Bougie-Boho: Packrat Extraordinaire

Just in case you had any illusions about my supposedly carefree and rootless existence, let me disavow those rumors now: my husband and I are packrats. It's true; although we somehow managed to move our lives cross-country in nothing but a little red Hyundai two years ago, we have since then managed to saddle ourselves with an astounding amount of baggage.

It began with a whisper: I packed the bookshelves and managed to fill a dozen Boise paper boxes and 6 milk crates with just books. In this matter, we have Joshua to blame. I used to be much thriftier when it came to my reading material. Sure, I spent an ungodly amount in library fines because I'm totally irresponsible and the thought of acruing overdue fines actually works like a sedative rather than an impetus for strange breeds like me, but not even my very special 3-digit fines can compare with the decadence I've allowed myself when it comes to Borders and new books. Josh made me. Something about the smell of new books and the secret pride of watching your literary collection grow and expand... It's intoxicating and shamelessly bougeoisie.

It escalated with my wardrobe. The not-so-secret truth is this: I am absolutely and totally addicted to thrift stores. My pulse quickens when I see the blue and white half smiley face of a Goodwill sign; I know every second-hand shop within a 30 mile radius, and I can give you the best routes from one to another; I know which days of the week mark different color tags 50 percent off, and I know which stores have the best selection of which items. I am guru, yogi, connosieur, and savant of the New Orleans second-hand kingdom. I know thrift.

I have 300 gallons of clothing to prove it. Just in case you're wondering, gallons are the correct unit of measurement when it comes to thrift store clothing, and my particular collection fills ten 30 gallon trash bags. I might have the good sense to be embarrassed by my excess, but I feel a sort of willful pride when it comes to my recycled finds. The tradition began when I was young: while my classmates wandered off to J.C. Penney and Target for their back-to-school purchases, my mothers and I would troll the isles of Savers, Goodwill, Redlight, and One More Time. When we got home, I would model my selections with the price tags still stapled to the collar or waistband. The lower the price, the louder the applause.

As I grew older, my skills became more refined. I learned how to flip through racks at high speeds while also paying close attention fabric quality, cut, and pattern; I began to consider myself a vintage size 6 or 8, rather than the more modern size 2 or 3; and I became more selective: I held out for one-of-kind finds rather than seductive name-brand deals. Now, among my many finds are some favorites: a pair of wide-leg sailor pants that cinch becomingly just above the navel, a selection of empire-wasted sundresses that would make even Joni Mitchell blush with envy, vintage skirts with patterns from poodles to poppies, 80s workout wear, and most recently, a skull and crossbones T-shirt. The fact that they were all under 10 dollars and most were under five fills me with a fierce and self-righteous pride. Joshua, of course, is appalled enough for both of us. My thriftiness in all other things (namely, anything new), was somewhat misleading, and it came as a bit of a shock that someone as tight-fisted as myself could accumulate such a wealth of choices. Fortunately, his initial surprise and perhaps dismay has since faded, and he now views my addiction as a much more affordable form of retail therapy. I even pick him up an occasional button-up or polar fleece.

Our other packing hazard is borne of the same addiction. While I admire the spartan interiors of classier wives and maidens, understated elegance evades me. Sarah's home decor might well land her in classy magazines like Dwell and Better Homes, but I belong on the last page in the DOS and DON'TS. The adjectives eclectic, bohemian, and eccentric are meant to flatter those with my tastes, but don't be deceived: hodge-podge and higgeldy-piggedly work just the same. And although I love our colorfully mismatched abode, breaking down and packing up our veritable museum of thrift is quite a task. We'll be lucky to fit in a 16 foot trailer.

The Fable of My Irresponsibility, Arty Calling Cards, Butt Taps, and Francophilia

Since you asked, no. That is not that. The saga does continue, and I can't help but feel that I have, in part, brought all this trouble upon myself. With all this hippy-dippy nay saying, I forgot to mention that I am absolutely atrocious when it comes to the responsibilities of the adult world. It's hugely embarrassing, but the paperwork I've neglected - namely, changing my last name, securing my social security card, keeping track of my birth certificate, replacing my lost drivers license, and paying the bills - is now starting to rear its ugly head.

When you pair the disregard I pay to all things that verify my legal identity and the Indian consulates somewhat - er - rigid requirements, I'm afraid we are in a pickle indeed. Let's see. From where we left off...

Well, Amanda did not have my birth certificate as it turned out, but thankfully, Mom did. A scan of the very officious document now sits in my inbox. So: birth certificates, check.

I called Joshua yesterday with another concern. While I was filling out the application for the visa, I began to realize that our proof of residence might not actually be as easy as I had initially thought. Although our plans had been to go to the Chicago Travisa Outsourcing office, if I filled out the application with Louisiana as our temporary or permanent residence, the form then led me to the Houston Travisa Outsourcing office for an appointment. This, of course, set off a few warning bells. I tried calling every Travisa Outsourcing office in the country, but they were either disconnected or did not pick up.

Naturally, as soon as Joshua came home, he picked up the phone and was immediately connected to Sally from Travisa Outsourcing in Chicago. Yes, in fact, it does matter. If you are a resident of Louisiana, then you must go through the office in Houston. Residency is determined by one of three documents: a drivers' license, a state ID, or a utility bill with your name and address. Oh, you say that your wife has neither a drivers' license nor a state ID and her name is not on the utility bill because she's never wrote a check for the water and electricity she uses and enjoys every day of her life? Well, I'm afraid that India will reject her application for visa on principle.

Shit. Shit, and more shit. So there's good news and bad news: once upon a time I did have a drivers' license (and yes, I disregard the law every time I sit behind the wheel of a car), and it was a Minnesotan drivers' license. The very nice lady at Travisa Outsourcing in Chicago said that she thinks that the temporary documentation that is given to you when you're replacing a drivers' license will suffice, but she's not sure.

