Powerful like a fire

Have you noticed how people don’t know how to take a compliment?

Go ahead. Pick a friend. Try saying "That is a beautiful sweater!" or "that presentation was really good!" or “you look gorgeous!” she won’t let it in. She’ll brush it off. "What, this old thing?" "Oh, nonsense. That was nothing". “Oh, shut up!”

In other words: in our daily tread through life, we tend to believe criticism, but then dismiss the good.

That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

Why does this merit a blog entry?

Consider that words, thoughts, intentions are reality, and they add up. And what they add up to is our perception of who we are.

I propose that we all resolve to take compliments in. Don't shun them. Don't bat them back. Don't lessen them. Don't shake your head. Stand there and take it. And then, if you dare, share it.

What was the last fabulous, surprising, thoughtful or just plain nice thing someone said about you? Go on. Gloat.

Heaven, your way

I had long since given up on finding real, good Mexican food in the Bay Area. (Being Mexican gives me the right to be extra picky about it.) And yet here I am, humble, contrite, coming to you to announce I’ve found two places that have proved me wrong. They are both casual and un-pretentious and serve freshly made tortillas, still hot from the comal.

Mijita, inside the Ferry Building, is the first such place. My favorite thing to order there is an agua de jamaica, then ensalada de jicama y toronja with toasted pumpkin seeds sprinkled on top, and a vegetarian taco that consists of black beans, salsa, and the critical, aforementioned freshly made corn tortilla. I’ve mentioned this in a previous blog entry, but I’ll say it again: a freshly made tortilla with black beans and salsa is what I’d take on a desert island if I could only pick one thing.

The second Mexican restaurant to prove me wrong is Picante, in Berkeley. We discovered it in my Slow Food book and went there Saturday. We had sopa Azteca and tacos de rajas with just made tortillas and all I can say is I’d drive all the way to Berkeley any time.

Moving on from Mexican food, but sort of on the same subject, I also thought it would be fruitless to attempt to come close to Italian gelato. There is a place in Milan called Gelateria Marghera where they serve what I consider, after extensive field research, the best ice cream in the world. (In fact, I’m not sure if there is a heaven, but I’m sure that if there is, there is a Gelateria Marghera past the entrance on the right.)

But, what if you should find yourself close to heaven, but not quite there - say, in California - and must have really good ice cream? What do you do?

You go to Sketch, that’s what. In order to give my readers a well-rounded, thorough review, I tasted the sweet corn ice cream, the yogurt ice cream, the caramel ice cream and the chocolate ice cream (all swoon worthy) and finally settled on coffee granita. As soon as I finished it, I looked at Luca with what I hoped were soulful, irresistible eyes and we went back for another scoop: this time I picked Earl Grey ice cream. I think we might have to move to Berkeley – either that, or my friend Analisa will have to prepare the pull out bed.

Now, back to that desert island. If you could only pick one thing to eat, what would it be? Or, if you prefer, what do you think is served in heaven?

For the love of dog

This is my dog.

She’s not really my dog. She belongs to my neighbors. But they have two young children and a crazy schedule and don’t have time to take her outside.

I, on the other hand, occasionally want to jog before I go to work – or come home feeling cooped up so welcome the chance to take an eager four legged creature for a stroll.

She has a pretty good life. She’s almost never home alone, since she has four people of varying ages who love her, and on top of that two adoptive parents (us) who give her a colossal amount of treats and walk her at least four times a week.

When we pick her up, she’s so excited it’s almost impossible to leash her. She pulls with the force of a train and runs maniacally when we set her free in the field. If Luca walks up ahead of me she likes to dash from him to me and back.

It’s a fortunate arrangement: her rightful owners get to love a dog who has become a member of their family. We get to borrow a dog we only have to walk. The dog gets all of us.

The forks in my less traveled road

Brushing aside (with a dramatic sweeping motion) the dozens of ultimately unimportant mini daily battles I muddle through in a week, I present to you my overarching always-in-the-back-of-my-mind struggles:

Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing?
I’m not sure if I’m doing what I was put on Earth to do. On good days I think I must be on the right track. On not so good days I wonder how I’m supposed to even recognize the right track if it comes over, introduces itself and vigorously shakes my hand.

Incidentally, this feeling of having a greater mission isn’t an ego thing. It comes from a fundamental sense of un-religious faith, and I think it applies to everyone.

