Walking in New Orleans

I distinctly recall a moment from the first time I visited my friend S in New York. We'd just exited a subway station in Greenwich Village. As soon as we were able to slow our stride to a chatting pace, I said, "Dude, when we got on that escalator, I totally cut off an 80 year old man. I feel like such an asshole."

S shrugged. "That's just what you gotta do sometimes."

That memory haunted me as I wandered through the French Quarter with a 23 pound baby strapped to my chest. It was Easter weekend, the human throng was thick and I was that 80 year old man - a sluggish, hunkering, non-entity on the losing end of the kill-or-be-killed battle for limited sidewalk space. I often had to step into the street, if I didn't choose to power through with an overstuffed diaper bag hanging at my side. And when I did that, I felt like an asshole but that's just what you gotta do sometimes.

When I first visited New Orleans in 2011, we stayed at a bed and breakfast in the Marigny. In the first twenty four hours, we visited the neighboring dog-friendly gay bar twice. The bears fawned over our beagle and the bartender concocted exquisite virgin Bloody Marys for four months pregnant me. Our five minute walk to the Quarter traversed quiet residential blocks and took us past low-key taverns where the locals would hang. We did our share of the touristy stuff - Decatur Street to Jackson Square and the Cathedral, Cafe Du Monde at 1am. But mainly, we wandered along "our" side of that district. We ventured uptown and to the Bywater by car, as well, packing a great deal into a mere day and a half.

I'm glad that was the nature of my first meeting with the city, because if it resembled our second visit I may have been turned off. Don't get me wrong, I had a blast this time, too. But being stationed on the Central Business District side of the Quarter, steps away from Canal Street, exposed me to the Vegas-y part of New Orleans - the crowds, the cheesy gift shops selling polyester blend short shorts with the words "Who Dat?" emblazoned on the ass, the block long line at Cafe Du Monde at 11am. And this time, the baby was out of my belly, much bigger, and full of opinions.

Generally, her opinion was positive. She didn't appreciate my breakneck speed when I was just trying to get through the human mass. I naturally gravitated as far from the intersection of Canal and Bourbon as my tired legs could reach. By day two, I was weighed down by food exhaustion. I'd eaten like it was Christmas, and was paying for it as I do every Boxing Day. That was a tough walk. The highlight for both of us was day three, Holy Saturday. We left the hotel at 10am. It was perfect spring morning weather. She was well rested and mellow. I made my way up Canal to Burgundy. One quick glance told me what I wanted to see - it was dead. The businesses along that avenue are of a practical, non-touristy nature - hospitality services, an accountant's office, a self-storage place. As we moved further into the Quarter, the scene became more residential. The vibe I got was youthful, uncaring, like Ann Arbor's student ghetto. - pretty but dilapidated houses with ratty couches on the porches. I didn't mind the smell of piss and alcohol. When it occasionally blended with weed smoke odor, I had pleasant memories of Amsterdam.

But it was time to find a little more action. When we rounded the corner of St. Peter, I saw a familiar business district in the distance. The day prior, I'd asked a smart looking Frenchman for directions to a highly touted cafe. "I think it's just around the corner," he said. "But do you want a really good coffee? The best coffee is just down the block." He pointed to a tiny storefront with a line out the door. Bernadette was getting fussy, so I didn't bother. But on this gloriously quiet Saturday morning, when most of the good people seemed to be working off their hangovers elsewhere, I decided to take my chances. We sauntered beneath balconies teeming with freshly watered flowers. The wet street glistened in the pre-noon sunlight and she snuggled against my chest. Our timing was perfect. When we arrived the line was short. I immediately noted and admired the no-frills atmosphere - just a counter, just one chatty barista, just slinging coffee. In another town, I'd have pegged him as a sullen hipster but he seemed rather gregarious. As he foamed the milk for my cappuccino, he said, "I feel so confident today. I'm wearing my bright blue shirt, and check this out." He lifted his ankle above the counter to reveal a matching aquamarine sock. "Now I know why you people feel so good wearing your peasant skirts."

I cracked up. "Yeah, a little bright color in the springtime is very refreshing."

So was that beverage. It was exquisite. B must have absorbed my rush by osmosis. She was perky again. We wandered through an alley and landed in front of the Cathedral, which was also surprisingly quiet. I let her loose in Jackson Square, where she wandered in circles to the soundtrack of a Decatur Street brass band, waving at everyone we encountered. It's really satisfying to see even the most down-on-his-luck looking dude grin and wave back at her. She makes so many people happy. A biker couple were particularly enchanted. The lady said, in regard to Bernadette's army green peacoat, "Wow, I love her jacket!" I thanked her and hustled as my little one picked up speed. Behind me, the biker lady mimicked, "Don't worry, ma! I'm okay. I'm packin' twelve." I googled that and still don't know what it means. I like it, anyway.

As we meandered back to the hotel, I boldly embraced the growing crowd as I knew it would be the last time we'd meet, at least for this visit. It was early still and the mood was bright. Occasionally, gentlemen on the street would smile at me or say, "Hi, Mom!" Some of these men were very attractive. It was one of the first things Dan and I discussed on day one, the general hotness of people in New Orleans. We decided that looking three times constituted "ogling" and occasional ogling was totally acceptable. The funny thing is that most of these people aren't fashion model pretty, the way so many New Yorkers are (nor do they look as if they spent thousands of dollars or thousands of hours at the gym, perfecting that look). It's just a certain sexual confidence that seems inherent to the region. I credit a combination of warm weather, rich food, stunning architecture, dance-y music, a laid back attitude and, yes, trashy fun, "Who Dat?" shorts and all. New Orleans is like a Prince song in the shape of a city. Who wouldn't feel hot there?

