The Arrival

I imagined the flight from LA to Auckland would be 13 hours of torture. I envisioned being trapped in the window seat, needing to pee constantly but wary of waking my sleeping neighbors, unable to sleep, seated next to some overweight, smelly man who wanted to chat endlessly. I suspected that every second would feel similar to someone taking a tiny needle and poking me in the eye with it repeatedly. To my pleasant surprise, this was not the case. I was seated next to a very cheerful couple from Auckland who gave me some great tips and only chatted me up for the last 30 minutes of the flight. I slept for 8 hours, watched a cheesy, but entertaining movie called Adventureland and witnessed a breathtaking sunrise over the horizon of puffy white clouds somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. It may have been the easiest (nevermind the only) 13 hour flight I've ever taken!

The other fortunate event was meeting an English woman named Maz while waiting for the bus from the airport to the city. She was on the same flight from LA and is also traveling alone. She and I have spent the last few days sightseeing together and she has quickly become a fantastic travel companion. The only problem is that her thick Cockney accent allows me to understand only about 50% of what she says and it's likely I'll start using words like "bloody," "diabolical" and "half six" as compared to six-thirty.

I've spent the weekend here in Auckland. I can't say I've really fallen in love with this city, but I suppose it's a good jumping off place. It is, perhaps, the cleanest city I've ever been. There is no trash on the streets, no homelessness and seemingly very little crime. The downside to this city is that there is very little character. The buildings look like those you may find in Any City, U.S.A. The racial diversity is lacking: there are Pacific Islanders, Asians, Whites and Indians, but I haven't seen a single Black or Hispanic person. And from what I can tell, the American restaurants outnumber the local ones. There are at least 6 Subway sandwich eatiers within a 12 block radius, a couple of McDonald's, a Burger King, a Wendy's and a couple of Starbucks.

Tomorrow is when the “adventure” part of this whole adventure really begins… Maz and I set off on a driving expedition to Waitomo, where we’ll put on full-body wetsuits, grab an inner-tube and float through caves illuminated by glow worms. Should be bloody brilliant!

Reading: Almost French by Sarah Turnbull (thanks Robyn)

Listening: Computer Love by Glass Candy

Eating: The best fish & chips I've ever had from Ponsonby Fish & Chips

Ode to Coffee

I love coffee.  Hot or iced, cappuccino or latte, Guatemalan or Colombian... it's all good.  I'm pretty much useless without that first cup of coffee in the morning and sometimes I treat myself to a little late afternoon re-caffeination as needed.  Coffee is my friend.  In fact, I'm enjoying a freshly brewed cup as I write this.

In terms of the strength and flavor, I prefer Peet's over Starbucks. But after reading "How Starbucks Saved My Life: A Son of Privilege Learns to Live Like Everyone Else" by Michael 

Gates Gill, I may start frequenting Starbucks just for the experience. The book is the true story of an advertising executive who spent 25 years with the agency J. Walter Thompson,  only to get laid off at age 53.  After 10 years of a dwindling consultancy business and desperate for an income and health care benefits for his family, he takes a job at Starbucks. The story resonates with me for obvious reasons (think advertising layoff victim with love of coffee).  But I also love it because it's a story about making lemonade out of lemons, or in this case, frappuccinos out of ice.  

A side effect of reading this is that I now have a personal appreciation for the hard work all Starbucks baristas do.  There is a passage about Mike's first opening shift, which he aptly compares to running with the bulls in Pamplona.  The mad scurry to get the pastries neatly set out, the sandwiches stacked, the coffee brewed, the iced tea made, the cash register counted and a million other things accomplished all before the bulls start running in for their fix at 6:00 a.m. sharp. 

The other appreciation I've gained is for the unique company culture Starbucks has fostered.  It is a culture of equality, respect and personal well being.  Did you know if you worked part-time for Starbucks making coffee that you are entitled to comprehensive medical insurance including vision and dental?  I don't even think my health insurance covered vision!  Starbucks will also fund education for its staff... a benefit very few companies these days offer.

The baristas are not told to do their work, they are asked if they are able, if they would mind or whether can do a favor for someone else.  It is an egalitarian system where differences in job title or salary are not emphasized in favor of respecting and honoring the work that each individual contributes as part of a well-oiled team.  The goal is to encourage each "partner" to do their personal best in order to elevate the quality of the experience for everyone who walks through the door, partners and customers alike.

Ok, I'm getting a little preachy now, so I'll stop.  But the point I want to make is that it's incredibly refreshing given the current economic situation to know that there are companies who look out for their employees and value the contributions of those at the bottom of the company's hierarchy just as much as those at the top.  It is company who understands that when employees are happy, customers are happy.  Considering I've spent my entire adult career in a business where personal sacrifice is expected and the needs of the client always come before the personal needs of the agency staff, this idea is truly remarkable to me.  

