Musical memories

I’m constantly entertained by sensory memories. For me, smells and sounds are strong triggers. Listening to my ipod tonight, here are some stories that came back to me. (I apologize in advance to my husband, who has much better taste in music than I have historically expressed. I can already hear him protesting the fact that I mention the Black Eyed Peas.)

• Glycerin, by Bush: During the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I spent five weeks at Northern Kentucky University attending the Kentucky Governor’s Scholars Program (GSP). That experience might qualify as transformational; that was the point where ideas of who I was and who I wanted to be really fell into place. I realized that I had peers that saw the world like I did, had similar ambitions, and understood and related to me. This song – and What’s My Age Again by Blink 182 – was on a mix tape that my roommate made for me when we parted at the end of the five weeks.
• One Week, by Barenaked Ladies: Occasionally I will hear this played, and it will immediately transport me back to Rolla, Missouri, during the same summer as GSP. I spent a few weeks there playing research assistant, which really meant I got to hang out for a few weeks with some other precocious 16 year olds, completely unsupervised. Fortunately in the short period in a dead college town, the most trouble we could really get into was unintentionally harassing the Indian man who ran the 24 hour Dunkin Donuts. (This is not on my ipod, but it’s a fun memory.)
• Iris, by Goo Goo Dolls: This was the anthem for every “misunderstood” almost-adult during my senior year of high school. It reminds me of GSP and my best friend at the time, Dave. It also makes me disconcertingly feel 17 again. (This song is also not actually on my ipod…)
• With or Without You, by U2: One time I went to the mall in Lexington to go shopping with a friend’s new girlfriend. This song came on the car radio, and we sang it at the top of our lungs, sitting at a stoplight, en route home. She ended up being one of the few people that I would sing inappropriately loud with, in a horribly fun way and in terribly confined spaces. Unfortunately we had a falling out about ten years after this particular moment.
• Californication, by Red Hot Chili Peppers: My bestie, roommate, and now long-time friend Ashley and I liked this song when we lived in the dorms in college. I also remember listening to it in the car with my friend (and roommate at a different time) Carrie. I’m pretty sure we listened to that album when Carrie, Joe, and I went to King’s Island in Cincinnati on a free day between moving into the dorms and starting classes. Somewhere there is a VHS tape of the three of us flying together on the crazy SkyFlyer bungee ride. We picked up a case of pool noodles on the way home, so that we could have “sword” fights in the lobby at 2 am on weekends (and weeknights, and during finals week, and once in the middle of an Honors class) that semester.
• Happy Phantom, by Tori Amos: I LOVED this song (and the rest of the cd) in college. I would play it in the car on a regular basis, so it reminds me of Lexington and my old neighborhood where I lived during my junior and senior years. I listened to the Little Earthquakes album less over the years because it made me miss playing piano.
• Babylon, by David Gray: This song was popular the summer that I was working and living in Louisville during college. It elicits images of my apartment (brand new! with a pool!), walking and rollerblading through a nearby park, experimenting with cooking for one, sitting on my back porch sketching the trees, killing the daily large wood spider that would explore my kitchen every morning, and listening to the neighbor’s derby party soundtrack (particularly Dude Looks Like a Lady, because that song should OBVIOUSLY be played at 110 decibels at 11:00 at night).
• Piece of My Heart, by Janis Joplin: I used to play a Janis Joplin greatest hits album loudly and incessantly when I was angry at my college boyfriend. During my senior year of college, I must have been angry at him quite often, because that’s the period I travel back to when I hear this song. It reminds me of my Lexington apartment, friends, classes, roommates, and parties from that year.
• Elephunk Album, by Black Eyed Peas: This takes me back to Urbana-Champaign. My closest friend in grad school had (and still has) a weakness for rap and R&B, which you would never guess until you got in her car and looked at the music selection.
• Crazy, by Gnarles Barkley: I drove across the country with Ashley when she moved to California. Before we left, Yusuf shared with us a music video that he had stuck in his head. It was for this song. I remember watching the video on a laptop in the kitchen of the house at Lake Cumberland.
• Black Horse and the Cherry Tree, by KT Tungstall: This song played constantly on the radio during the drive out to California with Ashley and her parents. (And a temperamental cat and two birds.) The memories from that trip are too many to start into here. Entering Phoenix in July when it was 117 degrees does come to mind, though. I still believe that my skin was in danger of melting off.
• Say It Right and Promiscuous Girl, by Nelly Furtado: These two songs remind me of the period towards the end of a particularly unpleasant relationship, when I started blogging and talking to a couple of friends online. We passed the music from this album around to each other, and both songs got radio play. I remember sitting in the den of my first apartment in Chicago, as well as my commute to and from work.
• On the Radio, by Regina Spektor: This brings me back to driving back and forth between home and Milwaukee, on the interstate after dark, many times during the winter of 2007-08. A friend had given me the yellow album with little hearts (Begin to Hope). I think I got to this song on the album about the time I got to Lake Forest, because it conjures an image of the Oasis lit up at night.
• Missed Me, by Dresden Dolls: I first heard this song when Olga’s bellydancing teacher danced to it. I loved the song and the performance. That event occurred during my period of single-ness before I met San, which was a surprisingly good period for me.
• Glamorous, by Fergie: Remember the aforementioned “With or Without You” friend? She and I would sing along to Fergie while driving around Chicago, because the world needs more pairs of extremely white girls rocking out to Fergie while commuting on Lake Shore Drive in a Corolla.
• The Scientist, by Coldplay: This song plays at the end of the movie “Wicker Park,” which San and I watched on our first Valentine’s Day together. This was the night we decided to move in together when my lease expired a few months later.
• Franz Ferdinand: For some reason, this reminds me of visiting Holly in Ireland. I haven’t figured out the relationship yet. Maybe she played it while we were there?
• I Gotta Feeling, by Black Eyed Peas: Unfortunately, this song is extremely catching. It also got way too much radio play, and made up a disproportionate amount of the soundtrack during my commute to work from Oak Park. It brings up images of River Road. It also reminds me of Josh and Kay’s wedding reception, which was a blast. (Josh remembers it, too - he mentioned it when the song was played at my wedding.)
• Metric (the entire lightbulb album – most people know it as “Fantasies”): San and I listened to this album while driving to Michigan for our first wedding anniversary weekend.

