Tus ocho cosas

Mi amigo Miguel me invito a jugar un juego.

Las reglas: cada participante escribe una lista de ocho cosas que revelen algo de sí mismo y las publica en su blog, después de lo cual selecciona a ocho personas a las que invita a hacer lo mismo.

Ahí van mis ocho “cosas”:

El lunes 17 de Julio del 2006 escribí una lista de precisamente ocho cosas (!) que me irritan de mi. La ofrezco como primera cosa, pero sigo adelante con otras siete porque hay algo de ligeramente deshonesto en reciclar una lista, aunque sea propia.

Segunda cosa: soy agnóstica. Frente a cualquier fenómeno no explicado por la ciencia, mi respuesta es “no sé si creo”. Esto no quiere decir que no creo en nada, sino que creo que cualquier cosa es posible. No saber si creo no es una puerta cerrada – es una puerta abierta; abierta, pero cautelosa.

Tercera: creo que la vida es sencilla, y sus secretos están a simple vista.

Cuarta: No dejan de fascinarme los efectos del paso del tiempo.

Quinta: Creo que en la lucha del bien contra el mal, gana siempre el bien.

Sexta: Sé donde está el centro de la Tierra. No es un lugar fijo: se mueve, como el océano y platos teutónicos; y se encuentra debajo de las plantas de los pies de mi marido.

Séptima: Hace casi diez años que dejé México, y desde entonces no he podido encontrar nada que me quite el antojo cotidiano de una paleta helada de tamarindo con Miguelito.

Octava: Creo que Miguel y yo tenemos algo pendiente, que tal vez esté contenido en esta lista, o en una o varias de sus ocho personas.

Ya veremos.

Me dice Miguel que puedo invitar a este juego a las ocho personas que yo quiera.

Para honrar la naturaleza viral de este ejercicio, invito a dos personas nuevas: A Luca, quien hará una lista de ocho cosas en no menos de ocho semanas; y a Isabel, quien espero que escriba un poema de ocho estrofas, o que por lo menos, si se rehúsa al ejercicio, piense en mi ocho veces.

Para honrar a la bella geometría circular de la naturaleza, re-invito a las siguientes personas, aunque no las conozco.

Queridos Monsieur David, Viviana, Ben, Paxton y Tessitore Di Sogno: A partir de este momento las reglas del juego han cambiado ligeramente. Están ustedes por convertirse, gracias a estas ocho cosas, en íntimos extraños (les suena?). No les pido una lista adicional de ocho cosas – les pido algún comentario de por lo menos ocho palabras sobre esta página.

Miguel - la octava persona es cierto Alias Cane que nos debe otra lista de ocho cosas en su blog.

I know what I'm doing this summer

All the shows I have admitted to watching on TV have long since reached their seasonal conclusion.

Alas, I am televisionless.

No matter. I have a lot to do (besides really miss Tim Sale’s incredible canvases and sketches seen when Isaac paints the future in the show Heroes):

- Take advantage of the fact that it gets dark late by going for a hike every evening after dinner.
- Read. I’m behind on my reading, and have a long list of books I want to get to, so I intend to catch up.
- Sometimes, I’ll grill dinner instead of cooking it inside. (Who am I kidding? I’ve never grilled.) Sometimes, I’ll persuade Luca to grill dinner. (That’s better.)
- I’ll stay on top of the magazines I still subscribe to.
- I’ll catch up on my sleep (which lately I seem to really need.)

I’ll report back on the success or failure of these activities and welcome any really good book, movie, grilling or napping suggestions. Just send them over before September.

Be specific

My in laws, whom I love, came to visit us from Italy and stayed at our house for a month. On the rushed, logistically complex, bittersweet morning of their departure, they piled their suitcases and their selves into the car and I walked out, closing the door behind me. In a sudden frantic flash, we realized that we did not have the keys, not to the car, not to the house. There we were, with barely enough time to get to the airport, and we were locked out.

If “locked out” doesn’t have a ring of finality to it, a ring of fatality to it, let me try again: Locked. Out.

After a minute of full-fledged panic we happened to find a spare car key and Luca dashed them to the airport while I remained behind trying to determine the best way to deal with the tragicomic (well, tragic now, comical some day far, far into the future) situation I found myself in (or rather, out.)

I won’t provide brain-numbing detail. I’ll just say that while I waited for a locksmith, I remained outside for almost four hours, with no means of transport, no cell phone or blackberry coverage, no food, no heat, no coat, no water and no bathroom.

In my frustrated desperation and fury I thought about the irony of feeling so trapped - trapped outdoors rather than within an enclosed space. I thought about how so very badly I had yearned to have the house back all to myself and now, in the first hours of having this privilege finally arrive, have it revoked so cruelly, mine, and yet remaining just beyond my grasp.

We should be very specific when we wish for something.

Don't listen to me

Whenever friends tell me they are getting married, the first word out of my mouth (sometimes after “congratulations”) is “elope!” I am of the belief that people spend too much money and emotional effort in weddings – when they should be putting all of it into anything that lasts longer than a day.