The next day - today - I called Kathy, operator number 64, with the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles. She was very helpful, but I think she may have been put off by my melodrama. She put the paperwork I will need to fill out to request a replacement in the mail. I fill out a sheet of paper with a carbon copy. The carbon copy is my temporary license. Kathy, I said, is there any way that we can make this a bit more official? Well, she said, we can fax a document that says you are, in fact, in the database, and you have, in fact, been in the database for quite some time. Yes, I said, but Kathy, I said, does that document have my name and address on it? Well it can if you want it to, she says. I think she's starting to suspect that I've gotten myself into serious trouble. I explain that I need to prove residency in order to secure a visa to India. She seems somewhat skeptical, but nevertheless reassures me that this fax can and will be sent.

Ok. So problem is sort of solved. We're still planning on our sojourn to Chicago. Keep your fingers crossed that my carbon copy and fax are sufficient. For now, my heart rate is permanently elevated.

In other news... Sarah was attacked by a horrid swarm of fire ants and her foot looks like the victim of some strange disease that you should only be able to contract in the depths of the Amazonian Rain Forest. We watched Mad Men while she soaked her foot and fought off the stupor of Benadryl.

I've barely packed. The house, apart from my dresser and the bookshelf, looks completely and totally lived in. We look like we could be staying for years. As I said, my heart rate is permanently elevated.

In the face of these mounting responsibilities, I set aside a good chunk of time to make my very own business cards. They're hand-made, and I think they're quite cute. I found a little art pocket book at a thrift store, and I've been cutting out the images, gluing them to construction paper, and then handwriting the title, name of artist, and my name and the address of this blog on the back. I plan to pass them out while we travel to whomever. It's actually been very nostalgic. The art book was A to Z, and it had only the most epic artists and artworks. It reminded me of all my favorites: Egon Schiele with his twisted, inky lines, Wyeth and his romantic, melancholy countryside, Eva Hesse's ethereal installations, Louise's feet, O'Keefe's flowers, Reubenstein and Cornell's shadow boxes, crazy collages... Diebenkorn, Mondrian, Rosetti, Klimt, Canova, Rodin, Bacon, and Modigliani. I spent hours cutting them out and gluing them to a rusty red construction paper. Friedrich, Toussaint, Ingres, Delacroix, and Munch. Frida, Frankenthaler, and Mucha. I love those artists. I miss sitting in Art History, watching those slides and listening to Professor Williams tell stories about artists and color and composition. I can't think of a better calling card than a little piece of their artwork :)

Went to the gym and sweat through ABT (or, Abs, Butt, and Thighs, but I think that sounds semi-pornographic. To be perfectly honest, I think we all look semi-pornographic while we're doing squat after squat and all those "butt taps."). Joe, the teacher, is positively vindictive, but I love it. I've been going for four months now, but I still can't do the whole thing. For one hour every Monday and Thursday, Joe makes us do tempo jumping jacks for five minutes, over 400 squats, 4 minutes of butt taps (holding a squat while moving your ass ever so elegantly up and down about 4 inches to a beat: pulse, pulse, pulse), hop-hop-squats for 4 minutes, 200 lunges, and then an assortment of either 400 deadlifts with weights or tortuous leg lifts while you're on all fours. For the last five minutes, we burn out on push ups. Most people just lay on their backs moaning at the ceiling. After the first four weeks, I could still barely walk for four days afterwards, but I've gotten to the point where I can now walk normally the next day. I still get sore.

Two more books to add to the list!

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffeneger - Strange and interesting. Not fabulous. Not too spooky.

A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle - VERY funny. I especially love the story about Turkish toilets and the discussion of toilet couture. I love this insight into French culture. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't the slightest interest in the French before: they've never seemed all that interested in anyone but themselves before, but for all their self-absorption and xenophobia, I can definitely appreciate a culture that revolves around food, wine, lovely landscape, and community. I'm still far from a Francophile, but I'm a bit more forgiving of their ethnocentrism :) (If you feel the need to chastise me for my shameless cultural generalizations, I ask of you: introduce me to a compassionate and tolerant - no, curious! - frenchman. Show me the error of my ways.)

Labyrinthine

It's hot outside, and I'm cranky. I spent the whole day researching travel insurance and visas, and the fine print drove me mad.

Travel insurance: to buy, or not to buy? The answer for Joshua and I and the trip forthcoming is "yes, please." With round trip plane tickets from Minneapolis to London and London to Delhi, as well as one way tickets from London to Dublin, Dublin to Seville, Alicante to London, and Delhi to Ladakh the flight insurance alone is worth it. We're covered if any of our flights are cancelled or delayed, or in cases of other personal emergencies. The insurance also covers all medical expenses up to 100,000 dollars and provides emergency transportation up to 250,000 dollars, just in case we break a leg deep in the Himalaya. If that weren't enough, we're also insured for baggage loss and/or theft up to 1,500 dollars. The price? 780 dollars for the two of us for six months. It's a lot of money, but even a spendthrift like me can appreciate the piece of mind it has to offer.

Just in case you're wondering, we bought our travel insurance through STA Travel, and although they specialize in coverage for teachers, students, or those under 25, they also offer insurance for adults. The added bonus of this coverage is that they will insure you as an independent traveler and they have no elevation stipulations. Other travel insurance agencies will require you to stay below 5,000 meters, or if you don't, to at least travel with a guide. STA Travel had no such restrictions.

Visas: a pain in the ass. Although you might think the advice here is, "don't wait until it's too late!" it could just as easily be, "time it perfectly." Are you ready? Because this is going to make your head spin: Joshua and I leave for London on June 24, but before our departure, we also have to pack up and leave New Orleans, ETD June 13. The date today is... Dear God, what is today's date? Something June. Or maybe May. Whatev. We've got less than a month. Once Joshua and I arrive in London, our tickets don't have us returning to the United States until December 21. In those six months, we plan to stay in Europe for the first three and then go to India and Nepal for the second three.