Did your nose itch? (Probably not.)

Hosting is a privilege. I can nourish the people I love - family and friends - and share life. We forge our bonds through experience, laughter, and conversation. Sometimes there is sorrow, but that is where we find strength and support each other.

We recently had friends visit Chicago from my hometown. They weren't coming specifically to visit me, but I'm going to selfishly claim that I planted the seed when I saw them last Christmas. I loved showing them around, introducing them to a few things that I love and sharing pieces of my adult life with them. I welcomed them, and I was surprised when I realized that by showing them where I live, I felt even more at home. I understood a little deeper what my cousin felt when she thanked us for visiting them recently - in Japan.

I can count on my two hands (sadly, it barely requires the second) the number of times family or friends from Kentucky have made the trip since I moved north. Even though I've been here long enough to qualify for "Chicagoan" status, I seldom have the opportunity to share this part of me. I don't get to welcome my family into my home, share my favorite foods, show them the things I see every day. This part of my life is unintentionally closed to them. We can't talk about the view of the city from the lakefront, the feel of sitting on the rocks looking out over the beach and the water, the smell of ethnic foods, or the sound of the train in the quiet of early morning. They don't learn my context, and I'm lousy at conveying it.

This reminiscence makes me try harder to visit my friends and family who have also expatriated from their hometowns. I suspect that they sometimes have moments as well when they feel a bit cut off. (Or maybe that's just me...but regardless...) I realize that I am woefully out of touch with my oldest friends and family, and feel helpless as I watch our homes, friends, occupations, marriages, interests and concerns grow distant and dissimilar. Those first few feet of foundation for these relationships are still there, but the rest of the structure has diverged in alternate directions. Is this just part of "growing up"?

Chicago is a lovely place in the summer, and San and I have an open door, empty futon, and stocked refrigerator. I can't wait to revisit some places I've neglected, such as San Francisco and North Carolina, and meet some new places like Virginia. It's high time we refresh some stale memories and create some new ones. Does your nose itch yet? I hope so...let's have visitors.

