Ballerina Steals Jewels

Jewels Stolen from Pacific Northwest Ballet Stage

Audiences report that the gemstones were swiped right off the stage in the middle of performances over the weekend. Ballerina Angelica Generosa is considered the prima suspect.

 

Make it a Double

Unlike drinking, writing is something people expect you to do alone. When I started paying attention to author bios and acknowledgment pages, I saw many authors credit their writing groups with helping them finish the book. “Whatever,” I thought, “That is totally not my style.” But then I went to the Iceland Writers Retreat.

World Cup in Akureyri

I never dreamed that I would make it to Akureyri, the “northern capitol” of Iceland. It certainly didn’t seem to fit into the schedule when I went to Eistnaflug, the heavy metal festival in the Eastfjords. But then man-with-the-van Thorsteinn proposed completing the ring road circuit on the way back to Reykjavík from the festival.

The festival is held in Neskaupstaður, which is as far from Reykjavík as it is possible to get in Iceland; the southern and northern routes along the ring road take almost the same amount of time, each around 10 hours of solid driving. So even taking the northern route, I did not expect to be able to stop in Akureyri at all. Thorsteinn had to be at work the next morning, and two others in the van had early morning flights. But I did not count on the World Cup.

The final game of the 2014 World Cup was scheduled for dinner time on the day after the festival. Although we made many stops along the way, everyone else in the van had one eye on the clock. Our stops at Dimmuborgir, hot springs, and the famous Goðafoss were all timed to ensure our arrival in Akureyri near the start of the game.

An Icelander, a Portuguese, a Frenchman, a German, and an American walk in to a dockside bar.

The television is as big as a movie theater screen. The bar is filled with families watching the game.

The American slips out and wanders along the waterfront. A ski mountain looms in forced perspective over the small town, strangely reminiscent of Whistler despite the low elevation and lack of trees (by North American standards; Akureyri sports the closest thing to proper trees Iceland has to offer).

Remembering an earlier conversation in which I claimed I could never live further than walking distance from a Thai restaurant, this American girl crossed the street into downtown, and the first thing I saw was a Thai restaurant. A block further I passed a cafe serving Illy and a movie theater playing independent films. A group of sullen teens sat on the grass of a tiny square and smoked.

Wild graffiti provided a backdrop to a barefoot man playing acoustic guitar on a hillside nearby. The high street was like a miniature Laugavegur, sporting familiar shops from Reykjavík, but devoid of international chains. At the end of the street there was an art museum and a library.

I made a loop around downtown Akureyri, returning to the bar just as our order was ready. I ate, and watched part of the game. Then I spent most of the second half sitting on a bench on the waterfront, watching baby ducks while I talked to my family back home.

I explored most of Akureyri in half an hour, but that was enough to see that it contains almost everything I need to be happy – water and mountains, good coffee, Thai food, and a thriving arts scene. For many travelers the question hovers over every destination, “Could I live here?” Usually it’s an idle question, an extension of traveler fantasy. But I think I could live in Akureyri. I even found the house I want to live in.

I know at the very least I have to go back and see it properly.

I’m not the praying sort, but before I had kids I said a prayer: Please don’t let them get into team sports. Of course as any reader of Greek tragedy could have predicted, my oldest child would come to live for soccer.

Last Saturday, as I delivered my daughter to her 8:30 a.m. soccer game, the wind picked up over the lake and blew a water-scented chill onto the field. I hugged my coffee in cold hands, stared up into the gray sky, and felt like I was in Akureyri.

I am completely familiar with the research in favor of girls’ participation in team sports, and I see it borne out in my daughter’s experience. That should be enough to reconcile me to life as a soccer mom. But what actually makes it easier is the memory of Akureyri.

 

We Bought a Time Share

My hand shook over the paper as I reached out to sign my name. I felt sick. Only a month ago, I crashed in a borrowed apartment at a European metal festival, and now I was buying a time share? How did it come to this?

Form of … a Refrigerator

It sounds good to call what I do “freelance.” But it really means that when there’s no work there’s no money. It started out like any other day. There was no work, so the urge was to pose as a normal housewife. I thought, “Since the refrigerator is almost empty, I should wipe down the shelves.” I was going to the worst place in the world and I didn’t even know it yet … the horror. The horror.

Bad Dad or Bad Day?

I’m a lover of words fair and foul, so swearing doesn’t usually bother me. But the vitriol in this one jarred me. My older daughter had just finished her violin lesson; she and I and my younger daughter were walking down the sidewalk to our car when heard the blasphemous expression. Her lesson is on a street corner with traffic that can drive bad decisions, so I expected to witness a collision in the aftermath of the shout. But when I looked up, all I saw was a row of cars waiting for a red light and a couple of pedestrians on the opposite sidewalk.

“Shit!” It was the man walking down the street. He turned around and started yelling at the person walking at least ten feet behind him. I looked more closely and realized it was a little girl about my own daughter’s age. He was yelling at his kid.

Book Report: Lost in Translation

Lately I’ve been receiving a lot of review copies of novelty books. I wanted to review Crap Taxidermy, a self-explanatory photo book based on a Tumblr, but it depressed me too much. Lost in Translation: An Illustrated Compendium of Untranslatable Words from Around the World is much more my style, although it too has a Tumblr feel about it, and my feelings on bloggy books are mixed. Unrelated to the movie of the same name, Lost in Translation is a collection of foreign words that have no equivalent in English.

R.I.P. Yatsu

1998? – September 10, 2014

You mattered more to me than most humans.

Routine Business

I don’t remember when I first realized that the word “routine” didn’t have a negative connotation for most people, but I know it must have been a shock. Growing up with a mother who never drove home the same way twice (who knows what you might discover down a different street), “routine” was a little bit of a dirty word; it was something necessary but distasteful, like poop or taxes. I can remember her tone as she would groan, “Back to the routine,” at the end of every school vacation.

I grew up to be the sort of person who becomes depressed if a passport goes unused for too long. As an office employee, I could always tell you exactly how many days until the next three day weekend or off-site meeting. People are always surprised that I have a graduate degree in horticulture, because my garden is always pathetic. I can never maintain the kind of consistent, regular care that keeps a garden healthy throughout an entire growing season. Something always comes along to distract me, and two weeks later I look up to discover most of my plants are dead.

So naturally I had kids who lose their shit if dinner is fifteen minutes late.

Book Report: Delicious!

Delicious! is a completely realistic novel, but in it, debut novelist Ruth Reichl does some significant world-building. The aesthete’s New York City is full of foodies with unique personal style, people who notice architectural details and interior design. In this world, “artisan” is more than a buzzword and taxis are for tourists – locals walk so they can observe the changing seasons and appreciate the details of urban life. It would all be insufferably fabulous if Reichl wasn’t so adept at sharing the sensual nature of their artistic appreciation, and if the characters themselves weren’t completely developed, three-dimensional, interesting people. Even when you don’t like them, you believe in Reichl’s characters.