What about my parents?
As an immigrant, a part of you always wonders if you’re going to go back home, even if when you do you know home is no longer there. And I know that my primal assignment was to make my own way. But I think a lot about the (barely imaginable, practically unbearable) day my parents will no longer be able to take care of themselves.

The fact that my husband thinks a lot about the very same thing and that his parents live 5,948 miles in the opposite direction compounds the complexity of the situation. (Early on, we wrote and signed an indelible, invisible, life-binding cosmic contract that we weren’t going anywhere without the other, ever. This unfortunately excludes short business trips. Apparently, I neglected to read the small print.)

Should I have kids?
Kids change everything, and I’m so, so happy with my life just the way it is. But, a childless life, stretching far into forever? Arg. I just don’t know. And of course, in this not knowing limbo, I am running out of time.

By the way, the fact that you think your own kids are the center of your universe and that you feel they make everything worth anything doesn’t help me at all. Struggles are deeply personal. Only I know what will work for me, and as I find what that is, I won’t impose it on you.

So, what next?

I've resolved to follow my mother's advice and take it all one day at a time. And, to follow Yogi Berra’s advice: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

I'm not happy

I hate it when Luca goes away on a business trip. I also hate that I hate it. I hate it too when people say it’s good for us. How can being miserable be good for anyone?

It’s not just that Luca is my husband. It’s that he’s my companion. And, when he’s gone, I walk around unable to update him on things. Like how the hydrangea that he thought was dead is blooming. Or, how I used all the leftovers in the fridge and made a zucchini, tomato, feta cheese dish that is actually pretty delicious. I hate that I ate it alone.

I hate that in the mornings I stretch out my leg and my foot looks for his until it sticks out on the other side of the bed. I hate that I clean the house and fluff up the cushions and they stay that way, like a living room in a catalog, stiff, sterilized, because no one is here to mess things up. I hate that I get to the office an hour and a half earlier than I do when Luca is around because we don’t get delayed getting “just one more thing” done before walking out the door.

I like the way the world looks after he makes an observation. By way of example, I peek in the mirror and wonder how one night of not sleeping that well can make me look so disarrayed, and know full well that if he were here he’d say I look beautiful. How would not having someone stare at me with liquid eyes and tell me I’m beautiful be good for me? And it’s not about vanity. When we listen to a song, I only pay attention to the lyrics; he tells me what instrument I'm hearing. I hate that I don’t know if that was a bass.

I hate to say it, but this is going to be a long week.

Steal a word

I recently read an absolutely delicious book titled "The Meaning of Tingo" by Adam Jacot de Boinod. It's a collection of words from around the world. Here are some of my favorites - I just can’t believe I’ve survived so long without them.

Iktsuarpok - Inuit for "to go outside often to see if someone is coming".

Nglayap - Indonesian for "wander far from home with no particular purpose".

Mingmu - Chinese for "to die without regret".

Termangu-mangu - Indonesian for "sad and not sure what to do".

Nedovtipa - Czech for "one who finds it difficult to take a hint".

Narachastra prayoga - Sanskrit for "men who worship their own sexual organ".

Fissilig - German for "flustered to the point of incompetence."

Mukamuka - Japanese for "so angry one feels like throwing up."

Sekaseka - Zambian for "to laugh without reason".

Neko-neko - Indonesian for "one who has a creative idea which only makes things worse".

By the way, "Tingo" is Pascuense for "to take all the objects one desires from the house of a friend, one at a time, by borrowing them." I'm not sure if this would make me mukamuka; or if it would first induce a feeling of liberation, then invite me to sekaseka and finally set me free to nglayap.

Don't call it hopeless

I’m an optimist.

I mention in a recent blog entry that “I was convinced India was on the verge of a transformation of epic proportions”. After having visited, I can tell you this surpasses optimism. I was plain naïve.

The fact is, even if a few million people are getting rich, India has more than one billion inhabitants. I can’t blame anyone who calls the situation "beyond repair".

When we got back, Luca found a site that allows people on this side of the world to help.

Which is good, since all I could think as I traveled through India was, "How? How are we ever going to get out of this?" (And, "Why? Why do some people have so much while others have nothing?" but I don't expect to find an answer to the latter.)

Kiva uses the Internet to create interpersonal connections. It allows you to connect with – and loan money to – small businesses in the developing world, where 50 dollars (or less) can break the cycle and help lift someone out of poverty.

I’m hoping you can visit the site and loan money to someone whose life can change because of your intervention.

I’m also hoping that when you get paid back, you can loan it to someone else.