We met Dan at our room, right after his last conference session. We partook of the hotel restaurant's breakfast buffet, where I feasted upon a highly civilized combination of matzo bread with lox and greasy bacon. I kept forgetting where I was in relation to home. Could I really be just a seven hour drive away? Is that the short distance between my everyday life and this mecca of sensual pleasure? We left town mid-day, exhausted again, yet somehow refreshed for that mundane, everyday life.

The Surprise Center of Everything I Miss

In just eight days, we'll pack two tons of baby gear and one baby girl into a rental car, drive ten hours north on I-75 and spend a week in our beloved, mitten-shaped homeland. During that time, we'll be lodged in exotic... stunning... Livonia, Michigan.

The first image on the City of Livonia's "Community Profile" page.

No kidding, I'm honestly geeked to be staying in this grid-shaped expanse of strip malls and post war subdivisions. Growing up in Dearborn, my primary association with Livonia was the old Ladbroke DRC where we'd go to watch horse races. That was the only reason I ever went there. But now I see it as a rather ideal locale, for several reasons:

Proximity to a slew of southeastern Michigan hotspots We've got must-see people and destinations in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, Canton, Dearborn, Dearborn Heights, Detroit and Huntington Woods, not to mention a pair of dentist appointments in Bingham Farms. That's three counties, y'all! Livonia may be the most central location, which never occurred to me until we booked our room. Apparently, it's also a haven for traveling businessmen, as our hotel's complimentary breakfast includes "traditional Japanese items" - ooh la la!

There's a Costco there You may be thinking, "Costco? Ha ha! Tara has officially turned into a boring mom." Fair enough. I just recently became a card-carrying member, but I feel as if Costco and me were always meant to be. What's not to love about prodigious free samples and cheap, organic, frozen burritos by the dozen? I can get Dubliner cheese for six bucks a pound! The little cafe in the front sells giant, hand-dipped ice cream bars for $1.50. It's like Ikea for people who enjoy food more than furniture (though they also have furniture, and clothing, and car tires). I hate shopping, but I love going to Costco. We'll have a kitchenette in our room so being this close to one is rather practical. After all, we can't live on traditional Japanese breakfast items alone.

There's a secret oasis of bucolic grandeur there Our friend J is a longtime Livonia resident. Hopefully, we'll get a chance to hang out with her and her faithful Labrador/Chow mix, who looks just like a little black bear when he stands on his hind legs. She introduced us to the lovely hiking trails at Rotary Park. Those woods are quite serene. Right about now it's probably strewn with wildflowers. It's a cool respite on a hot, sunny day and a natural shelter in light rain. Once, I saw someone on horseback there. If you enjoy nature walks and find yourself in the vicinity, I recommend checking out this place. I foresee at least a couple jaunts with our baby and our dog.


It's Metro Detroit, and that's good enough for me I know my audience, so I'm careful to include the word "metro". People from SE Michigan bristle when suburbanites say they're "from Detroit", because everyone is so aware of the difference between the mostly African-American city center and its much whiter suburbs. But consider this - while the city population has dipped below 800,000, the metro area is about 4.3 million. That's a significant number of people in a specific area that I think we may as well call Detroit. Whatevs. Chattanooga's metro population is 500,000 and it's the biggest city within a one hundred mile radius. I miss the advantages of living in a more densely populated region. More so, there are quintessential Metro Detroit things I crave. Like, for instance, choosing from dozens of possible routes between points A and B. "Should I take I-275 to I-94 or just head down Ford Road or Michigan Avenue?" - you don't get all those options when you're surrounded by mountains and ridges. I miss the long-established immigrant enclaves, and eating delicious Greek, Middle Eastern, Indian, Chinese and Mexican food. I can't even find good pizza around here. I miss AM 580, this funky Windsor oldies station that still plays pop tunes from the 1950s, as well as an inordinate number of Guess Who hits (to satisfy Canadian content minimums, no doubt). Now that I live far away, I realize that particular combination of things doesn't exist anywhere else. So it really doesn't matter where we hang in that vast cement grid where the mitten's thumb meets its palm. As long as we're with people we love and a short ride from a Coney Island, it's all home to me.

Being Back in Michigan

This nomad's life is weird. I don't feel like I belong in Chattanooga, but I don't feel like I belong here, either. That's actually a good thing, because I was worried that seeing the friends and family I miss so much would set me up for a big post-vacation bummer. I'm not so concerned about that now. Hanging with so many loved ones has been a blast, but now that I'm finally up here, I'm almost overwhelmed by the sense that I shouldn't be here instead of Tennessee.

Let's just get it over with and talk about the weather. Surprise! It isn't the worst thing about being here. The cold honestly hasn't bothered me, mostly because it hasn't been that bad since arrived last Friday (and it was about this cold in Chatt the week before we left). Even the greyness hasn't been getting me down because there's a certain beauty in the vast, quilted sky that I don't get to enjoy in sunny, mountainous, southern Tennessee. I love the way barren, ebony branches and tree trunks look against that backdrop, especially when placed behind an uninterrupted field of white snow (which is far prettier than brown grass).