Home in the Neighborhood

I’ve heard my neighborhood referred to as “the bohemian part of town” by people who have lived here their entire lives. I never really took on to it in the last two years that I’ve been here. However, in a conversation today, I realized that “bohemian” is probably an appropriate adjective. I mean, we don’t have a naked cowboy and the scent of patchouli won’t assault your nostrils, at least not when you’re on the sidewalk. We do, however, have a wandering minstrel, who owns at least three stringed instruments that he plays as he strolls along the streets. We also have a black man in a kilt who walks a bichon frise. More than one home has an arguable excessive, though tidy, number of mosaics, stained glass windows, and other artwork hanging from their porch and in their front yard. The older woman who lives in the condo next to mine has “decorated” the hallway with her “art” which generally consists of a clock, some sort of plastic flowering bush with a duck perched in it, and something seasonal. There are garden animals in her parking spot, featuring a rabbit, frog, alligator, and their little metal and acrylic friends. Another of my neighbors has obscured the make of their car with liberal bumper stickers. One of the restaurants up the street is decorated with foil balls dotting the ceiling tiles, framed paint-by-number posters, and reclaimed mailboxes that have been morphed into sea animals. The local coffee shop gives the Starbucks across the street stiff competition. It all makes me feel at home.

As 2011 came to a close...

...we found ourselves in 2012.

Here we are on the other side of the New Year. I always feel complete looking back at the year, to mark the happenings and to be gracious for all we have. This year’s been a full one.

• We got married! I mean, seriously now, this is the highlight of 2011. Surrounded by our families and best friends, we vowed to take care of each other until someone kicks the bucket. This is not a small promise! (Love you, bebe!) We got the year off to a good start in March.
• January and February were filled with getting ready for our wedding. We did most of the work, from assembling the invitations and programs to decorations and writing ninety percent of the ceremony. (Yes, we cried when we first read our vows to see how they sounded. That’s when we knew we did them right.) April was spent recovering from the wedding.
• We honeymooned in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We perused art galleries, ate ourselves silly, and hiked through Tent Rocks National Monument. The photos came out pretty great. Too bad we were just learning how to use the camera.
• In professional news, Tracy earned a promotion at her structural engineering firm, which allows her to become a stockholder in 2012. San finished his first year of work at his current job, editing a professional publication.
• Tracy was appointed to the condo association board, and became the president in October. “SUCKER” must be etched into her forehead in some secret fashion.
• Over the summer, Tracy and San rearranged the small room off the kitchen (who really needs a formal dining room anyway?!) to accommodate a piano. Tracy is finally beginning to re-establish her relationship with the instrument that fueled half of a piano performance minor.
• Tracy took up a new hobby: DSLR photography. A budding pile of photography books has begun to collect on the lowest shelf of the coffee table, and Tracy’s latest purse selection took into consideration whether or not the camera would fit comfortably.
• San continues to fill all of his non-working hours dreaming of producing mead in a more structured and consistent fashion, and nurturing his new baby, I Kick Your Face Comicast. The podcast is scheduled to be a weekly downloadable discussion show about comic books and pop culture. If you’re interested, it’s on iTunes or at www.ikickyourface.com.
• Friends visited Chicago, and we visited friends. Attending the Superman Festival seems to have become an annual tradition. Tracy finally visited Niagara Falls (her second trip to Canada!) while visiting San’s family in New York for Thanksgiving. Christmas proved to be another short, busy jaunt to Kentucky. The long weekend was livened with an evening spent at a local winery that was recently opened by a couple Tracy knew from high school.

At the beginning of a new year, we raise our glasses to toast the exit of things past, and to celebrate optimism and looking forward to great adventures ahead.

Thanksgiving, Lite

This morning I sat in an oversized leather chair in my in-laws’ living room, crocheting a scarf for my husband, enjoying the warmth from the nearby fireplace and listening to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and then the football game my brother-in-law was watching.

I have too many things to be thankful for. I’m celebrating nearly nine months of marriage to the best partner and friend I could ask for. I’m enjoying the company of my in-laws, who are amazing people whose family I am grateful to have fallen in to. I spoke with my brother and sister-in-law this morning, and am happy that they are happy. I’m grateful that my brother will no longer be associated with the military, even though it’s proving to be a bump along his path. I haven’t talked with my parents yet (that’s next on my list) but I’m sure they’re enjoying a meal with Mom’s side of the family, and probably stopping by Dad’s oldest brother’s house some time today. They are looking forward to having the kids home for Christmas. I’m taking a break this week from work (I’m too busy, but try to remind myself that it’s much better than being bored). I exchange texts today with friends as they celebrate thanks with their families.

