I'm totally dressed like a biker chick today.

A few months ago I bought a pair of motorcycle boots. I didn't need them, and I really couldn't afford them, but I bought them anyway. See, the building I work in is across the street from a mall, and for one reason or another I end up walking through the mall at least once a week. Most of the time I'm literally going through the mall to get to someplace on the other side--bank, grocery store, what have you--and I avoid actually going into any stores. The one exception is Nordstrom, because as it happens, the mall entrance that is closest to my building leads directly into it. More specifically, it leads directly into the shoe department. This is dangerous.

I am by no means a shoe freak, especially compared to...well, the majority of women, if you believe the movies. On a shoe-craziness scale of one to ten, I'm a two at best. Still, I am not wholly immune to their charms, and walking through Nordstrom's shoe department on a regular basis means I am frequently exposed to the siren call of footwear. In fact, right now I can picture the exact location on the sales floor of a pair of silver-sequined Chuck Taylors, and can even hear them faintly calling: "Jenny...buy us...buuuuuyyyyyy uuuuuussssss...."

Ahem. So yeah, I kept passing by these motorcycle boots--the real deal, hand-crafted, built to last--for weeks on end, and I'd always wanted a pair, and I finally broke down. I don't regret it, even though I'm still having to cut back on discretionary spending to defray the expense. They're fucking awesome.

I'm wearing them today specifically because I have a hair appointment later and I want to show them off to my stylist. I'm also wearing jeans--my office is very casual--which are being held up by the only belt I currently own, a black one encrusted with silver studs. I have a nice black top on, so I still look professional, especially since I sit at a desk and most people only see the top half of me. Except, it's really cold in the office today, so I put a hoodie on over my top. It's a Harley-Davidson hoodie. It's black and says "H-D Riders" across the chest in bright orange letters. It also says "Live to Ride" down the right sleeve. I just took a walk to the mail room, and as I was waiting for the elevator I suddenly became conscious of the fact that, with the boots, the jeans, the belt, and the hoodie, I totally look like a biker chick right now.

Oh, the hoodie also has lettering on the back: "Chick's Harley-Davidson, Albuquerque, New Mexico". I got it when I took riding lessons there. They didn't go so well.

It all started with Justine Shapiro. Do you guys ever watch Globe Trekker? It's a travel show on PBS. It was inspired by the Lonely Planet series of guidebooks, so it's hipper than the average travel show, and the hosts try to dig beneath the touristy surface of the places they visit to get at the real culture. Justine is one of the hosts. She's also an actor and an Oscar-nominated documentary filmmaker. She's smart, funny, very cute, a bit of a snob, and I'm totally in love with her.

One of the shows she hosted covered the Southwestern US. She seemed less than thrilled about that particular assignment, and was hilariously bitchy about it at first. Eventually she came around though--it's so beautiful there, how could you not? At one point she rented a motorcycle to drive between Santa Fe and Taos, which I found both really sexy and kind of inspiring. I'd never felt the desire to ride a motorcycle before, but watching Justine do it I suddenly did. I started thinking about how cool it would be to ride a bike through the desert, and the more I thought about it the more I started to really like the idea.

So I looked around for a place where I could learn to ride, and found Chick's, the only local dealer that offered courses approved by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. Their Basic Rider course is a three-day affair: four hours of classroom training on a Friday evening followed by sixteen hours on a bike over Saturday and Sunday. I signed up, and a few weeks later, ridiculously early on a Saturday morning, I found myself in a huge empty parking lot, astride a motorcycle for the first time in my life (excepting the couple of times I'd ridden behind someone else, which doesn't really count). The bike they use for the course is the Buell Blast, a small(ish), relatively lightweight American-made cycle.

Sort of goofy-looking, but you've gotta start somewhere.

At first everything was great, as we learned to start and stop the bike, put it into gear, and drive slowly in a straight line. Things got more complicated as we worked on turning, using the complex and not-at-all intuitive method called countersteering. Nonetheless, I got a basic feel for it, and started to feel pretty good about myself and my fast-growing skills. Unfortunately, to that point we'd been doing everything in first gear, and the next part of the course was shifting. This was my downfall.

