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November 29, 2005

Someplace High in Paris

A week ago Monday morning Matt and I visited a Parisian landmark I neglected to see on my first visit to Paris 21 years ago. I don't know why I didn't go before; I just didn't. But it was very cool to see the Eiffel Tower up close, and to gaze down on Paris from a height of over 300 meters.

Here I am:

Here's Matt:

Posted by Holly at 3:57 AM | Comments (2)

November 27, 2005

Hosts and Guests

Sunday was my last full day in Brussels. I was sitting at Matt's computer doing my email when he walked in to say good morning. We began discussing what we'd do on my last day, and I felt compelled to ask him if I'd been an OK guest.

He frowned for a moment, then nodded. "You've been an OK guest," he said, emphasizing the "OK" while looking away. Then he looked right at me. "You're not the easiest person to live with."

I frowned and nodded myself. I already knew this. At this point in my life I generally find other people hard to live with, and I figure it must work both ways. I'm very habituated to living alone, to managing my money, my space, my stuff and my time as I see fit. I first did it when I was 23, after my mission (which involved as little privacy as possible--you're allowed to use the bathroom on your own, but the rest of your time is supposed to be spent in the presence of an assigned partner, so you have fewer opportunities to break the rules). The parents of one of my friends in Tucson had a studio apartment they offered to rent me, and it seemed like a good place to live while I finished my bachelor's degree. I was surprised at how much I liked living alone. Yes, I was often lonely, but there are many, many worse things in life than loneliness, and one of them is sharing a kitchen with someone who never does the dishes, either properly or at all.

While thinking about these matters, I asked Matt if he had ever lived alone. He said he'd had his own room in the dorms in college, but we agreed that's not really living alone. Among my friends and family are what seem to me a remarkable number of people who have reached the age of 35 never having lived alone, or having lived alone in a small apartment for a year or two after college, before they move in with a significant other.

Whereas out of my 42 years on this planet, I've lived alone for 16 of them, and over eight of those years were spent not merely in an apartment but a house, so I had a yard to myself as well.

When Elizabeth Bennet (the heroine of Pride and Prejudice, for anyone unfortunate enough not to recognize that name) and her aunt visit the ladies at Pemberly one afternoon, it becomes clear to Caroline Bingley that Darcy admires Elizabeth. Jealous and upset, Miss Bingley makes a nasty comment about Elizabeth's appearance. Having failed to goad Darcy into declaring Elizabeth unattractively coarse and changed beyond recognition, Miss Bingley then complains that Elizabeth's nose lacks character while her complexion lacks brilliancy, adding, "in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion which is intolerable." I am sure there is considerable self-sufficiency in my air; I hope it is not entirely intolerable, but no doubt it's part of what makes me hard to live with. At least I can comfort myself with the fact that these days it's not unfashionable to be rather self-sufficient.

I like other people; I like them quite a lot. I think I'm capable of great loyalty and I try to be a generous and compassionate friend. But I also really like solitude, and I really like being in control of my time, my money, my space and my stuff. This is one reason I have often said that were I ever to marry, I would find it ideal to live next door to my husband, or perhaps share a big house with separate households in different wings or on different floors. That way we'd see each other easily enough but we wouldn't have to ask each other where the scissors are because we'd each have our own pair, in our own office. I know that seems like a mundane example of how it's inconvenient to share space with another human being, but the thing about living with someone is that it IS mundane--it's what you do every single day: accommodate the most quotidienne needs and demands of another human being.

When you're a host or a guest you do the same thing, but for a few days or weeks, instead of a few years or decades.

You could not ask for more generous or accommodating hosts than Matt and Leo. They feed me better than I feed myself. They go out of their way to amuse me. They take me places. They spend time with me and also leave me time to myself. They have a lovely home and make me very comfortable in it.

I try to be a reasonable guest: I try to minimize my requests; I try not to spend too much time in the bathroom (though it does take a long time to wash my hair); I try to do what I can for myself without being intrusive or demanding--for instance, I'll make tea for myself, because I can do that with a minimum of fuss, but I haven't insisted that anyone show me how to work the espresso machine. I am happy to let my hosts go off to the gym and leave me at home to blog (though I should really be doing some preparation for teaching--in less than 48 hours, I'll be back in the classroom).

But the fact still remains that I know darn good and well that however happy I am to have someone come visit me, I am also glad when s/he leaves and I get my space and my routine back. And I know Matt and Leo feel the same way about me--and I don't just come for a weekend, either; because it's so expensive to fly from the states and because Matt is one of my dearest friends, I always come for a week or two. And I know it's because Matt loves me that he lets me be his guest for so long, even though I'm hard to live with.

Which really does make me lucky, lucky, lucky.

Read about the rest of my trip in Someplace High in Paris, Il Neige, I Went: Europe, and Happy Thanksgiving. Get the details on coming home in Welcome Home.

Posted by Holly at 11:59 PM | Comments (3)

November 26, 2005

Il neige

Brussels has been hit by a freak snowstorm.

According to a Francophone newspaper I'm not going to link to because so few of my readers read French, the storm this weekend was one of the three most severe of the previous 100 years--for this time of year, anyway. Brusssels doesn't normally get 10 to 15 centimeters of snow in late November. (Actually, it rarely gets 10 to 15 centimeters of snow, but it's more likely in January or so than in November.) We woke this morning to--that's right, you guessed it--a winter wonderland, and I convinced Matt to take photos of the view from his balcony.

Here's a view from the guestroom balcony, which faces east:

I find the chimneys and snow-covered pitched roofs quite charming.

To the east of Matt's apartment is this lovely park. In mid-morning it was full of children sledding and building snow people.

Here's the street to the northwest:

Below is the view to the northeast--the dome at the right is the Palais de Justice.

This apartment, which is on the seventh and final floor of one of the tallest buildings in the area, has been a lovely place to be in while it's nasty outside. Last night we got home around midnight and watched it snow for a couple of hours--big, fat, wet, mushy flakes. This morning we had a leisurely breakfast and watched it snow some more. About noon the snow tapered off, and the temperature rose above freezing, and the snow started turning to icky, soggy piles of misery. Then, because Matt and his partner are lovely, generous hosts, they took me out in that slushy snow, and we walked to Pierre Marcolini, the finest chocolatier in Brusssels.