I looked out over the Black River, and looked through the bar tree branches to watch the clouds roll by. I missed the ducks and geese, which were reportedly ruffling about and making noise before I paid attention. I sipped warm coffee in a colorful mug, sweetened with holiday-flavored creamer. After our mid-afternoon dinner, I’m sitting on the couch with a black kitten cuddling against my leg, settling into her afternoon nap.

San and I own our home, we’re both well employed. I love my work, and am exploring new hobbies this year. San occupies his free time making up projects with friends. Just last weekend we were able to enjoy an art gallery showing accompanied by music and poetry reading, plus a play. We’re more comfortable than we need to be, and grateful for that contentment and luxury.

Taking a break from the commercialism that will crash into us tomorrow, I look forward to the rest of the holidays and spending time with family and friends. Perhaps we’ll plan a holiday party in the next few weekends, squeezing it in between work parties and travel. Life is bright and looking up.

Eulogy for My Grandfather

Unbreakable Love

by Markisan Antonio Naso
Read on October 8, 2011


Thank you everyone for coming here today. Seeing this sea of faces; seeing all of you who knew and loved my Grandfather is just tremendous. I know he is smiling down on us from the cosmos, puffing away on a Heavenly cigar, thankful that we are all here to celebrate the time we got to spend with him in his life.

[Holds up pocket watch]

Nearly 20 years ago my Grandfather gave me this pocket watch. I was just 17 and had graduated from high school. I remember he took me aside one day. There was a great glimmer in his kind eyes when he held out his hand and told me he had found this watch when he was young. I’m not even sure how old this watch is now, but he held on to it all those years… a remembrance of another time.

I will never forget when he put his hand on my shoulder and told me how proud he was to be my Grandfather. I was his very first Grandchild on the way to making my mark in life, and he wanted me to know that I was special.

I remember how thrilled I was when he placed his watch into my hands, but I have to admit I didn’t really understand everything this relic meant.

But today, at age 36, after nearly four decades of spending time with my Grandpa, and admiring him beyond measure, I think maybe I know a little better now what the gift of this watch truly signifies, because I know who my Grandfather was.

Tony Torrelli was a mountain of affection, humor, and undeniable Italian swagger. He was a soldier, a Christian, a volunteer firefighter for U-Crest Fire Company and a mason. But most importantly, he was a man who loved and lived for his family every single day of his life.

Grandpa grew up in Buffalo, one of four children. He dropped out of school after 8th grade to help support the Torrelli family business, laying concrete as a member of the local 111 Mason’s Union. He was drafted into the Army during World War II, where he served as a cook in 785th Military Police Battalion for nearly two years – 13 months of which was in the Pacific Theater. Before I even knew him, my Grandpa was busy being a hero.

After he came home, his little sister Rita introduced him to her friend, Alice. According to my Aunt Linda, this was the beginning of “the Greatest Love Story.” And if you ever saw Alice and Tony together you know just how much they adored one another. Alice soon became Mrs. Anthony Torrelli, my darling grandmother, in 1948.

For many years, you could find my Grandpa and Grandma celebrating their love on the dance floor whenever they could, waltzing to their favorite crooners, Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra. They were completely devoted to one other for over 60 years. In fact, they would have been married 63 years next month on November 25th.

This love they’ve had is something that even death can’t defeat. Yesterday, Grandma revealed that Grandpa was a great kisser and that she had once promised to give him 450,000 smooches. She said she wasn’t able to give him all those kisses while he was here with us, but she has plans. The rest will be delivered by starlight.

My Grandpa was happiest around his family. He was tremendously proud of his four children – John, Susan, Linda, and Mark – for doing what made them happy and successful in their lives, whether it was my Uncle John opening his own racecar building business, my Uncle Mark’s knowledge and passion for motorcycles, my Aunt Linda’s unwavering dedication to taking care of her family or my Mom’s hard work to get through Physical Therapy School.