Ok. Now let's consider visas. The UK, France, and Spain are no problem. In Nepal, a 60 day travel visa is issued upon entry into the country with a minimum of paperwork, available at the airport and road borders. India? Sit down. This could take a while.

India offers a 6 Month Travel Visa for non-Indian citizens with no Indian origin. All travelers must apply and secure the Travel Visa before their arrival in India. Ok. No biggie. What else. The Travel Visa is valid 6 months from the date it's issued, not the date of arrival in the country. Hmmm. Ok. Oh! And just in case you're traveling internationally before you're arriving in India, let's say - I don't know - approximately six months prior to your estimated departure from India, make sure that you time things perfectly. You see, in order to apply and secure a Travel Visa you must send in your passport to a company called Travisa Outsourcing. They will make sure that they try to get your passport back to you within 7 to 9 business days upon their receipt of your request, but there are no guarantees.

In a nutshell: Joshua and I need to make sure that our 6 Month Travel Visa is not issued too early (before June 11th) because we'll run out of time at the end of our India trip; however, we also need to make sure that we have our passports back before we leave on June 24th...

Ok. No problem. There are five Indian consulates and partner Travisa Outsourcing offices in the U.S., we can take a quick 100 mile/ 2 hour detour to Chicago on our way home from New Orleans. What's that? You say Travisa Outsourcing only accepts Travel Visa applications from 9 AM to 11 AM Monday through Friday? We'll be there. We'll drive through the night if we have to. We'll get there before ya'll open. We'll sleep on your front doorstep. You say we have to wait to pick up our same day applications until 6 PM? Ok. We'll go to the Art Museum. We'll tramp down Miracle Mile. We'll take in the sights. Then we'll be back. We'll get the visa.

One. More. Little. Problem. No reentry within 2 months of departure, you say. Excuse me? That's right. If you leave India, you'd better be prepared to stay left for 2 whole months. However, my little sunbird, you may apply for a Permit to Reenter Within 2 Months. It is all very official, but I'm afraid India herself must decide if you are worthy of this permit and estimated processing time is... Indefinite. No worries, if you a have a copy of your travel itinerary and you have followed that itinerary exactly, the Immigration Officer at the Nepali-Indian border may let you by. If not...

For now, our solution is to secure our birth certificates, go get passport photos at Walgreens (10 - 15), make copies of our marriage license (some places in India won't allow us to share a room otherwise), and fill out the application for a 6 Month Travel Visa on the Travisa Outsourcing website. (Also note that you must know your entry date into India, but sources are divided as to whether or not you should buy your tickets before you apply for a visa. One site says that you should not buy a plane ticket because you might not get a visa, and another site says you should buy a ticket because you will not be issued a visa if you do not have an onward travel ticket. And? And you have to have the name of a reference in India? Don't know anyone in India? That's ok. Just list the name and address of your tour. No tour? Alright. What about the hotel where you'll be staying? You're planning on camping, you say? Hmmm... Do they have a name and address?) Once we've filled out the application for the travel visa, we can make an appointment to apply for the visa in person on June 14 (but only from 9 AM to 11 AM). Next, fill out a Permit to Reenter Within 2 Months. When we get to Travisa Outsourcing, submit both applications but prioritize the travel visa. Ask that the Permit to Reenter Within 2 Months is sent to our mailing address where it can then be forwarded to our family in England.

Sound confusing? Don't worry, I made it much more confusing before I realized that our parents have copies of our birth certificates. Otherwise, we were going to have to send off a formal request with a money order to Alamosa and St. Paul to get the rogue certified documents and then hope they arrived before we left on June 13th. There may have also been a few Indian Embassy calls - or should I say call-waiting - but it was all in good fun. Now, the fam is scanning copies of our birth certificates as we speak, and we'll be able to print them off an e-mail attachment tomorrow. Phew!

My Last Two Years In Books: Or, The Reading Adventures of a Philistine

Twilight by Stephanie Meyers

New Moon by Stephanie Meyers

Eclipse by Stephanie Meyers

Breaking Dawn by Stephanie Meyers

It’s actually fitting that the Twilight series is my first entry. I read the series in its entirety in November, 2008. It was my first semester of teaching, and I was completely and totally miserable. I began to find ways to cope.

Joshua and I joined the New Orleans Athletic Club (NOAC), the second oldest gym in the country. Here, we ellipticalled and stairmastered to our hearts’ content among tall fluted columns, crystal chandeliers, and on parquet floors. There was even a library and a pool in traditional Roman Thermae form. But, working out was nothing new; I just took to it with a renewed vigor, burning something like 700 calories in 45 minutes on the elliptical.

While on the elliptical, I discovered Rachael Ray, whom I love unabashedly. Her woefully carniverous recipees (rich in EVOO! Or extra-virgin-olive-oil for those who are Ms. Ray novices) were my second coping mechanism, and I think I made Chicken Cacciatore once a week for months.

One night, I cracked open a book from our unused library at school and began reading. I’ve always loved reading, but I had put that passion on the shelf in college. Who wants to read after homework? But now, I began burning through the pages. I’ve read 62 books since that November.

About Twilight: I’ll admit it. I loved it. It’s overwrought and self-absorbed in the a way that only adolescents can get away with, but it’s epic. I love how strange and unexpected it is: a Mormon author writing about a teenage vampire romance? I thoroughly lost myself in the fantasy of glittery, non-human eating vampires in Forks, Washington. It was around this time that I began missing the Pacific Northwest. Bad.

Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman

Trying to recreate the totally absorbing qualities of Twilight’s vampire fantasy, I picked up Alice Hoffman. I loved the feel good movie, Practical Magic, when I was in high school, and I hoped that the novel would provide the same sort of escapism.

