Last week I got the news that I'll be presenting a paper on the labyrinth later this year. It'll be my first chance to expand on the work I did in my dissertation and show how it's relevant to society. Labyrinths seem like kind of an arcane subject until you start to wonder why you still see so many of them today. When I say "labyrinth," I'm talking about the ones you encounter in churches, parks, community centers, and other places that are variants on the medieval design and look something like this:
There's been a resurgence of interest in labyrinths over the last 20 years, which accounts for the number of new ones that have been installed all across the United States as well as in other countries. I'm interested in the history of labyrinths and mazes, how and why they reappear in different forms over time, and what meaning they have for us today (which is not necessarily the same as what they meant to people in the past).
Labyrinths go back thousands of years and didn't always look like the one pictured above. There are variants on the design even now, and what's really interesting is the fact that such an ancient symbol still fascinates people. And labyrinths are not just for looking at -- they're for walking in. They're often placed in locations associated with contemplation or meditation -- churches, hospitals, gardens, or cemeteries -- and the setting may be secular or non-secular. So what is it about this design that draws people to it?
I think the labyrinth has a double nature that says something about the dilemma we find ourselves in as a society, at least here in the United States. We're a nation that celebrates the rugged individualist, the pioneer, and the self-made man or woman, but we have come together to form a union. Our democratic processes require that we all participate to make things work, from taking turns at jury duty to turning out to vote. So there's a tension between the individual and the greater good that's never fully resolved. We hold the rights of the individual to be sacred, but we also cherish the idea of "E Pluribus Unum" ("out of many, one"). We're different from many countries that have always believed that the communal takes precedence over individual rights. That's not our way.
In thinking about the visual impact of a labyrinth, I'm struck by its resemblance to a mandala, which Jung considered a symbol of wholeness. You might argue that the maze, which represents a variety of paths and alternatives, is a more fitting symbol of the way we live now than the labyrinth, and I agree, up to a point. But when something is out of balance -- perhaps the tendency for individuals or groups to move in separate directions grows too strong -- another symbol, like the labyrinth, rises from the unconscious as an answering archetype. I think that's what's happened over the last two decades, as the country has grown more diverse and, in the case of politics, more highly polarized.
It's not as if we have to choose between the individual and the community; our society is based on the belief that they serve one another. The labyrinth integrates the opposing forces in an elegant, harmonious fashion. It has a single, highly circuitous path representing a common road that's experienced in many idiosyncratic ways. The heroic, individual path is seamless with the shared path so that there's no contradiction between them. In this way, the labyrinth suggests a way out of the conflict between individual rights and participation in a democracy. A person engaged in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness who remains true to something greater than himself finds he was part of the larger story all along.
There were individuals who helped popularize the labyrinth with their own enthusiasm and explorations into its meaning, but the movement wouldn't have taken hold if the labyrinth hadn't struck a chord with many people. If you're curious, it's easy to find a labyrinth to explore; there are hundreds or thousands of them in North America alone, and unless you live in a remote area, there's probably one nearby. If you're interested, the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator (a joint project of Veriditas and The Labyrinth Society) is a great resource. Just put in your city, state, postal code, or country.
And remember, it's solved by walking.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
The New Hysteria
It used to be that going for a walk or spending a couple of hours at Starbucks was a routine undertaking. No more! The best way I know to describe it is to say that there just seem to be a lot more people -- everywhere. It's like the worst-case scenario of how overpopulation might someday force us to live.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Friday, February 22, 2013
What's in a Weekend?
O for a Muse of fire.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
Friday, February 15, 2013
After the Valentines
I like Valentine's Day, but in my opinion, it's more fun when you're a kid. Remember those days when you made Valentines out of paper, glue, and cut-outs for everybody in your class? I do, and in all honesty, it beats any Valentine's Day I've had since then by a wide margin. There was something so innocent about giving and receiving those cheerful red and white handmade cards -- everybody was your Valentine! This was before the boys and girls started to dislike each other as they did from fifth grade until puberty.