When Luca and I got married we had nine people present (including the two of us.) Even before then I begged him not to bother giving me a formal engagement ring. Our wedding day was simple: we tied the knot in our living room and then went to lunch at a lovely place with a wide ocean view. I needed nothing else.

Having said this, this Sunday I attended the wedding of my good friends David and Emma, and it was everything a wedding is supposed to be. They invited 70 of their closest family and friends and got married in what I’d describe as an outdoor museum in Sonoma called Cornerstone. It was a love filled, heartfelt, admirably organized (although never over-choreographed) affair.

The first part was the ceremony, held in a grassy garden with vineyards as backdrop. From where I was sitting I could see Emma’s hair and veil but not her face. I could see David’s though, and he was so joyful, earnest, and emotional I felt my heart fill. This was, in addition, the only ceremony I’ve attended that makes guests partially responsible for what they have accepted to be a part of. Call me thick, but maybe for the first time I understood the real reason behind inviting people. I carry this gift with me – this sense that, through the years, I have to do my part to make their marriage stronger, because I was there to witness their vows. (So, no winning at Scrabble, Emma!)

The second part was a brief cocktail with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. I admit I wasn’t too enthusiastic about Pimm’s (so sorry, Em), but did drink the fresh lemonade and absolutely loved the fava bean and English pea salad served on endives; the blue cheese set on green apple slices and the mini- bruschette.

Dinner was served under a large, circular tent in a garden lush with flowers (and lovely orange and green flower arrangements on each table.) If the tent-in-the-garden- surrounded-by-flowers description sounds corny to you, I can assure you it was not. It struck the right tone of celebration, romance, and joyful, festive family reunion.

As much as the food is usually the part I consider most notable (mixed green salad with grilled pears and goat cheese; wild mushroom stuffed chicken breast; olive oil poached halibut; chilled cous cous with vegetables and squash tossed in balsamic vinegar) the part I liked the most - besides the actual ceremony - was the Toasts. I saw a new side to my friends – the part that is attached to family, a history. The part that fills in the missing piece of where they came from.

Luca and I feel honored to have been part of this wedding. And, most of all, I am grateful to friends who decide to completely ignore my advice.

Do you have a secret?

I discovered this site through my sister Isabel.

They post new things all the time - I’ve been visiting for a few weeks now.

I’m so hooked.

Something Different

I don’t remember the first time I went to Puerto Vallarta. That’s how long I’ve been going there.

I used to walk barefoot on the cobblestone streets in my pajamas, swim in the open ocean, whine so I would be allowed to jump in the pool immediately after lunch (the answer was a consistent, steadfast no), listen to Guantanamera, take rides on a parachute pulled by a motorboat to see the world from a bird’s perspective, take long walks on the beach with my father or a brother or a sister or a stepmother or a friend, hold my breath under water from one end of the pool to the other, pretend to play chess, play backgammon, tan with coconut oil way before SPF, highlight my hair with beer, go dancing and eat tacos at the corner stand at 4:30 a.m. before heading back home under the light of the moon. I celebrated my birthday at the round dark wood table in that apartment at least 8 times before I turned 15. Puerto Vallarta was my default vacation spot all through high school and college.

It’s so different now. When I first started going, the Posada Vallarta was the only hotel in a long, pristine beach. Nuevo Vallarta didn’t even exist. Now there is traffic, shopping centers, a Starbucks, high-rise after high rise right on the sand and a real airport with an international wing with direct flights to Phoenix, Denver, San Francisco and who knows how many cities in Europe.

This weekend, lying on a cot under a Palapa, Salvador - the man who brought me a drink and whom I’ve known for at least 25 years - asked me what I thought of all the changes. I just looked at him and shrugged. He said sadly “I guess you can’t stop progress”.

I can’t talk about what Puerto Vallarta is like now because I have no perspective. I know it for what it used to be, and it’s definitely become something different. I guess that’s what happens to everything.

Some like it hot

The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.
Mark Twain

It's so hot. We never get these temperatures around here - maybe just five or six days a year, if that.

San Francisco is such a different place when the temperature is in the 80's. There are so many more people outside. Everyone comes out to stroll, to garden, walk their dogs, grill their dinner. They dress in pink and blue and green and orange and show skin and wear bikini tops and short shorts and flowy, strapless dresses and sandals and open their doors and windows to let the warm, dry air in.

On the beach, where you usually see everyone in hooded sweatshirts and often bundled up in blankets, even in the summer, I now see teeny bathing suits and striped towels and flip flops, as if this were LA. The heat and sun alters people's mood, including my own. In an already cheerful, laid back city, everyone seems so expansive and joyful, like we're celebrating something. Like we're all in on it.

I personally prefer cooler weather. I like gray skies and tall clouds and walking on the beach when it's just a bit nippy. Still, I have to admit this is a really lovely change of scenery. If only Mark Twain could see us now.