My dad once tried to teach me to drive a manual transmission automobile, an experience that proved highly frustrating for both of us. My problem was letting the clutch out too quickly, causing the car to lurch and stall. I ended up having the same difficulty with the motorcycle. I started to get really stressed as the other women got the hang of it (I forgot to mention that this particular class was women-only) and went flying around the lot, while I stalled my bike over and over. Eventually I started having trouble even getting it into first, and at one point I ended up falling over with the bike on top of me. Remember when I described the Blast as "relatively lightweight"? Well, when it falls on top of you, you really understand what they mean by "relatively". The instructor had to help extricate me, and I had a couple of lovely bruises the next day.

As the class was winding down for the day, we were called upon to put all of the skills we'd learned so far to use. When I stalled the bike for about the forty-kajillionth time, the stress finally became too much and I started crying. Man, I do not like crying in public, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is because I am an ugly crier. My nose turns bright red, my face contorts spastically...it's gross. It had to be quite a picture, a grown woman sitting on a motorcycle sobbing hysterically. I was too embarrassed and upset to go back the next day, and so I never finished the course and never got the motorcycle endorsement on my license.

Why am I talking about this now? I guess 'cause of the boots. But also because Portland Community College offers rider courses, and I'm thinking about trying it again this spring. I get a little stressed just thinking about it, but I still want to ride a bike through the desert one day.

An Open Letter To The Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day

Dear Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day,

I don’t remember when it was that I first took notice of you, but I know that it was your style of dress that caught my eye. With your vintage/thrift store dresses, tights, and ballerina flats, you remind me of this girl I had a crush on when I worked at Brentano’s in the Bridgewater Commons Mall, some twenty years ago. Urgh, what was her name? It escapes me now. She worked a couple of doors down at the store that sold fancy stationery. Actually, you know what, when your hair was long and all one length, you reminded me a lot of early-’80s Natalie Merchant, and let me tell you, that’s a major compliment. I thought she was the coolest chick in the world back then.

Then you got your hair cut, shoulder-length and layered, with side-swept bangs. At first I was all, “Wha-huh?”, but then I saw how it enhanced your Eastern European features. Seriously, you have the most amazing face. You look like a lost member of the Romanovs--like you should always be sepia-toned and wearing a high lace collar. I wonder what your ethnic ancestry really is.

But mostly what I wonder about you, Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day, is why you are always late for the train. We take the same train every day, and every day it arrives at our stop at the same time. Yet every day you come speed-walking along the platform, heading for the ticket machine, while the train is already bearing down on the station. I have to admit I get all angsty on your behalf, especially knowing how peevish those machines can be. Sometimes as I step onto the train I catch a glimpse of you at the other end, bending over to collect your ticket from the tray, or even still feverishly pushing buttons, and I have to turn away, because I can’t stand the thought of that robotic voice intoning, with its grave finality, “The doors…are closing,” and you furrowing your side-swept-bang-covered brow in frustration as you stand there, freshly minted ticket in hand, while the train pulls away and its work-bound riders look dully on. This morning you were even later than usual, and actually had to run the last half-block to beat the doors. My breakfast of shredded wheat, banana, and soymilk was burbling around in my stomach as I nervously but silently cheered you on, and I was thrilled that you made it--but then I started to worry that because you hadn’t bought a ticket, you’d get a citation from a fare inspector. Fortunately (?), there’s almost never a fare inspector on our train. Thank heaven for TriMet’s poor planning, right? By the way, I liked your purple umbrella, and I made a little joke to myself, asking where your fifty-cent hat was.

But again, I’m wondering: why don’t you leave your house just a minute or two earlier? Look, I’m forever running late myself, so it’s not like I’m not sympathetic, but I know exactly how long it takes for me to walk at a comfortable pace from my house to the station, and no matter what, I make sure I’m out the door in time to arrive before the train does. Also, why do you continue to buy single tickets from the machine? Those machines were built by the minions of Mephistopheles. Since it appears that you work downtown, why not stop in at Pioneer Square or PSU and pick up a ten-pack, or better yet, a monthly pass? Seriously, I’m not saying this just because I work at a place that sells passes. It’s not like I get a commission or anything. But trust me, you will love having that pass in your wallet and knowing that you can hop on a train, bus, or streetcar anytime it strikes your fancy, without having to worry about buying a ticket. And this month they are a lovely pumpkin orange.