In that forgotten time, the battle of the sexes extended mainly to the boys chasing the girls around at recess with giant insects in their hands (in South Florida, where I lived then, big bugs were easy to come by). Nobody seemed to mind it too much, and relations remained civil afterwards. Everybody called each other by his or her first name; that unpleasant habit of last-name address didn't start until later. So what went wrong?
There is something very poignant about the days of hormonal awakening, puppy love, and first crushes, but dang it if things don't start getting complicated then. I don't know how young men see it; I can only speak from my perspective. A host of previously nonexistent problems swim into view in those years, including self-consciousness, insecurity, unrequited love, and acne. How much better it seemed for all to play together freely without being divided by gender lines or competition. And how much better, too, to define yourself in your own terms, to be sufficient unto yourself, rather than mooning over a boy who barely knew you were alive. Or, once you did land a boyfriend, to be worried about keeping him.
I've noticed how much I enjoy stories that feature young heroines in that magical, mythical time in which they remain free and answerable to themselves, battling dragons, solving mysteries, going on fantastical journeys, or just being who they are. I've written a story like that myself. I wish there was a way for girls to hold onto that freedom; it still seems to me that it's easier for boys to retain their independence without defining themselves primarily as someone else's partner, parent, or helpmate.
I'm all in favor of marriage under the right circumstances, but I would never want to give up my ability to enjoy my own company and my own thoughts. I'm good at cooperating but not at being told what to do. And I've seen firsthand how many people still seem to regard an unattached woman as an anomaly, a problem to be solved. That's changing, and it can't change soon enough. An unmarried man with any graces at all is considered a catch; an unmarried woman, even an accomplished one, is often considered wanting.
If you want to see a movie that captures the freedom I'm talking about, see Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild. The young heroine, six-year-old Hushpuppy, resides with her father in a mythical landscape seemingly outside of space and time, although they live in southern Louisiana. Hushpuppy goes to school, but she, and all of the people around her, live a wild, dreamlike existence anchored in a natural world unconcerned with convention. They live and die by their own choices, and although their lives might not suit everyone, they're rich in imagination, self-determination, and joy.
While watching the film, one is hard-pressed to imagine Hushpuppy growing up to become ordinary. You want her to remain extraordinary, because that's what she is. I think we all start out that way, and for a while, before the pressures to conform set in, we're allowed to be like that. How wonderful it would be, in spite of hormones, careers, the need to grow up and pay taxes, home ownership, and parenthood, not to put a time limit on that independence of spirit . . . for anyone.
In that forgotten time, the battle of the sexes extended mainly to the boys chasing the girls around at recess with giant insects in their hands (in South Florida, where I lived then, big bugs were easy to come by). Nobody seemed to mind it too much, and relations remained civil afterwards. Everybody called each other by his or her first name; that unpleasant habit of last-name address didn't start until later. So what went wrong?
There is something very poignant about the days of hormonal awakening, puppy love, and first crushes, but dang it if things don't start getting complicated then. I don't know how young men see it; I can only speak from my perspective. A host of previously nonexistent problems swim into view in those years, including self-consciousness, insecurity, unrequited love, and acne. How much better it seemed for all to play together freely without being divided by gender lines or competition. And how much better, too, to define yourself in your own terms, to be sufficient unto yourself, rather than mooning over a boy who barely knew you were alive. Or, once you did land a boyfriend, to be worried about keeping him.
I've noticed how much I enjoy stories that feature young heroines in that magical, mythical time in which they remain free and answerable to themselves, battling dragons, solving mysteries, going on fantastical journeys, or just being who they are. I've written a story like that myself. I wish there was a way for girls to hold onto that freedom; it still seems to me that it's easier for boys to retain their independence without defining themselves primarily as someone else's partner, parent, or helpmate.