There is much loveliness to enjoy in a Michigan winter but I had forgotten about the seasonal dirtiness - the dry, stuffy indoors, the perpetual snot and chapped lips. The roads are the worst part. I saw a woman sitting on a bus bench by the side of Washtenaw Avenue in Ann Arbor. She sat just inches from the slush spray that emanated from the 40mph traffic, her legs ankle-deep in the black-streaked drift. That image broke my heart, though (or because?) I had been in her place so many times. And I had forgotten how cars turn into hideous, hulking sludge monsters. We haven't been able to see clearly through our windshield since Cincinnati. As soon as you wipe it down, it films over with that special blend of dirt and precipitation. Driving feels like walking around with filthy eyeglasses.

Culturally speaking, I think that southeastern Michigan has Chattanooga beat, hands down. The metro-Detroit/Ann Arbor food and beer scene is way more tasty, diverse and affordable, probably because there is a much larger and more diverse population in this region. Also, I've been able to do things here that I could never do in Chattanooga, like go to an art house theater (in a once-abandoned elementary school, no less) or hang out in bars where white people and black people and even people of other races mingle. I've longed for these things. It's also really exciting to be around a large population of Jewish people again.

I do find myself missing the friendlier, more upbeat attitude you find in Chattanooga. Yes, people seem nicer there. I like to say that in my experience so far, southerners tend to be more polite about everything except their racism and religion. My Louisiana-bred Michigan friend W got a big "Told you so!" kick out of that. There have been occasions when some pleasant bit of chitchat in the Chatt took an abrupt and nasty turn (in which I found myself responding, "Actually, I don't have a church," or "Actually, it's not cool to say that you 'Got jewed'.") Allowing for a reasonable level of self-expression, I'd rather that believers keep their views to themselves, but when it comes to racism, I just don't know. Is it better for people to be mask their bigotry in polite terms? I had a very typical SE Michigan conversation the other day, during which a woman told me how she had to move her family out of an inner ring suburb because "the neighborhood had changed". She didn't explicitly say that black people had scared her away, but that's exactly what she meant. I got that familiar "Oh, boy. Here we go," feeling and made my social escape as quickly as possible.

Of course, one's feelings about polite racism have everything to do with one's race, so I'm not going to suggest that impolite racism is the same or better. I will say that from my point of view, racist people everywhere make assumptions about my beliefs and it's annoying. Blunt southern racism is shocking, but the sentiment is nothing new to me.

When people ask me if I'm enjoying Chattanooga, my usual response is something like, "Sure." I guess it rates about a 7. I love the mountains and vistas the most. I miss being close to a big city. In some ways, this new-town experience reminds me of being in my twenties. The overarching theme of that decade seemed to be, "I don't always know what I want, but I'm figuring out what I don't want." I guess that sounds a bit bleak but I don't see it that way. When we first moved to Chattanooga, I was desperate for it to be our Forever Place because I couldn't stand the thought of packing another truck. Fortunately, the memory of the move is fading and I know I can do it again and even again, if necessary. Being a nomad feels weird but it isn't necessarily bad, especially if it makes me hungry for more world. In the meantime, there is more Scenic City exploring to be done.

My Little Bit to Restore Sanity

My main motivations for attending The Rally to Restore Sanity were these ~

1) To visit Washington D.C. and particularly the National Gallery of Art, which is my favorite museum.

2) To see our friend J, who had already booked a hotel room in Dupont Circle

3) I like Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert

Nevertheless, I had misgivings. My impression was that it was being marketed as an event for politically moderate people, which I am not. And for that matter, I don't think Jon Stewart is, either. So I found that angle disingenuous.

Actually, it turned out that this rally and especially Stewart's keynote speech got to the heart of some ideas that have been on my mind since the 2008 election. But before I get into that, let me take a minute to talk about why I have a lot of respect for Jon Stewart.

I almost never watch The Daily Show. I used to watch it every night (especially in 2004, 'cause that was one hell of an election year), but I haven't had cable much in the last six years. Still, I think Stewart has more journalistic integrity than anyone associated with cable news. He is obviously liberal, but he isn't a pundit. In his entertaining fashion, he encourages viewers to analyze politics and the news media that inform them. This is an anti-pundit approach. Pundits, conservative and liberal, make their fortune and their celebrity from preaching opinions to the choir about things that generally don't matter. I'm sick of all of them, even the "good" ones like Bill Maher who happen to be on my end of the spectrum. I don't care that ten years ago Christine O'Donnell talked about experimenting with watered down Wicca in high school, but now that matters. I appreciate Jon Stewart because instead of advocating for sides, he advocates for reason. He transcends the fights that don't matter and reminds us that we should do the same.

I don't know why I should be so surprised that this philosophy shaped the rally, but I was. I guess that's because no one knew exactly what to expect. I went to an anti-war rally at the Mall in January of 2007, but I don't recall any of the speakers or events. It was more like a powwow of like-minded individuals. From the moment we arrived at the Mall around 9am on Saturday morning, the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear (renamed after Stewart and faux pundit Stephen Colbert joined their two events) felt more like a music festival. Three hours before showtime, the throngs were moving toward the main stage, staking out their seats. Dan, J and I got a bite to eat at one of the museums and then J went with his brother to grab a seat near the second set of big screen monitors. Meanwhile, Dan and I made a quick visit to the National Gallery. When we emerged 30 minutes later, the crowd in the mall had doubled in size. We squeezed our way into a spot near our friends' general location, and that's where we stood for the next four hours.