Let's see... I will eventually need a job again.  I don't want to work the crazy hours I worked in my past life.  I want to be part of a team and respected as an individual.  I want great health care benefits.  And let's not forget my love of coffee... Who knows?  Your next grande caramel macchiato with an add shot could be made by yours truly.  Now, I just wonder if they'd meet my salary requirements ;)?

Since this book, and therefore this post, would not exist without that magical beverage that has captivated people for centuries, I would like to leave you with a poem.

Ode to Coffee

Oh coffee, you are so good to me

My eyes don't want to open, but you help me to see

The day begins with that very first sip

There's nothing better than the sweet taste on my lips

Mug in my hand

And a smile so grand

Ready to face the day

With you, is the only way

You give me a perk

So I'm not a grumpy jerk

You are delicious and hot

Especially straight from the pot

Without you I'd be tired

A day begun, already expired

So it is here I wish to thank you

For the wonderful things you do

Hip hip hooray for coffee, espresso and milk

Hot, steaming and delicious, every sip smooth as silk

You greet me each day in your own special way

Without you I'd be lost, blue skies would turn grey

Oh coffee, how I love thee

A great pair: you and me

I will never cheat on you with tea

Even though you constantly make me pee!

The Cat Whisperer

Well, you wouldn't believe this, but I have a secret talent: I speak Meow.  I understand everything my cat Annie says, which is a lot.  So I thought I would take this opportunity to fill you in on her big adventure down south.  Here's how the conversation went: 

Me (M): Hi Annie

Annie (A):  Meow (translation: hello)

M: Do you miss San Francisco?

A: Well I really liked our apartment there.  I loved to look out the window, especially on Sunday mornings when there was a Farmer's market and tons of kids and dogs and such to watch.   And I miss scratching the yellow reading chair.  I know you paid a lot of money for it and it used to make you mad, but it felt really good to dig my claws in real deep and pull out as hard as I could.  I loved to watch the yellow threads fray and sometimes a little stuffing would come out too.  That made me feel good, like I was really strong and brave.

M: How was the 8 hour car ride to Los Angeles?

A: At first I really didn't like it.  I had only ever been in a car a couple

times before and for not very long at all.  But once I found the perfect spot to settle in, I was fine.  I would have been happier if I could have sat by your feet in between the gas and the brake pedals, but you were not very understanding about that and made me move.  I thought that was a little rude considering the stress I was under, but you kept talking about safety.  Whatever.

M: Can you tell me about the arrival home and meeting mom's cat Bear for the first time?

A: Yeah, I was scared at first.  Bear is big and black and she likes to stare at me with those yellow eyes.  It's kinda creepy.  But once I realized that she really just wants to be my friend and she's pretending not to like me since she's old and crotchety, it was easier.  When I got the nerve to go upstairs for the first time, I was mesmerized.  There are so many chairs to sit on and balconies to go out on, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen.  Bear doesn't like it when I go in mom's room, but I do it anyway.  I don't really care what she says because sticks and stones may break my bones, but meows will never hurt me.  And also, I'm rubber and she's glue, so what she meows bounces off me and sticks to her.  So there!

M: Ok, ok, now settle down.  There's no reason to get upset.  

A: Meow, meow (translation: I'm hungry.  Feed me.)

M: What's your favorite part about being in Southern California?

A: I get to go outside.  I wasn't allowed to go outside in San Francisco, but here I can go outside as much as I want.  I like to watch the bugs, chew on the plants, smell the rocks and trees and lots of other stuff too.  There is this really mean neighbor cat who tries to come into our backyard, so I also have to tell her who's boss.  Sometimes she meows really low to try to intimidate me, but I'm not scared of her.  I just hold my ground and meow back until she goes away.  At first, you, mom and Jerry thought there were babies crying in the backyard, but it was just me being tough.  Did I mention that I'm really brave?

M: Well it sounds like you're adjusting to your new life quite nicely.  Is there anything else you want to tell the readers?

A: Yes... just that I'm getting ready to write an autobiography called "A Cat's Life: The Trials and Tribulations of Living with Humans" and I encourage them to look for it on Amazon.com in the future.  I'm also trying to break into modeling.  I'd love to do a spread in Cat Fancy, so if anyone knows any editors there, please put in a good meow for me. Purrs of encouragement, catnip or cans of Friskies (I only eat the seafood flavors) can be sent to me here in Redondo Beach.  Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meoooow. (translation: I'm still hungry.  Is it time to eat yet?  Oh, and goodbye).

Puzzled

Countdown: 12 days until I finally board my first flight to New Zealand.  It's crunch time! 