I'm all in favor of marriage under the right circumstances, but I would never want to give up my ability to enjoy my own company and my own thoughts. I'm good at cooperating but not at being told what to do. And I've seen firsthand how many people still seem to regard an unattached woman as an anomaly, a problem to be solved. That's changing, and it can't change soon enough. An unmarried man with any graces at all is considered a catch; an unmarried woman, even an accomplished one, is often considered wanting.
If you want to see a movie that captures the freedom I'm talking about, see Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild. The young heroine, six-year-old Hushpuppy, resides with her father in a mythical landscape seemingly outside of space and time, although they live in southern Louisiana. Hushpuppy goes to school, but she, and all of the people around her, live a wild, dreamlike existence anchored in a natural world unconcerned with convention. They live and die by their own choices, and although their lives might not suit everyone, they're rich in imagination, self-determination, and joy.
While watching the film, one is hard-pressed to imagine Hushpuppy growing up to become ordinary. You want her to remain extraordinary, because that's what she is. I think we all start out that way, and for a while, before the pressures to conform set in, we're allowed to be like that. How wonderful it would be, in spite of hormones, careers, the need to grow up and pay taxes, home ownership, and parenthood, not to put a time limit on that independence of spirit . . . for anyone.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Look, Hortensia: A Jogger!
Yesterday, like the day before, was sunny and warm: a day that cried out for strolling in the park and soaking up sun. I put on my walking shoes and headed to the Arboretum, where dozens of like-minded people and dogs were already taking the air. No sympathetic magic was necessary yesterday; the people I saw running in shorts and Ts were dressed more appropriately than I was in my turtleneck and down jacket. The sun smiled down, and the air was nearly balmy.
On such a day, I sometimes enjoy just sitting in the sun, idly watching the clouds float by. That's what I was doing yesterday when Apollo showed up. At least, that's who I think it was. I was ensconced on a bench in the middle of the park, meditating on sunshine, when I heard the noise of an approaching helicopter. We see a lot of medical helicopters coming and going around here because of hospitals, but they normally have little reason to visit the Arboretum. This one flew overhead lazily and landed in the field across the street. Thinking some visiting dignitary might emerge, I watched to see what would happen. Either no one stepped out or I missed it, and after a couple of minutes the helicopter took off again.
I mention Apollo because he's the god of science and reason and, by association, aeronautics in general. You really sense his presence when you're around airplanes or walking through an airport, with the superstructure of a soaring atrium above your head. I guess when he's in a certain mood, he might take to a chopper. That seemed to be the case yesterday. It was a plain, dark helicopter that you couldn't see into, perfect for a god traveling incognito, except that it kind of stuck out in the bucolic suburban setting. Every neck was craned skyward as the helicopter proceeded to slowly circle a small area of the Arboretum, coming back at least three times to cruise slowly over the trees.
I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. It doesn't seem like Apollo, after all, to fly so close to the ground, directly over a park with so many people gathered below. A new kind of scavenger hunt, maybe? There are no wild mustangs in the Arboretum, so it couldn't have been a roundup. Maybe it's now legal, with the right permit, to hunt chipmunks from the air. Or maybe rich people now pay to fly over the famous LFUCG-UK Arboretum as they do the Grand Canyon, marveling at the staring locals below.
Feeling it was not really safe to sit below a rocking, nearly stationary helicopter, I got up to walk around some more. The helicopter finally flew away, leaving the blue sky and sunshine intact. Thinking it over on the way home, I decided it might be worth calling the police to see if anyone else had reported the incident or knew anything about it. I was told by the dispatcher that she had "just come on duty half an hour ago" and "didn't know what was going on" but that if that many people had been there "someone must have reported it by now." But when I asked if I could add my name to the report, she said there was no report. Then she said I should have reported it while it was happening. Hmmm. I thought someone was keeping tabs on public airspace other than random citizens, but I guess I overestimated official interest in oddly behaving aircraft.