We did a little additional shopping, then came home. Matt lit a fire, we watched How to Marry a Millionaire, and we ate REALLY good chocolate. Right now I'm drinking a Kriek (an absolutely WONDERFUL Belgian cherry beer) and blogging; Matt is knitting (he's very good and has helped me with my stitches) and Leo is making dinner, which we'll soon eat. After that, well, we'll no doubt do something glamourous and exciting, because you can't just spend all weekend sitting by a comfortable fire, eating chocolate, drinking beer and watching TV--oh wait, you can!

Posted by Holly at 1:51 PM | Comments (1)

November 25, 2005

I Went: Europe

Once upon a time, in January 1984, when I was 20, I got on a plane, went to London, spent a semester taking courses in English literature and English history, then hoisted a backpack with a sleeping bag strapped to it and set off to tour the British Isles and the Continent of Europe for two months or so BY MYSELF. I had one sweater, fewer pair of socks and underwear than I like to admit, a copy of Let's Go: Europe (at the time,Let's Go was the bible of the cheap traveler--I've been told its coolness has waned and the preferred travel guide is now The Lonely Planet series), my passport, and a Eurail pass. I was often profoundly lonely and on several occasions found myself in circumstances so desperate or extreme I was afraid for my life, but somehow I escaped not only death but serious injury--for that matter, I was never even robbed, though I was frequently menaced. Considering the class of hotel or hostel I stayed in, considering how often I slept in some isolated compartment of some night train, considering how willing I was to ask for and accept help from complete strangers, it's remarkable nothing truly bad happened to me.

For instance: in late April, a few weeks after the semester ended, I arrived in Edinburgh. It was cold and damp and I was not happy to be there. I had spent some time visiting friends in the North of England, partly because I liked them and partly because I wanted to kill some time before I started my journeys in earnest--I was afraid of the entire prospect of backpacking around Europe on my own, you see. But the time came when I had to go SOMEPLACE because I had two months to kill before my flight back to the states, and I figured I should see something of the British Isles before heading to the continent.

I wandered around Edinburgh and would have found it fascinating and delightful had I not been so very, very upset: was I really going to do this, I asked myself, was I really going to travel through all these foreign countries by myself, as cheaply as I possibly could? Was I even capable of it? But then it got late enough that I could check into the hostel, and the clouds broke and the sun appeared, and I shared a room with a very cool young woman from Ireland, and she suggested I take a ferry to Belfast and then tour Ireland--in particular, she suggested I head south to someplace picturesque like Kilarney, rent a bicycle, and see how very beautiful the island was--and it all seemed possible and potentially even fun.

So that's what I did, the very next day, which happened to be Easter Sunday. It was a singularly glorious day, the sky clear and bright enough to make you suspect the resurrection was a distinctly possible event. I traveled by train across Scotland, by ferry across the Irish Sea, and got into the Belfast train station late that night. Someone had told me that it was usually possible to get a night train in various cities, and that catching such a train and sleeping on it would save me the cost of a hotel. Unfortuntately, when I got to Belfast, the station was very nearly closed--the station master was waiting only for our train to arrive before shutting the place up and heading home--and there wouldn't be another train out until morning.

I didn't know what to do. I looked up the number of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the phone book, thinking some nice members of the church would help me out, but the number was for a chapel, not a bishop's home, and of course no one answered. But the station master offered to give me a ride to the home of a friend of his who ran a cheap bed and breakfast, and I accepted.

So I ended up in the house of some young guy named John, who fed me peanut butter and toast and chatted with me for a few hours, before offering me a couch where I spread out my sleeping bag and went to sleep. The next morning he made me tea, I gave him a few pounds, he told me which bus to take to the train station, and I caught a train and went to Dublin.

But that story could have ended so very, very differently. I ran into women who had similar tales to tell, except that they were raped and/or robbed by the station master and/or the guy renting out the spare bedroom.

As I mentioned, there were a few very dangerous situations, and there was one time in particular when I knew I was in very real danger. But I survived. And I did it all pretty much on my own, except for a few weeks in Greece and Italy where I met up with friends.

I would never undertake such a thing now. I don't know if I've become wiser, more cowardly, or more accustomed to a certain level of physical and psychological comfort, but I can't imagine wearing the same dirty sweater for three weeks (because it was too cold not to wear it and I was never in one place long enough to wash it, and I didn't have room in my backpack for a second sweater), sleeping every third night or so on a train, and, on those nights when I didn't sleep on the train, spending no more than $15.00 on a bed.

I am one of a supposedly rare breed, a woman who not only can but likes to read maps, so I could usually figure out a decent way to get where I wanted to go. I spoke reasonably comprehensible (if profoundly ugly, not yet having taken a class focusing on pronunciation) French, and I was clever enough that I could usually figure out enough German or Italian or whatever to make sense of instructions, and I was also not the least bit afraid to ask for help from anyone. So I got along. But I wouldn't want to do it again now. I am so happy to travel with Matthew, with his excellent French, and I stand back patiently as he conducts any necessary business with hotel clerks and taxi drivers. I am glad to stay in a three-star Paris hotel (not particularly glamourous, but comfortable enough) instead of some hostel where you have to provide your own sheets.

I suppose I COULD travel like a clueless cheap undergrad again, but what would be the point? I see little romance in roughing it any more, and having taken the approach to travel where you "visit as many of the great museums of Europe as you possibly can, and let yourself be profoundly moved by the art," I'm content to try a different mode.

In fact, I find that I don't feel the same way I once did about art, but discussing that will have to wait for another entry.

Posted by Holly at 4:37 AM | Comments (0)

November 24, 2005

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving from Brussels, which is where I currently am. I got here last night with my friend Matthew--before that we were in Cork, Ireland for about 20 hours (more on that visit later); before that we were in Paris for about 52 hours (more later on that visit as well); and before that he was hanging out in the luxurious Belgian penthouse apartment he shares with his partner, Leo, while I was spending my time getting to and from first the Detroit Airport and then Aeroport Roissy-Charle de Gaulle.