I know I work in alternative transportation, Cute Eastern-European-Looking Girl Who Rides The MAX With Me Every Day, but I am not proselytizing. I am thinking only of you.

Love,
Jenny

Il était avec son chien.

Sixty-eight years ago on this date, a dog fell in a hole. In France. The dog's name was Robot.

You guys know that I'm a cat person, but it's a good thing Robot's master wasn't, since a cat would likely have noticed the hole and gone around it. But Robot, probably galumphing along after a rabbit or something, tongue trailing like Isadora Duncan's scarf, did not notice the hole. He plunged straight down and couldn't get out again.

To rescue the pup, Robot's master and his three friends clambered down into the hole, which turned out to be a cave, and a rather large one at that. It also turned out that les quatre garçons were not the first humans to have visited the cave. Some seventeen millennia prior, a number of highly skilled Cro-Magnon artists had covered its walls and ceiling with thousands of paintings of animals, for reasons that are still being debated.

The reasons, while they'd be nice to know, aren't important ultimately. What's important is that the Lascaux cave paintings are among the first expressions of the human spirit through the medium of art. They're also breathtakingly beautiful.

Horsie!

I've been fascinated by cave paintings ever since I took a two-semester survey of art history during my first year of college. (That course, by the way, remains one of my favorite educational investments. I love the fact that I can identify a Modigliani on sight, or point out the differences between Gothic and Romanesque architecture, or discuss the significance of the archaic smile. I love even more the fact that those things have actually come up in recent conversations.) When C.* and I went to France in 1996, one of the things I most wanted to do was see some actual cave paintings. Lascaux itself has long been closed to the general public, after it was discovered that the build-up of carbon monoxide from the exhalations of thousands of visitors was causing the paintings to fade. (And apparently there's a now a serious threat from fungi--see here. I haven't had time to peruse that site yet, but I definitely plan to. If there's anything we can do, we need to do it.) A replica cave was built down the road from the actual site, and it's supposed to be quite popular, but...if it ain't the real thing, I'm just not interested.

Anyway, I learned of another site near Les Eyzies (and if you're not in a random-link-following mood, the Les Eyzies tourist office would like you to know that it "proposes you to discover its local gastronomy" and "its lodgings of quality in hotels, campings and lodgings") that is not nearly as spectacular as Lascaux, but does offer the chance to view some actual Paleolithic paintings and carvings.

Well, to make a long story short, manipulating the French rail system to get where we wanted to go and do what we wanted to do in the time we had allotted proved too daunting a task. We ended up in a town about 10 km away from Les Eyzies called Sarlat. It has a gorgeous medieval center and great food (Southwest France being the truffle capital of the world, everything had shaved truffles on it--yum), and we stayed in the home of une très gentille dame who spoke no English, which meant I actually got to use my French.

The market square in Sarlat. Seriously.

On our one full day there, we decided to head out to the Dordogne River, some 5 km south, where we'd heard we could rent a canoe. We'd planned to just walk there, but once we got out on the road we realized how extraordinarily hot it was, and decided to hitch a ride instead. I remember almost nothing about the guy who picked us up or his car, because he proceeded to drive at such breakneck speeds that I was unable to unglue my eyes from the road that I was certain we were all about to be splattered upon. I do remember asking, in a vague attempt to engage him in conversation and perhaps get him to slow down, "Alors, est-ce qu'il fait toujours aussi chaud qu'il fait aujourd'hui?" or, roughly, "So, is it always this fucking hot?" His reply, in toto: "Non." Fortunately it was a short ride.

We got to the river in one piece, and got our canoe. There were several other parties who set out at the same time, but as everyone set their own pace we all drifted further from one another, and soon C. and I had the river to ourselves. The water was placid, the scenery was beautiful, the sky was cloudless, and the sun was...hot. I mentioned before that it was really hot, right? Well, now that it was midday and we were out on the water with no shade of any kind, it was really really hot. We started to talk about going for a dip in the river. But as the town where we'd started out fell behind, sheer cliffs began to rise on either side of us, and there was no longer any riverbank where we might beach our canoe. Also, we hadn't had the foresight to bring our bathing suits.

