Surf's Up Dallas

Now there's a lot that I'll do for a good story... which I can virtually guarantee every time Jack and I get together. I can also virtually guarantee that at some point I will begin feeling like a decrepit old woman in comparison to Jack, who is not only the most social person I've ever met but possibly the most energetic. He's the kind of person who derives energy from meeting new people, whereas I enjoy it but re-energize with some cherished alone time.

Somehow we lived together for a year in relative harmony, and have been able to stay in contact for the 7 years since. In those years Jack has traveled and lived in more places than I've got fingers and toes, and is the only true nomad I know. Yesterday he told me that I'm the most stable figure in his life, which was strange for me to consider coming from my background (see the post where I pine over my elementary school pals). But I digress...

In his travels, he has taken up the practice of couch surfing with such vigor that someone should really be paying him for it. He belongs to a rather professional organization of couch surfers who have ensured that anywhere you go in the world you can find a free and hopefully friendly place to lay your head for a night or two. He's been hassling me for ages about joining, which I've always declined based on the presumption that I'd end up ax murdered by an antisocial I met on the Internet. But he finally tricked me into a wetsuit. That's right, surf's up Dallas.

I've been in Waco two weeks, and with school on the horizon I decided I'd better get a day in with Jack before things get too crazy. Luckily, he's in Dallas for a few weeks where he has yet to pay for lodging and as a result has met, per his evaluation, a disproportionate number of attractive but virginal female couch surfers. That's Texas for you. So we started at coffee, took the trolley to our sarcastic criticism of modern art sculptures, discussed mythology in the Dallas Museum of Art, talked city planning over Chipotle, saw Get Smart, and stumped 4 Whole Foods employees over the location of baking soda (we MUST make Grandma Toll House's family recipe, after all). That's the illogical yet enjoyable progression of a day with my friend.

Always laughing, me and Jack yucking it up in Dallas

Around dinner time I pulled my old Civic into the driveway of a pseudo-mansion, aka Jack's pad for the next few nights. Now granted, most couches are located in dorm rooms and ragged apartments, but in my indignation I wouldn't even agree to a night in this Taj Mahal. After all, these are strangers! But I was welcomed into Kenny and Ricardo's home with smiles, energetic conversation, and a drink by the pool (which I politely declined). Then came Anna, a talkative graduate student from Hungary. And then Pamela, a middle-aged blond with a wicked laugh, and her boyfriend Vincenzo, a polite and timid Italian. Then Linda, the petite airline auditor with frenetic speech punctuated by piercing stares of interest. There were some others, but these were the ones that would hop on the surfboard for the evening.

It was a strange experience that included boardgames, me baking cookies, many many bottles of wine, and finally my resignation to surfing a rather classy couch (okay, bed with 50,000 decorative pillows) when the thought of driving to Waco in the middle of the night became unbearable. So, what did I learn from an evening like this?

1) Holy crap, I like talking to people but these people LOVE talking to people. By the end of the evening my ability to converse with any meaning was nil, and I was the only sober surfer. I'm relatively confident they're all still talking at this moment.
2) Some people are kind and trustworthy and will open their home to an indignant stranger like myself with little hesitation. Though I don't think I'd do it, there's something I admire in that foolish trust. It's almost romantic in its naivety.
3) A lot of interesting people with varying backgrounds can laugh for hours over dice and trivia.
4) Its okay for me to not be indignant for a night.
5) I'm completely drained, where's my alone time?

I got up early, trekked the Italian marble and chandelier hall, and left one surreal world for another. And that brings me to now, where I'm still not "home" but slowly building a life in Waco. Right now would be a nice time to have that romantic, foolish trust... but I've come to accept I'm ever the skeptic and am not able to let people into my life as easily as Kenny and Ricardo and the other characters in my Dallas beach movie. It's frustrating, I'm meeting people but I'm guarded and haven't been fully myself. I feel bad about it... a lot. But it's a process and, as always happens, I will come to know these people and to let them know me.

And I won't even make them wear a wetsuit.




A classic parting shot at Chipotle, or a comment on the broken American political system... you decide. I love a company with a sense of humor.

Home Away From Home

It's been a week now. A week that can only be described as... mixed. A week that's surfaced hopes, goals, and every insecurity I'd ever buried within myself. I don't really know why I started blogging (haha, best word ever!) but there's something in telling a story that seems to calm the ups and downs of experience and focus all those moments and thoughts into something meaningful, if only for myself.

I suppose I could rack my brain to remember and chronicle all of the experiences of the past week, but instead I'll choose just one: The Little Czech Bakery inside the Shell Gasoline Station in the town of West, Texas. That's I-35 Exit 353, in case you too need a home away from home.

I won't lie, I was feeling good and down. I cherish being busy, it gives me focus and motivation to keep doing what I'm doing plus some. So when I'm not classically busy and I'm also physically isolated, it takes effort not to think my way into life 20 years from now. Not a good scene, indeed. It got so bad that by mid-afternoon I had thought myself into being the 45-year old cat lady who hasn't left her apartment in 2 years, and that is NOT me. I needed a reality check. I had to get out.