I’m not very good at remembering the details of books once I’ve read them, but I do remember overall imagery, and Hoffman is a master at that. One excerpt in particular talks about lemons, and I can just see the waxy yellow. She excels at metaphor and it’s in her comparisons that everyday people and objects are given their magical appeal. I’m never sure if her story is metaphor or magic, and I love how she blurs the line.

Camden Summer by LaVyrle Spencer

This is my trashy romance with a literary twist. LaVyrle may have made a fortune with her prolific genre writing, but as far as I’m concerned, she earned it. Her vocabulary is nothing to sniff at, and she’s even willing to write about ugly people. (Warning: some of her books suck; namely, November something, and another on this list. I really liked Small Town Girl, though.)

Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris

Living Dead in Dallas by Charlaine Harris

Club Dead by Charlaine Harris

Dead to the World by Charlaine Harris

Dead as a Doornail by Charlaine Harris

Definitely Dead by Charlaine Harris

Alltogether Dead by Charlaine Harris

Sookie Stackhouse, I love you! Once again, I ordered these books because of my new vampire kick, and I was not disappointed. I would also like to state (even though I’m aware that it is totally pointless) that I found them first. Twilight and Sookie Stackhouse. I began reading them before I even knew that the movies/TV show were about to come out. Same with Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I am not a follower. I am THE LEADER.

Books one and two are a little slow going, but I really got into the shape-shifter, mind reader world by book three. In fact, I don’t really like the vampires at all any more. I think the shape-shifters, werewolves, and mind readers are so much cooler. The books even gave me my first sense of nostalgia for Louisiana, which is super hard to do when you consider how much I actually dislike living here.

Marked by P.C. And Kristin Cast

Betrayed by P.C. And Kristin Cast

Chosen by P.C. And Kristin Cast

Untamed by P.C. And Kristin Cast

Hunted by P.C. And Kristin Cast

I never said it would be pretty. When I revealed my penchant for adolescent fiction and romance to a coworker at school, he likened my reading to watching porn. I still haven’t forgiven him. Mean old man.

The House of Night Series - as you may have guessed - are another foray into the world of adolescent vampires, and you know what? I like it. So there. Zoey’s special powers and boy troubles are thoroughly absorbing.

Lucky by Alice Sebold

Sebold’s well-written memoir about when she was raped in college is so horrifying that you can’t look away. I read it in a day.

Made in the USA by Billie Letts

A complete and utter disappointment. I love Honk and Holler Opening Soon and Where the Heart Is, but this one sucked. I thought it might be her first, but actually it’s her latest. Not lookin’ good.

The Host by Stephanie Meyer

Not the hoped continuation of Twilight, but better than expected. The Host is aimed at an adult audience, and once again, Ms. Meyer creates a fascinating fantasy world. I’m also a sucker for end-of-the-world type stuff. Don’t know why.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares

The Second Summer of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares

Girls in Pants by Ann Brashares

Forever in Blue by Ann Brashares

If you’re making fun of me, go ahead. Once I wrapped my head around being a blogger, I started to reveal all sorts of embarrassing secrets; next, I’ll be confessing that I like country music. Whoops.

I love traveling. I love friendship stories, and I like adolescent fiction. Is this really so hard to believe? (If you're concerned about my emotional maturity, don't worry. I'm worried, too.)

Bitter Sweet by LaVyrle Spencer

Abysmal.

The Girl She Used to Be by David Cristofano

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I don’t read books by men. My attitude towards reading is this: total hedonism. I never seek out edifying entertainment. The really good stuff is stuff that’s both fun and edifying, but I’ll take fun over edification any day of the week. I am teaching kids from the project, after all.

Years by LaVyrle Spencer

Meh. I sort of goes on and on. It also sucks to read about schools a hundred years ago when your students are telling you to go fuck yourself every ten minutes.

The Tenth Gift by Jane Johnson

This is the first book I read while Josh and I were in Greece. I finished it in our hostel room in Athens while we were recovering from jetlag. I loved the Moroccan setting and the mystery.

The Utlimate High by Goran Kropp

Big. Strong. Cheeky. Bull! Oddly enough, this phrase actually doesn’t come from the book in question, but from the little Aborigine boy in Australia, the musical; however, Goran Kropp took Big Strong Cheeky Bull into a whole new arena. This stalwart Swede biked from his hometown in Sweden to the piedmont of the Himalayas. Once he got there, he packed everything he had brought onto his back and climbed Mt. Everest, without oxygen - twice. When he was done, he biked back again. I know what you’re thinking: holy fuck.

So, when Joshua and I were climbing up the not inconsiderable slopes of Greece, we would drop into our lowest gear, shout, “Big Strong Cheeky Bull!”, and try to harness Kropp’s implacable will.

Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

EPIC ROMANCE. Gabaldon is actually a great writer, and I love Jamie and Clare’s relationship.

The Blood of Flowers by Anita Amirrezvani

An interesting look at women’s lives in Iran a hundred years ago. The main character gains control of her life through weaving.

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

Fun story about animals and the circus.

The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold

I read this whole book on one ferry ride. Whether she’s writing about heaven or the suburbs, Sebold has a way of ferreting out the truth. This is one of the best books I’ve ever read. READ IT.

Sloppy Firsts by Megan McCafferty

Second Helpings by Megan McCafferty

Perfect Fifths by Megan McCafferty

I was bored by book two, so I skipped to book five. She ends up with the right man, just in case you were wondering.

Dark Lover by J.R. Ward

Absolute crap.

City of Bones by Cassandra Clare

Perfectly dreadful.

Dead and Gone by Charlaine Harris

Sookie breaks my streak of horrible novels.

Julie and Julia by Julie Powell

Julie is my blogging role model, and I love her crass sense of humor. I found the section on aspics particularly humorous.