Within thirty minutes, the crowd around us was so thick that I couldn't see an empty space anywhere. Luckily it was a gorgeous, sunny autumn day, just chilly enough so that the warmth of all those tens of thousands of bodies wasn't stifling. Another thirty minutes later, The Roots took the stage and kicked off a set with John Legend. Then the Mythbuster dudes came out to do some symphonic experiments with the audience (this was mostly lame, but I will say that when 150,000 or so people make a thumb-popping-cheek sound at the same time, it's pretty cool). At 1pm, Stewart and Colbert took the stage and commenced a truly entertaining series of events. For me, the highlights were:

1) When Stewart brought out Yusuf (the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens) to sing "Peace Train", which Colbert countered by bringing out Ozzy to sing "Crazy Train". After a lot of theatrical bickering between the two hosts, Yusuf and Ozzy bolted. Then the O'Jays came out and sang "Love Train".

2) The awards portion - Stewart gave awards to public figures who have demonstrated calm and reason while Colbert awarded public figures who promote fear. Stewart first honored Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, who didn't freak out and throw a justifiable tantrum after umpire Jim Joyce made a bad call that ruined his perfect game. I admit, when they showed Galarraga's videotaped acceptance speech, I was verklempt.

3) Random celebrity appearances, such as Sam Waterston's reading of Colbert's fear poem. Kareem Abdul Jabbar appeared onstage at one point to remind Colbert that he is, in fact, a Muslim.

It wasn't a thoroughly excellent show. When Kid Rock came on stage, Dan said, "Okay, let's go." I think he would have insisted if it wasn't so incredibly difficult to move through the crowd. So we suffered through it, which was ultimately a good thing because Stewart's keynote speech toward the end of the rally was well worth the wait.

The gist of the speech was that, despite our differences, and the divisive practices of our leaders and our news media, it is possible for Americans to work together to fix our problems. I think Stewart's most persuasive argument was when he used an aerial video image of gridlock traffic merging on a freeway. He pointed to each car and made up some demographic information about each driver - gay investment banker, mother of two small children, white baptist plumber, etc. He noted how almost every car moved in an orderly fashion to make it work - "You go, then I go. You go, then I go." It's a good, everyday example of random, disparate people making sacrifices to improve a difficult situation. But my favorite statement, the words that have been ringing through my head since Saturday, was when Stewart said (as best as I can remember), "And occasionally there's a person who drives along the shoulder and cuts in front of everyone else, but that person is rare, and they are scorned and they aren't hired as an analyst."

That inspired me. Not only does it validate my frustration with punditry, it also lines up with my feelings about politeness and civility. For all of my leftist political values, in my day to day life I just want everyone to get along. And I don't mean that in a super deep, Rodney King kind of way (but please know I'm not making fun of him; he, too should be awarded for profound calm and reason in response to a terrible situation). I don't like dramatic family situations, workplaces, or encounters with strangers. I prefer calm and not worrying about the little stuff, which is more apt to happen when social groups are focused on getting along. That takes a lot of thoughtful consideration and sacrifice, but sometimes it really can work.

It worked when we were leaving the rally. We spent over an hour just getting out of the Mall. The human gridlock was almost overwhelming at some points, when no one was moving and my body was sore from lack of food and standing still for four hours. I'm sure everyone was exhausted, but of the hundreds of people I personally encountered, not a single one freaked out or acted like a jerk in any way.

We left town shortly after returning to the hotel room. I heard a bit about the rally on the radio as we were heading down I-395 (mostly about how the city had not properly prepared for the crowds), but we were on the road and with family most of the time until today. I made a point of not reading anything about the rally before I wrote this, because I didn't want this to be a reaction to anything other than what I experienced. I don't know how to sum it up better than this: for a brief moment, a Frank Capra vision of the world became real and I hope I never forget that feeling.

Metroplex Reflections

* Whenever I leave Texas, I can't help feeling like I should actually be staying. It's a dreamy place, dotted with polite men who open doors with a flourish and a smile, and white-on-black night speed signs.



* Of course, I can only speak of the minuscule portion I've seen, which includes Houston, Austin and the Dallas/Arlington/Fort Worth Metroplex. Even if I had explored these cities thoroughly (which, of course, I haven't), that would constitute just 3.6% of Texas's 268,601 square miles.

* Last weekend saw my first visit to Dallas. So far, it is my favorite sprawled-out city where I don't want to live, easily beating Los Angeles and Atlanta. We had to drive at least forty five minutes to each destination, but traffic was never that bad. It appears that the sprawl is by choice rather than by necessity. Exit ramps stretch far from the ample freeways, like tentacles trying to grasp the insurmountable prairie. Ranch style buildings rest a long distance from the road. It seems that if there is one aesthetic rule that guides Dallas's inefficient urban plan, it is "don't distract from the sky". I have to admit, I find the vastness soothing.

* We visited the site of the Kennedy assassination, which appears to be the number one tourist attraction in Dallas proper. I find this morbid and strange. We stood across from the "grassy knoll" and watched as tourists snapped pictures at the X-marked spot in the middle of the road where the first shot hit JFK. They would take turns, pointing and shooting their cameras toward the infamous sixth floor window. That X is like a freakin' magnet. People just can't resist it. We saw a guy lazily wave away an oncoming pick-up truck as if he were shooing a pestering toddler. I have to wonder if any unmindful tourists have been killed by motorists in that very spot.

* As tourist attractions go, I personally prefer the Fort Worth Stockyards, a preserved "Old West" style neighborhood where they parade longhorns twice daily to maintain a sense of authenticity. We missed the cattle drive, but still had fun ogling cows and horses, wandering amongst the kitschy shops, and (my favorite) following the Texas Trail of Fame, which is just like the Hollywood Walk of Fame but refined to "honor those who have made a significant contribution to our Western way of life". Interestingly, one does not need to be a native Texan to be honored, as evidenced by this tribute to my favorite historic lady of the Midwest



The TToF has yet to recognize James Stewart, which I consider an enormous oversight. There is an open nomination process, which involves including "a description as to why the individual should be included along with a brief biography, references, family contact information and photographs." Yikes! This Trail of Fame is no joke.

