In the Air Again

Here I am, back on a plane, and I’m reminded off all the things I love and hate about air travel.  It’s a red-eye flight with a 10:35 departure from SeaTac, heading to Newark.  I’ve got plenty of time to muse, which brings up the first thing I hate about the red-eye flight in particular: my difficulty sleeping on airplanes.  But let’s start with something more positive: the peacefulness of the red-eye.

On this flight, as on most of the other overnighters I’ve been on, it’s quiet.  No crying children, no loud talkers, the drink cart passed once, almost silently, and I was able to use the bathroom without waiting in line.  Which reminds me of something else I hate: airplane bathrooms.  I’m skinny and even I have trouble turning around in those places.  I can only imagine the tiny corner of hell the 350-pound guy across the aisle walks into when he enters that miniscule closet.

But let’s continue with the positive points again.  Tonight I lucked out enough to get an entire row to myself, so I don’t have to worry about anyone crawling past me to take a leak or grab something from the overhead.  And who knows, maybe I’ll be able to stretch out and catch a few winks later.  In the meantime, I’ll sit here and write while listening to my iPod.  Which are two more things I love.  

I’ve had the same songs on my iPod for over a year.  That’s lazy and pathetic, I know.  I’ve had plenty of time to change my lineup—I just haven’t gotten around to it.  But right now, that’s OK with me.  Because now, whenever I’m on an airplane and I turn on my iPod, I’m reminded of the nine weeks I spent on the road in the southern United States and Europe last fall.  At the moment, I’m making my way through my collection of The Black Keys, just as I did on so many airplanes and buses a year ago.  I already listened to Death in Vegas’ “Scorpio Rising,” just as I did on that wobbly train from Dallas to Austin last September.  I can never get enough of Liam Gallagher’s voice, and that song has become a ubiquitous travel companion, along with a handful of Liam’s better-known Oasis hits. 

Another indispensable album is Cornershop’s When I Was Born for the 7^th Time, which puts me back on that train platform in Bilbao, waiting to ride from my hotel into the center of town.  Later tonight, or perhaps on my connecting flight from Newark to Santo Domingo, I’ll probably listen to some Bishop Allen.  “Flight 180” is a tough song to do without when you’re on a plane, after all.  So are a pair of songs from the Foo Fighters’ There is Nothing Left to Lose album: “Next Year” and “M.I.A.”  Which reminds me, I’d love to hear “Paper Planes” right now, but unfortunately it’s not on my playlist. 

These songs and others are comforting when I’m on the road.  They’re the voices of old familiar friends.  They remind me of the trips I’ve taken and the sites I’ve seen, because they’ve been around for so many of them. 

As I said earlier, I’m also glad for the chance to write during this flight.  I’ve done that now, so I’ll move on to something else enjoyable: reading.  Maybe when I’m halfway through the next chapter, I’ll luck out again and sleep will seize me for long enough to make tomorrow bearable. 

Preparing for Hispaniola

I feel bad.  I haven’t written a blog in about six weeks.  I meant to write about my surfing experience soon after it happened, but instead I let myself become preoccupied with other things.  So here’s an update:

I just moved into a new apartment two weeks ago, and I’m leaving on a work-related trip in about a week.  Yes, those are my excuses for not blogging more regularly.  Could I have found time between moving and trip planning to sit down for 40 minutes and type?  Probably.  But I back-burnered it. 

Now, most of the travel plans are in place and I’m all moved in.  The new place is a little one-bedroom overlooking the water in West Bremerton.  I’m still working on furnishing it and trying to figure out how to hang a painting without using nails.

The upcoming trip, which begins on Halloween night, is a 12-day excursion to the Dominican Republic and Haiti.  I’m leading a group of seven other people—mostly writers and photographers—to the areas where the organization I work for conducts its business.  The business is that of development.  Schools, medical clinics, churches, clean water projects, that’s what the good people on the ground in Africa and Hispaniola develop.  I write about it, and edit what others write about it, with the intent of generating more publicity and enthusiasm from the literate public, thus generating more support and further development and helping more people. 

On this particular trip, our group will get a first-person perspective of what our organization is doing in the Caribbean.  I’m looking forward to meeting some of the people we’ve written about and getting to talk directly with sources, rather than going through an intermediary or exchanging emails.  I’m also excited to spend two weeks in a warm climate during the middle of autumn.  And getting to practice my Spanish.  And getting to venture into a crazy, messed-up place like Haiti.  I admit, I’m a little nervous thinking about Haiti. 

