Desert Lullabye

Morning Glory

I have a hard enough time staying in bed in Brooklyn, forget about it out here...

Humble but ample...

arid yet plush...

I could walk this landscape, a tiny dot in a great expanse,

for hours...

A New Dimension

"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions." - Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

(photo by Niki Hall)

Day 2 : Albuquerque to Santa Fe

The first word that comes to mind this morning, tucked away in a dark room in a soft bed with the expansive desert awaiting right outside my window, is blessed. The second word, awe. For how much we have seen, for how much we have lived and received in such a short period of time.

Day 2 began early with a 4am wake-up call, a hurried brushing of the teeth and a woozy drive to a Park-N-Ride lot where we stood in line with sweatpant and parka bundled New Mexicans for a ride to the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta . Our citified version of dressed down warmth - leather jackets, boots and big scarves - got a few stares and an inquiring comment from one woman, who told us we looked so pretty "dressed up". Niki and I smiled in acceptance, communicating silently with a sideways glance. We are different here, but that's the point really. We came here for just that, for a different flavor. To slow to and be enlightened by a different frequency. To experience and eventually blend into something bigger than ourselves.

The bus dropped us at the base of a dewy field not yet kissed by the sun, which was busy rising behind the mountain that stood at our backs. Trucks were lining up in ordered formations across the green, unloading braided baskets, extending colorful tarps, testing brilliant flames of orange and yellow.



By 7am, most of the balloons had taken off. We unzipped our jackets and lay on our backs on the grass, now warmed by daylight, looking up into the sky. When our stomachs rumbled louder than the pyres of fire that gave the balloons flight, we muscled our way through crowds towards a sign advertising : BREAKFAST BURRITOS. 2 burritos with egg, bacon, hash browns, green chile, cheese and 2 fresh squeezed orange juices later, we were sated.


Back at Hacienda Antigua, we took one last hammock nap before embarking on the second adventure of the day, a scenic drive through the Jemez Mountain Trail en route to Santa Fe. For me, the scenic drive was the first draw, the visual that first came to mind when this Southwest adventure was marinating and forming. Yesterday, driving through roving roads, boulders 300 times my height giving way graciously to our path, sunroof open and serendipitous song after serendipitous song bounding through the stereo, that daydream became a reality. I had that moment, my moment. An awakening. An opening of heart. A boundless feeling of gratefulness. And, again, I felt blessed.

We stopped in Jemez Springs at a kitschy little store, a log-cabin on stilts built into the side of the road. Amidst a jumble of second hand clothes, dreamcatchers and other mountain garb, I found a ring. A garnet stone, my birthstone, set in silver with tiny etchings symbolizing the rays of a sun around the jeweled center. Like the ring on my right hand, a trinket I found in Rome some 10 years ago which has been like a boomerang, returning to me every time it's misplaced, this new ring felt like it belonged on my finger. And so it stayed.


After a fresh meal down the road at Highway 4 Coffee, Giggling Springs, one of many natural hot springs the region is known for, was next. After cleansing our bodies of suntan lotion and the dust from our journey, we dipped into a pool of calcium, potassium, magnesium and oxygen. Whatever the concoction, its healing qualities were immediately evident. Like dipping into a bath drawn by an oracle. We emerged feeling refreshed and ready for the last leg of our journey to Santa Fe.


Preferring the winding mountain trails over the concrete, commercial blur of highway 25, we remained on the high road. It was the right decision, but one I temporarily doubted when snow began to drag beneath the tires. Yes, I said snow. A surprise to us both ...



I shifted the car to the lowest gear possible, preparing myself to cruise down some of the most severe curves I've ever driven, the Amalfi coast included. A reverent silence came over us, a moment of prayer, as we slow-coasted down a deserted road flanked by bare trees on either side. For about 10 minutes we were completely alone. Lightening lit up the sky in the distance, and we both sensed the oncoming dusk. For the first time on this journey, fear crept in. And also disbelief. Not 1 hour before we'd been baking in the waters of a hot spring underneath an intense, benevolent sun.