At the risk of sounding, uh, neither French nor francophilic, I must say that while I find Paris lovely and charming, I still prefer other cities to it, among them London and Amsterdam. I am glad to be in Brussels, partly because it is where Matthew lives and partly because it is not Paris.

Last night at dinner Matthew, Leo and I discussed the fact that the next day would be Thanksgiving. Matthew, who is British, spent a couple of years in Arizona (this is where I met him) and occasionally (OK, frequently) encountered people who were remarkably ignorant about the world at large and not always very tolerant or even interested when it came to other cultures, so he is sensitive to American arrogance and ethnocentrism. I said I planned to have a lovely Thanksgiving, even though neither Leo nor Matt expressed the slightest willlingness to cook a turkey for me. "It won't be Thanksgiving here, Holly," Matt gently explained to me, "because we don't celebrate Thanksgiving."

"But it's still Thanksgiving, even if no one observes it," I said, "just like it's still Chinese New Year whenever it's Chinese New Year [those wacky lunar calendars!] and it's still Boxing Day on December 26, even if no one observes it, and it's still your birthday even if no one remembers or even knew in the first place." (I am sensitive to the importance of observing dates that mean something to you even if the place you're living in doesn't give a shit about them, having spent a couple of years in Asia, and I am also big on expanding the number of days of the calendar you find meaningful, having very much enjoyed learning to celebrate and observe the holidays of other cultures.) I could have added, it's still Veteran's Day even if my employer is not cool enough to observe the federal holiday and give me a day off, and it's still Rosh Hashanah even in a predominantly gentile country like the US. Matt was not entirely convinced by this logic, but I am still thinking with fondness and happiness of all my friends and loved ones in the US going about their preparations for Turkey Day.

This is not to say that I am the least bit regretful that I decided to get the hell out of Dodge and fly across the Atlantic for my Thanksgiving break. I like turkey, but I don't feel that missing one meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie has impoverished my life in the slightest. I vaguely recall that there is a football game on Thanksgiving, but I do my best to ignore that.

And I certainly have options available to me as I attempt to remember what I have to be thankful for, and to express that gratitude in meaningful ways.

Here are some of the things I'm grateful for.

1. My friends, especially Matthew, who is one of my oldest, dearest friends in the entire world, and who has loved me with constance and generosity, and who has forgiven me for some fairly awful things I've done to him, and who has sincerely atoned for the ways he has hurt me. He not only is my friend, but he has worked hard to include me in the larger network of his life, making sure that I know the other people close to him. I feel very, very lucky to know him.

2. My blog, and Jim, who designed it and hosts it, and everyone who reads it--that's right, I'm grateful for YOU. Can you tell that I really do love blogging? I could go on and on about all the great things it does for me, but that should probably be another entry.

3. My family. They're conservative and Mormon and we often disagree about things, but they still love me and have helped me become the person I am, and I think that counts for something.

4. The fact that if you work at it, you do get a bit wiser with age. I'm really grateful not to be as foolish and confused as I was 20 years ago.

5. Beautiful things, not just paintings and sculpture, but ingeniously crafted tables and mantlepieces. The older I get, the more I find I admire things that are not merely lovely, but useful.

6. Postcards.

7. Having a job and a source of income.

8. Belgian chocolate.

9. Belgian beer.

The last two items are among the things I plan to use in helping me celebrate. In case you didn't know, Belgian beer is among the finest in the world: exceptionally diverse, finely crafted, FREAKIN' DELICIOUS. Last night I had a bottle of something called Corsendonk: Oh, it was lovely! Spicy and complex, dark but not heavy.

OK. It's almost noon here, and I'm still sitting at Matthew's computer in my pajamas, my hair filthy from all that Parisian pollution. He had errands to run and I promised him that when he got back, my hair would be clean and I'd be ready to go out and have fun, so I better get up and get in the shower. (I am also grateful for how I look in the mirror in the bathroom in this place--the bathroom tiles, which cover most of the walls, are a gently glowing bronze, so that the light reflected off them is as flattering as light can possibly be.)

In any event, I must close, and I'll do it by wishing the whole world--not just that big hunk of land in the middle of North America--a very happy Thanksgiving.

Read more about my trip in I Went: Europe, Il Neige, Hosts and Guests, Someplace High in Paris,and Welcome Home.

Posted by Holly at 4:54 AM | Comments (0)

November 19, 2005

Bowie Would Eat These Cookies

Wayne (aka Saviour Onassis) recently lost a lot of weight on what he calls the "WWBE?" diet, or "What Would Bowie Eat?" To truly understand the rationale of the lifestyle, you need to watch Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, the movie featuring the last performance of Bowie's "leper messiah" before he retired the persona in 1973. The guy is SKINNY, and it's difficult to imagine him eating much of anything. (Saviour Onassis was kind enough to lay out the philosophy of this lifestyle on the blog we write together, Genius to Spare.)

But I bet Bowie would eat these cookies. I've been told by many, many people--Sweet Baby Jesus, among them--that these are the best cookies in the world. And as someone with a highly developed and discriminating set of dessert-loving taste buds, I can pretty much determine for myself that these cookies ROCK.

Double Chocolate Chip Cookies

½ cup butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 egg
½ tsp. vanilla
½ cup sour cream
3 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips, divided in half
1 & 3/4 cups flour
½ tsp each salt, baking powder, baking soda
½ cup coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans, if desired

Melt 1 & ½ cups chocolate chips either in double boiler or in microwave by heating on high for one minute at a time, stirring after each minute of heat until thoroughly melted. (Should take two minutes.) In separate pan or bowl, melt butter. Stir melted butter and brown sugar together thoroughly. Add egg, vanilla and sour cream. Stir in melted chocolate. Add dry ingredients. Batter will be very runny; chill at least one hour. Roll into balls, then roll balls in granulated sugar for a nice finish on the cookies. Bake on greased cookies sheets at 350 for 9-12 minutes depending on how soft or crisp you like your cookies. Cool on pan for at least five minutes before transferring to wire racks for final cooling--cookies are extremely soft when they first come out of the oven. If desired substitute white chocolate chips for some of the chocolate chips added at end. I like to use 1/2 cup mini chocolate chips, 1/2 chunk chocolate chips, and 1/2 cup white chocolate chips. 3-4 dozen cookies.