This is the first place I’ve gone where I have to take malaria pills.  And I’m more frightened of the pills making me sick than I am of actually contracting malaria.  Or dengue fever.  But, considering the way the mosquitoes in Argentina feasted on me (at one point, sleeping with the window open, I had about 30 bites), I should probably be more afraid of the bugs than the pills. 

Overall, though, I’m excited.  I get to travel, write, and experience two countries I’ve never been to before.  One of which has a lot of traits I’m familiar with, and another that will be completely new, strange, and intriguing.  

Who are those white people?

What can I say about San Diego that isn’t a tired old cliché?  Certainly nothing about the perfect weather, abundant palm trees, beautiful women and sandy beaches.  Those are old news.  Something that was new to me was meeting a few dozen relatives I’d previously only heard brief mentions of—and some I’d never known existed.

I’ve got a crazy, huge Mexican-American family down in southern California.  I felt like I stuck out a bit at the reunion for a couple of reasons: I don’t drink much, and I’m white.  Well, whiter than most of my California cousins, anyhow.  That’s what happens when your dad marries a woman with Irish blood.  Thanks, Mom.  At least I’m not as pasty as my sister.  Though I wouldn’t mind having a tan like my cousins.

My family had trouble blending in at the start of the get-together.  As the five of us walked up to my cousin’s front yard in Chula Vista, home base for the reunion, a group of dark-haired young girls stood leaning over the fence, peering at us.  Even my dad is fairly light skinned, because of the mix of German and Norwegian that blend with his Mexican roots.  “Are you my cousins?”  I asked the girls.  An unhesitant “no” was the response.  I just laughed.  I knew they were probably second cousins once or twice removed, because of their age and the fact that they were wearing the reunion T-shirts.  A short time later, my dad heard one of them ask their parents, “Who are those white people?”

We went around to the back of the house, where the music was playing, fish tacos were being served, tequila and beer were flowing, and probably 40 distant relatives were getting reacquainted.  I grabbed some tacos and beer, but stayed away from the tequila because vomiting has never been something I’ve particularly enjoyed.  My dad took me, my brother and sister and my mom around the yard, stopping every couple of feet to introduce us to new relatives.

I was told by several people that I look like two relatives who weren’t there: a late second cousin who had shaggy hair and a beard (I think it’s the face shape and the beard), and a second cousin who lives in Canada and happens to be a fellow cue ball.  Frankly, I’m offended that some folks look at bald guys and say, “All you people look alike.”  My response is, “What do you mean, ‘you people?’”

I gravitated toward the relatives I’d met on prior trips to San Diego, and the ones I’d befriended on Facebook before the reunion.  But I also spent time chatting with some of the previously unknown relatives.  I tried to meet as many as I could, but it was a bit overwhelming, so most of the meetings consisted of little more than an introduction.  I could only focus on really getting to know a few.  Hopefully I’ll get to know some of the others better the next time I go San Diego.

One of the new relatives I did get to know was my second cousin, Bobby.  He offered to take my brother and me surfing the next morning.  And I think that experience deserves its own blog post.

Dinner with an amateur shrink

Last night I had dinner with a couple of friends in Poulsbo and we decided to try and figure out my life.  Well, Melissa tried to figure out my life.  And then I joined in because it seemed like an interesting topic.  Paul provided a few thoughtful insights and observations from the right side of the couch while Melissa guided the discussion from the left.  The result: it’s a mixture of uncertainty and things I already knew.

Even though I’m sure my taste in movies is solid, Paul seemed to be on the fence while Melissa has lost faith in my judgment.   But we did agree that I need to travel (of course) and that I need a girl who loves to travel (and who can also tolerate me and my shiny dome).   As far as other serious life issues go, we’ll probably need a few more dinners to figure things out.

It was nice to talk with some friends who are willing to hear my musings and complaints and shortcomings without me worrying that they have an agenda or that they’ll hear something they don’t like and then force something on me because of that.  They’re still relatively new friends (I knew them first as coworkers, beginning about 7 months ago), so maybe that’s why they seem easy to talk to.  Or maybe that’s only part of the reason.  They’re also just generally easygoing and understanding.  Although I think Melissa has something against guys with shaved heads and she’s not completely willing to admit it.

Anyhow, they also did their best to help me with my weight-gain goals by feeding me plenty of burritos and ice cream, which I greatly appreciated.

What’s the best experience for a writer?

Sometimes I wonder if writing is the best occupation for a writer.  What I mean is, if I’m going to create, is it best for me to be employed as a writer?  Or should I try to gain life experience in another line of work, all the while writing in my downtime?  That’s the route a lot of great writers have taken.  But that route might be a problem for me.  If I knew I could depend on myself to put plenty of effort into writing in my downtime, it could work for me.  But I’d have to make a concerted effort, which I haven’t done before.