* Being in the Metroplex (isn't that word stressful?) reminds me how much I miss being near a big city. Granted, Detroit's population has plummeted over the decades, but the metropolitan area is still home to four plus million sundry people. That means many restaurants and different styles of food. Statistically speaking, there are bound to be hundreds of quality eateries within a forty five minute drive of the city. Now, consider the fact that the Metroplex is home to about six and a half million people.

In short, we ate well. At length, this included Tex Mex, Chinese, Thai, Italian (prepared quite masterfully by an Armenian family), lots of little deep fried things, and prodigious amounts of beef, all of which were excellent. I simply cannot get this in my new home without driving at least two hours.

* On the way to meeting my father-in-law for happy hour on Monday, my mother-in-law pulled over by the ranch where the television show "Dallas" was filmed.

I said, "I went to a K through eight school and when I was a little kid, I remember the junior high marching band playing the 'Dallas' theme song."

She laughed, "Really? That's strange."

I started cracking up just thinking about it. Dan asked, "Wait, how does it go?" I hummed the first few bars and then he and his mother finished the tune in unison. It is an exceptionally good theme song. It more or less represents my complete image of the city, along with Larry Hagman in a cowboy hat.

The gates were closed, so we just gazed from the car windows. Dan joked, "Do you wanna get here early tomorrow for the tour before we hit the road?" Truly, I have no recollection of the TV show beyond the song, Larry Hagman and the certain feeling that Patrick Duffy was the morally and physically superior son. But it felt good to be there anyway. Staring across the expansive lawn, I noticed a slight incline along the side of the property, where the lush horizon blocked the sight of the adjacent road. All I could see beyond the grass and a couple trees was the broad, blue sky. It felt like looking at forever.

My First Date with Chattanooga

I finally met my new home. Dan and I drove down to Chattanooga, TN on Thursday evening and stayed until yesterday morning. Part of me is relieved to finally know for certain that I really do like this place. Another part of me is, of course, unnerved at the prospect of packing, moving, leaving my friends and starting a new job in a city quite far away. I have many feelings to sort, so forgive me if this post is a bit disjointed.

I think that the most exciting thing about my new home is the terrain. It suits me perfectly. Chattanooga straddles the steep banks of the Tennessee River just east of Lookout Mountain, which is this adorable, tree-covered peak that seems to pop out of nowhere. Boing! Some of the city is quite flat but the surrounding area is hilly and verdant. Being able to see so much green at so many elevations is my definition of paradise. You just can't escape the natural beauty of that region.

We spent a lot of time driving through various neighborhoods, just trying to get a feel for each one. Our sources told us that the North Shore is the hippest part of town, and it definitely reminded me of Ann Arbor. During our brief drive by on the way to our first rental viewing, I spotted several boutiques, a handful of restaurants with outdoor seating and the obligatory yuppie pet store. This is also the side of town where you find the groovy organic groceries and the hipster coffee shop, as well as houses that sell for twice as much as anywhere else in town. It's expensive and pretty and I'll probably shop for food there. The apartment we viewed was solid and had its own washer/dryer, but my favorite thing about it was that it rested on the side of a wooded hill, and that too reminded me of Ann Arbor. In both places, I'm not crazy for the overpriced downtown, but I do love those woodsy neighborhoods. Unfortunately, the landlord was looking for immediate occupancy and we just aren't ready to start paying rent.

While the North Shore is the current cool neighborhood, the Southside (adjacent to downtown Chattanooga) is the up-and-coming neighborhood that is currently experiencing it's great gentrification, and it's a little creepy. Gentrification is so different in a place like Detroit where available, affordable spaces far outnumber the people who want them. Anyone who is willing to face the hazards of Detroit living are generally appreciated for any sort of positive financial impact they can bring. But in so many other cities, neighborhoods like this one seem to "advance" from ghetto to upscale mall so rapidly that there isn't time for the old and new communities to really merge. And then you just end up with the upscale mall and a lot of displaced poor people. I don't know enough about the Southside to assume that this is exactly what is happening, but it just didn't feel quite right. It also lacks the natural prettiness that makes the North Shore special.

About halfway through our visit, I started getting nervous, not just because we hadn't found a place, but because I couldn't tell if I would really fit in this town. Dan and I were sitting in our room at the B&B, looking up Craigslist ads, when I turned to him and said, "So, Dan, I've never moved far away from everyone I know. What's it like?" but I started crying before he could answer. He reassured me that it would be okay and that I would make friends. He said that when he first started his grad program at UM, he spent a lot of lonely nights walking the dog on Vaughn Street in Ann Arbor before he befriended his downstairs neighbors (who remain such kind and generous friends that they took Dulce in while we were in Chatt). "Eventually you'll meet people who show signs of being into the same stuff that you like, and then you'll give them signals that you want to be friends."

I don't mind spending some time alone when we move. I'm pretty good at being a loner, or as my shrink says, "Being good company for myself." I take pride in that ability. I guess my bigger fear is that I would have to compromise a lot to fit in, because honestly, I also take pride in being a bit of a freak. And Chattanooga seems to have a shortage of the weirdo kind. During my breaks from apartment-hunting, I found myself googling things like, "Chattanooga freaks" and "Chattanooga freakshow". When that didn't turn up anything significant, I started looking up info about the gay community and atheists. There is a small gay community (which is fine, and a harbinger of good things, though I'm not gay), as well as a Free Thought Association chapter, but the Facebook participants in that latter group seemed almost religiously vehement about their non-faith, which made me feel weird, too. The truth is, I like having unusual people around me, but I don't gravitate toward such specific communities.