But, like any other rough patch, it passed. The croons of the Neville Brothers, and the Billy Joel and Van Morrison that played thereafter, soothed the nerves. We eventually found a State Trooper and a caravan of 4 to 5 other cars, who accompanied us on the remainder of our descent. Back on dry asphalt, the breeze a bit warmer, we released the shallow breathes we'd held, relaxing tensed muscles. Niki high fived me and we were off again, feeling stronger.

Just as the sun fell, we rolled into the outskirts of Santa Fe. Yellow desert flowers and dirt the color of dried roses shown through our headlights as we pulled into the desert oasis where we'll be staying for the next 4 nights. I can't wait to open my windows and see what vista awaits beyond.


To be continued...

*photos by Zana-DO and Niki Hall, video by Niki Hall

From the Road : Pieces of Me

We're Here!

So we're here, me and Miss Niki, in an arid yet breezy New Mexico. We both decided to come here - to an unknown, expansive terrain - to be inspired. To process a past, pass through the present and embrace a future. The overachievers that we are, it wasn't enough to go lay on a beach or sit on a tour bus letting others set the pace or frame the scene. We're on a roadtrip, engineered and executed by us, literally and figuratively. Spiritually.

It won't be an easy week for either of us, but it won't be a joyless one either. Hot air balloon rides, hot springs, the Grand Canyon and the delightful unknown await us. Seekers, dreamers. Two Ladies doing the hard work. Ever hopeful, and full of love. Like Thelma & Louise, with more melanin (wink).

More to come...

Desert Bound

Desert, Alex Prager, Archive 2003-2006

Looks like this deusa urbana will be heading out to the desert soon. Hot air balloon races, natural springs, artsy fartsy artist communities, remote little B&Bs run by eccentrics and I-40 await...

Enchanted Island

I may have been a bit hasty in summoning the Fall. Mother Nature and the Universe, the original power couple, did their best to prove me wrong this weekend, and they succeeded.

An unexpected, last minute invitation arrived on Friday around Noon; it's acceptance found me on a sunset ferry headed to the most enchanting NY beach destination I've ever seen. Fair Harbor, Fire Island. It's only an hour and change by train and thirty minutes by boat, but the lull of the motor and the sound of the wake gurgling behind earn you oceans and light years worth of mental and spiritual distance.


We arrived just after dusk, edging up to a dock full of families complete with barking dogs and children swinging from monkey bars, all in seafaring garb. The entire island seemed to be lit with tea lights, awaiting our arrival. The same pinewood slates that first accepted our footsteps on the dock carried us throughout the entire town. There are no cars allowed in Fair Harbor, only feet and beach bikes. The weathered boardwalk, elevated three feet above the sand and dirt, serves as the road, running through the main square, winding down each narrow, residential street and inevitably terminating, splendidly, at the waters edge. Fair Harbor can't be more than .5 miles wide and so every street laps the beach on both ends, the rumbling ocean on the South side, the calm, tepid bay on the North. All under a canopy of unruly green foliage and otherwise unobstructed sky.




All of this contributed to the feeling of pleasant disorientation that came over me on our slow walk home in the dark on Friday night. Winding down road after road I was too romanced by the miniature bungalows, the well manicured beach lawns and the sounds and smells of families abandoning their hobbies and negotiating themselves around dinner tables for communal meals to know where I was going or how to get back. And I didn't want to.



Fire Island is decidedly less quaffed and self-aware than the Hamptons, it almost has a blue collar twang at times. But I was told by my host, an insider for some 20 years, not to be fooled. Some of the heaviest, headiest hitters in media, the arts and publishing have hid out there for decades. You can be putting air into your tires next to the most seasoned literary agent or impresario and, unlike the other island (Manhattan), it'd take you a great deal of impolite digging or internet research to find out just who. You have to go with the flow, take off your city cap and truly engage. And that's exactly why they are there. To take a break, be themselves, go beyond rote professional discourse. The relationships and connections made on the island are genuine and run deep. That, to me, was very attractive.


Around day 3 Fall was a distant memory, a far off future. I had forgotten how undeniably refreshing and unmistakably Summer it is to take a shower outdoors (!), iced coffee in hand, the smell of sea salt and charcoal mixing above. How much more beautiful my skin is when golden and naturally exfoliated by the persistent pounding of the waves. How lusciously lazy it can feel to wake up early in bed, stumble 50 yards and finish the nights slumber on the beach. How nurturing it is, for both giver and recipient, to spend all afternoon shopping for and preparing a big meal on the grill. Hmm.

