One of 8 Million: Visit to NYC

Last week on Wednesday my manager at the quilt shop asked if I wanted to take a day off while the new people trained, so what if I took a couple days off and went to NYC, I thought, so that's what I did. I went to New York on Thursday to visit my sister. Flew home on Monday. Back to work Tuesday.
During this visit I spent the weekend getting totally blown to shreds by torrents of rain, getting lost with my broken umbrella in my face and wishing I owned waterproof boots. I used to think I was bound to be a city girl, the artsy one who would love New York, but every time I visit I feel that I was wrong. But every time I visit, the weather is also 99% awful.

My sister, on the other hand, the reader of the family who I imagined would become a horse-riding veterinarian with a cute dog somewhere in the countryside, or maybe the burbs with the rest of us, is the one who thrives there. "Ahh, New York, you are so good to me!" she says to the black dripping sky while I try not to think of the pruniness of my cold, wet toes, even if we're going out for some excellent, excellent Turkish food, which did fill me with the best lamb dish over creamy eggplant.

Anyway, it was good to see Janet. I had a lot of thought provoking experiences. I visited the MOMA and got some great inspiration for future quilting projects. I did some shopping. Janet took me to the showtunes bar she attends weekly where everyone stands around the piano and sings showtunes at the top of their lungs all night. I watched Singing in the Rain for the first time and felt a little less beaten by the weather. And we ate some very, very good food, such as this spicy Sri Lankan dish here: chicken, fish dumpling, eggplant, and egg over seasoned rice, wrapped in banana leaf. Mmm.

On Sunday, I spent the day with my old friend Trevi and his wife Shelley. Trevi baptized me long ago and was a sort of big brother in residence while I was at BYU--we had some great times traveling back in the day.
I have this one memory with Trevi where we were plowing through China Town in San Francisco the summer of '05 trying to catch a ferry out to see Alkatraz. After spending a lot of time in China Town and making a scene in a dim sum place breaking my chopstick and it flinging across the room, we wanted to avoid going back to that place, but were just cutting through to get to the waterfront. Anyway, we're rushing along the sidewalk and something wet splats on my head. Pigeon bomb in my hair. Auuugh! "Oh nooo!" I'm freaking out and we're in a big crowd, but Trevi just laughs it off and pulls me aside to a little corner and cleans up my hair. He just laughs it off--that's Trevi.

We run back to the hotel so I can wash it out, and then we're running up and down those steep San Francisco hills just in time to watch the ferry pull away. So instead we got some sandwiches and fries. He was dating Shelley at the time and we had a had this race over our food to see whose significant other would respond by text the fastest. Shelley lost the race. But they got married. My boyfriend at the time lost the marriage race. Too bad.

So it was wonderful to see them and their two girls, Madelynn (3 months) and Camilla (2). I went to church with them on Sunday. They serve in a deaf ward, so the whole meeting was in ASL. I tried to sign along with the hymns. Really good experience.

I came home from New York with a new spirit to be more of a foodie. That does not mean I will stop shopping at Safeway and travel to downtown Portland for groceries. No. This is not the case. But, I will use Yelp and be more proactive in discovering my city through good eats. Instead of splitting a burger and filling up on all-you-can-eat fries at Red Robin, Sam and I went to the Screen Door ate one of the best meals ever. Sam got the Cascade Natural beef brisket topped with crispy fried onions with a side of horseradish-bacon potato salad. I got crispy fried catfish, a grilled epplant casserole with creole tomatoes and spinach topped with garlicky bechamel and breadcrumbs, cornbread, and a side of white cheddar and scallion griddle cakes topped with steamy sauteed pepper relish.

There's something to learn from New Yorkers. Eat less. Walk more. Sing more. Eat well.

Existentialism, Chocolate, and Quilting

Sam's out of town, training and stuff in St. Charles. I'm home. It's quiet. I cleaned up a little. Cheri and Sydney are visiting tomorrow. I've been watching the old black-and-white The Diary of Anne Frank movie that I haven't seen since seventh grade. It's quiet.

I'm feeling today that I am a very fortunate person. Blessed in many ways, if you're the type who considers your good fortune from a source other than yourself. I am lucky. I think I've had my fair share of curses, difficulties, brain defects, family issues, whatever. Yeah. Whatever.

I think the development of my analytical mind came to a halt junior year of high school with F. Scott Fitgerald and Hemingway and Tim O'Brien, and I may forever be an existentialist. Because every other day it seems I'm asking myself what it's all for, what it's all about, and if what I'm doing in this time in my life is worthwhile in the grand scheme. Am I leaving a mark on the world? If terminal illness came my way, would I be happy with what I have accomplished? Yes. Yes, I would. In some ways, I feel I have seen and done so much in my life that I can't ask for more, I can't expect more triumph and adventure, I can't keep taking and taking and taking for myself. I'm not sure what I can permit myself to expect of my future.

And yet, I feel this persistence, like I need to accomplish something great, I need to learn something worthwhile--more more, give me more--I need to experience something I may never have the opportunity to experience again, like a job at McDonald's with the Mexicans or how to be an expert quilter (or even just a beginner) from the women at Hollyhill, where I work now. So I've traveled the world. I've met famous people. I've accomplished remarkable things. I have a college education. What does it matter? Is that what life is all about? I'm not sure.

I used to suspect that because throughout my life I lean towards the color blue, I have sought to fill my life with red--with passion, and adventure, and meaningfull/meaningless accomplishments.

I've cut all the squares for my first quilt and laid them out. Can I change the world through blankets? Warmth? By cutting fabric?

The women who come into Hollyhill are overcome. It is like a chocolaterie with shelves of dipped coconut bars, dark powdered truffles, sugared almonds and red velvet cake drizzled with cocoa and flakes of nutmeg. I didn't even know that quilting fabrics are cut and packaged like baked goods--depending on the cut, size, and packaging, the fabric is wrapped and sold in honeybuns, jelly rolls, sweet rolls, and turnovers. The lint particles are crumbs. Only when the women partake, they don't feel so guilty--you can't get fat from fabric. In fact, the obsession of cutting and sewing and stitching for hours draws you away from your other gluttonous habits--it is an exercise of the mind. It can be mathematical, or it can be art. It can be both.

When I cut fabric for them I ask them what they are making. I feel like by asking what they are making, they will verbalize what they envision their project to be and they will feel more obligated to complete this project. So many projects go undone. So many art supplies and craft supplies and fabrics with such potential are bought and never used or assembled into a finished product.

Some of them tell me they're buying the last few yards for a project near completion. Very admirable. Some tell me they're buying the fabric because the fabric is beautiful, but admit that what they purchase will likely become another unfinished project--more cotton scraps in a bin--but the shop is too tempting. The building blocks are too enticing.

What I mean to say is that building blocks are meant for building. The unfinished project is something I don't want in my life, whether it is a marriage or family incomplete by lack of communication or love, or a quilt on the dining area floor.

In some ways, it's all the same.