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Ms. Kingsolver. I will never, ever cross her. That being said, the book is about a boy, and I was bored. Frida makes a guest appearance, but where are the women? Her writing, of course, did not disappoint, and I worship every last one of her knuckles, but I didn’t love it as much as her others.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Ann Barrows

This story makes me want to be part of a book club. Interesting story about an island I never knew existed.

Voyager by Diana Gabaldon

SHE LEAVES HIM?!!! The whole book is about how Jamie and Clare are separated and grow old without each other! It’s awful!

The Memory Keeper’s Daughter by Kim Edwards

Meh. Definitely a better story and better written than most of the other books on my list, but as such, I judge it on a higher level, and it falls short. It’s just another bestseller paperback with the usual unusual premise.

Sea Glass by Anita Shrieve

Apart from the end - which was totally unexpected and uncalled for - I loved this book. I’m fascinated by the Depression Era and stories of thriftiness, and I loved the old wind blown house on the beach.

Peony in Love by Lisa See

Her feet are bound, she can’t see boys, she sees an opera, she “falls in love,” and then she starves herself. Ugh.

The Way Life Should Be by Christina Baker Kline

Well written chic lit. About a girl who moves to Maine and cooks; what’s not to like?

Love Walked In by Maria de los Santos

Another well written piece of chic lit. Unfortunately, I’m totally silver-screen illiterate (due to the fact that I’m absolutely bored to tears by old movies) and missed out on most of the allusions.

Without Reservations by Alice Steinbach

A perfectly fine travel memoir.

Oh My Stars by Lorna Landvik

Another Depression Era novel. I really liked the main character, and even though the title is thoroughly embarrassing, I enjoyed it.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

I was attracted to the title for obvious reasons, and thankfully, the entire mystery (trilogy!) is just as fun.

The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coehlo

Another book written by a boy. I know Coehlo is supposed to be amazing, but I thought it was so-so. It was an interesting premise, but I never really felt attached to any of the characters.

The Virgin Blue by Tracy Chevalier

This book has been sitting on my mother’s bookshelf for years. Finally, she was about to through it away, and I took the plunge. The problem is, it just looks to literary for me. I mean, a whole book inspired by a painting? It was actually very good. Although I wasn’t a huge fan of the ancestral story line, I really enjoyed the woman’s story of moving to France and getting to know her town and her self.

The Probable Future by Alice Hoffman

I have a feeling Hoffman’s writing all sort of feels the same, because The Probable Future was pretty indistinguishable from Practical Magic. That being said, she had lovely watery metaphors, and more of the same in this case isn’t half bad.

Into the Woods by Tana French

In the same vein as Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I liked the two detective characters in this book even better than Larsson’s, but the mystery had an unsatisfactory solution (or lack of).

Patty Jane’s House of Curl by Lorna Landvik

I’m cringing just thinking about it.

Falling Angels by Tracy Chevalier

Not as good as The Virgin Blue.

Sweet Water by Christina Baker Kline

I liked this book. It’s not too adventurous in its undertaking, but it’s enough. A young woman moves into an old house in Tennessee and makes art. I love stories about home renovations. (Yup. I like HGTV, too.)

Girl with the Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

Almost as good as The Virgin Blue.

Dancing with Cuba by Alma Guillermopieto

Guillermopieto has a great last name and a bit of skill, but the combination of her depression and Cuba’s unsuccessful sugar harvest is just a bit too… Well, depressing. And enough of the capitalist guilt. God, if renouncing capitalism means that you have to mold yourself into a revolutionary and spout communist propaganda all the time, count me out. I prefer the more vanilla socialism. Yes. I can have my cake and eat it too.

The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson

I swear I discovered this series before I even heard of the movie coming out.

Pick Up Your Poop

Dog parks are a curious subculture, and a discussion of proper dog park etiquette is a worthy one. Although their gated fields may seem a lawless haven of unbridled humping and pooping, social engagement in one of these meadows is as careful a dance as any. A list of do’s and don’ts for the dog park virgin:

DO pick up your dog’s shit. Leaving a stinking pile to the elements is a social faux paw akin to farting loudly in public and not saying, “excuse me.”

DO engage in small talk. If your knowledge of breeds, behavior, and disposition is lacking, tell cute stories about your dog. Playing fetch with your dog is a polite alternative, but if your dog is adverse to such banal enterprise, you’re S.O.L.

DO use the plural pronoun, we, when unsure of another dog owner’s advances. It’s polite to let others down gently, and letting them know that you’re off the doggy mamma market with subtle word choice is tres bon.

DON’T comment upon dogs’ obsession with genitals. Yes, dogs lick each other who – whos and whatsits. Yes, dogs like nothing better than a good crotch sniff, and yes, your dog may even get peed on while trying to smell another dog’s giblets, but verbal acknowledgement of this behavior is just in poor form.

DON’T allow your dog to hump other dogs at will. A playful hip thrust is all in good fun, but relentless advances and promiscuity is just as tacky in the dog park as it is in the bar.

DON’T let Bruno eat Lassie’s feces. We all know that dogs love the digested deposits of others, but we’d prefer to pretend otherwise.

DON’T bring your dog to the park if she has a tendency to rip the throats of other dogs. Deft dog killers are neither appreciated nor wanted.

While the social chutes and ladders of the dog park may sound intimidating, your dog’s slobbery grin may all be worth it, and in a city where grass and open space is a hot commodity, a few awkward encounters seem a fair price.

Mixed Bag Part II: Sincerely, New Orleans

Race

I grew up in Mora, Minnesota where the population is 3,000 people and pretty much everyone is white. My half Jewish family was about as diverse as it got (and they didn’t even live there). Even though I eventually left and spent my high school years in the suburbs of the Twin Cities, I can count on one hand the number of students of color with whom I interacted.