These are all Summer niceties, Summer luxuries that I may have dismissed a little too quickly, that I will certainly need more of before I can truly embrace the Fall. Next weekend, perhaps:)

all photos courtesy of Erin Robinson

Singapore Sling

So it's official, 2010 will be the year these pretty little toes first touch Asian soil. An old friends wedding in Singapore will be the enabler.

I'd told everyone that, this year, my big adventure would take place within the borders of this fair country. Because I still can't say I've walked the Mojave, seen the Grand Canyon, the Redwood Forest, or sipped the fruits of an American vineyard, my plan was to fly west, rent a car and drive Route 1. It still sounds so romantic but, once again, that adventure has been postponed.

I think it was the invitation to a pre-wedding weekend on the private Indonesian island, Pulau Suka, that eventually swayed my decision. And, of course, my love for my friend. And this serendipitous article in this weekends travel section.

Asia it is.

Derrière

So it's impossible to single out a favorite night in Paris, they have all been spectacular, but last night was quite special.

I went for a late dinner at Derrière in the 3eme. Nestled between two known resto-bars, 404 and Andy Wahloo, it sits behind a heavy green door at the back of a shallow courtyard warmed by heat lamps and fashion types sipping cocktails. According to the NYT, Derrière is at the head of Paris' anti-fine dining movement. Highly conceptual and painstakingly boho, it's laid out in the style of a funky, Parisian apartment with each dining area simulating a room in a home.


Upon entering we found ourselves in what must have been the "rec room," admiring the 4" heels of a particularly stylish femme somehow elegantly exchanging a ping pong ball with her scarf and blazer donning date across the net. Low tables with mismatched chairs and ottomans littered the floor, a map of the world, odd posters and an extensive record collection hung from the walls. We leaned against a shelf full of North African and Italian cook books, vintage coke bottles and other knick knack while we awaited our table.

After a short time, not nearly long enough to absorb all of the Parisian glitter, the hostess informed us we'd be dining upstairs in the "chambre" or bedroom. We climbed a winding wooden staircase and were tucked into our table, right at the foot of a fuschia, velvet-covered bed. Quite a sexy space but a bit too bright, we asked to be moved to the boudoir. Dark, caramel, even sexier. We'd found our spot.


From time to time the other occupants of our little den would rise and exit the room, suspiciously leaving behind all sorts of valuables - lush coats and scarves, pocketbooks, cell phones and cameras. A scene you'd normally only witness in the home of a trusted friend. Foreigners in an unknown land, curious New Yorkers at that, we looked around for cues, for an invitation to join the ritual. It came after a dinner of Quelque Légume, Crabe, St Jacques (scallops) and Joue de Boeuf (beef cheek slowly cooked in a caste iron pot with potatoes = yum). The waiter brought us a robin blue box filled with candies, asked us to choose a sweet and told us to follow him. We crossed the rickety stairwell and walked down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway sat a stately armoire with a mirrored facade. As he instructed us to open the armoire and push its back wall, I started to tingle. For any of you who were obsessed with The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a child, you know what can happen when walking into a stodgy-looking piece of furniture from a previous century. Magical things! And this was no exception.


With a lean against the wooden slats, we stepped through the armoire and entered into a secret room which can only be described as a wreck, but a well-heeled wreck. Like a closed off wing in a grand maison long ago abandoned by stuffy adults, recently taken over by irreverent yet particular teenagers. Precious chandeliers teetered precariously from the ceiling. Book laden shelves were tacked haphazardly into the walls in a diagonal freefall. A rounded sofa made from speakers and foam held a smooching couple. Cigarettes dangled between every first and second finger in the room. The secret chambre is Derrières response to the relatively new smoking restrictions. Leave it to the French to make "no smoking" chic and elusive.


We finished the evening sipping wine and cafe amongst strangers turned friends. We chatted with one couple in particular who were surely clandestine lovers, a gratuitous but welcome detail that enhanced the random, authentic feeling of the evening.

Hidden away in a secret room behind a whimsical antique on a ripped leather sofa with a penciled nude overhead. This is exactly how I wanted to see Paris.