Posted by Holly at 7:37 AM | Comments (1)

November 18, 2005

Confessions Best Heard on a Dance Floor

What was it Winston Churchill said about the Soviet Union? "It is a CD, encased in a plastic box, sealed with an adhesive strip along the top, wrapped tightly in cellophane, inside a superfluous plastic bag"? OK, actually he said, "It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma," but I think the first statement does a better job of describing something profoundly and lastingly inaccessible.

Did I ever mention that I HATE excessive and extraneous packaging? What about disco--did I mention that I hate disco too? What about Madonna? Did I ever mention that I have a fierce loyalty to the Material Girl, even now that she's gone and morphed into a self-righteous religious loony and one of the worst lyricists in the world? (Whatever happened to the woman who wrote "Live to Tell," a song that can still make me weep?)

All of which is to say, there are several reasons why buying Madonna's new album, Confessions on a Dance Floor, wasn't as rewarding an experience as I had hoped.

I couldn't abide American Life, the album she released in 2003 that most people had sense enough not to buy. I couldn't even listen to it, in fact. I bought it just before a long drive, put it in my car stereo, and waited to be transported to that special happy dancing place Madonna has so often taken me to.... Instead, I found myself having to push the "skip" button before the first song was even over, because I found the lyrics unforgivably trite and stupid, and the music uninteresting. And then I hit the "skip" button before the second song was even over, because I found the lyrics unforgivably trite and stupid, and the music uninteresting. And the same went for all the other songs on the album--OK, I admit I have never listened to the entire album. I took it out of the cd player after that first time and only once tried to listen to it again, after Wayne told me how great it was, how it would grow on me.

I am pretty sure Madonna's American Life will never grow on me.

Confessions on a Dance Floor might grow on me. I didn't love it instantly, like I did Ray of Light or Like a Prayer, but I don't hate it. I admit that I put it in my car stereo and skipped through several of the first songs, but it wasn't because I couldn't stand them: no, I wanted to see if Track 8, provocatively entitled "Jump," was a Van Halen cover. Alas, it was not, although it is a decent song. (Anyone else fond of Aztec Camera's languorous cover of "Jump"? Truly inspired!) But even that disappointment didn't prevent me from remaining curious.... All I am saying, is I will give Madge a chance.

The album is on in my stereo right now, and I'm letting each song play out to its end. I find some of the lyrics appallingly stupid--as evidence, I call your attention to "I Like New York" (personally, I think that referring to yourself as a "dork" in a pop song makes you one, unequivocally and eternally)--but there's a decent dance beat, a good fast one, so even with the Abba sampling, I wouldn't call this a true disco album. I find myself wanting to get out of my chair and dance--actually, I find myself dancing in my chair, snapping my fingers and shimmying with my shoulders, bopping my head so that my hair--long and unfeathered as it might be, more the hair of an 80s headbanging chick than a 70s dancing queen--billows and waves about my head. OK, OK, dancing from the waist up isn't enough.... I've got to get up and let the rest of me in on the fun.

Yeah, the dance floor might be the right place to hear these Confessions.

p.s. The link Wayne tried to provide to Madonnalicious didn't work, so I'm providing it myself.

Posted by Holly at 12:16 AM | Comments (9)

November 17, 2005

Toolbox

One year in my 30s, when I'd grown tired of keeping my hammer and my screw driver in a drawer in my desk, I asked my dad to give me a toolbox, well stocked with tools, for Christmas. Mom said I couldn't have asked for a better gift, that he hadn't had so much fun preparing for Christmas since my sibs and I were little kids. He spent hours at the hardware store, she said, choosing the best box, then finding a saw that would fit in it ("It's not long but it's all you'll ever need, unless you want to hack down a tree, and in that case, you'd be better off calling a tree service," he told me of the one he bought), picking out a good set of Allen wrenches and Phillips head screwdrivers. He even gave me a spirit level. I've used all the tools in that box, except for the saw, and I'm sure even that will come in handy someday.

He also gave me an cordless power drill. He told me that I should recharge the battery every month, that not only would it mean it would be charged up whenever I might need it, but it would also preserve the life of the drill.

I don't charge it every month, but I charge it pretty often. However, I never use it myself, though the handy man I occasionally hire to do stuff around my house is pretty glad I've got it. I admit I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid I'll drill a hole in my hand. Instead, I save up jobs requiring a power drill and then ask someone who's not afraid of it to do those jobs for me when they come to visit. Next time my parents visit, I'm thinking I'll ask my dad to install a couple of ceiling fans.

Maybe this makes me a wimpy girl, but I'm pretty competent in a lot of ways. There are a lot of things I can fix on my own. I'm just afraid of power drills.

Posted by Holly at 7:43 AM | Comments (1)

November 16, 2005

There Is No X in....

In 1994, the landscape of Iowa City was forever changed when the Java House opened at 211 ½ East Washington. Its appearance heralded the arrival of the coffee craze in the general Midwest--sure, there were probably Starbucks all over Chicago at that point, but there wasn't one in Iowa City. (In fact, there wasn't a single Starbucks in Iowa City when I left in 2001, but there's one now, I saw with disappointment, though at least it's off the main drag and not nearly as crowded as other, older, cooler places.)

Iowa City's downtown features an area known as the pedestrian mall, the ped mall for short. It runs through four blocks bounded by Washington on the north, Clinton on the west, Burlington on the south, and Linn on the east. Paved with brick, dotted with trees, well-stocked with benches both in the shade and in the sun, equipped with a fountain and a playground, it's a cool place to hang out if there's no one you want to avoid; if there's someone you don't particularly want to encounter--say, for instance, an evil ex named Adam--you are sure to find him there, sitting on a bench in the sun, hitting on some undergrad who can't understand why this 30-something guy with the crazy eyebrows (his eyebrows were his worst feature, looking as they did like small furry rodents nesting on an otherwise attractive face) is putting on this act of intense and obviously fake sincerity. The restaurants, shops and bars (mostly bars) around the ped mall occupy prime retail space, because it gets so much foot traffic.

