. In a kitchen briefing, Michael told me he thought we should let them stay in our guest bedroom. I was skeptical. They seemed harmless. I was still skeptical.

But I gave in. This is my husband. He has a strange way of attempting to debunk myths created by media hype, overprotective parents and mainstream, yet misled logic. And he is often successful.

The hitchhikers slept atop my floral, Laura Ashely duvet cover, politely refusing to slide between the sheets and rose early the next morning, full of rest. Michael drove them to the highway. Nothing was missing from our guest bedroom. Adventure over.

I felt a bit of guilt. But wait, I’m not the weird one here. Most people would not have even let that happen! Does my behavior make me paranoid? No, but it made me think.

Because it IS beneficial to occasionally shake loose the grip that society can have on your allegedly steadfast beliefs. And I guess I did, because although couchsurfing is an organized network, I do now, in fact, host strangers traveling through Bulgaria on my couch. And now, even hitchhikers.

I covered this a bit in The Last Monster, and yet, here it is again. Is it just that in a country of mortgages, marriage and expensive health care, our sometimes practical, sometimes conservative craving for permanence and structure prevents us from embracing the spirit of hitchhiking? Or is it possible that just as the media makes us believe that children are often kidnapped, swimmers are often shark-attacked and spring-breakers who go to Aruba will most certainly be murdered, that hitchhiking was ruined due to a few isolated incidents? I suppose it’s somewhere in the murky middle. I’m not sure. But it’s worth a wonder.

After my MRI appeared with a mucus coating due to my cold, making it impossible to determine if my lungs were looking normal (required for TB testing), Peace Corps told me that they’d schedule a CT scan. I really thought little of this, assuming it was an advanced X-ray. A staffer would meet me at the hospital.

Then the night before, we watched Garden State, one of our favorite films. And when Zach Braf was delivered into this beige round tube, the obscene magic markers from the past night’s debauchery creating a strange irony with his fearful expression, that’s when it hit me, or rather, when I chose to understand what I’d be doing at the hospital. Wait, a CAT scan?

These three letters didn’t sound good. I associated them with my Grandmother, whose brave mind and body had endured several CAT scans, surgeries, a triple bypass and other pale-face-inducing acronyms across my childhood, and my Mother, whose migraines had reached a painful climax around 1987. My memories were vague, but I knew this: a CAT scan isn’t recommended unless there is strong suspicion of a serious problem.

It turns out that Peace Corps was just doing what they do best–playing it safe and practicing strict CYA.

I met the Peace Corps doctor at the entrance and went in through pediatrics. Children squatted along the hallways. People wandered with homemade crutches. Carts, substituted for wheelchairs, sat with deadpan-faced patients. The lights were terribly low, only one florescent strip of each fixture radiant with glare. Exposed radiators were filmed with dust. The elevators old and unpredictable.

Never before had I experienced such a craving for facade. For the grainy carpet that covers a cubicle. For the sound of an elevator’s ding. For mauve-framed paintings of a cat or the seacoast. For magazine racks and the soft, finger-printed paper of People. For the weak, but cheerful attempt of a plastic plant. For the depressing, but safe coating of a hospital waiting room.

In a sense, I knew that what I saw was the sticky chaos, which likely defines an inner city ER. Even one in America. But it wasn’t just that. Along with the germs, there was a more distinct feeling of loss. Less hope, more h???? An invisible gas which flowed from the eyes, gowns and glands of those I passed. It was a little One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and a little government funded nursing home. In one full-feature production.

I waited for an hour, escaping into Gone With the Wind whenever possible, watching the Peace Corps doctor in his suit and expensive cell phone looking ridiculously out of place as he paced the hallway. I did trust him.

And my CAT scan went well. The nurse wasn’t smoking. The space was well-lit. The machine looked like it belonged in the room. I still had to remove my bra somewhat awkwardly as everyone behind the window looked away, but as I lowered into the tiny tunnel, as I heard soothing instructions to be still, exhale and inhale, I was put at ease. I tasted a saliva-reviving sense of relief in my mouth. Everything was okay.

I suppose a CAT scan in a developing country is like any of life’s dramas. Best experienced one breath at a time.

But these two hospital visits shook awake my consideration of healthcare. An issue, a little like sunscreen, water consumption and the amount of sleep I get, which busts unceremoniously to the front of the priority line in my no longer 20-something head.

I saw her first and I made that ultimate mistake. The one I made with both dogs. Meeting her eyes.I was always doing shit like that. Caught in a downpour with no umbrella and a twenty minute walk (too short for a taxi) my jeans were heavy and stiff. My hair damp, frail, attached to a wet head and confused on how to hang. I was every so often taking refuge beneath awnings, next to others.