Paris

So I'm in Paris. I should have been writing to you from the beginning. By now the nuances and details I so enjoy documenting have melded into overall impressions and feelings. I regret not having rushed back to unload those tidbits, but I felt the need to absorb. There is just so much to absorb. I'll go back and tease out those intricacies at some point, they're too good not to share. For now, my first impressions...

I'm falling for Paris, no surprise there. But I didn't imagine she'd fall, too; that she'd treat me with such favor, revealing her inner most workings with such ease and pleasure; that she'd offer up her best people, full of warmth and a desire to share, to exchange; that she'd literally call my name in the form of a chamber choir singing into the rafters of the Notre Dame.

There is mutual attraction here, the letting down of guards, desire satiated and renewed yet again. I am humbled, stimulated, exhausted, yet wanting more. Like laying next to a new lover, two heads sunken into one pillow, depleted of energy yet unable to relieve heavy lids. Out of a need to stay connected, out of excitement for what's to come...

Hosanna in Paris by Zana-DO

I'm Off

On this very day last year, at this very time, I was perched somewhere over the Southern hemisphere, zeroing in on Buenos Aires. I remember my first impressions of the city. The landing strip was overrun and so we hovered for some 45 minutes. Buenos Aires lay all lit up below, ominous and inviting at once. I sat, a bit paralyzed by the size of it, struggling to identify points of recognition as we looped again and again. I wondered where my particular place in that city would be. Would I find it warm, welcoming, inviting? Would I find my nest?

Today I sit in Newark Airport with the same anticipation, this time awaiting a departure for Paris. I'm not sure what it is about the 15th of October, or whether I was aware of its significance when I chose this date back in June. We shall see...

Out West

3rd morning waking up in a gloomy LA. It seems the whole country is under an ominous cloud, a presumptuous guest maneuvering to stay for the Summer. How rude. I couldn't be happier, though. Work has brought me to the hometown of one of my best friends. Finally, she keeps reminding me, a visit that's 3 years overdue.

This is my first time in LA and so I have to state the obvious. Celebrity sightings abound and are quite intimate, giving the run-ins a zoo-like, voyeuristic quality. My hotel bar has produced Scarlett J, Ryan Reynolds, Elizabeth Shue, Whoopi, Danny Boyle and a slew of other bigwig producers and directors. Dinner down the road at Il Sole found me rubbing elbows with Eva Mendez. Cafes brim with writers haphazardly typing into macbook airs and readers sipping soy lattes whilst flipping pages of a manuscript or screenplay "discreetly bound" in black. The sound of a door swinging open never fails to be followed by the sound of necks popping, intermingling a dozen heady perfumes as all crane to see who's just entered. Fun for a few days, but I can see how this could become exhausting.

LA is certainly not all pomp and pose. My good friend lives a life of substance, full of love for work and man and home. PCH and I will spend more time together, and soon. Yet a romanticized shot of the New York skyline featured in a documentary I saw yesterday induced a deep saudade, an excitement to return to a lover who's only become more desirable with distance.

I'll be home tomorrow morning, Baby. I've missed your grit, your authenticity. That pretty boy's got nothing on you.

Inanimate Objects Full of Life

While in Buenos Aires I launched a very small vintage leather goods company called Vintage (Ad)ventures. The idea was really born from the reality that I couldn't keep myself out of the San Telmo markets, nor could I justify leaving behind a single one of those gorgeous, expertly crafted weekend bags, clutches or handbags from the 50s, 60s and 70s. So they came home with me to my apartment on Billinghurst and eventually back to the States. I have held on to some but most have ended up on the arms of others. It's really silly how emotionally taxing it was to say good-bye to some of them, but it makes sense. They're more than objects, they are symbols, holding my memories and charting my journey through Argentina.

This morning, my friend sent me a picture of herself in the Charles de Gaulle airport sporting two of my bags - the baby blue bowler down by her feet and the tongue-in-cheek mini up on the table. My heart soared, knowing that it was the right thing to let them go. They're off accompanying another dreamer in her pursuit of life and love, continuing the adventure and logging the sights and smells and feelings along the way. Inanimate objects full of life, kind of like the little gnome in the movie Amelie. I love that thought.

Thank you for sharing, Garet! Happy Birthday!