I guess I felt afraid that I would have to conform to something just to get along and make friends. And yet, as I interacted more with locals, I noticed that people seemed more mellow than conformist. And I think it has so much to do with the weather. How can we northerners not be so cranky and sarcastic when every November, all the leaves disappear and we have to brace ourselves for months of cold and depression? Or I think about Dan growing up in that always-sizzling-hot fantasy resort known as south Florida; is it any wonder that part of the world is home to so many disaffected young people? In a place like Chattanooga, where the weather is always "not that bad", I swear that the lack of extreme weather keeps people calm. And I can dig that. I could stand to be a little calmer.

Beside that, I doubt that I'm as unusual as I may think. Obviously many Chattanoogans have similar values, like wanting to live in a walkable neighborhood and buy organic groceries and look at pretty trees. I think the only thing that sets me apart is my almost complete lack of interest in what I like to call "stuff and things" (material possessions such as cell phones and other techno-gadgets, new clothes, new furniture, shit you have to dust and move around, etc.), but that makes me a freak pretty much anywhere I go in the USA.

We did find a neighborhood that we both loved. It's called St. Elmo (so now I get to have that terrible song stuck in my head instead of "The Chattanooga Choo Choo"). It's way on the southwest side of town, at the foot of Lookout Mountain. It's a haul from downtown, but having once been its own little town, it has a sleepy little business district with a coffee shop and an expensive restaurant, as well as a couple cheap ones. And since Chatt is such a great biking town, with great weather year-round, the distance to the city center is still doable without a car. And it's gorgeous. So that's where we're going to look for a place the next time we go back, in about a month.

Mostly, I feel really excited. As I said, the terrain in that region is exactly my style, and I'm looking forward to being around it all the time. It isn't the worst place to take the dog for a lonely walk.

Auntie Tara Goes to Brooklyn

On Wednesday evening, I flew to NYC to visit my friends S and H and meet their newborn baby twins M and N. Okay, I guess these one-letter abbreviations are getting out of hand. Here's a bit of background to keep it all straight -

S is my best friend. He is a writer and teacher. We grew up together.

H is S's hilarious and brilliant wife. She's a medical researcher and songwriter. She has excellent musical taste and is the only person I know who can master the Michael McDonald voice ("Takin' It to the Streets" is her karaoke jam).

M is their son and N is their daughter.

As M and N were just shy of eight weeks old, I expected that this would be more of a working trip than a vacation. That was wise. Twins are no joke! Honestly, my job was pretty simple. I mainly washed dishes, sanitized bottles, and occasionally held a baby while one of the parents was busy doing something else. But I was glad that I didn't make many plans for my visit because I quickly discovered that babies have a way of rearranging your life. My mere attempt to make myself available for little chores put me on the baby schedule, which sort of felt like changing time zones five or six times daily.

Consider this - the twins get fed 8-10 times a day. In between feedings they sleep. And of course they also have awake time when they play or stare at the grown-ups while they bounce on someone's knee. But they're not always on the same schedule and one of them may wake up crying just as the other one is going to sleep. S and H have re-calibrated their lives to meet the needs of these unpredictable creatures and for a few days I did, too.

I had no idea what I was doing so I was immediately impressed by the communication skills my friends have developed in their desire to understand their kids. The first time I held M (a puffy-cheeked cherub with a perennially mean mug that may intimidate me someday, but it's so damn cute right now), he farted. H assured me that he had indeed farted and not pooped; she could tell by the smell. S and H could also discern N's "I'm hungry" cry from her "my belly hurts" cry. I wasn't there long enough to tell the difference between poop and fart odors or one cry versus another and I'm just really grateful that I wasn't in a position to try to figure it out.

Speaking of bodily functions, I have a new found appreciation for my grown body's ability to process them without my noticing. These poor infants use up so much energy just in yawning, expelling gas and excrement, eating, and even moving their arms. They really put their whole bodies into these activities and you can tell from their troubled little faces that it's exhausting. It's a blessing that we don't remember that part of our lives.

I treasured the peaceful moments when the twins were awake and at ease, and I got to watch them watch the world. M seemed mostly disdainful (a premature judgment perhaps, but based on my experience I can't say that I blame him) while N had this hypnotizing, unblinking stare, like she didn't want to miss a thing. There were a couple times I zoned out just staring into her eyes and it felt like I'd been holding her for an hour, but it was really only a few minutes. Baby time can be drug-like.

As all-consuming and stressful as the twin experience was (and when I say "stressful", I speak more for my friends than myself; although I'm very sensitive to other people's emotions, I was definitely in the more comfortable position of an observer), there were unforeseen moments of fun. We three grown-ups would be in the midst of our chores, and then we would all catch a glimpse of M's furrowed brow face and just crack up laughing. Or during one of those magic naps when both kids were asleep, we shared our favorite corny Youtube videos. Those flashes of humor were extra refreshing, like the way water tastes sweeter when you've been sweating.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all drudgery. Each of the three full days I was there, we set out on an afternoon adventure and enjoyed some food-related activity. Going out on the street with twins made us instant celebrities, and that's fun when you're in the big city. As we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe, so many passers-by would point and coo, "Twins!" Strangers inquired about them and delighted to see that there was a boy and a girl. You could tell the ones who had their own children because they said things like, "God bless you," and "Hang in there." We ran into another mother of twins whose first words were, "It gets a lot better." But those who didn't know better may have been completely fooled as M and N were perfectly tranquil (and generally asleep) on all three occasions. Those were definitely fun times.

