I have moved my Senior Hummingbird blog into my website, so please continue to follow the Senior Hummingbird as I wander, wonder, and write. Find me at
www.zimatravels.com
See you there!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Starting Anew
There's an unusual confluence of events at this time -- Chinese New Year of the Tiger, Valentine's Day, the Olympics, getting my home ready for renters while I'm away, and packing for a 7 week trip to Taiwan, Bali, Singapore, and China. It was easier to travel in the years when I was a nomad in the world. Having a house and regular obligations involve a lot more details to be thought of and arranged for.
I find the Olympics endlessly happy, sad, inspiring, dramatic, and absolutely riveting. I stay glued to the television, trying to imagine what forces are at work during these two weeks. There are so many pure emotions visible to millions of viewers, and so many contradictions. While the athletes have trained intensively every day for years to be able to participate, their whole futures -- financial, personal, emotional, job-related -- are decided in milliseconds. Rejoicing at scoring number 1 at an event can be very short-lived when the next participants may knock number 1 to number 10.
In the Olympics, 30 is already over the hill or pushing your luck. I love the freshness, unwrinkled youth of the Olympians. But then the announcer explains that the 22 year old who just skied down the mountain in record time has had six knee surgeries. While many have suffered serious injuries, it seems their only goal in getting better is so they can strap on the skis or skates again. It's a devotion to that "something" that makes them well again.
At an age where keeping my physical balance is an effort and a concern, I revel in the way their bodies respond to their commands. And, in spite of being televised around the world, the focus these young people have on their faces to perform as well as possible, humbles me. They face fear and danger as few of us "mere mortals" can in the pursuit of their craft. They don't HAVE to be there; they WANT to be there -- and nowhere else.
While all the ills of our world continue -- wars, famine, sorrow, sickness -- the Olympics pulls together nations of the world far better than the United Nations can. Some of the countries marching in had one or two or just a few athletes. But they walked in proudly, happily, and warmly welcomed by all. There are innumerable inequalities in facilities for training, money for trainers, the backing of sponsors, but there is absolute equality in the Olympic arenas for all the athletes who have won the right to compete. The "best" man or woman can win.
For these two weeks, I want to vicariously look at the world through the eyes of these young people who give their all to succeed in their sport, while, at the same time, spontaneously and whole-heartedly offering support, caring, and even love to their kindred spirits.
I find the Olympics endlessly happy, sad, inspiring, dramatic, and absolutely riveting. I stay glued to the television, trying to imagine what forces are at work during these two weeks. There are so many pure emotions visible to millions of viewers, and so many contradictions. While the athletes have trained intensively every day for years to be able to participate, their whole futures -- financial, personal, emotional, job-related -- are decided in milliseconds. Rejoicing at scoring number 1 at an event can be very short-lived when the next participants may knock number 1 to number 10.
In the Olympics, 30 is already over the hill or pushing your luck. I love the freshness, unwrinkled youth of the Olympians. But then the announcer explains that the 22 year old who just skied down the mountain in record time has had six knee surgeries. While many have suffered serious injuries, it seems their only goal in getting better is so they can strap on the skis or skates again. It's a devotion to that "something" that makes them well again.
At an age where keeping my physical balance is an effort and a concern, I revel in the way their bodies respond to their commands. And, in spite of being televised around the world, the focus these young people have on their faces to perform as well as possible, humbles me. They face fear and danger as few of us "mere mortals" can in the pursuit of their craft. They don't HAVE to be there; they WANT to be there -- and nowhere else.
While all the ills of our world continue -- wars, famine, sorrow, sickness -- the Olympics pulls together nations of the world far better than the United Nations can. Some of the countries marching in had one or two or just a few athletes. But they walked in proudly, happily, and warmly welcomed by all. There are innumerable inequalities in facilities for training, money for trainers, the backing of sponsors, but there is absolute equality in the Olympic arenas for all the athletes who have won the right to compete. The "best" man or woman can win.
For these two weeks, I want to vicariously look at the world through the eyes of these young people who give their all to succeed in their sport, while, at the same time, spontaneously and whole-heartedly offering support, caring, and even love to their kindred spirits.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
New Orleans in the Early 80's
I chose New Orleans from all the rest of the U.S. as my training ground before going to live outside the U.S. It was, and I believe still is, the U.S. city that is the most unlike the rest of the U.S. I had only been there as a tourist once before that, and something about the place appealed to me. But I really didn't understand why until I lived there.
I was very curious about a city that was more than 50% black. Whether in the northeast, where I was raised, or in California, I was all too aware of how separate blacks and whites lived and worked. I had gone to extremes in California to put black people into our daily lives after my husband and I had adopted a mixed black/white child. But in New Orleans, I reveled in the daily interaction of whites and blacks -- in my neighborhood, in my job, in my friendships, and in daily life all around New Orleans. Clearly, the black people of New Orleans felt a sense of comfort and belonging to New Orleans that was different from anyplace else I'd been.