College was more of the same; there were hardly more than a handful of students of color to begin with, and our paths rarely crossed. I volunteered with the Tacoma Community House and worked with many Latin American immigrants and a couple North African refugees, but other than that, my time before New Orleans was decidedly diversity-poor.

When I decided to teach in New Orleans, I knew that many - if not the majority - of my students would be African American. As a educated and progressive individual, I was concerned about my interactions with my students and their families. How could I express my desire to help without suggesting my way was better than theirs? How would I communicate that I believe that my student’s poor test scores are the results of limited opportunities and poor education, rather than the color of their skin? And, I admit, how would I convince them that I’m not racist?

I’ve fucked up more times than I can count. For starters, I never even considered that fact that in New Orleans, African Americans are the majority - not the minority - and as a result, many of the things I thought we would be dealing with weren’t big issues at all. I thought of my students as oppressed, but when I arrived, it became unclear who was the oppressor. For many of my students, there is a vague sense that they’ve been kept down by the white man, but I’d say most of them hardly know a single white man, let alone interact with one on a daily basis. I foolishly thought that, as an oppressed demographic, my students would be unified in that age-old need to band together and overcome. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Turns out, New Orleans has more murders per capita than anywhere else in the United States, and most of those murders are African Americans killing African Americans, and if that weren’t enough, the whole city is divided by projects, wards, and “cliques” (read: gangs) that hate each other.

And then my most serious miscalculation of all: I thought that my motives to teach - namely, wanting to help, wanting to share love - would be met by appreciation. I understand now, but for the first year, I was flummoxed. I can’t remember how many times I asked, “how can it be that I work so hard and put so much good and love out into the world, and all that I receive in return is a huge pile of shit?” and, “why do people hate me so much for trying to help?” For me, the equation was simple: good inputs equal good outputs. Everyone wins.

Things I did wrong: 1) I sat by and ate lunch with my white teacher friends every day. This is not to say that I did not interact with the other staff members, but mostly, I stayed where I felt safest and most accepted. 2) I got into arguments with veteran teachers and staff members over schedules and management before I had really even taught. 3) I thought I knew how to run the school better than my administration, and I probably didn’t conceal it very well. 4) I didn’t say “Good Morning” every morning. Mostly because every morning was a shitty morning, but that doesn’t matter. I should have known better. 5) I rarely, if ever, sought advice from my veteran coworkers.

And I wasn’t the only one. Most of my white teacher friends and I behaved that way - some better than others - but at some point, we all made things worse. I can see now how it would be almost impossible for people not to develop and “us vs. Them” mentality. I can also see that, although I felt my intentions were pure, more often they were seen as me saying, “well, ya’ll fucked this up. Step aside. I shall take my northern sensibilities, fancy education, and white, white skin and fix all of it. Thank you very much.”

As for my students… Although they were pretty vocal - and I’ve been called a “white bitch” or a “ghost” more times than I care to count - they were a bit more accepting. A lot of them even liked me. Many of them openly asked me questions “about white people,” and even though I explained that I couldn’t speak for everyone, they seemed to trust my answers. “Why ya’ll dress like that?” or “why don’t ya’ll be knowin’ how to cook?” or “why ya’ll talk that way?” My standard response: “Well, I’m going to assume by ‘ya’ll’ you mean white people, and although neither you nor I can say all white people dress or cook or talk a certain way, that stereotype exists because of different cultures. You know what? Not all black people dress, cook, or talk just like you, either.”

The stuff that really hurt though, were their accusations. When my students called me racist last year, I didn’t know what to do. I used to try and reason with them, “why would I come here every day and try to teach you if I were racist?” or “I could have stayed wherever I came from, but instead, I came here to teach you. Does that sound like someone who’s racist?” or “I expect the same things out of you that I would expect out of a white person, and that’s not racist.” Gradually, I grew impatient. For most of my students, I was the only white person they knew, and I was trying to help. “You know what? Just because I’m white and your black doesn’t mean that you can deflect attention off of your education by calling me a racist. I’m here to teach you. Get over it.” That’s me. Beacon of racial sensitivity.

I don’t know if I did right. I tried. I tried to explain stereotypes, and I tried even harder this year to interact with other staff members, to ask for their advice, and to shoot the shit with them. I talked about race. I welcomed those conversations, but I also did not tolerate being called racist and a white bitch. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I expect better of you.” It bothers me too, when I’m driving down the road and I stop at a stop sign and some African American man I’ve never even met before looks at me and says, “white bitch.” You know what? I’m not even sure if it’s the white part that bothers me. I think it might just be the “bitch” part. I’m neither a female dog nor a mean person, but I am a woman, and what have I ever done to you?

Gender

In college, gender studies was a revelation. It made so much sense! I loved deconstructing traditional paradigms, and I recognized the truths of male privilege and patriarchy. I was pretty passionate about it.

Welcome to New Orleans, and kiss feminism goodbye. I’ll be the first to admit: I taught traditional gender roles. I had no idea how to teach both higher order critical thinking and basic social skills, and so I just taught basic social skills. “Don’t hit a lady.” “Act like a lady. Do not bounce your junk and talk about your c***.” “That is not how we talk to women. Please be respectful.” “It is not appropriate to talk about f***ing women in class.” “Please don’t talk to me that way.”

Sexual degradation and harassment happened daily, if not hourly. There was so much, I didn’t even know where to start. Last year, a student tried to pull of my skirt, and when I tried to remove him from class, I was told to keep him in his seat. To top it off, as far as I can see, women get walked all over in this culture. They’re expected to give it up, have and raise their children from multiple baby daddy’s and never expect an ounce of monogamy in return. I started wonder if traditional nuclear families and monogamy are actually things that protect women, rather than things that oppress them. Where are the fathers? Jail. Dead. Dealing. Another woman. The only thing more ludicrous than my state of childlessness was my choice to marry “so young.”