I felt a little bad leaving H and S yesterday morning, only because I could tell that my extra hands made a difference in keeping abreast of the twins' needs. I'm in awe of their ability to make this work, but I can tell they'll succeed because they take the team approach. Until I got married, I associated the term "teamwork" with sports and dysfunctional workplaces. I've never played sports and though I'm a big fan of "getting along with each other", I prefer to work alone as much as I can. But marriage, and apparently raising a family, is all about forming and executing a plan with your partner. I suppose this seems obvious, but how many families and couples do you know who don't operate that way?

Anyway, I'm excited to see their family evolve and I'm even more excited to see what happens when Dan and I move south and begin trying in earnest to build our own. Yeah, I admit that I'm now hoping for one at a time. I trust that whatever happens won't be easy but will be okay. We'll be okay.

The Egg and I

After our Mammoth Cave visit, Dan and I headed to Nashville for the rest of our vacation. Seeking an indoor activity on that last cool and rainy day, I faintly recalled reading about a botanical garden and art museum in town and then Dan found it online.

The Cheekwood Estate, built in the late 1920' and early thirties, is the former home of Maxwell House tycoons Leslie and Mabel Cheek (she the former Miss Wood). Their daughter Hulda inherited the estate and in 1957 donated it to the community for the purpose of creating a fine arts center. Cheekwood encompasses 55 acres and includes several gardens, a woodland sculpture trail, and a Museum of Art housed in the founders' mansion home.

Though we hoped for a greenhouse to cheer us on that dreary day, we learned shortly after our arrival that the public green spaces resided outdoors and that our time would be best spent in the Museum of Art. I was disappointed for the few moments before we climbed the stony summit to the front drive that wove a half circle in front of the mansion. Then I realized that I was about to enjoy one of my favorite activities, known as "Jane Austen time".



Jane Austen time can occur in any situation or place that makes me feel as if I'm living in one of her stories. It could be an event, like last summer's Pie Lovers Unite at the Ladies' Literary Club in Ypsi (which I reviewed in this blog). Or it could happen when I'm working with a self-important customer; I pretend that I'm dealing with Lady Catherine De Bourgh from "Pride and Prejudice" and that's how I stay sane. But my favorite instances of Jane Austen time occur in physical settings that remind me of Austen's world. More than any other place I've been, this Georgian style mansion made me feel like I was walking through the set of a BBC production of "Persuasion". Wandering from the grand dining room past the loggia to the west wing of the house, I could imagine the ladies and gentlemen on their divergent paths after supper - the men to the library for their cigars and the women to the parlor for their cards. As a museum, the space is wonderfully bare, allowing visitors to take in the lovely architectural details, like the arched doors and windows, or the curl of the sweeping staircase and it's balustrade. Staring out from the loggia to the rolling green fields below, I felt the closest I've ever felt to Mr. Darcy's Pemberley (Admittedly, I have a long way to go - these Cheeks weren't half as rich as Mr. Darcy).

To have enjoyed such authentic Jane Austen time would have been worth a great deal more than the price of admission, but it turned out that this also happened to be a fantastic museum of decorative arts, painting and sculpture. I can't say anything for the contemporary arts section in the stables as we missed that part, but the William Edmondson sculpture gallery blew me away.



According to the Cheekwood website,

William Edmondson (1874 - 1951) was the first African American artist to be featured in a solo show at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1937. Edmondson was a stone carver, born to former slaves, who worked with a hand-made chisel on limestone block discarded from demolished buildings; inspired, he said, by religious visions, he did not start sculpting until he was about sixty years old.

When the Depression hit in 1929, Edmondson lost his job as a hospital orderly and began carving tombstones for the two African American cemeteries in Nashville, Mt. Ararat and Greenwood. Edmondson told the story of how God spoke to him. "I was out in the driveway with some old pieces of stone when I heard a voice telling me to pick up my tools and start to work on a tombstone. I looked up in the sky and right there in the noon daylight He hung a tombstone out for me to make.

Edmondson carved the sculptures for his and his neighbors' gardens. I admit that these deceptively simple pieces struck me as no big deal initially, but I was utterly charmed by the end of my tour through the exhibit. All I can say is this guy had a really beautiful vision of god.



What could be the antithesis of Edmondson's humility and minimalism? A Faberge egg perhaps? There were three on display in the Museum's Faberge exhibit, just down the hall from the sculptures. That one little trinket filled room honestly changed my life. Talk about underestimating a big deal. I always thought Faberge eggs had to be the dumbest thing that humankind sold for tens of millions of dollars. An egg made of gaudily displayed jewels, are you kidding me?

I feel like a fool. Just like a Georgian estate, all I'd known of Faberge eggs were pictures, which don't tell you a thing. Staring at a Faberge egg is sort of like contemplating the cosmos. There's a universe of detail in those little eggs. You can understand the rise of Communism when you consider what the Russian Czars spent to commission these playthings, just by guessing the sheer monetary value of the jewels, not to mention the painstaking craftsmanship and two or so years of labor that went into a single egg.

Oh, and pains were taken, indeed. I commented to the very informative security guard, "I would go crazy making one of these things." He said, "Yeah, I meet a lot of Russian women who come here to see the eggs and they really know the history behind this stuff, and I ask them if those guys went crazy. They say to me, 'Oh sure, they went crazy, they went blind."