Although the crime rate was high, people in everyday life were generally friendly and casual. Waitresses seemed to assume that everyone's name was "Honey," or "Sweetie." Being poor in New Orleans was acceptable, with fewer people out there to gouge money in any way they could. There was music and happiness, even at jazz funerals going down the streets.
And the food -- that was definitely way above the normal fare of any other U.S. city. I once read that the school system in New Orleans bought more spices for their school lunches than any other place. Even the food at the cafeteria of the local hospital around the corner from my home was cheap and delicious. People cared about what they ate and how it tasted. Being poor was no excuse for not eating tasty food -- gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish, po-boys, and on and on.
After the boring cookie-cutter houses of California, I delighted in the architecture of New Orleans homes. I lived in an old big house that had been divided into a duplex. Fortunately, my unit retained the large entryway with a curving wooden staircase to the second floor reminiscent of Gone With the Wind. In fact, a dramatic poster of Rhett and Scarlet on the wall above the staircase was close to a gorgeous old stained glass window. There were several rooms upstairs, none of which had a boring square or rectangular shape. I bought some unusual used furniture that looked like nothing I had ever owned before. A balcony outside the living room on the second floor gave a panoramic view up and down Prytania Street. I once watched a marathon race go up my street from the balcony. The runners made shimmering waves below as they passed en masse.
My choice of walks was often on the streets of uptown mansions, each one individual in design and decor so that you could easily tell it was well loved by its owners. And there was a beautiful park and pond nearby where I tenderly set down my tadpole after he turned into a tiny, air-breathing frog.
Unlike inconvenient California that required cars for even the simplest of errands, you could actually walk to stores and take the quaint trolley either uptown or downtown. Once downtown, I ate sweet beignets and drank incredible coffee and loved to wander around the used bookstores and unusual shops of the French Quarter, and along the river. I learned about the Cajuns and the Creoles, and voodoo. I have always hated zoos, but the Audubon Zoo was a definite exception to that rule when I lived in New Orleans. Not only did it give me the feeling that the animals were well cared for, but it was the only place I could see the Lone Ranger ride by and fire silver bullets since the tv shows of my childhood. I don't remember quite why the Lone Ranger visited the zoo, but it was most likely one of the many, many festivals that New Orleans enjoyed every year.
New Orleans was the kind of city that loved laughter. The Jazz Festival and Mardi Gras were perfect examples. For the weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, there were parades of outlandishly, garishly, overdressed people on floats, throwing cheap, colorful beads in profusion. On Mardi Gras day itself, everyone who wanted to dressed up -- a grown-up's Halloween -- and happily walked up and down the streets spreading good cheer. The televised version of Mardi Gras usually emphasized the overcrowded, bizarre, and sexual sides of the French Quarter's celebration. But up from downtown, the celebrations were family style fun.
The rain could be torrential, the heat blistering, the crime rate unnerving, and the cockroaches very aggressive and territorial -- but for me New Orleans lived up to being the most unusual place I could have lived in the U.S. More importantly, I felt a unique spirit in that city of black and white residents who loved it. And that spirit is showing its power once again as it rises from the tragedy of Katrina.
I was very curious about a city that was more than 50% black. Whether in the northeast, where I was raised, or in California, I was all too aware of how separate blacks and whites lived and worked. I had gone to extremes in California to put black people into our daily lives after my husband and I had adopted a mixed black/white child. But in New Orleans, I reveled in the daily interaction of whites and blacks -- in my neighborhood, in my job, in my friendships, and in daily life all around New Orleans. Clearly, the black people of New Orleans felt a sense of comfort and belonging to New Orleans that was different from anyplace else I'd been.
Although the crime rate was high, people in everyday life were generally friendly and casual. Waitresses seemed to assume that everyone's name was "Honey," or "Sweetie." Being poor in New Orleans was acceptable, with fewer people out there to gouge money in any way they could. There was music and happiness, even at jazz funerals going down the streets.
And the food -- that was definitely way above the normal fare of any other U.S. city. I once read that the school system in New Orleans bought more spices for their school lunches than any other place. Even the food at the cafeteria of the local hospital around the corner from my home was cheap and delicious. People cared about what they ate and how it tasted. Being poor was no excuse for not eating tasty food -- gumbo, jambalaya, crawfish, po-boys, and on and on.
After the boring cookie-cutter houses of California, I delighted in the architecture of New Orleans homes. I lived in an old big house that had been divided into a duplex. Fortunately, my unit retained the large entryway with a curving wooden staircase to the second floor reminiscent of Gone With the Wind. In fact, a dramatic poster of Rhett and Scarlet on the wall above the staircase was close to a gorgeous old stained glass window. There were several rooms upstairs, none of which had a boring square or rectangular shape. I bought some unusual used furniture that looked like nothing I had ever owned before. A balcony outside the living room on the second floor gave a panoramic view up and down Prytania Street. I once watched a marathon race go up my street from the balcony. The runners made shimmering waves below as they passed en masse.