Sipping DC : Day 1

Amidst the racket of bulldozers and a maze of re-directed traffic, I arrive at SOVA Wine & Espresso.

The inside is warm. I sip a cup of Rwandan Zirikana and wind my way through 2 floors of what feels like a homey brownstone. Green, maroon and cinnamon-colored walls, velvet and mohair covered sofas and ottomans, portrait photography and dashed canvases on display, Coltrane pumping, chandeliers dotted about above. It's welcoming, but it's empty. I want to know who lives here. It's not long before I find out.

Looking out the window at the tic--tac-toe of new businesses and boarded up buildings, I see a group crowd the door. They're businessmen in their mid 30s, dressed in all black and carrying briefcases. As they enter and approach the barista, one turns to another and says, "So, do you like H Street?". The man replies, "I do, I lived here back in the 90s when it was much worse. Julie is a little less comfortable at night, but the rent is low and it's near Eastern Market. We signed a 16 month lease." As they collect their steaming mugs, a man bundled in a Redskins jacket walks in. He points at another man at the end of the line and bellows, "Hey, why'd you have to look at me through the window like that, man?!" The accused looks at his accuser in fear, unsure of how he should react. The owner takes care of it saying, "Excuse me?", as he stops tamping and emerges from behind the bar. The accuser stares and eventually paces backwards. His hand finds the knob, then he's gone. We sit and stand in silence, contemplating what's just happened.

Where am I? In the heart of the Atlas District, a 3 block stretch on H Street in the NE section of Capitol Hill. The zone is named after the Atlas, the only community-based performing arts center in DC, affectionately called "the people's Kennedy Center". Since it opened in 2006, it has brought new interest and investment to a part of the city that was destroyed by and has struggled to recover from the riots of the late 1960s. With it has come a new demographic - young, educated, upwardly mobile. It is clear that what I have just witnessed is one of many showdowns staged across urban metropoli. The Gentrifiers vs. The Imposed Upon, The Pioneers vs. The Marginalized. In this instance, the latter group is represented by a black man, the former is majority white. The former gets to stay, the latter knew he had to go.

Having lived in the gentrified neighborhoods of Fort Greene and Clinton Hill, Brooklyn, I can tell you it's never as easy as black and white. (Sorry for the cliche.) There are Gentrifiers of all races, including blacks; not every Imposed Upon is poor, angry and confrontational; not every Pioneer is removed and uninvolved in his new community; not every gentrifying business owner is racist. The owner of SOVA asked the man to leave because he was belligerent and potentially hostile, not because he was black. But one can't ignore the history and the realities that have constructed these social conditions, nor the fact that these battles are often waged along color lines.

As resources and money get even tighter, disparate groups will continue to meet and either choose to engage or remain separate. Cafes and other businesses that serve these communities are poised not only to observe these interactions, but mold them and play a significant part in their outcome. SOVA states it "is about and for the community it's in". I hope it's able to serve the community as a whole. I'll be back to find out.










The view from SOVA's windows


H Street Corridor

Sipping DC

Cafe culture has always been romanticized for me, particularly when I lived in the land of the full-time employed. While rushing back to the office to eat, no inhale, my lunch over my laptop, feverishly typing and making calls, I would fantasize about what it would be like to sit in a cafe all day - sipping coffee, reading, writing, musing, making conversation with strangers. Hmm, sounds lovely doesn't it? I have the time to do that now, and I am slowly giving myself permission to indulge in it. Twiddling my thumbs and waiting for a job interview can be done anywhere, right? Why not have some fun while in my professional purgatory.

Cafe-going is also a wonderful way to get to know a new place. A good cafe keeps the pulse of a community and holds clues as to what's important to its people. Flyers displayed on the counter tell you their issues and interests. Just like a home, furniture, color scheme and other design elements tell you what kind of environment they want to live in. The selection and presentation of coffee and other items on the menu can reveal ideologies and social values. An events calendar lets you know how much its members like to engage with each other, and what about. Like any curated space, a cafe has an identity. And the people who frequent the cafe, making its couch their couch, its music their personal play list, also subscribe to and enhance this identity.

I can think of no better way to reacquaint myself with DC and its communities than to sit in a few of its public living rooms. Each week I will visit a new cafe and report back to you. I'm not sure what the end goal of this project is just yet. Let's just get started.