Not feeling quite reassured by this conversation, I hunted around online for the number of the nearest FAA office. I called them today and received a call back from a gentleman who seemed pretty interested in the presence and behavior of a helicopter flying so low in a crowded area. He couldn't give me any conclusive answers but asked a lot of questions, took my report, and said any further sightings should be called in, too.
So there you have it. Be on the lookout for any random helicopters, especially if they seem to be flying low enough to knock you off a bench. If it were the end of a play, I guess we might suspect a deus ex machina, except no one descended, and nothing was solved, as far as I know. I still like my theory about the Grand Arboretum Tour but can't understand why it's necessary to get quite that close for views of scrubby grass, mothers with strollers, and middle-aged writers. Haven't these people ever heard of binoculars?
On such a day, I sometimes enjoy just sitting in the sun, idly watching the clouds float by. That's what I was doing yesterday when Apollo showed up. At least, that's who I think it was. I was ensconced on a bench in the middle of the park, meditating on sunshine, when I heard the noise of an approaching helicopter. We see a lot of medical helicopters coming and going around here because of hospitals, but they normally have little reason to visit the Arboretum. This one flew overhead lazily and landed in the field across the street. Thinking some visiting dignitary might emerge, I watched to see what would happen. Either no one stepped out or I missed it, and after a couple of minutes the helicopter took off again.
I mention Apollo because he's the god of science and reason and, by association, aeronautics in general. You really sense his presence when you're around airplanes or walking through an airport, with the superstructure of a soaring atrium above your head. I guess when he's in a certain mood, he might take to a chopper. That seemed to be the case yesterday. It was a plain, dark helicopter that you couldn't see into, perfect for a god traveling incognito, except that it kind of stuck out in the bucolic suburban setting. Every neck was craned skyward as the helicopter proceeded to slowly circle a small area of the Arboretum, coming back at least three times to cruise slowly over the trees.
I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. It doesn't seem like Apollo, after all, to fly so close to the ground, directly over a park with so many people gathered below. A new kind of scavenger hunt, maybe? There are no wild mustangs in the Arboretum, so it couldn't have been a roundup. Maybe it's now legal, with the right permit, to hunt chipmunks from the air. Or maybe rich people now pay to fly over the famous LFUCG-UK Arboretum as they do the Grand Canyon, marveling at the staring locals below.
Feeling it was not really safe to sit below a rocking, nearly stationary helicopter, I got up to walk around some more. The helicopter finally flew away, leaving the blue sky and sunshine intact. Thinking it over on the way home, I decided it might be worth calling the police to see if anyone else had reported the incident or knew anything about it. I was told by the dispatcher that she had "just come on duty half an hour ago" and "didn't know what was going on" but that if that many people had been there "someone must have reported it by now." But when I asked if I could add my name to the report, she said there was no report. Then she said I should have reported it while it was happening. Hmmm. I thought someone was keeping tabs on public airspace other than random citizens, but I guess I overestimated official interest in oddly behaving aircraft.
Not feeling quite reassured by this conversation, I hunted around online for the number of the nearest FAA office. I called them today and received a call back from a gentleman who seemed pretty interested in the presence and behavior of a helicopter flying so low in a crowded area. He couldn't give me any conclusive answers but asked a lot of questions, took my report, and said any further sightings should be called in, too.
So there you have it. Be on the lookout for any random helicopters, especially if they seem to be flying low enough to knock you off a bench. If it were the end of a play, I guess we might suspect a deus ex machina, except no one descended, and nothing was solved, as far as I know. I still like my theory about the Grand Arboretum Tour but can't understand why it's necessary to get quite that close for views of scrubby grass, mothers with strollers, and middle-aged writers. Haven't these people ever heard of binoculars?