My choice of walks was often on the streets of uptown mansions, each one individual in design and decor so that you could easily tell it was well loved by its owners. And there was a beautiful park and pond nearby where I tenderly set down my tadpole after he turned into a tiny, air-breathing frog.
Unlike inconvenient California that required cars for even the simplest of errands, you could actually walk to stores and take the quaint trolley either uptown or downtown. Once downtown, I ate sweet beignets and drank incredible coffee and loved to wander around the used bookstores and unusual shops of the French Quarter, and along the river. I learned about the Cajuns and the Creoles, and voodoo. I have always hated zoos, but the Audubon Zoo was a definite exception to that rule when I lived in New Orleans. Not only did it give me the feeling that the animals were well cared for, but it was the only place I could see the Lone Ranger ride by and fire silver bullets since the tv shows of my childhood. I don't remember quite why the Lone Ranger visited the zoo, but it was most likely one of the many, many festivals that New Orleans enjoyed every year.
New Orleans was the kind of city that loved laughter. The Jazz Festival and Mardi Gras were perfect examples. For the weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, there were parades of outlandishly, garishly, overdressed people on floats, throwing cheap, colorful beads in profusion. On Mardi Gras day itself, everyone who wanted to dressed up -- a grown-up's Halloween -- and happily walked up and down the streets spreading good cheer. The televised version of Mardi Gras usually emphasized the overcrowded, bizarre, and sexual sides of the French Quarter's celebration. But up from downtown, the celebrations were family style fun.
The rain could be torrential, the heat blistering, the crime rate unnerving, and the cockroaches very aggressive and territorial -- but for me New Orleans lived up to being the most unusual place I could have lived in the U.S. More importantly, I felt a unique spirit in that city of black and white residents who loved it. And that spirit is showing its power once again as it rises from the tragedy of Katrina.
Monday, February 1, 2010
All That Stuff
Renting out my home while I'll be away has enabled me to come up with the airfare to travel for 7 weeks this spring. I'll be going to Taiwan, Bali, Singapore, and China. Most of the time, I'll be visiting friends made and nurtured over 20 years of my nomadic life in Asia. It used to be much easier to prepare for traveling before I owned a home and had numerous obligations. My head and scraps of paper are filling up with "to do" lists related to going away.
I thought that having renters would offer a compelling reason to go through lots of accumulated "stuff" in my house to lighten it up for the renters. That's easier said than done. I have re-connected with old photos, clothes, and souvenirs that I truly no longer "need," but can't quite seem to throw away or give away.
I wondered what it would be like to go back to zero and start again with nothing. But then a friend of mine had a devastating fire in her home and lost everything. The reality of what it would mean to lose 66 years of my material life possessions was sobering. All those pictures I never could throw away? All those English books and papers I saved from my teaching years? All those letters I had saved during the years when people still communicated with paper, pen, and stamps? All those books I saved because they had influenced my life in some way? All those silly mementos I picked up around the world? All those journals and scrapbooks I had poured my memories into? All those old clothes I never got around to wearing? All the flotsam and jetsam I had collected from here and there? Furniture and useful items could be replaced, but it would be the things of no monetary value that I'd miss the most.
And yet, if I decide to live abroad again, I would have to give up all these things.
When I changed countries as a middle-aged hummingbird, I only had what I could carry with me. And I can say I didn't miss much of anything I left behind. Sometimes I imagine I will re-examine all my photos, re-read all those letters, re-look at all those mementos in my really old age to remind me of the details I forgot. But, will I actually ever do that?
For now, I throw out some things, re-package other things, and am thankful I don't really have to make a final decision about how to live without them quite yet.
I thought that having renters would offer a compelling reason to go through lots of accumulated "stuff" in my house to lighten it up for the renters. That's easier said than done. I have re-connected with old photos, clothes, and souvenirs that I truly no longer "need," but can't quite seem to throw away or give away.
I wondered what it would be like to go back to zero and start again with nothing. But then a friend of mine had a devastating fire in her home and lost everything. The reality of what it would mean to lose 66 years of my material life possessions was sobering. All those pictures I never could throw away? All those English books and papers I saved from my teaching years? All those letters I had saved during the years when people still communicated with paper, pen, and stamps? All those books I saved because they had influenced my life in some way? All those silly mementos I picked up around the world? All those journals and scrapbooks I had poured my memories into? All those old clothes I never got around to wearing? All the flotsam and jetsam I had collected from here and there? Furniture and useful items could be replaced, but it would be the things of no monetary value that I'd miss the most.
And yet, if I decide to live abroad again, I would have to give up all these things.
When I changed countries as a middle-aged hummingbird, I only had what I could carry with me. And I can say I didn't miss much of anything I left behind. Sometimes I imagine I will re-examine all my photos, re-read all those letters, re-look at all those mementos in my really old age to remind me of the details I forgot. But, will I actually ever do that?
For now, I throw out some things, re-package other things, and am thankful I don't really have to make a final decision about how to live without them quite yet.
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