Division

St. Bernard, Iberville, Lafitte, Magnolia, Melpomine, Florida, Desire, Calliope, St. Thomas, Fischer, and Hollygrove are all projects. Most of them were torn down after the storm and rebuilt as mixed income complexes. As far as I can tell, this has not improved the situation a great deal. Down went the bricks, and up went the town homes; on went the crime. Most of my students claim some affiliation with a project, whether they live in one now or not. When you ask a student where they live, they’ll tell you which project they lived in before the storm five years ago before they will tell you where they live now. To top it all off, each project is linked with a ward, and even if students don’t identify with a project, almost all identify with their respective wards.

The notorious 9th ward encompasses the Bywater, neighborhoods east of the tracks, and neighborhoods across the canal. The Desire and Florida projects were both 9th ward projects demolished after the storm. MOB (Money Over Bitches) and Rider Gang are a couple of the cliques in the area.

St. Bernard is in the 7th ward. It was torn down after the storm, and since then they’ve rebuilt Columbia Park, and mixed incoming housing project. The 7th ward has three cliques that I know of: G-Block SBP State Property, PCB (Prierre Columbia Boys), Young Ones, and MOB. The 7th ward encompasses parts of Gentilly and the area north of St. Claude. We technically live in the 7th ward.

Iberville is situated on the the west side of Treme, boarding Canal St. The project is one of the last remaining brick complexes in the city. North of the Iberville was the Lafitte, which was demolished last year. Both projects are part of the 6th ward.

I’m not sure which ward the Melpomene and Magnolia projects are a part of, but both are east of the Central Business District and south of Claiborne in an area called Central City. Magnolia was torn down after the storm, but parts of the Melpomene are still standing. The major clique here is YMM (Young Melph Mafia). Naturally, both projects flank Martin Luther King Dr., making the street one of the poorest and most crime ridden in the city.

To the south lies the St. Thomas project in the 10th ward near the Irish Channel and Garden District. Parts of the project remain standing and parts have been rebuilt into mixed income housing. The only clique I’m aware of here is actually a girl gang: BBTG (Big Boutted Thomas Girls).

Across the river and west of Algiers lies the Fischer project which has since been torn down and replaced with mixed income housing. Another girl gang is associated with the Fischer; they call themselves ABBB (About Being Bad Bitches).

Heading north from Claiborne is the Calliope, a huge brick project in the 3rd ward which has most been torn down. This is the home base for one of the more serious cliques: the Bird Gang which was actually under federal investigation and the Goonies. Finally, along Carrollton there are a number of “hoods” (as opposed to projects): there’s Gertown to the east, boarding Xavier University, Pigeon Town to the west, and N**** Town somewhere in the mix. Going south, we have Hollygrove, home of HHB (Hard Hittin’ Boys). All of these are located in the 14th ward.

The East is the area east of the canal and north of Chalmette. A ton of people migrated here after the storm, and the area is now home to a number of cliques, among them: BHG (Blood Hound Gang), the Flame Gang, and Hill Top.

With all these divisions comes beef. YMM has beef with HHB and BHG has beef with YMM… Uptown has beef with Downtown, and 7th ward has beef with the 14th. Beef can be started by any number of things: sleeping with the wrong woman or man, stealing drugs, or fights. They can escalate to murder and retaliatory murders.

Ignorance

On White Linen Night, the New Orleans’ upper class comes all out in full force wearing expensive suits and summer dresses. During Mardi Gras, people stand along St. Charles and Canal catching beads, doubloons, and cups off decorated floats. The Mansions in Uptown sit less than half a mile from some of the most dangerous projects in town, and it’s as if no one knows.

People are aware that the school system is failing, but do people know that I was in a closet classroom with 10 desks and 20 students? Do they know I had no text books? Do they know that my students are killing each other? I’ve never seen this kind of wealth in my life; neither have I seen this kind of poverty. To see them side by side is baffling.

Generational Poverty

My students and their families have lived in projects for over two generations now, and most of my students have no idea that there is any other way to live. Our social welfare system has failed them. Instead of putting the poor on equal footing, we gave them a way to live at the bottom forever. I have many students who have never seriously considered choosing an occupation. Why work when you can live and eat for free? Or hustle? Sure, there’s a lot of crime and life’s hard, but then again, isn’t that how it is everywhere? To us, the answer is a definitive no, but my students either have never left the city or when they did for Katrina, they where carted to some other urban center where they were grouped together and got to see more impoverished inner city citizens. If anything, the experience solidified what they already suspected: being black means being poor. Being poor means being uneducated and violent. The end.

This hopelessness spills over into every sector of the community: the politicians are corrupt and embezzle money, the roads are decrepit, social services are insufficient and slow moving, and even basic services lack standards. The attitude is scrape by and laissez les bon temps rouler.

Disclaimer

I’ve been here two years. There is so much I don’t know, and just as I can now see how ignorant I was two years ago, I’m sure those who have lived here their whole lives or even a decade can see how ignorant I am. I make these observations as a visitor, and I know I am ignorant. If you have something to teach me, please do!

Mixed Bag Part I: Love, New Orleans

The Plants

If the calendar is to be believed, summer is a month away, but judging by the jungle cropping up on either side of our two story home, New Orleans has already arrived. The wisteria vine has already bloomed and gone, along with the bougainvillea. Now, the plantains that were leveled by frost this winter are already shooting up with fronds taller and wider than me. My favorite, though, is the fig tree. This squirrelly relic of Eden decides to get up close and personal every growing season. Its branches reach out to our front door and bathroom windows, sprouting frisbee-sized leaves that wave hello in the breeze. Our landlord offers to cut them back, but the truth is, I love this friendly, nosy tree. I like having to duck when I come in the door; I enjoy the fig tree’s leafy company.