The Office

Monday morning. Sitting in Busboys & Poets, my "office" for the day. Job hunting in the apartment got old. Today I'm doing my work to the sounds of world music and some good people watching.

I mentioned Busboys & Poets in a previous blog entry. It's named after Langston Hughes who, when busing tables at the Wardman Park Hotel, placed a few of his poems in front of renowned American poet, Nicholas Vachel Lindsay. The next day Lindsay told the world about the "Negro busboy poet" he met. Busboys has been open for about 4 years and has been embraced by the multi-ethnic, artistic and literary crowds that frequent the U Street corridor. They host poetry slams, movie screenings, author talks and musical performances here throughout the week. All in support of dialogue, progress and peace. It's always packed, the vibe is great.

Today I am sitting in a broad circle of communal couches and overstuffed armchairs filled with young people sipping coffee, typing, orchestrating their lives. The energy in here is extremely productive. Notebooks receiving frantic scribbles, upper ear cartilage balancing ballpoint pens, hands bringing phones to ears, greasy fingers punching and staining keys in between bites, mugs collecting on the low coffee table I'm sharing with 1, 2, 3...7 other people. We form a circle of strangers united by the fact that, for one reason or another, we are free to be sitting in this cafe, working on something. Working on getting something to work on, or working on that thing already? If they're like me, it's a little bit of both.

I've had my loveseat to myself for a bit, but just got a neighbor. She smells of smoke and the cold air from outside. She's sitting here, fighting back sniffles with her coat still on, allowing her body to acclimate. l'll do my best to make her feel at home. Let me slide my plate over and put away my sweaty yoga gear. Shouldn't have been out any way, I know. Her breath pattern just synchronized with mine, she's warming up.

A quick gaze over my Macbook reveals a sea of silver and chrome. Compaq, Dell, HP. Where's the bright white or the flashy ebony of another Mac? I guess DC is a PC town. Noted.

Mr. Obama Goes To Washington

On Saturday, I headed back to DC to participate in the event of the year, the century and many centuries past. The Inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama. At this point we have read and, if we were there, have stated the obvious many times over. It was uplifting, tranformative, inspiring, a new beginning, historic, the start of real change. While this account is quickly turning cliche, yesterday was far from run-of-the-mill. And so these expressions, full of love and good energy, are universal and will remain fresh for quite some time.

For me, it was a weekend of blessings and relative ease. Out of the States for the past few months and never really in the know in Washington, I decided early in the game that I'd celebrate and have a good time no matter where I was, no matter who I was with. And it turned out to be a good strategy. Jubilation and celebration were accessible to everyone, from VIPs who had invites to the hottest parties in town and prime seats on the Capitol to the rest of us, who banded together in the bustling streets to whoop and cry and embrace each other. And thank goodness for the hugs, because it was cold! I'm actually sitting here now with my right knee elevated; it's still not defrosted from 6 hours in 8 degree weather yesterday! But it was worth it.

Here are some pictures from the weekend and of our glorious experience on Inauguration Day, tucked right up under the Washington Monument, stamping our feet to keep the blood flowing, in awe.


Monday afternoon on U Street, epicenter of African American history and culture


Obama fused with Lincoln's face


Endless coil of a line outside Busboys & Poets, a relatively new DC institution. A reading by Alice Walker induced the mayhem.


Celebrities and politicians gave interviews around the clock at Ben's Chili Bowl, a neighborhood greasy spoon and meeting spot for civil rights heroes, jazz greats and everyday Washingtonians since 1958


A more tranquil lunch at U-topia


Inauguration Day, navigating the streets in search of an entrance to the Mall


Shout out to MLK on the steps of Constitution Hall. He and Marian Anderson, who was refused the right to sing "My Country 'Tis Of Thee" on these very steps in 1939, are iconic reminders of how far we have come


Food and love were free


The elderly came out in throngs, physical limitations an after thought


After almost 2 hours of re-routes, we approached the Mall. Choral music greeted us, ringing through the barren trees.




Happy we made it!




It was cold, but the sun kissed our day






Bye-Bye, Bush!


Groovin' and Movin'









The morning after, we all have work to do. Let's do it with energy, hope, grace, joy. And purpose.