Friday, February 1, 2013
So Much Chocolate, So Little Time
I was reading a travel magazine in Starbucks yesterday afternoon when suddenly the memory of the late, lamented European Travel and Life popped into my head. I subscribed to it for the last few years of its publication, and it was a magical experience every time I found it in the mailbox. It had glossy pages, beautiful photographs, and great writing, and it even smelled good (due, I think, to perfume samples in the ads). I had gone to Europe with friends in 1989, and reading the magazine was a way of extending the experience.
On our trip, we did nine countries in three weeks, starting and ending in London. We stayed in small hotels and boarding houses listed in Frommer's Guide to Europe on $30 a Day and largely relied on the guidebook's recommendations for places to eat. Traveling light as we did, we were able to see and do a lot for a modest amount of money. We did not stay in the glamorous spots European Travel and Life depicted so lavishly, but we saw a lot of great art, relished street life and people watching, took in the sights, and sampled chocolates all the way from Germany to Geneva.
I kept a travel journal, stealing moments on ferry crossings, train trips, and the waiting rooms of bus stations to scribble down impressions, but even without looking at it I can call up images and remember tastes and smells. Sometimes it's the little things, small scenes glimpsed along the way, that stay with you, for whatever mysterious reason.
From a bus window, on the way to Dover, I saw a West Indian woman walking down a crowded East London street in the late afternoon. Her colorful clothing and dignified posture made her stand out in the gray light and drab surroundings like a rare flower. I remember the blue sweater my friend was wearing during a tedious ferry crossing to Oostende that night and how mysteriously several hundred passengers seemed to melt into thin air in the station at the other end.
I remember how cold the light was in Belgium that morning, how foreign (and daunting) Amsterdam and all its brick houses seemed when we arrived, and how very steep the stairs were in our hotel, not far from Anne Frank's house. A man walked by on the street that afternoon as we came out of a cafe whose face--intense, bearded, and thin--could have belonged to Van Gogh. A sandwich of simple bread and cheese on the train to Berlin was a revelation, as was the ease with which many Europeans spoke graceful English, even when they downplayed their ability.
A hammer and chisel for extracting your own piece of the Berlin Wall cost seven marks to rent, and the faces of the guards were extremely stern at the crossing between the former East Germany and the West. I recall my first sighting of someone wearing lederhosen and an alpine hat (in Munich) and the taste of hot chestnuts purchased from a street vendor (in Salzburg). I recall watching the sun go down behind snow-covered mountains as the mists rose over the lake and Salzburg lay at our feet like a fairy-tale village.
I remember how deep the snow lay around the town of Fussen as we walked up to Neuschwanstein with plastic bags on our shoes in lieu of boots; there were swans in the river as we walked through the town. We headed down into Italy, hoping for warmth, and stayed in a pension that had formerly been a monastery, with a shower in the middle of the room. We climbed Giotto's Tower to goggle at the Tuscan countryside, straight out of the background of a thousand Renaissance paintings. I tasted my first espresso in a small cafe and was impressed by the effortless style of the Florentines we encountered on the streets.
I remember peering out the window of our train compartment as we crossed the Alps, glimpsing some high and distant peaks in the dawn light. I remember how the grayness in Geneva made the mountains invisible, but the city itself was clean and prosperous. I recall little of the French countryside that sped by on the fast train to Paris (being distracted by an assortment of Swiss chocolates probably explains the lapse), but I can easily call up Paris's wide and elegant avenues. I loved Montmartre and the small, bustling place where we had dinner on a narrow street. Sacre Coeur was eerie by night, but the steps that led back down into the city were magical under the streetlamps.
I remember how unfamiliar Tavistock Square and Bloomsbury seemed to me once we were back in London, though I had spent half a summer there only six years previously. It was as if I had never been there. I recall the taste of naan in the Indian restaurant where we had dinner with a new friend, and her stories of traveling alone in Greece, shared over dinner, that made her seem so adventurous.