Time is moving both painfully slow and faster than I can handle.  On the one hand, I've been planning this trip for months now, and there's a part of me that feels like I just need to get on the airplane already.  Like a kid on a long road trip, I just wanna ask, "Are we there yet?"  I've done so much research and seen so many Flickr photos, that in a way, I sort of feel like I've already gone.

On the other hand, time is moving faster than the speed of light.  12 days to do everything left to do and see everyone I need to see before I go seems like an impossible task.

But time is not under my control and August 5th will arrive sometime between the 4th and 6th, whether I like it or not.  So, I'm trying to go with the flow.

I've been working on this jigsaw puzzle (please refrain from cheap shots on my obvious geekiness), and it may sound crazy, but there are some similarities between working on a puzzle and life.  Doing a puzzle is a combination of paying attention to the details and seeing the big picture.  You have to notice the most minute changes in shape or texture to find just the right piece.  But sometimes, if you get too caught up looking for a piece the way you imagine it should be, you never find it.  It's only when you take a step back and stop looking so hard, that it appears right in front of you.  Those pieces often start a new pattern: an edge of a woman's dress, the basket of a hot air balloon, the ear of little white kitten (yes, I realize I'm inviting an onslaught of teasing with that one).  

What I'm getting at, is that we often imagine our lives playing out in a particular way.  We think about the future, about what we want to happen entirely based on our present reality.  What we don't take into account is that our lives often unfold in pleasant and unexpected ways when we turn our head for a moment.  The next piece of the puzzle falls into place when we stop trying so hard and let it happen naturally.

I've been so focused on the details of this trip (which bungee jump I may muster the courage to do, which hostels have free wifi, which bank account charges the lowest international transaction fee, etc.) that I've lost track of the big picture.  This trip is about opening myself up to new possibilities.  It's about taking a break from the monotony and shaking things up a bit.  The bottom line is that it doesn't matter where I go, which hostel I stay in, which adventure sports I'm brave enough to endure.  All that matters is that I lose focus long enough to let things unfold as they should.  When I stop searching so hard and let my glance fall sideways, the unexpected delights of life seem to present themselves.  

Where I go, when I return, and everything in between will be exactly unlike anything I currently imagine.  It's like working on a puzzle without having a reference image on the box.  I just need to put the pieces together intuitively, without expectation, and everything will fall perfectly into place.

A Shopper's Repentance

The boxes are unpacked. Well, I should clarify. I unpacked the cardboard boxes and re-packed the items into nice plastic ones with labels. A new layer of boxes now adorns my mother's garage, neatly stacked and organized for maximum accessibility.

This whole moving thing has made me realize a lot of things. One of those is that I am a clotheshorse. I condensed my important belongings from my one bedroom apartment into 12 plastic containers, 4 small cardboard boxes and an assortment of miscellaneous items tightly packed in Jen's basement. Out of the 12 plastic containers, 11 of them are shoes, purses, tops, pants, dresses, sweaters or sweatshirts. I think I could easily wear a new outfit every day for a year without repeating.

The irony is that it seems every time I look in my closet I have absolutely nothing to wear. Why is that? It's not like I've changed dress sizes much over the past 5 years and most of what I buy wouldn't be considered "trendy." I try to stick to the basics, the classics. And yet, I always have a desire to walk into a store, try something on, and justify why I need it. "I don't have a cardigan with POCKETS in this color." Or, "My black flats have silver on the buckle, so I need a pair to go with GOLD jewelry." It's really quite disgusting when you're faced with the flat truth that you have an addiction.

Is there a 12 step program for this? Maybe it would go something like this.

Step 1 - Admit that you are powerless to walking past a store with a cute window display and cannot stop yourself from going in and at least trying something on.

Step 2 - Come to believe that there is a power greater than yourself who can grab you by the arms and shake you vigorously every time you reach a cash register and question "Do you really NEED this?"

Step 3 - Make a decision to turn your will into willpower and refrain from using the credit card with a really high limit.

Step 4 - Make a searching and fearless inventory... of our CLOSET, so as not to duplicate purchases.

Step 5 - Admit to everyone around you that you are a shopaholic (as done via blog post).

Step 6 - Have god, or in this instance, the Salvation Army, remove all of these surplus items from said closet.

Step 7 - Stop shopping.

Step 8 - Make a list of people to make amends with, including sales girl at Nordstrom that you asked to get you 6 different dresses in 3 different sizes and then didn't buy any of them, or fellow shopper who you carelessly pushed aside so you could snag the last clearance pair of Marc Jacobs shades, and so on and so forth.

Step 9 - Make amends with these people, if you can find them. If not, make amends via blog post.

Step 10 - Continue to take personal inventory of your closet and vigilantly refrain from adding to it, despite major temptations like Macy's 4th of July sale, etc.

Step 11 - Constantly pray to god, or follow Suze Orman's Twitter posts, in order to attain knowledge and power so as to not be tempted by your addiction.