Always the gentle giant, Grandpa never raised his voice at home and loved to be around his children. Once when Grandma was away, he lifted his kids on the counter and made them milkshakes for dinner. Grandpa also enjoyed teaching what he knew. He taught his sons the masonry business. He taught my mama how to lay tile in her bedroom on High Street. He encouraged each of his kids to stand up for themselves and for their family, and he always championed the mantra of Old Blue Eyes – “I did it my way.” My Grandfather did everything he could to love and support his children while allowing them to grow up as unique individuals.

He did the same for his Grandchildren. He would light up whenever he saw his grandkids: me, Joe, Melissa, Matt, Derrick, and Cindy; and more recently, his Great-Grandchildren: Sofia, Brooke, and Gabriella. I remember how he would drive his riding mower and take us along for long rides on his lap. He always made time to come watch us play sports or whatever else we competed in or participated in, and he would always be the first to let us know how great we did. He loved to be the center of family parties, eventually settling in just to watch the festivities with a cigar and a great big grin on his face. When he wasn’t telling stories or playing with us youngsters, you could often find him tinkering in his garage or with Uncle John and Uncle Mark at Torrelli Pro Cars. Working with his sons started with a simple lunch request, then came an offer to help clean up the shop, and finally Grandpa just became a fixed part of the crew making cars. Uncle John said no one could wield a bandsaw quite like my Grandpa.

In my Grandfather’s later years, when his health began to wane, he knew he could count on his kids to be there for him as he was for them. He would often threaten to sic his daughter “Dr. Sue” on unruly doctors and nurses. He was forever thankful for Linda, John and Mark for taking care of him and Grandma. In fact he called My Aunt Linda “The General“ because she would walk into the doctor’s office with a binder full of records, always ready to tackle any problem that arose. As my Grandfather supported and loved his family, they supported and loved him in return.

[Holds up pocket watch]

So, standing up here with this watch my Grandfather gave me, looking back on his life and who he was, the reason why he gave me this gift all those years ago is so much more clear. This watch is more than just a cool trinket for a teenager. It’s a symbol of his legacy.

My Grandpa wore many hats in his life, but none of them would have fit right without his family. He believed in passing down the best of what you’ve learned in your lifetime to those around you. He knew the value of love and making all the little moments matter… Like helping build a race car with his sons because he wanted to be around them more. Like showing you how much his heart swelled whenever he watched you accomplish something that mattered to you. Like finding the love of his life and making each and every day at her side feel special. Like finding a pocket watch as a kid and passing down his great childhood discovery to his eldest Grandson.

Grandpa, you were the heart and blood of our family. You were everything that a father, Grandfather and hero should be. Thank you for giving so much of yourself every time I saw you, and for showing me how important it is to not only surround yourself with family, but to stand by them and to let them know how much they matter. I already miss your good nature and your encouragement. I miss your nicknames and your mammoth hugs.

When I look at this watch I know exactly what you instilled in your children and their children in the time we were lucky enough to spend with you. I know your legacy of unbreakable love. And I will do my best to ensure the generations that follow know it too.

Goodbye "Wario." I love you.

Confessions on Happiness

When I was a teenager, my stated goal in life was to be content. Later in life, someone told me that most people’s stated goal in life was to be happy; however, most of them were remarkably discouraged with their lives.

I think of myself generally as a positive, happy person. Materially, I have a great job, a great husband, a great home in a great community, and great friends. I volunteer time with a non-profit theater company, play the piano, and am exploring the world of photography. I have two cats who like to cuddle at their discretion. So OF COURSE I’m going to be happy, right? Well…I am, but maybe not for the obvious reasons.

I once made a statement that got an unexpected reaction. I simply said, “I really have trouble remembering to not slouch, I have to think about it constantly.” My friend listening to this statement expressed surprise. I’m not sure whether she thought that I slouched constantly and was therefore failing miserably at my effort at good posture, or that she thought that my good posture was effortless. Regardless, the episode pointed out to me two things. One, our individual experiences are unique. Others don’t intuitively know our successes or trials, and we don’t know theirs. Two, we are more alike than we often admit. I don’t believe that people are successful or even happy without exerting effort. We may just not be privy to what effort is actually involved.