Now there was a period in my "youth" in which I was intensely interested in genealogy. I pestered my parents with questions about the "Old Country" (of which there were a few), poured over tattered black and whites of my great grandfather in his bakery, and giggled at snapshots of my father in a Christening gown. I was intrigued by the mysterious (and still argued over) origins of my last name, and loved to engage my father in stories about his Army days. An interest in our heritage is a phase I think we all go through in our journey toward self-discovery.

I only met my father's mother twice: once before I was old enough to form memories, and then again as a teenager. By that time I'd already formed an opinion about the woman my father was estranged from for 8 years, and she'd begun to deteriorate from Alzheimer's. It was, above all, an odd experience. I remember her telling me (50 times in 2 days) about her time as a "Bohemian actress." Of course my father later pulled me aside to clarify this was actually a short stint in the high school drama club. I did not, at that time, associate being Bohemian with any particular culture. For some reason I thought Bohemian was synonymous with quirky and artsy, not the people formerly known as Czechoslovakians.

But when my father began receiving unsolicited postcards in broken English from the Czech Republic, my interest in genealogy suddenly resurfaced. It went on for years, every 6 months or so an exotic picture with claims of family ties would arrive in our mailbox. My father ignored them, convinced it was a mistake or a scam, until the pictures came. Photos he recalled seeing as a young boy in Chicago, of people with no names but familiar faces, and the kicker: a military photo of his grandfather in the Spanish Civil War. Finally, he wrote back. What began was a correspondence that would end with a trip to the "Old Country" and connection to a culture I'd only recently begun to associate with.

Last year I visited my father's cousin Jiri, who goes by George if you speak English. George is an interesting character for certain... 28 years old, a pastry chef at the Four Seasons Prague, and a man with more generous energy than anyone I've ever met. He recently wrote that they're considering giving him a television cooking show there, which I actually believe having seen his smiling face presenting intricate chocolates and towering-tier cakes in Czech magazines. One of my classic memories of George was a visit to his "museum." In my great grandmother's hometown of Milin, where George's parents and sister still live, they've given him a room in the town museum which is packed to the door with antique relics and random finds. Wagon wheels, 1950's toasters, an artifact from the 1300's he found in his backyard, and on and on. That's the kind of character my second cousin is. It's kind of fantastic.

George and his Grandfather, Milin, Czech Republic

So, feeling overwhelmed and undernourished, I took a (very short) road trip to the town of West, a respite from the heat and isolation of my current Waco. When I exited to a sign that read, "Czech out our Kolaches" I felt the cloud begin to lift and my yearning for apricots and poppyseed begin to grow. What's more, I felt a yearning for connection, for meaning, for understanding in a foreign land. I don't know that anyone understood me, but the gruff woman who sold me 3 authentic kolaches and then wished me good day, reminded me of my time with George and the strange connection that ties people by blood who'd never otherwise meet.

This post has nothing to do with graduate school, or my class, or Waco, or changing nearly every aspect of my life. And I think that "nothing" is just what I need right now. Oh, and a kolache.

In the Beginning...

I'm overcome, at 1am. Sleep escapes me and is replaced by the profound hope and sadness of overthinking anything and everything... more yet to come. Oh, so much more to come.

The Art of Leaving

Well the moving fairy has tapped her wand and granted me a few extra days to collect myself in Colorado before, what will surely be, a trying road trip to Texas. I have been unsuccessful in my quest to convince my mother that I will be perfectly safe driving alone... and when I say alone I really mean without the quirky woman who gave me life and is the only person on Earth who doesn't like music (no, really). Signe suggested books on tape, in particular Hank the Cowdog, which we listened to on a lengthy car ride to Keystone as kids. It's just nostalgic enough that I may avoid becoming homicidally irritated.

The past couple of weeks have been some of the most surreal, fantastic, and emotionally mixed in memory. I've felt incredibly sad, ridiculously excited, unpredictably apathetic, and very loved. I'm finding that leaving is much more difficult than I had anticipated a few months ago during the interview process. I finished out my final days of work with a "Stale Cake and Soda Party," a tribute to my lamination obsession, weeks of reminiscing past adventures, and a 64 year old homeless alcoholic in tears. "If you're really going to Waco, hell I'm gonna miss ya' kid."



Leaving is an art: defined not only by its subject but also by the style, medium, technique, and perspective of the artist. I'm making a conscious effort to adopt gratitude as my brush stroke, infuse my paints with optimism, and compose my canvas with reverence. I want to appreciate how lucky I am to have such wonderful, funny, and loving people in my life. I want to keep far, far from my mind the reality that many of my relationships with these people will likely change. But in the words of the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you waaaaaant."

You can, however, make a plan to get schnockered on Hungarian booze with your father (at his suggestion) to mark your departure.

You can dance to "Thriller" in Converse All Stars with your detox shoe twin.