Prior to the arrival of the Java House, the only coffee house in downtown Iowa City was a place called the Tobacco Bowl, the retail equivalent of an AA meeting or an indoor cigarette break: no need to shiver in a snowstorm between classes or put up with the boozy smell of stale beer while you get your nicotine fix--heavens no! Why not enjoy a nice espresso instead of a beer and stay warm while you're at it? You can either study the cigars in the humidor--such a variety--or sit in front of a big window facing the ped mall, watching everyone who walks by! I admit I see the appeal of all that, I just don't see the appeal of smoking. I would never hang out there, even with friends who smoked, because I hated how I smelled when I left.

But then the Java House opened and the city was transformed. The Java House was pretentious, expensive and perennially overcrowded, which didn't prevent anyone from loving it, me included. It was centrally located--just a dozen yards or so off the north entrance to the ped mall--and had a phone from which you could make free local calls (this in the days before everyone had cell phones). It had reasonably clean bathrooms clear at the back of the establishment, so you could stroll through the whole place, see if there was anyone around you wanted to talk to, use the bathroom, then go on your merry way. Everyone hung out there from time to time, sometimes for hours on end. When we had visitors from out of town, we'd drop them off at the Java House while we went to take or teach classes; we called it "adult daycare."

The Java House also served damn good coffee--still does. Every cup is individually brewed, before your very eyes, after you order it.

There was one thing I always HATED about the Java House: the t-shirts worn by its employees. These shirts had a little slogan written over the heart: "There is no X in espresso."

It drove me nuts because the kind of people who drink espresso are generally the kind of people who know how to spell it. I always felt like responding, "There is no X in ‘pretentious f*ckhead,' either," but I realized that the employees just WORE the t-shirts; they didn't create them.

On my recent visit to Iowa City, the first place I went after checking into my hotel was the Java House (the original Java House, to be specfic--there are now five in town). It had changed in that there was more seating--a good thing--and the graphics on the paper cups were busy and fussy instead of austere and elegant like they used to be, but those goddamn pretentious annoying t-shirts were just the same. Thank god the coffee was too.

Posted by Holly at 8:40 AM | Comments (2)

November 15, 2005

Hopeless Cases and Lost Causes

This is something I wrote during the summer, about a relationship I knew was doomed but still wasn't ready to abandon--I was so not ready to abandon it that I couldn't even acknowledge the real subject matter in the piece. I read it now and its intensity strikes me as strange, but then again, although there are situtions in my life I wouldn't describe as optimal, right now there's nothing I feel I should quit. Anyway, I came upon this piece and thought it might be better to post it when I don't feel all overwrought than when I do.

***

How many times do I have to say "I give up" before I believe it and mean it?

Or,

Why do I say "I give up" before I believe it and mean it?

One of my lessons in this incarnation must certainly be how to give up. I SUCK at it. We had all these lessons and lectures at church on "Enduring to the End," but what I really needed was some training in the fine art of judicious giving up, knowing when to quit, cutting my losses, calling it a day.

I knew within ten minutes of saying good-bye to my parents at the Missionary Training Center that I had made the biggest mistake of my life by going on a mission. But did I call my parents at that point and say, "Uh, yeah, Mom and Dad, I was wondering if I could catch a ride back to Arizona with you?" NO! I not only endured all freakin' nine weeks of the MTC, that "saccharin-coated hell-hole," as I had the good sense to call it at the time; I stayed on a mission for 18 and a half goddamn months, becoming more and more miserable, more and more ill, more and more damaged--but hey, I endured to the end of my mission and got a freakin' honorable release. It took me another three years to admit that I could not remain a Mormon, three years of struggle and failure and despair.

So why didn't I give up?

Because I didn't want to seem like a quitter.

That's a big reason I stayed in grad school and finished my dissertation: I didn't know how not to endure to the end.

I admit I'm happier with the PhD than the certificate of release signed by my mission president.

A therapist once told me that in the case of most marriages that end within three years, the people involved know BEFORE the wedding that it's a mistake, but it takes them three years of suffering and misery to admit it.

Why is it so hard?

Supposedly Saint Jude, who was martyred along with Saint Simon by being clubbed to death in Persia, is the patron saint of Lost Causes and Hopeless Cases. My book on patron saints states that "Because his name--Judas--is identical to that of the infamous disciple who betrayed Christ, this Saint was long neglected by the Faithful as an object of veneration. Consequently, he was available to take interest in even the most impossible, hopeless, or desperate cases."

I think he must be mine.

But who, WHO is the patron saint of cutting your bleedin' losses?

Posted by Holly at 7:48 AM | Comments (0)

November 14, 2005

My New Boyfriend

I'm totally in love with my brand new boyfriend.

OK, this guy I'm in love with isn't REALLY my boyfriend--not yet, anyway, because we've never had a conversation. Not only that, but after the events that made me fall in love with him, I ran into one of my friends, who said, "Wasn't he GREAT? All the women at my table decided we were going to marry him."

Which made me feel better, sort of: at least I'm not some overwrought, self-deluded stalker, assuming after one utterly charming performance by an utterly charming man that he and I were going to spend our entire lives together: No, I was a NORMAL and REASONABLE groupie, the kind of woman who thinks, "I really, really, really want to spend some quality time with that man, so that he can decide ON HIS OWN that we are destined to live out the rest of our lives together, in noisy, intellectually stimulating, conjugal bliss."

But it also made me feel worse because I realize just how much competition I have: the world's majority of literate straight women.

I'm talking, of course, about the INCREDIBLE Pico Iyer, who gave a lunchtime talk on Friday and a Saturday night reading at the NonfictioNow conference I recently attended in Iowa. (I am happy to report that conference organizers promised it would be held again in two years--I can't wait!) Pico claimed his talk was impromptu, but it was more coherent and eloquent than many well-revised speeches I've heard. His reading was equal parts fascinating unrehearsed reflection and well-crafted prose: he read four short pieces, including an excerpt from an essay about losing his home and everything in it to a devastating fire (the first essay from the collection The Global Soul.)