I firmly believe that my approach to life is the key to my happiness. The popular sentiment is often repeated that you make your own happiness, or that you choose to be happy. I believe this, too.

I take a strong lesson from Buddhism: to be mindful. To think of the path of everything and everyone around you. To remember that the disposable plastic bowl that is used at a picnic began as oil, mined from the earth, distilled in a factory, extruded into the shape of a bowl, packaged in a plastic sleeve, packed in a cardboard box, driven to a warehouse and distributed to your local grocery store, unpacked onto a shelf, picked up and purchased, driven home and then to the picnic, soiled, thrown in the trash, driven to a landfill, and finally buried in a concrete-lined hole in the ground. I appreciate the effort and the transience of my world. To remember that you don’t know what happened earlier in the day to the person who was absent-minded or rude to you while walking down the street. I don’t and can’t know other people’s perceptions of the world, and I must respect that. To remember that every decision you make will impact the people around you, and to be conscientious of unintended consequences. Respect your travel mates in your journey through life.

I also have a strong practical lesson that I learned quickly as an adult: don’t take it personally. Essentially,”it’s not all about me.” The choices that I make impact others, and the choices of others impact me. I have control over the first, and I have no control over the latter. Just because something bad happens, it doesn’t mean that harm was meant towards me, or that I did something bad to deserve it. I accept this and deal with the consequences of living, which generally means that shit will happen. If someone seems to live a blessed life, it probably just means that they encounter said shit, and took a minute to shovel it out of their path rather than wading in it. Bad things happen to everyone, but we all handle the situation in our own ways, with different outcomes.

And finally, I love the concept of karma. I don’t believe that if you do ill, that a cosmic being will smite you, or that there is a karmic bank in the sky where you deposit and withdraw good and bad credits. Instead, I believe that the community remembers when you are kind or well intentioned, and they remember when you are dismissive or downright malicious. I also believe that they will treat you in kind, and that is how community balance is achieved. Tied to this is the idea that you get what you give, not only with regard to intent, but also to effort. If you actively participate, you have a say in where you are and what you are doing; if you passively let things happen to you, you place yourself to be influenced by the whims of the world and its billions of inhabitants. Take responsibility rather than shifting it elsewhere.

Last night I was reminded to shout my intentions out to the universe. And so here is a piece of them. As I enter my 30’s, I remind myself that I want to continue to make myself a better person, in part by making life easier for everyone I contact in whatever way I can. I can share how I make myself content, in hopes that someone else might find an idea that applies to their life, and makes them a little happier. I can smile at a stranger and wish them good morning, hold a door for someone with their hands full, or pick up something that they dropped. I can refrain from being annoyed at a perceived wrong, thereby preventing an unpleasant situation from escalating simply because my pride was bruised. I can do my best to keep life in perspective: of what’s really important, and the impact of my action or inaction.

NOLA

I love cities that are of themselves: they have accepted who they are, they embrace themselves, and they make no apologies.

Enter New Orleans.

Our hotel was in the Warehouse District. Walk out the front door of the Hilton Garden Inn, and to your right is an interstate flyover. And some warehouses. To your left is a dive bar, with yummy po-boys and beans and rice, where you will share a lunch table with strangers.

Walk towards the river and you’ll find the convention center and the elongated but air-conditioned Riverwalk Mall. Walk away from the river and you’ll find buildings that, according to the flaking advertisements painted on their great masonry walls, housed durable goods in a past life. The behemoths have recently been resurrected and divided into homes for hipsters. Continue walking and you can look through the windows of art studios and galleries, and the posh World War II museum.

Walk from the hotel to the French Quarter. You’ll smile at your reflection in the glass storefronts of banks, offices, and restaurants that are only open for lunch Monday through Friday as you pass through the Central Business District. Museums, Harrah’s Casino, and signs pointing to the Aquarium greet you on Canal Street as you navigate the streetcar tracks. Fortune-tellers, street artists, musicians, and performers fill the streets around Jackson Square. Boutiques, galleries, restaurants, and coffee shops fill the first story windows of the streets of the French Quarter. Shuttered windows behind porches full of greenery mark the second-story residences. You will pass churches and a convent. The doors and windows of Bourbon Street open up at night, illuminated by the neon signs and the promise of entertainment. Later, music will spill out, either from karaoke or a cover band. (They say to go to Frenchmen Street for jazz.) Grocery stores sell food for the residents, and the permanent half of the French Market displays local produce and food stalls. Local “arts and crafts” fill the tables of the flea market in the back half.