The next time I go to Europe, I hope I'll have as much fun as the last time. I've done a lot of traveling around the United States in the intervening years and had forgotten, until something glimpsed in Afar triggered the memories, just how exciting 1989 was, with all of the planning and dreaming that went into that European adventure. With a few versatile wardrobe items, light baggage, a Eurail pass, and an open mind, you can really get around. There's no place I have been that I wouldn't go back to, and there are so many unexplored destinations to anticipate. And at the end of it, you can always come home again.
On our trip, we did nine countries in three weeks, starting and ending in London. We stayed in small hotels and boarding houses listed in Frommer's Guide to Europe on $30 a Day and largely relied on the guidebook's recommendations for places to eat. Traveling light as we did, we were able to see and do a lot for a modest amount of money. We did not stay in the glamorous spots European Travel and Life depicted so lavishly, but we saw a lot of great art, relished street life and people watching, took in the sights, and sampled chocolates all the way from Germany to Geneva.
I kept a travel journal, stealing moments on ferry crossings, train trips, and the waiting rooms of bus stations to scribble down impressions, but even without looking at it I can call up images and remember tastes and smells. Sometimes it's the little things, small scenes glimpsed along the way, that stay with you, for whatever mysterious reason.
From a bus window, on the way to Dover, I saw a West Indian woman walking down a crowded East London street in the late afternoon. Her colorful clothing and dignified posture made her stand out in the gray light and drab surroundings like a rare flower. I remember the blue sweater my friend was wearing during a tedious ferry crossing to Oostende that night and how mysteriously several hundred passengers seemed to melt into thin air in the station at the other end.
I remember how cold the light was in Belgium that morning, how foreign (and daunting) Amsterdam and all its brick houses seemed when we arrived, and how very steep the stairs were in our hotel, not far from Anne Frank's house. A man walked by on the street that afternoon as we came out of a cafe whose face--intense, bearded, and thin--could have belonged to Van Gogh. A sandwich of simple bread and cheese on the train to Berlin was a revelation, as was the ease with which many Europeans spoke graceful English, even when they downplayed their ability.
A hammer and chisel for extracting your own piece of the Berlin Wall cost seven marks to rent, and the faces of the guards were extremely stern at the crossing between the former East Germany and the West. I recall my first sighting of someone wearing lederhosen and an alpine hat (in Munich) and the taste of hot chestnuts purchased from a street vendor (in Salzburg). I recall watching the sun go down behind snow-covered mountains as the mists rose over the lake and Salzburg lay at our feet like a fairy-tale village.
I remember how deep the snow lay around the town of Fussen as we walked up to Neuschwanstein with plastic bags on our shoes in lieu of boots; there were swans in the river as we walked through the town. We headed down into Italy, hoping for warmth, and stayed in a pension that had formerly been a monastery, with a shower in the middle of the room. We climbed Giotto's Tower to goggle at the Tuscan countryside, straight out of the background of a thousand Renaissance paintings. I tasted my first espresso in a small cafe and was impressed by the effortless style of the Florentines we encountered on the streets.
I remember peering out the window of our train compartment as we crossed the Alps, glimpsing some high and distant peaks in the dawn light. I remember how the grayness in Geneva made the mountains invisible, but the city itself was clean and prosperous. I recall little of the French countryside that sped by on the fast train to Paris (being distracted by an assortment of Swiss chocolates probably explains the lapse), but I can easily call up Paris's wide and elegant avenues. I loved Montmartre and the small, bustling place where we had dinner on a narrow street. Sacre Coeur was eerie by night, but the steps that led back down into the city were magical under the streetlamps.
I remember how unfamiliar Tavistock Square and Bloomsbury seemed to me once we were back in London, though I had spent half a summer there only six years previously. It was as if I had never been there. I recall the taste of naan in the Indian restaurant where we had dinner with a new friend, and her stories of traveling alone in Greece, shared over dinner, that made her seem so adventurous.