Step 12 - Carry this message to other addicts (as done via blog post).

Wow. I feel much better already. I guess this 12 step stuff really works. Now onto other things...

I wonder how late Loehman's is open?

Liminality

We hit the road at 10:38 a.m. yesterday morning. Me, my mom, my cat Annie and the last vestiges of my belongings packed tightly into the '94 Camry. By my mother's request, we took the more scenic route 101. We saw trees, the ocean, 8 In-n-Out Burgers, 7 Starbucks and a whole lot of Santa Barbara traffic. We pulled into the driveway of 1631 Carlson Lane at 7:24 p.m. Let's just say it was a long drive. But we made it, accident free in more ways than one (think mechanical breakdowns, traffic accidents and bowel movements of a certain feline creature).

So a new chapter has begun, the chapter of life back home for a month or so while I put the finishing touches on my travel plans and visit some old friends. It's not so much of a chapter as it is an interlude. If I think back to my college days studying anthropology, I may even call it a period of liminality. Liminality is an idea that people go through transitions in their life and the period in between those phases is neither one nor the other. In our society, liminality occurs somewhere between high school and college. It's the time when you're neither a child nor an adult. You've turned 18, but still live at home for the summer. You're about to move out of your parent's house, but still need them to pay your bills. You are betwixt and between life stages.

I have met another liminal moment. I have given up my cute apartment in the city for a room in my mother's house. My fabulously frivolous life in San Francisco has been temporarily replaced by a thrifty existence back home. It's sort of a reverse Rite of Passage. I'm returning, for a bit, to a way of life that is strikingly similar to my teenage summers. Only this time, there is no curfew, no summer reading list, no minimum wage job at the local frozen yogurt shop. I'm transitioning from the responsibility of adulthood to the carefree life of a teenager.

And as I've grown older and hopefully a tinge wiser, I'm realizing that transitions bring the unexpected. When I put myself in situations where I don't have the outcome fully mapped, new and exciting experiences unfold. I open myself up to possibilities not yet considered and the spectacular happens. Somewhere between employment and funemployment, I'm rediscovering my life and my dreams. It's a little cheesy, I realize, but this period of liminality is a time to learn and grow. To not be tied down by obligations and responsibilities. To take life as it comes and not plan every waking moment, so as to be open to the incredible when it crosses your path.

It's a time to choose the scenic route. Even if it means the cat may piss on the upholstery.

Stuff-ocation

Moving is always a journey through time. You find the things you haven't seen or thought about for months, maybe years. Thousands of decisions on what to keep, what to sell and what to throw away are made in a matter of days. Objects I paid $100 for I'm willing to take $5 for in return. The process really makes you question what your Stuff (with a capital "S") is worth.

The value of Stuff is measured in two ways: the going rate for the object itself and the emotional attachment we place on it. My copy of J.D. Salinger's "Franny & Zooey" is a perfect example of an object worth more to me than its original value or the value I could get trying to selling it. This particular book is the 12th edition printed in 1962. It originally sold for $3.50. It was purchased by a friend of mine for probably around the same price at a used bookstore and given to me as a gift. I may get $0.50 at a garage sale for it and absolutely nothing on Amazon.com since it's about as beaten up as a book can get.

But my association with this book is important to me. It takes me back to age 16, when I used to skip school to read fiction and play backgammon at my local coffee house. I remember this book on the dashboard of my 1984 Honda Accord, a Marlboro Light in my hand and a feeling of utter intellectual rebellion, knowing an afternoon spent reading this genius work of fiction was far more valuable than an afternoon spent in Home Economics. I love how torn and tattered this book is, evidence that it was savored by more than a few souls, carried in purses, taken to the beach and pondered over a cup of strong coffee. How could I give up an object imbued with so many memories for just a couple of quarters?

Well I can't. The book is packed up to make the long trip home. But take that book and add another 200 more and all of a sudden I'm looking at $150 in shipping costs to get these paper treasures safely into my mom's garage. So what's a poor, funemployed soul to do with all this Stuff? Make decisions I guess. Give up one object to keep another. Ship some Stuff, store some Stuff, give a bunch of Stuff away.

We are a society of Stuff. We work so we can buy Stuff. We buy Stuff so we can look cool. We get rid of Stuff to make room for new Stuff. Then we define ourselves, in a way, by the Stuff we manage to acquire over our lifetime. In fact, our Stuff is so important to us that we write down what's supposed to happen with it after we die. I'm Stuff-ocating with all this Crap (with a capital "C")!!!

Time to unload, unleash and move on. The future has nothing but a backpack in store for me, so it's time to disperse my belongings and simplify my life. I will, however, bring this copy of "Franny & Zooey" along for the ride. It's clearly aching for another loving rip in the cover, perhaps somewhere between Hanoi and Hong Kong.