I do most of my writing at work right now.  Even though my job forces me to write in someone else’s voice many times, or to use styles of writing that I’m not terribly fond of, it still forces me to write and edit.  It forces me to hone my skills and become more well-rounded as a writer.

But on the other hand, even though I get a lot of training in writing when I’m at work, I can’t really develop my own voice unless I write on my own time.  That was less the case when I was working at a newspaper, but still true to an extent.  The guidelines for corporate writing (my job now) are much more rigid than those for newspaper writing; but news writing still requires adherence to certain strictures.

I guess all this leads me to believe that, no matter what I’m doing for a living, it really behooves me to write in my downtime.  Working as a writer and editor has its benefits, as I become better versed in the English language. (Reading a lot helps with that too.)  And working in other jobs helps me by offering broader life experiences.  But I can gain life experience and writing experience—or development of my own voice—in my off-time.  So maybe, no matter how I’m making money, the most important thing is just avoiding laziness outside of 9 to 5.

Preparing for San Diego

This week brings another trip out of town.  Thank God. 

Not that being here in the Pacific Northwest has been bad.  The weather has actually brightened up in the past month or so, work is going well, and I’ve been able to spend a fair amount of time in Seattle with friends.  But I always look forward to a bit of travel.

This week’s trip will be my second one to California this summer.  Last time, it was a drive to the Bay Area for a concert.  This time, it’s a flight to San Diego for a family reunion.  I’ll be spending the weekend with a handful of cousins and aunts and uncles I’ve met before, and a few dozen I’ve never known.  Most of the people that make up my dad’s expansive Mexican-American family have seemed almost imaginary until now.  My siblings and I have heard that these alleged relatives exist, several hundred miles to the south, but we’ve seen very little evidence of them.  Even my dad, who is from that area, isn’t well acquainted with most of his extended San Diego family. 

My dad moved from San Diego to Bremerton, Washington, to live with his paternal grandparents almost 44 years ago, when he was 12.  We’ve always kept in touch with my aunts and uncles who moved up here with him, and we’ve gone to visit a few of the cousins and such down in San Diego at least twice.  I remember one backyard barbecue when I was 11, where my siblings and I met several cousins and practiced our slam-dunking skills on a tiny plastic basketball hoop.  But it was a small get-together compared to the one happening this week.  And in the 17 summers since that barbecue, we haven’t been back to San Diego as a family.  I went with my parents a couple of times six or seven years ago, and I went to visit a friend two years ago.  But this will be the first time the five of us have gone together in nearly two decades.  I think we’re all excited to get a little closer to some family we’ve long been distant from. 

So for the relatives in Southern California, who have been going to the same reunion every summer for the past 10 years, this shindig probably feels pretty ordinary.  But I think the Northwest branch of the family sees it a little differently.  

The Latest Challenge, Part 3

This morning, I climbed onto Chris’ bathroom scale for the official weigh-in, nervous with anticipation.  When I looked down, I was shocked at what I saw.  It caused me to let out an exclamation, and Chris to burst into laughter.

Chris and I had originally set the official weigh-in for Friday, August 12, my birthday.  But shortly before that date, we realized we’d have to reschedule.  I would be starting work early that morning, and he didn’t want to pull himself out of bed to watch me step onto the scale.  So we figured we would do it first thing in the morning on Saturday.

Saturday came, and at around 11:30am we both realized I was going to ‘Family Day’ at the local shipyard, where my brother works.  Chris texted me, and we rescheduled again, for Sunday.  This time, we were all set.  No impediments; we were both free Sunday morning.  I was an equal mix of confidence and uncertainty.  On Thursday, I’d weighed myself at the gym after our workout, and I was just half a pound shy of 150.  Even taking into account the fact that I’d eaten lunch a few hours earlier, I felt pretty good.  But I knew I had some work to do in the next couple of days.

I tried to eat well throughout the weekend, but by the time I went to bed Saturday night, my confidence was waning.  I didn’t feel much bigger than before.  I felt pretty much the same.  When I stepped onto that scale this morning, I involuntarily let out a surprised, ‘Dude!  What the ….’  I was (officially) 147.6 pounds.  I was disappointed at first, but Chris reminded me that 11 pounds in 3 months is actually not too shabby for a guy my size.  Which, of course, I had to agree with.

Still, I’d like to reach my goal.  My body seems to need a push to surmount the hump that now lies before me.  Chris’ girlfriend agreed, and made me a plate of chicken adobo and rice, with a cool glass of chocolate milk before sending me on my way.  Now I have to continue doing my part.  And, within a few weeks, I’m sure I’ll have better news to report.