The next time I go to Europe, I hope I'll have as much fun as the last time. I've done a lot of traveling around the United States in the intervening years and had forgotten, until something glimpsed in Afar triggered the memories, just how exciting 1989 was, with all of the planning and dreaming that went into that European adventure. With a few versatile wardrobe items, light baggage, a Eurail pass, and an open mind, you can really get around. There's no place I have been that I wouldn't go back to, and there are so many unexplored destinations to anticipate. And at the end of it, you can always come home again.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Have Romance, Will Travel
I thought I had tapped out the public library's stock of Mary Stewart books, but I found a newer edition of the first one I ever read, Nine Coaches Waiting, on the shelf the other day. When I was in the 7th or 8th grade, I discovered a copy of this book in the school library. I don't think it caught fire for me initially, but when I re-read it a few years later, I thought it was great. And then there were all of her other romance novels, 10 or so at that time, waiting to be explored. It was a booklover's feast.
I would call Ms. Stewart a writer of the old school. Considering her suitability for the shelves of a Catholic school library, you might think she'd be too tame for modern tastes, but you'd be wrong. She usually starts with a young, intelligent heroine, a romantic (sometimes exotic) locale, and a plot whose complications include at least one attractive, mysterious man. There's usually a sinister game afoot that entangles the young woman, and she's sometimes faced with choosing between two romantic rivals. Sometimes she makes the wrong choice, but she's always united in the end with the one she should have chosen, and everything turns out happily.
It sounds like pretty standard romance, but several things set Ms. Stewart apart: her vivid descriptions of locations as varied as a cliffside castle in Corfu, a chateau in the forests of Haute-Savoie, or a remote hotel on a Scottish island; her intelligent plotting; and her elegant prose. Her heroines inhabit a world similar to that of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, but theirs is less brooding. There may be bloodshed, villains, intrigue, wild hillside scrambles, and narrow escapes, but the heroine manages to overcome them all, occasionally losing a shoe or having to swim for her life. Some combination of common sense, humor, luck, and timely intervention (the rescue by dolphin in This Rough Magic, for example) sees her through.
I well remember the summer in my teens when I read one Mary Stewart book after another. Initially, I think it was the long-separated lovers in the The Ivy Tree that lured me in. There was something about their sad, moonlit reunion and Adam's scars that made an indelible impression on romantic 15-year-old me. The public library had nearly all of her books, and I finished them all in succession, eventually reading the well-known Merlin series as well. But it was the romances that created a glamorous, entertaining, and almost plausible world perfect for a lazy summer day in a small town without much else going on. Mary Stewart was as good as a passport.
Back then, I counted The Ivy Tree, Wildfire at Midnight, and Nine Coaches Waiting as my favorites. Over the last few years, I've sought out and re-read all of the Stewart books I can find from that summer. The author's special magic remains intact, but (unsurprisingly, I guess) my reactions to individual books have changed. This time around, I found The Ivy Tree too unbelievable, though I was perfectly able to swallow the deception the first time (once you know the secret to this book, I don't think you can read it the same way again). Sadder but wiser, I had to say goodbye to my former fascination with Annabel and Adam.
On the other hand, I was intrigued by My Brother Michael, a truly suspenseful tale set in Greece with one of Stewart's best male leads, the steady, reliable Simon Lester--a hero worth the name. Wildfire at Midnight was still enjoyable (if a bit more predictable on the second go), but This Rough Magic's delicious blend of lushly scenic Corfu, seaside villas, refugees from the London stage, literary allusions to The Tempest, counterfeiters, and a semi-magical dolphin was irresistible. I found Lucy's wild motorcycle ride on the hairpin turns to the Castello great fun and wondered how I could have forgotten such a wonderful episode.
Stewart often brings in bits of folklore and mythology that make her books more atmospheric; allusions to the Greek gods pop up in both My Brother Michael and This Rough Magic. Eventually, I'll track down The Moon-Spinners, which I recall liking but have little memory of. Since it's set on Crete, it will be fun to see if Stewart has any references to the labyrinth in the story; I look forward to finding out.