You won’t really remember the smell of the city, because your nose goes a little numb. Fish, piss, river, beignets and coffee all schmooze together with the humidity.

Hop the Canal Street streetcar line. Ride it out of the city center, towards the SuperDome. Remember Hurricane Katrina, and realize that until now there has been no other reminder of her…

Note that only tourists use the public transportation. Also note that the timetables are whimsical suggestions, assuming that you can actually locate one. Tourists mustn’t have deadlines or people to meet. Those tourists must have somewhere else to be.

Continue to City Park. En route, see the boarded up storefronts, the well-maintained employment office, and the faces staring up at the tourists riding the streetcar. You may witness some New Orleans natives actually enter the car and sit near you, distant from the French Quarter. If you’re lucky, someone might hand you a poem to read while you pass the time screeching along the track. Once you reach the end of the line and enter the park, appreciate the groomed botanic gardens, the resident rooster, the misplaced Japanese Garden (at least the weather is authentic), and the soggy cacti. Enjoy the sculpture garden, and consider visiting the art museum.

Ride another streetcar down Saint Charles Street. The trees and cast iron balconies are draped in strings of plastic Mardi Gras beads. Tangles of them. Webs of them.

The Garden District does actually have a coffee shop and a restaurant. You can walk past both of them if you like, so that you can stop and stare at historic homes. Huge houses with iron lace curtains adorning the porches and doorways, with great cast iron fences, with stained glass windows, with gilt details, with mature trees and flowering bushes, with letter boxes and lion’s head door knockers. The corresponding grocery stores and luncheries are on Magazine Street. If you head that direction, you will pass through the neighboring neighborhoods, where people drive Fords and keep Mother Mary statues in their front yards. The houses are no less colorful and much less shuttered. You might be lucky enough to say hello to a man as he “walks” his half-paralyzed dog, or an elderly woman as she carefully tends her front gate. You may see a Victorian home peeled back as it ages, displaying the layers of roofing and siding and broken windows that frame the heavy old door. As you pass a decrepit old masonry building with fascinating detailing, you will realize that it is not abandoned when you turn the corner and spot the new Free School sign behind a freshly painted fence.

Cemetery walls enclose forgotten tombs where a pile of bricks that was once a wall and marker hugs the exposed steel vault, a mere foot away from an immaculate granite mausoleum fronted by a weeping angel that evokes a requiem and breaks your heart. Stillborn children and toddlers share gravesites with their great-great grandparents. The magnolia trees shade a piece of broken wall, where the mason’s initials have been exposed in the formerly hidden mortar.

New Orleans wears its dichotomies on its sleeve: the rich and poor living and socializing just a hair’s breadth apart, the clean and the dirty separated by a street corner, the tourist brushing the shoulder of a local, the impermanence and perseverance. Sailors, traders, soldiers, clergy, criminals. The spirits are still there to see and to hear. You can almost perceive the ghosts, as you tread the same paths and feel the same desires. Work hard, play hard, witness and partake in the spectacle. Live.

And then place your luggage in the back of a cab. The cabbie will check his log, and ask you to guess how long he has been waiting at the cab stand in front of the hotel…almost three hours. He is quite happy to take you to the airport, where you can enjoy a warm beer and wait for United to take you home.

Honeymooning

Here’s my confession: I’ve been composing at least three blog entries in my head in the last week. But I’m too embarrassed that I haven’t posted anything in ten months. So I will offer a recap blog, in hopes that I can pick this up again. So…where have we been since last fall?

San and I last checked in when we got engaged last September. Yes, back in 2010. Moving on…

September through March consisted of wedding planning. As most everyone who could possibly be reading this blog probably knows, we tied the knot at Starved Rock State Park. It was a lovely day in the 50’s, our closest family and friends generally made the journey to support us and celebrate, and we had a blast. Oh, and we ended up married. No more cohabitation, yo, we’re husband and wife!