Mr. Iyer is a slender gentleman in his late 40s, of Indian descent, who speaks with a slight British accent and incredible graciousness. He is particularly well known for his travel writing and has called himself "a global village on two legs." I admit I didn't bother to introduce myself to him--I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't fawning and obvious--but I know that if I had, he would have shaken my hand and smiled at me with genuine beneficent warmth as he listened to me tell me how much I admired him and his writing.

I will admit as well that I've never read a single one of his books, a problem I intend to rectify very, very soon. But I have been a fan of his work for a good long time nonetheless. In the summer of 1988, on the final page of the June 13 issue of TIME magazine, I found a marvelously wrought essay written "In Praise of the Humble Comma," arguing that "punctuation, in fact, is a labor of love." I tore it from the magazine and have saved a copy for 17 years. This was my first introduction to Pico, and, I think, the first time I sensed how utterly captivating prose nonfiction can be: All those lovely phrases he used! The range of knowledge he could marshal in supporting and explaining his ideas! The care and refinement with which that acute sensibility probed, keenly and widely and deeply, a subject as commonplace as the comma! Nothing but a love letter had ever brought me so much pleasure in the course of one short page--though of course the essay was a love letter, not to me, but to good writing. But it felt like a love letter to me, because I love good writing myself, love to encounter it, love to hear it praised.

I now believe that essay is one reason I eventually wound up studying and teaching nonfiction. Whenever I have come across Pico's name in a magazine since then (and it has happened countless times, because he writes so well for so many publications) I read the article no matter what its topic, because I know it will be good. I can't believe I haven't bothered to buy and read all his books, but at least I have recognized the error of my ways while there's still plenty of time for correction.

For the record: I'm not a jealous lover: my adoration for Pico is not the selfish type that wants to keep the best of him for me and me alone. No, I am a generous disciple, wanting others to experience the rapturous pleasure of knowing my beloved. So LISTEN UP: If you EVER get a chance to hear this man speak, TAKE IT! I predict you'll fall as thoroughly in love as I and the other women at this conference did. Watch for his names in magazines and newspapers, and BUY HIS BOOKS! You won't be disappointed by anything, except the fact that he's not already your best friend.

Posted by Holly at 10:29 AM | Comments (0)

November 10, 2005

Greetings from Iowa

I'm currently hanging out at my second alma mater, the University of Iowa. I'm here for a very cool conference on nonfiction, called, appropriately enough, NonfictioNow. I'm having a FABULOUS time, despite the fact that the conference organizers made no arrangements for attendees to be able to use computer facilities for anything: not email, not printing out last minute revisions of papers, not blogging. I'm only able to write this entry due to the generosity of an old classmate, who, saintly, trusting woman that she is, gave me her user name and password and let me log in on her account. My god.... I am still in awe of her benevolence.

But I'm so glad I came. I've been lucky enough to meet up with many old friends, which is always wonderful. I've met new people. Then there's the fact that I get to wander around someplace I lived for eight years. I didn't really love Iowa City when I was here, especially at first; it was cold and midwestern and filled with ugly architecture. But it has gotten WAY cooler in the four years since I left, and there's almost no comparison to what it was like in 1993, when I first arrived.

One of the standard lines about Iowa City went, "Oh, it's a nice little town, but there's hardly a decent restaurant in the whole place!" But now there are quite a few shishi restaurants just downtown. And there are all kinds of cool galleries and shops. And some of the ugly buildings have been torn down and replaced with buildings that aren't quite so ugly. (Though there are still PLENTY of HIDEOUS buildings, so that I still feel I recognize the place, and don't quite wish I could move back.)

Anyway. I'll no doubt have more to say about this trip and this conference when I get back to PA, but in the meantime, I thought I'd give a shout-out to you, my vast and devoted readership, and say HI FROM IOWA.

Posted by Holly at 7:12 PM | Comments (2)

November 9, 2005

Acting Tall

Someone recently expressed surprise when told how tall I am. “Really? Five foot six? That’s all? You seem taller. Must be the way you carry yourself.”

This is something I have heard many times in my life. The fact of the matter is, I just act tall. I always have. It’s not just a question of standing up straight, although I try to maintain good posture; nor does it have much to do with trying to appear tall: yeah, I own plenty of high heels (although I wear them less and less the older I get, because I’m less and less willing to be uncomfortable), but the point of heels is to look girly and dressed-up, and being taller is just a side effect. No, acting tall is often a natural consequence of feeling like you can occupy as much space as you need. I need a lot of space, and I take it.

The flipside of taking up so much space is that I try to give everyone else as much space as they need, too. And I am a terrible judge of other people’s height. I can usually tell whether someone is shorter or taller than I am, but as far as guessing exactly how tall someone is, I tend to assume most people are about the same height I am, give or take a couple of inches. One of the administrative assistants in our office asked me to help her make a skirt; in trying to figure out how much fabric she’d need, I asked her height and was shocked to learn she was only 4'10". Of course I knew she was shorter than I am, but I figured she was, say, 5'3" or 5'4". Another friend recently mentioned the he was 6'1"; I would have guessed he was 5'9". After I’m told this, I can stand back, survey the person, and notice that there is indeed a large discrepancy in our heights--but it always feels like an optical illusion, like I should distrust this visual evidence, that it’s really another one of those puzzles where two lines exactly the same length are somehow distorted so that one merely appears longer than the other.

The thing is, when you talk to people, you make eye contact, and unless I strain my neck maintaining that contact, I figure the person is about at the same level I’m at. You could say that this means I’m oblivious to details and don’t scrutinize others carefully, or you could say I have a strong egalitarian impulse. I’m going to go with the latter interpretation, because that’s what a person who acts tall would say.

Posted by Holly at 12:16 AM | Comments (2)

November 8, 2005

Beef in Guinness

I'm not a vegetarian. I wish I were. I feel about vegetarianism the same way St. Augustine felt about celibacy when he made his famous prayer: "Oh Lord, give me chastity, but not yet." I really want to someday really want to be a vegetarian.