As for Nine Coaches Waiting, I'm still enjoying it on this, my third time around. I like the setting in the French countryside, the sophisticated dialogue, and the heroine's composure. I can also report that, just as these novels were perfect summertime reading all those years ago, they also translate into a cozy escape on winter afternoons at the coffeehouse.
I would call Ms. Stewart a writer of the old school. Considering her suitability for the shelves of a Catholic school library, you might think she'd be too tame for modern tastes, but you'd be wrong. She usually starts with a young, intelligent heroine, a romantic (sometimes exotic) locale, and a plot whose complications include at least one attractive, mysterious man. There's usually a sinister game afoot that entangles the young woman, and she's sometimes faced with choosing between two romantic rivals. Sometimes she makes the wrong choice, but she's always united in the end with the one she should have chosen, and everything turns out happily.
It sounds like pretty standard romance, but several things set Ms. Stewart apart: her vivid descriptions of locations as varied as a cliffside castle in Corfu, a chateau in the forests of Haute-Savoie, or a remote hotel on a Scottish island; her intelligent plotting; and her elegant prose. Her heroines inhabit a world similar to that of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, but theirs is less brooding. There may be bloodshed, villains, intrigue, wild hillside scrambles, and narrow escapes, but the heroine manages to overcome them all, occasionally losing a shoe or having to swim for her life. Some combination of common sense, humor, luck, and timely intervention (the rescue by dolphin in This Rough Magic, for example) sees her through.
I well remember the summer in my teens when I read one Mary Stewart book after another. Initially, I think it was the long-separated lovers in the The Ivy Tree that lured me in. There was something about their sad, moonlit reunion and Adam's scars that made an indelible impression on romantic 15-year-old me. The public library had nearly all of her books, and I finished them all in succession, eventually reading the well-known Merlin series as well. But it was the romances that created a glamorous, entertaining, and almost plausible world perfect for a lazy summer day in a small town without much else going on. Mary Stewart was as good as a passport.
Back then, I counted The Ivy Tree, Wildfire at Midnight, and Nine Coaches Waiting as my favorites. Over the last few years, I've sought out and re-read all of the Stewart books I can find from that summer. The author's special magic remains intact, but (unsurprisingly, I guess) my reactions to individual books have changed. This time around, I found The Ivy Tree too unbelievable, though I was perfectly able to swallow the deception the first time (once you know the secret to this book, I don't think you can read it the same way again). Sadder but wiser, I had to say goodbye to my former fascination with Annabel and Adam.
On the other hand, I was intrigued by My Brother Michael, a truly suspenseful tale set in Greece with one of Stewart's best male leads, the steady, reliable Simon Lester--a hero worth the name. Wildfire at Midnight was still enjoyable (if a bit more predictable on the second go), but This Rough Magic's delicious blend of lushly scenic Corfu, seaside villas, refugees from the London stage, literary allusions to The Tempest, counterfeiters, and a semi-magical dolphin was irresistible. I found Lucy's wild motorcycle ride on the hairpin turns to the Castello great fun and wondered how I could have forgotten such a wonderful episode.
Stewart often brings in bits of folklore and mythology that make her books more atmospheric; allusions to the Greek gods pop up in both My Brother Michael and This Rough Magic. Eventually, I'll track down The Moon-Spinners, which I recall liking but have little memory of. Since it's set on Crete, it will be fun to see if Stewart has any references to the labyrinth in the story; I look forward to finding out.
As for Nine Coaches Waiting, I'm still enjoying it on this, my third time around. I like the setting in the French countryside, the sophisticated dialogue, and the heroine's composure. I can also report that, just as these novels were perfect summertime reading all those years ago, they also translate into a cozy escape on winter afternoons at the coffeehouse.
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