It was at Famous Grouse that I decided to get dry and pick up some beer. In reaching for the door, I turned to commotion at 10:00. A brief exchange between two women. One disappeared. The other, well, there was something mad in her turquoise rain coat, scarf-knotted head, bare legs and wrinkled grimace. Something off. She stared into my eyes. I had an instant chill.

I quickly escaped inside to the shiny bottles and mahogany shelves and clear countertop of liquid warmth. I would be safe, here, in the second dimension of the looking glass. Beggars seldom pursued. But she saw my fear and followed and came right up to the counter saying loudly:

“Chesdeeset stotinki!! Chesdeesset stotinki!!” (Sixty cents! Sixty cents!).

The storeclerk screamed at her with sudden force that surprised me, obviously telling her to leave. She screamed back. I made my request and fumbled for my wallet. She moved in again, grabbing at my stotinki. I inched away, toward the shelf, now rather alarmed. The owner did more yelling. She changed her request and pushed.

“Dviset stotinki! Dviset stotinki!!!” (Twenty cents! Twenty cents!)

I could smell her breath and my hand was wet from her coat and I was panicky and I just didn’t even know what the hell to do. Of course, I had twenty cents. . .I did. . . .but there was NO WAY that I was rewarding this behavior. Didn’t they see that this was her strategy? That she beleaguered until people surrendered? That she used her age as a tool? That she was clearly evil?

It’s only now as my compassion takes over, that I stop to digest. She was hungry. Just like the UN Tour Guide had said in 2004–hungry people are angry people. If she needed this strategy to eat, then her life was worth helping.

But no, at the time, I didn’t do the right thing.

I pushed her out of my way, my morality and etiquette and values going at it like a street gang in my head, and she pushed me back. I grabbed my beer and was almost to the door, her just behind me, an unusual beggars bravado on her face, when she finally attempted to block my exit.

I hurled “Get away from me!!!!” into her face, moving out the door. It was horrid. I had never felt so simultaneously frightened and ashamed. And then I literally ran away, nearly crumbling, melting like an alleyfire’s newspaper, into Sofia’s cement, looking back every few steps like a character from some ridiculous Danielle Steele novel.

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

Orlando, FL on the Disneyworld-vicinity sand. It’s fun to feed the birds. Offer them bread. A toss for a catch. But soon there are dozens. Too many. Pointy beaks and a squawking sky. You haven’t enough food. There is a suffocating panic in the sea air. You run.

Tijuana, Mexico, age 14. White shorts and little coral coat. Hair in a side ponytail. Buying souvenirs you didn’t need. Protected by your parents. Drinking virgin margaritas. But then there were bundled babes in dark-skinned arms. Instrument-strumming singers. Those with a stump for a limb. You were so sorry, so horrified, so generous, so naive, so fumbling for change. You gave to them all.

Somebody tells you that those same bums are rich off the sympathetic tourists. That they’re in the how-sad-can-I-look business.

But you hold onto your idealism.

Then, after 25 years in our world, you are creating a successful career, your jeep gliding past vagrants on those damn Speer Blvd. medians. Every day. Guilt is always there, in the passenger seat. But no, you learn that Denver is full of soup kitchens and half-way houses for these people. That a very high percentage of them are druggies and alcoholics. That your money will only feed an addiction.

One evening after a decadent dinner in Lodo, you decide that leftover food is the perfect gift. That if they’re really hungry, you’ll be helping someone. And one day you hear the sound of an accordion making your day a little bit brighter. . if people are making an effort, trying to entertain, you’ll give. And you decide, with satisfaction, that your own policy is taking shape. And you love structure. You hold on tight.

And you’ve made some peace.

Time passes. Yet, still, you’re torn. You don’t always have leftover food to give. And not all poor people are musically gifted. What about them? Well, they can find some water and wash my window! “Help yourself,” you think. At least try. Be creative. Be resourceful. Haven’t they any pride?

And you rest easy in your bootstrap-gripping world.

Then you volunteer at the clinic and you see very different kinds of women. And it makes you think. And at a Planned Parenthood meeting, a social working colleague confirms this fear you have. That in her experience, not everyone has the ability to help themselves. Not everyone knows how. Can’t you see? Not everyone was brought up with the stability, education and empowerment you were bestowed.

And you feel bad. Very bad.

Then on a filthy sidewalk in Antsirabe, Madagascar, in 2004, you make the mistake of giving away a pen. Children surround the landrover. They are worse than the seagulls. But they are not mean, only poverty-stricken. Your husband, your kind, generous husband scolds you to stop, to look straight ahead. To ignore their pleading faces. But. . .