This man - I'll call him Nick (we never got his name) - had become a Faberge enthusiast. He was very knowledgeable of the entire exhibit. He helped me understand why the Faberge flowers were arguably more exquisite than the eggs; they took twice as long to make and every part was made of some precious material. The lilies of the valley, with their gold stems and pearl buds, laid upon gold spun grass. Diamond chips glistened at the end of each pearl.



The eggs were nevertheless my favorite, especially the Caucasus egg pictured in the left corner. Like so many of the eggs, it held a special treasure, a miniature folding screen. Each bejeweled frame held a tiny, intricate landscape painting. "Those are painted on mother of pearl," Nick noted.

I have to say, that as much as I was enchanted by the Faberge collection, I was impressed by Nick. I think he appreciated my attention and I learned much about him. He spent 28 years working security at Opryland USA before that shut down. I'm not sure how long he'd been working at Cheekwood, but he's been protecting the Faberge exhibit for the three and a half years it's been there. He told me a story that one of his Russian ladies had shared, about a woman on "Antiques Road Show" who had stumbled upon a Faberge craftsman's journal. Expecting a few thousand for her find, the woman almost passed out when she learned that each page was appraised at $100,000. But what I loved most about the story was Nick's preface, "I'd never watched 'Antiques Roadshow' - but I definitely do now...". To imagine this seemingly average burly man, trading tales with mysterious Russian women and developing a passion not only for Faberge but also antique culture at large, made me so happy. It reminded me what it's like to feel an enormous passion for that thing you do or encounter every day at work.

The Darkest Dark You've Ever Seen

Yesterday, Dan and I took the Historic Tour at Mammoth Cave National Park in southern Kentucky. I have just discovered that a cave is a wonderful place for reflection, which is one of my favorite pastimes.

Also, caves quench my thirst for something I like to call organic architecture. There's probably a better name for it, but I can't think of what it us. Anyway, I love studying cities and the way their buildings come together to create spaces, and thinking about how those spaces make me feel (Chicago - tall and smart; Detroit - sad and free). But I also love studying natural environments and the way organic elements come together to form useful and beautiful spaces for humans to enjoy. A forest is my most familiar example. On a cool drizzly day in the early spring, all those slightly leafy branches shelter you from the rain while the tree trunks and limbs cut the wind. On a blazing hot summer day, the thick canopy blocks the light and makes a cooler space amongst the trees. A walk through the forest can be a respite from bad weather, a peaceful and lovely sanctuary. Just like a church or a temple, it's a wonderful space for reflection and meditation.

I had never before considered how a cave can also be a wonderful place for thinking and just being. The architectural aspect is obvious - caves have floors, walls and ceilings. The Mammoth Cave is all limestone, which humans use to construct buildings and roads. But there are certain details I didn't anticipate, details that make that particular portion of the Mammoth Cave perfectly serene. For instance, it is always 54 degrees inside the cave. According to Joe, our tour guide, that's the average sea level temperature for the state of Kentucky. On any day of the year, it will be 54 degrees inside that cave. Now that isn't my favorite temperature, but it's a highly anticipated temperature in Michigan this time of year. In the summer, it would be refreshingly cool. But I just can't get over the fact that it's always the same. With all of the weird weather people have experienced across the US these past several weeks, I find enormous comfort in the fact that Mammoth Cave will always be 54 degrees.

One of the great things about the part of the cave that we toured is that it is so often traveled that there are no creepy animals around. No bats, rats or salamanders. As Joe noted, those few animals who can survive in such a dark, cool space don't hang around when they hear people walking. He assured all of us that we were not likely to see even a bug during our journey. The fear hadn't even occurred to me - I figure that the most basic tour at a National Park would be pretty safe and that anything I could encounter wouldn't hurt me - but once he explained that to us, I started to see how nice it is to not worry about that stuff. I fear snakes. I've gotten better about it, but there were times when I would catch a little wiggle out of the corner of my eye and then find myself running through the woods before I had completely registered the wiggle as a snake. So it was really nice to explore the cave without risking a sudden flight reaction, which could conceivably lead to a head injury in those spots with the low ceilings.

Joe's chief warning was that we stick together. "Every once in a while - not often, but once in a while - the lights go out, and then I'll need to light lanterns. And trust me, if that happens, it's the darkest dark you'll ever see." Being the good little obedient ex-Catholic that I am, I stuck very close to Joe for most of the journey, but he was also just a fantastic tour guide (a job he's been doing on and off since the mid-1960's). He spoke frankly about the slaves who mined the caves for saltpeter, which was later used to make gunpowder, that was then sold to the US government during the War of 1812, thereby helping to preserve a freedom that slaves would not have until decades later. I also loved the tour stop known as The Church, a cavern where locals held prayer service during the mid-nineteenth century. Joe pointed to a rocky ledge high on the wall that served as a pulpit, and the dark soot where the lanterns had lit the preacher. But my favorite part of the tour followed the labyrinthine journey through Fat Man's Misery (not for the claustrophobic). Joe sat us down in a large open cavern, told us to be still for a moment and then yelled to his assistant, "Hit it, Charlie!" And then the lights went out. It truly was the darkest dark I've ever seen. I felt scared for a moment, and then I found Dan's hand, and then I just let the blackness pour through me. It was so peaceful.

Joe said, "Now when I light this match, it's going to look like a torch." And it did! He pointed out that the flame blew a bit. "There's always a breeze flowing through here. The cave is breathing." That's when I noticed that there was a very gentle, constant draft, so consistent that you could barely notice it. And I wanted, just a little while longer, to get back to that darkest dark I've ever seen and feel the cave breathing and see what kind of strange thoughts would pop up inside my head.