You can descend Mount Sanitas while periodically asking your fellow sure-footed warrior, "Are you sure we're on the trail?"

You can dance at 1am to gothic folk revival music with your middle school locker partner and your high school art class comrade.

You can eat expired chocolates with your pinky in the air and the giggle of epicurean adventurers in your ear.

You can quote South Park with Fitzi-La and Jong E Nong.

You can drink monkey wine and eat salmon with your zombie-loving former co-worker and a friend who begins each phone message, "Laura, Laura Loo... where are you?" (adapted from Scooby Doo theme music)

You can talk about your move to Waco and their move to Taiwan in the same conversation.

And you can throw a small, plastic bus down the stairs to the shrieks of a 17-month old who's parents call you "Crazy Aunt" and were in Mrs. McMillan's 4th grade class with you.

Turns out I can live my random life and enjoy the strange and wonderful moments that seem to punctuate it. This painting, though crafted on a canvas of uncertainty, is alive with brilliant colors and a heart full of love. My paint can spilleth over.

The Things We Carry

Stuff. I've got loads of it... and most of it (I've come to realize recently) is completely unnecessary. In undertaking the arduous task of packing all of my stuff, I've found that I own approximately 5 gajillion pens, stock 40 types of salad dressing, and have saved (in the most surprising locations- sock drawer?!) each pay stub from every job I've ever held. Now how did I acquire, or rather retain, this much pointless... let's call it what it is: crap? The only explanation I've come to is a delicate balance of invisibility and stability. Allow me to elaborate.

To retain any volume of "stuff", which I'm broadly defining as "the things we carry," one must have a certain degree of stability. For example, the majority of my clients carry all of their stuff in a single and meticulously organized pack. Actively pursuing an addiction doesn't lend itself to stability and thus the things my clients carry are few. In three years I've searched the packs of hundreds if not thousands of indigent addicts and alcoholics and have made some bizarre finds: half-eaten sausages, transcendental literature, hammer and a ski mask (yikes). But by and large my clients have been reduced to owning only the necessities: food, clothing, and some method for managing the mind (sometimes the Bible, sometimes crinkled photos of kids taken away, often 40 oz. of liquid escape).

I remember one particular incident when my coworkers and I took a client's clothes and replaced them with our stock blue flannel PJs (standard practice when putting someone on a hold). As it turns out, the embarrassment of publicly sporting jammies can be quite effective at keeping drunk clients from splitting. In any case, this client would not be deterred from his pursuit of the next drink by a silly set of flannels! Instead, he decided to "borrow" the shirt of a passed out, mentally unstable, straight-up crazy homeless man before "escaping" out the window. I became aware of his transgression when the formerly passed out came storming down the hall, tongue ablaze with garbled but obvious insults.

Alas, our escapee would not enjoy his freedom for long and was soon returned by a pair of irritated Boulder uniforms. Naturally, I pondered how to prevent the melee that would certainly ensue when I returned the shirt and the two clients reunited. As a courtesy, I decided to ask Mr. Bare Chest if he wanted to press charges for the theft of his shirt. I'll never forget it, even in his drunken state with eyes wild from whiskey, he said, "He must have needed it more than me." Perspective is a funny thing... and sometimes intelligent and caring philosophies are revealed in the most unexpected ways. It's a good reminder for me to keep my ears open, even and especially when I'm not expecting to hear anything worthwhile.

I, on the other hand, have had stable housing all of my life. It's only in those dreaded times of relocation that I've been forced to examine the necessity of the things I carry. So yesterday, in the midst of 4 hours of dreaded time, I bagged up some of the stuff I really don't need and meticulously labeled it for its trip to the local donation center. I did this a while back with all the clothing that no longer fit as a result of my weight loss. I kept having premonitions of admitting clients wearing oddly familiar shirts and jeans with the bottom cuffs worn out. Of course this would be followed by a swell of pride and gratification for "doing my part." But isn't my part better done by not consuming and accumulating this crap to begin with? Which brings me to the other part of the balance of possession: invisibility.

In keeping with the American desire to drive the bigger Hummer, own the latest mega-computer, and sport those $150 jeans that everyone is wearing these days, its easy to turn a blind eye to all the stuff we acquired before our focus turned to that fancy new dining set we're lusting over. [Sidebar: nobody actually wants a fancy new dining set, which is why its the hallmark of the "lesser" showcase on the Price is Right showcase showdown. Everyone knows you bid on the showcase with the trip to New Zealand- hello!?] I propose that in concert with stability it is that focus on the new and next which has made all I already have nearly invisible. Thus the 50 gajillion pens. Something about packing the things I carry has dropped the veil of invisibility. Suddenly I'm acutely aware of all I have, and the swell isn't pride and gratification but embarrassment and gratitude.

This is getting long and hypocritical as I sit amongst plenty which is not bagged and meticulously labeled for donation. Progress not perfection, I guess.

"An object in possession seldom retains the same charm that it had in pursuit."
–Pliny the Younger