In the meantime, I try to limit my meat consumption to a meal or two a week. This is in sharp contract to my upbringing, where we had meat at least once every day--often at every meal. That much meat isn't good for you, and it's really expensive, and it's hard on the environment.

One easy way to limit how much meat I eat is to avoid cooking it for myself. I'll order it at restaurants, but except for a very few things I sometimes just have to have, my cooking is meat-free.

One such exception involves a recipe my friend Matthew gave me five or six years ago, for Beef in Guinness, which he, being British, found in some British cookbook. He passed it on to me because he knows I love both beef and Guinness. I also really like hearty peasant fare, and that's exactly what this dish is. I make a big batch once a year, in the fall, and either invite someone over to share it with me, or else freeze the leftovers so I can enjoy it in future weeks, or both.

Here's the recipe, in case anyone is interested.

Beef in Guinness

2 lbs lean stewing beef
two tablespoons flour
salt, freshly ground pepper, pinch of cayenne
cooking oil
2 large onions, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small can tomato puree, dissolved in 1/3 cup water
1 12-ounce bottle of Guinness
3-4 carrots, cut into chunks
a little fresh or dried thyme

Trim the meat of any fat or gristle, and cut into one- to two-inch cubes. Season the flour with salt, pepper and cayenne, and toss the meat in this mixture.

Heat two to three tablespoons oil in a large frying pan over high heat. Brown the meat on all sides. Add the onions, crushed garlic and tomato puree to the pan, and cook gently for about five minutes. Transfer the contents of the pan to a large casserole dish or crock pot, and pour some of the Guinness into the frying pan. Bring to boil and stir to dissolve the caramelized meat juices in the pan. Pour onto the meat with the remainder of the Guinness; add the carrots and thyme. Stir, taste, and add a little more salt or pepper or cayenne desires. Cover and simmer very gently until the meat is tender, about three hours. If cooked in a casserole, cook at 300 degrees. Before serving, taste and correct seasoning; if desired, scatter with fresh parsley or dill. (Also if desired, you can substitute several large eggplants, cubed, for the beef; I like to saute some eggplant and add to the mixture, just for variety, and because vegetables are good for you.) Serve with colcannon.

Colcannon

four or five large potatoes
half a head of cabbage
one large onion
one clove garlic

Boil vegetables together until tender; mash with salt and pepper. If prepared ahead of time, or if you have used leftover potatoes or cabbage (which work perfectly well), put into casserole dish and cook at 350 degrees until heated through, 30-45 minutes, before serving.

Posted by Holly at 8:13 AM | Comments (1)

November 7, 2005

I Don't Take Candy from Children, But I Also Don't Hand it Out

I confess: I've never been visited by the spirit of the Great Pumpkin. I've written here and here about various Halloween costumes I've worn, but I admit that dressing up is the only part of the holiday I care for. The whole ghosts and goblins thing doesn't appeal to me: I have never enjoyed being frightened out of my wits, and I don't see the entertainment value of skeletons, corpses and ugly witches. Nor can I see the point in wasting a perfectly good pumpkin by carving a design in it, inserting a lit candle, and putting it outside where it will attract bugs and fractious adolescent boys.

Then there's the whole trick-or-treat business. I have a highly developed, demanding and discriminating sweet tooth, and most of the candy handed out on Halloween does not meet my standards. With the possible exception of the Easter candy Peeps, I don't think a more disgusting candy exists than that vile candy corn. I remember seeing someone once who had painted her nails to resemble that candy corn; that's what the candy reminds me of now--it tastes like I imagine sweetened nail clippings would. I do not particularly care for peanuts or peanut butter, so I am not fond of Snickers or Reese's Cups, and I HATE peanut M&M's. I like hard candy in small and occasional doses. I can be happy eating a KitKat or plain M&M's or any flavor of Skittles, but what I really like is gourmet dark chocolate. Unfortunately, not many people hand out Godiva Truffles on Halloween.

I am sure you are saying: Holly, you are TOO OLD to go trick-or-treating--this holiday is not about what YOU like! Well, OK, but I used to go trick-or-treating, and I was often disappointed by the candy I got as a child. And even now, I have to BUY the damn candy, and I'm not going to buy candy I don't like--what if I end up with leftovers? And it's freakin' expensive to buy all that candy! I rather like the idea of being generous to other people's children, but I'm not sure doling out lollipops to anonymous wee ones is the best way to do it. I'd rather sign up to buy Christmas gifts for an underprivileged child--now there's a holiday and a practice I understand.

All of which is to say, a mere day or two before Halloween I still had not found the time or wherewithall to buy any candy or drape any part of my home in cobwebs or orange and black streamers. I was thinking about turning off the lights in the front of my house and hiding out in the back bedroom all evening so that I would not have to open my door to a steady stream of diminutive Disney princesses and Harry Potter look-alikes, when a friend said to me, "Want to see a movie Monday night so we don't have to deal with trick-or-treaters?"

What a glorious idea! We went to the 5:30 showing of Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (which I heartily recommend). The cineplex was nearly deserted, which is precisely how I like my cineplexes. Then we got dinner; then we went home. I was back in my house between 8:30 and 9 p.m. and at that point the kiddies were back home as well, sitting on their beds in their costumes, exulting over their hoards of candy plundered under threat of malfeasance from obliging adults, completely jacked up on sugar and crying because they didn't want to put on their pajamas and have their faces scrubbed free of makeup. But I didn't have to deal with any of that!

So now I know what I'm going to do every Halloween. I can't think of a better time to see a movie. As for staying home, opening my door to short strangers and handing out candy? I'd rather indulge in my own little trick, my own little treat.

Posted by Holly at 7:47 AM | Comments (0)

November 2, 2005

Paper or Plastic

I have written elsewhere about the fact that I can become emotionally attached to sturdy plastic bags from cool places like the British Library, but I have not yet said much about my efforts to prevent people from putting any and everything I purchase into those flimsy plastic bags that have THANK YOU stamped on them multiple times, and get thanklessly and endlessly caught in the branches of trees. "I don't need another bag; I'll just put that spool of thread in my backpack," I say to the cashier, which seems to me a perfectly reasonable decision on my part, but sometimes they look at me as if I had revealed myself as a marsupial intent on transporting my purchases in a pouch designed to accommodate my very young offspring.