At night, the jasmine blooms and its sweet, heavy perfume teases our noses. I don’t believe I’ve been gifted with the keenest sense of smell, but the smell of jasmine is arresting. Similar to lilacs, jasmine puts its scent out there for anyone to smell as if to say, hey! Welcome to my general vicinity. Don’t I smell fabulous?

And then there are those famous old oaks. Their Goliath roots make no secret of their laborious task: they push away soil and cement to reveal knobby knees weary from supporting the untempered spread above. Some branches just give up and rest on the ground, and spanish moss grows like grey hair on every surface.

The Buildings

In the 1960s, someone thought it was a good idea to start building brick ramblers on the outskirts of the city. As far as I can tell, these eyesores are the one architectural blemish I can see in the whole city.

When Joshua and I arrived two years ago, the buildings were the first things I noticed. I felt as though we had driven across the bayou and into another country all together. No where else in the United States have I seen such a unique and distinct style of architecture. Within the city limits, commercial buildings are few and far between. While there is one WalMart, a handful of Rally’s, Church’s, and McDonalds, and a couple of Walgreens, this city seems to be utterly devoid of the chains and strips common to so many other American cities. In their place are boutiques, small neighborhood grocers, and family owned restaurants set in hundred year old buildings.

The domestic architecture is even better. In the French Quarter, the homes and businesses sit side by side and on top of one another. It feels very European because there is a certain efficiency of space, and of course, the iconic wrought iron balconies drip with ferns, fronds, and flowers. There is color everywhere. Pink, yellow, blue, and green seem to be favorites, and it is not at all uncommon to see homes with an unapologetic combination of all four.

Joshua and I live behind a double shotgun creole cottage. The term “shotgun” basically means that the floorplan is laid out in such a way that each room opens onto another room, as if in single file. There are single shotgun homes and double shotgun homes; think of them as single and double file. A creole cottage is named for its original home builders and owners. The french term “creole” refers to a free African American. Usually, creole cottages have a formal side and a domestic side. The formal side would have been used for running the family business, and this side usually has the beautiful dental molding and elaborate ceiling roundels. On the outside, creole cottages have beautiful carved wood detailing that hangs down from the portico. Tall shutters and detailed iron grating finishes the classic New Orleans look.

Uptown, the homes expand upwards and outwards, and St. Charles is lined on either side by stately mansions with decidedly more space to breathe. Here, the trees reach over the road, spreading a canopy sparkling with Mardi Gras beads.

The Neighborhoods

There’s the Marigny, the Bywater, the Treme, Midcity, Gentilly, the French Quarter, the Central Business District, Broadmoor, Uptown, Carrollton, the Riverbend, the Garden District and the Irish Channel.

The Marigny and the Bywater occupy the two square miles or so east of the French Quarter. The Marigny is home to Frenchmen, a street lined with young and hip bars and clubs. Surrounding Frenchmen, the homes are well expensive and well kept, but overall, this is seen as the less touristy, but still extremely lively hipster offshoot of the French Quarter. The Bywater borders the channel and is technically part of the ninth ward. While many of the homes are renovated, just as many are falling apart. There are a couple of lesser known bars and restaurants in the area, and neighborhood is dominated by artists and musicians.

The Treme is a historically black neighborhood flanking the northern border of the French Quarter. It’s less integrated than some of the other neighborhoods, and it has a strong musical presence in the city. Midcity lies to the north, and is bordered by the fairgrounds and City Park, one of my favorite places. In general, Midcity is pretty diverse, and there is even a latino community within its borders. Gentilly borders Lake Ponchartrain and contains the University of New Orleans. It’s probably one of the most integrated neighborhoods.

The French Quarter is party central. Bourbon runs down the center, and tourists can be found partying any day of the week at any time of day. By the river, Jackson Square is another touristy area flanked by restaurants and shops. The Central Business District is on the other side of Canal. Julia Street is home to a number of galleries, and on the northern border is the Superdome. Next, the Garden District, and to the South, the Irish Channel. Both neighborhoods are residential have beautiful single and double shotgun cottages. Magazine Street runs down the middle with a mixture of yuppy and hip boutiques and restaurants.

Uptown is Audobon Park, Tulane and Loyola University, and St. Charles. The area is predominately white and wealthy, and with more space and trees, this is probably the greenest part of the city. Moving west, the Carrollton neighborhood is a mixture of student rentals and poorer neighborhoods. To the north, Broadmoor is home to the upper middle class neighborhood of Fountainbleu, and to the south, the Riverbend borders Jefferson Parish with a number of small but expensive restaurants.

Can’t forget Holy Cross! This is Sarah’s neck of the woods in the lower ninth ward bordered on one side by the river and on the other by the channel. Great domestic architecture with more breathing room.

The Food

The Joint: Best Barbeque in the World. Pulled pork sandwiches with savory sauces and DIVINE POTATO SALAD. The Bywater.

The Cake Bakery: Saturday Brunch! Cute little restaurant in the Marigny specializing in omelets, grits, and baked goods.

Port of Call: Yummy baked potatoes in the French Quarter.

El Gato Negro: Margaritas and Nachos in the French Quarter.

Nonna Mias: tasty Italian Deli in Midcity.

The Parkway: po’boys in Midcity.

Babylon: falafel, hummus, grape leaves and lamb with freaking amazing home baked bread dipped in olive oil. Uptown.

Juan’s Flying Burrito: Tex Mex with a Cajun twist. Magazine.

Felipe’s: make your own burrito! Claiborne.

Reginelli’s: best pizza in town. Magazine or Lakeview.

City Park

Joshua and I have run and biked around that park a billion times, and I still love it. I especially like the waterfront by Lake Ponchartrain, Marconi, Bayou St. John, and the old golf course.

Dressing Up

What’s not to like?

My Students

It’s a mixed bag, but I love their crazy selves.