Not us, nor the actual spot. But you get the idea.

Then we rounded a bend, and saw a tiny half-moon of sand and gravel at the base of the cliffs on our right. Up ahead, as behind us, the river curved out of sight. We'd found our spot. We beached the boat, and quickly stripped off our clothes and plunged in. Can you believe that, until that point, I'd never been skinny-dipping before? And the sun was so hot, and that water was soooo deliciously cold, that even though I must've swum in scores of different rivers in my life, not to mention various other bodies of water, I can still remember how that particular water felt against my skin.

At first we were laughing and splashing around, as you do when you're naked in a river. But soon, for reasons neither of us did or could articulate, we fell silent. In fact, it seemed as if the whole world fell silent, except for the soft murmur of the river.

I looked up at the cliffs surrounding us and noticed for the first time that they were pockmarked with small caves. Was it possible, I wondered, that those caves had been used by the Paleolithic humans who'd flourished here so many thousands of years ago? Would they even have been able to reach them? How different was the landscape then, with Europe still emerging from an ice age? It didn't really matter. But for our canoe and our clothes, discarded behind us on the tiny beach, there was nothing of the modern world about. And we, naked under the summer sun, were no different than those who might have laughed and splashed there millennia before. I began to feel a presence in that gorge, as though the benevolent spirits of the long-vanished Magdalenians who had called this land home were looking down upon us from those ancient cliffs. Some of them could conceivably have been my ancestors, but even if they weren't they were my human sisters and brothers, connected to me across time by the same desires and curiosities we all experience. I feel like we generally imagine Paleolithic life to have been harsh, but the abstract of that Britannica article I just linked to indicates that the Magadalenians "lived a semisettled life surrounded by abundant food" and had leisure time in which to create their art, so the calm benevolence of their spirits doesn't seem strange.

It was an incredibly powerful and very real sensation, and I knew that we were both feeling it. We didn't speak for several minutes. We were spellbound.

Finally, the sound of voices from around the bend broke the spell. A canoe came into sight, its occupants chattering loudly. We crouched down to hide our bodies and, after the boat had passed, realized we'd better be getting on so we didn't arrive at the end of the course late and miss our ride back to the starting point.

I'd still like to get back and see the cave paintings at some point. But if I had to miss them, it was worth it for the experience I had on the river that day.


*From time to time there are people I need to talk about on this blog, but either I don't want to mention their names, or I worry that they might not want me to mention their names. So I've decided to do the coy initial thing.

Un' arancia in Italia

One of my co-workers is eating an orange. Just now I walked over to the printer, not expecting to smell anything except perhaps the wart remover lately being applied by another co-worker, and passed right through a cloud of olfactory delight. I stopped, staring out the window at the gorgeous sunny day--Portland is gettin' its spring on, albeit temporarily--and that whole Proustian thing about smell and memory kicked in.

Verona, Italy, almost 11 years ago. A morning in late June. I was sitting on a bench in a piazza in the sun--the Italian sun!--with a cup of coffee, some sort of pastry, and an orange. I had bought everything by pointing at it and saying, "Uno, per favore," which was pretty much the extent of my Italian. That and buon giorno, buona sera, and grazie.

The previous evening my traveling companion and I had eaten in what was essentially a cafeteria--you grab a tray, go down a line, and pick out what you want--but it was like, the cafeteria that they would have in Heaven. Everything was beautiful, and fresh, and cheap, and really really good. There was this soup that I wanted to have, but I was a strict vegetarian at the time and I thought there might be meat in it. "Do you speak English?" I asked the signorina with the ladle in her hand. She nodded. "Is there meat in the soup?" A blank stare. "Um. Vous parlez français?" A more vigorous nod this time. "Est-ce qu'il y a de la viande dans la soupe?" A more vigorous blank stare, if that's possible. Ah, well, no soup for me. It's my own fault for going to Italy without knowing any Italian.

A true sign of my dorkiness? When I got home I learned how to ask about meaty soup in Italian: C'é carne nella zuppa? (That may not be exactly right, but it would have gotten the job done.)

This post has no point, except to say that I once ate an orange in Verona. And that I want to go back to Italy. I think I'll go see if I can find a night class in Italian....