And reality and practicality form an icy frost where pity used to bloom.

One sun-splashed afternoon at the sea coast, your husband gives a bunch of copper pieces (about 20 cents worth) to a crippled child in a town square. But the child gives it back, uninterested in such small change.

And cynicism arrives with a heavy gait.

Finally, you’ve just arrived in Sofia and you see people going through the garbage. Often. And you think, dear Lord, that woman is OLD. For that fact alone, here is fifty stotinki. But then, as life rolls the way it does, you get accustomed. You can’t give to everyone you see, and you don’t know where to draw the line, and so you start giving to no one.

And then something like this happens, with that mad woman and it really fucks you up. You decide, with an inner monologued promise, that when you feel like giving, you’ll give. When you don’t, you won’t. And that’s the only conclusion there is. And that’s all you can do. And even though it’s never come all that natural to you, you’ll work from your gut, because it’s the only guide you can find.

Expecting Adam is an autobiographical, life-altering book by Martha Beck (of Oprah mag fame) which details her own journey as a married Harvard grad student going through a difficult pregnancy. It is about being open to a new spiritual space. About reconsidering your beliefs. About the evil of academia. About the potential problem with feminism. And it IS a little bit about someone who may look a little like Jesus. If you want it to.

I completely support Beck–another Beck. And I never thought I would. No, I just wasn’t a Beck sort of girl. But then, Guerro arrived. The CD just arrived on our balcony one day in a little package from God! Didn’t I tell you? It was all over the news. I heard the vegetable man in the vegetable van with a horn that’s honkin’ like a mariachi band and I envisioned the sun-eyed girl and shook my ass to my tambourine and I pushed and I pulled and now my life is different. I cannot tell you why. I can only tell you it is so.

We hosted a couple couchsurfers last week. Nino and Netza seemed much younger than their 60-some years. He was born in Bulgaria, just a ten minute walk from our flat, but left for Israel during WWII. With laugh lines moving at mockspeed, he brought both the giddiness of a fifth-grader and the wisdom of a grandfather into our home. Netza’s great grandparents were from the Ukraine and immigrated to Israel in the early 20th century. With a dark zigzagged mane and calm countenance, she possessed both the sharp angles and soft cushion of a face who knew how to listen and advise.

While us Americans are often harassed for our country’s youth, at a mere few hundred years, Israel, officially established in 1948, was practically a newborn. To meet another ethnicity who rested easily with their mixed bag of roots and whose not-so-distant grandparents were immigrants, was actulaly comforting. Too, next to the coffee-drinking Europeans we constantly seemed to be, well, drinking coffee with, Nino and Netza were ambitious. They worked far above 40 hours a week, experienced “flow” in their job and soared on the wings of accomplishment. They reminded me of Americans.

We couldn’t help but inquire about Israel’s current conflict. Michael lit this fire with his remarkable blend of both honesty and tact. But they understood. They told their stories. Still, my mind was a blank page of wonder. What I really wanted to know: How do you become accustomed to that level of violence and war? At what point does it feel normal?

Upon arriving, they bestowed us with gifts. A bottle of tahini, fresh sage, sweet dates, an right-to-left reading Hebrew newspaper and a documentary about life in Israel and their daughter, Iris’s draft into the army. It’s a requirement for all citizens, male and female. Even Netza had served her time over 40 years ago.

But mostly they carried with them an intangible ease of company. The kind one offers when content in their own skin and living a life they were meant to lead. We heard about their four years of graduate school in Santa Clara–arriving without a plan at a time when hippies were happy to lend a hand. About Nino’s avocado trees and recently planted olive orchard. About Netza’s work with troubled children. And we bonded on the soon obvious fact that none of us were what people like to call “mainstream”. Even across our age difference, the vagabonding spirit, demonstrated if only by the willingness to sleep at the home of a stranger, was obvious.

It’s funny because as a child, I sought the mainstream. I was taught to fit in. Nothing was more important. It’s a place of safety and relief along the shores of life. It’s something to hold on to, providing a platform from which to venture forth. I appreciated it. And for those content, there is a rusted, well-traveled ramp heading straight into the rough, but buoy protected channel. But now, as an adult, I often find myself paddling toward more of life’s mysterious tributaries. Near the shore. Between the sticks. Through a bit of seaweed. Into an unexplored steamboat’s slough.

I guess I’m pondering our upcoming trip. Hopefully, we’ll get into Israel, manage the whole no-stamp-in-our-passport fiasco and discover this holy land by staying with our new friends, Nino and Netza.

The countdown to departure has begun.