I also ask the person bagging my groceries to refrain from giving me any bags that contain only one thing. I really do hate that, when they put the eggs in a bag by themselves. And when I object, they get all defensive: "But I don't want your eggs to get smashed!" they say.

"The eggs won't get smashed if all you put on top of them is three bananas and a loaf of bread," I say. I also bring in these capacious fishnet shopping bags my mother gave me years ago; when asked "Paper or plastic?" I say, "Uh, actually, I'd like you to get as many of my groceries as you can in these," and some people actually ROLL THEIR EYES at me, like there's something objectionable about passing up an opportunity to consume and discard cheap plastic goods.

Excessive and instantly disposable packaging: one of the great evils of the world. It wastes resources and clogs already overflowing landfills. I'm waging a personal war against it, but I don't see much success.

Posted by Holly at 5:16 AM | Comments (2)

November 1, 2005

Phone Chips and Salsa

Several weeks ago, Wayne and I had phone chips and salsa, which is a lot like phone sex except with chips and salsa in place of the sex. (That's probably pretty self-evident, but I wanted to make sure everyone understood.)

That is only one of the many activities we have shared over the phone. We have also scrubbed our bathtubs together. We have gone for walks. We have plotted and taken fiendish but heartily deserved revenge against Adam, my evilest of exes. We have washed dishes. We have done laundry. We have googled our celebrity crushes and directed each other to websites featuring photos of obscure foreign actors without their shirts.

In fact, I got a cell phone a mere 14 months ago largely to facilitate talking to Wayne. He was very upset about a $400.00 phone bill he got, especially since most of the charges involved phone calls to or from me. So I got the same carrier he had and we both signed up for free mobile-to-mobile minutes, with the upshot that I began spending 25 to 30 hours a month talking to Wayne on the phone, and about two and a half hours put together talking to everyone else I knew.

That kept up for a good long while until we had a falling out over religion. I may discuss our six-month estrangement and reconciliation at some point in a future post, but let me say now that within days of reestablishing contact all the animosity disappeared and it was like we'd never quarreled, except that it took us a while to work back up to talking on the phone for so long that we'd grow peckish and have to rummage through our various cupboards for snacks.

After we both closed up the bag of chips and put the salsa back in the fridge on that Saturday several weeks back, we decided we needed some internet action, so we blog surfed by hitting the "next blog" button on blogger. We came across a site run by some guy in Vienna dedicated to enormous breasts. He provided plenty of photos of breasts, including a substantial pair on a naked blonde woman who sits on a fireplace mantle, drinking a beer and looking bored while some guy eats her out. I found that in rather bad taste, but what upset Wayne was a photo further down the page of Christian Bale from American Psycho, accompanied by a lavish and loving paean to the character CB portrays: the guy went on and on about how that was his favorite movie and how he really identified with that character--the one who tortures, rapes and murders women.

The thing is, earlier in the conversation, while he was cleaning his kitchen I was tromping through this small wooded area near my house, Wayne had said to me, "So, I read that article you linked on your blog, the one about ‘Die, Women, Die!' and it really kind of bugged me. I couldn't trust it."

"Why?" I asked.

"The tone bugged me. There was this cheap shot about Desperate Housewives, and it makes it sound like the show is just about 40-something T&A. But it's not--it's so much more than that. So the whole article just seemed to have--"

"A feminist agenda?" I interrupted.

"Exactly," he said, "and I don't trust agendas."

"Everyone has an agenda," I said. "It's just that they can be more or less explicit, more or less offensive, more or less progressive."

"Well, I just don't see why someone needs to prove their agenda by knocking Desperate Housewives. It's a great show."

(Unfortunately I couldn't comment on that particular issue at that point, as I had never seen an episode of DH. I have now seen eight episodes, and have been surprised at how much I like it--but more on that later.)

"I think it's a good point and a good article," I said. "There are so many shows that feature violence against women. The article makes the point that not only are these shows most popular among males age 18-34, but these shows are about the only television programming that demographic group really likes to watch."

"But I'm a male between the ages of 18-34," he began.

"Yes, but you're not a straight one," I said.

"But I watch Desperate Housewives," he said.

"Do you watch CSI?" I asked.

"Of course not. I don't watch most of the crap on television. And if you started examining the crap on television, you'd see that almost all of it insults someone."

"But that's not necessarily the same thing as trying to titillate someone by depicting the violent rape, torture and murder of women," I said. "Why should that kind of suffering be entertainment? Why would anyone enjoy watching that?"

(I admit I honestly don't understand that, but then, I have never been able to see anything funny about someone slipping on a banana peel. Even as a small child, I never felt able to laugh because I was too busy thinking about how painful it would be to fall down like that.)

And then the conversation took a turn and we talked about other things for over an hour until we both read the entry about how great that American Psycho character is. "This is obscenely offensive," Wayne said, "because that character is sick!"

So I said, "Do you get it now? Do you see why it's repugnant and abhorrent to have someone identify positively with a character who gets off on brutalizing, degrading and killing women? Do you see why it's not cool to make women convenient objects to be destroyed and discarded as part of a man's exploration of good and evil? Do you see why this sickens and distresses women who come across it?"

And he did--thank goddess.

I haven't unleashed many feminist rants on my blog lately (OK, I haven't unleashed them on the blog, but there have been several in real life), but it seems about time for one. I was going to write something about this Amnesty International Report on Japan's refusal to apologize for enslaving thousand of women as sex slaves, claiming that rape wasn't a war crime until 1949; and about a museum in Japan documenting the lives and suffering of comfort women, but I found an entry on the topic already posted on a blog I really like, I Blame the Patriarchy. So I'll work on drafting some of the ideas I've been mulling over lately, and in the meantime, you can enjoy the insights of another spinster aunt.

Posted by Holly at 12:16 AM | Comments (2)