In that time, we had Thanksgiving with the Naso’s in New York, and I finally visited Canada. We had some French-ish food, bought tea, and watched as my father-in-law was accosted by a stranger who tried to convince him that he looks like he is Native American. Despite, FIL’s protests, the stranger proceeded to thank him for his services in fighting off the Americans during some unspecified past war. I met another soon-to-be Aunt and her boyfriend, and fun, food, and love were shared all around.

Next up…visitors! Ashley came to visit, and also to convince me that I really should buy a real wedding dress. She was sweet enough to drag us both out into a snowstorm (major kudos to the California girl!) to try on some dresses, eat tapas, and then drop the dough. We actually made out with a deal, and my wedding pictures look pretty fantastic.

Christmas was with the Smith’s, but in North Carolina rather than the traditional home in Kentucky. It had a bit more excitement than usual, since my dad was still reconstructing my brother’s bathroom. We also experienced the Great Christmas Blizzard that shut down the eastern seaboard, complete with a rescue mission to retrieve my cousin who made the unfortunate mistake of flying on that particular day. We also managed to pimp out the trip with first class upgrades both ways, thanks to my business travel excesses during 2009 and 2010.

Spring passes with flying colors, culminating with the aforementioned hitching. After many weekends of crafting, including assembling invitations, table decorations, and programs, our bff Holly performed a handcrafted ceremony, which San and I both cried through. We then treated everyone to dinner and dancing. Soon after, San and I spent five days in Santa Fe and the surrounding area, loving every minute of our honeymoon, trying to adjust to addressing each other as “husband” and “wife.”

We languished through the remainder of the neverending Chicago winter. We wrote our thank you notes (I admit that I think a few still haven’t been mailed yet….) We hosted a small derby party the first weekend in May, trying to uphold a shaky new tradition. I failed to make derby pie, but we did have hats!

San made his annual trek to the Superman Festival in Metropolis, Illinois in early June. Josh and Kay visited us one weekend, and played with us in the city. The next weekend we spent in New Orleans, which deserves its own blog entry. (San was working at a conference, but I wandered around the city, partially making it into a photo-vacation.) And that brings us to July.

So here we are, entering summer in Chicago. It didn’t arrive until late June, when the seasons switch flipped from Frost Bite to Heat Stroke. We grilled out with friends for the Fourth of July, enjoying the long weekend. Unfortunately we missed the fireworks, due to interference from some large trees. Just yesterday a storm passed through the area, which everyone tells me was pretty impressive. I happened to be in a basement during the exact 45 minute period when it let loose. Our power finally came back on at 1:30 am this morning. It was a muggy and uncomfortably warm evening until that point.

And so life is happening, which is usually what happens when a blog/journal/diary is abandoned for a length of time.

The latest adventure

So we started a new adventure last Sunday: Engagement. As in we're getting married, and we have to decide how we're going to go about doing that. Is this blog going to suddenly become about a wedding? The jury's still out, but whisperings from the deliberations indicate that it's a good possibility. For a while, at least.

But before that, let's share the "How did he do it?!" story!

So last Sunday (that would be September 19th), San and I had brunch with what turned into not only quite a large-ish group of people (eight plus baby!) but a tardy one, as well. One couple showed up about 15 minutes late, as usual, but the rest rolled in 45 minutes after our reservation began. San was a little impatient, but he was hungry. And he'd been talking about going to the botanic gardens since the week before, and was upset at the prospect of rain that afternoon, so he wanted to finish up breakfast and go. Around 12:30, we were finally on our way home...in the rain.

Once we got home we checked the weather, and relieved that it looked like the rain was passing and that we wouldn't get drenched, we headed for the Chicago Botanic Gardens (www.chicago-botanic.org). Once there, we scoped out the farmer's market and grabbed a map. San immediately identified a little island at the south end of the gardens called Spider Island. I hadn't been to this part of the park, so we headed that direction. On the way, we wandered into a cooking demonstration, had a complimentary butternut squash flan snack, and then continued on our search for this tiny little dot on the map. Finally we found it. We strolled down the path, across a winding bridge, and down a second path that looped around the island. At the end of the path we found a stone seating area, where we sat on the rocks and contemplated the lake. Well, I was contemplating the lake.

After a few moments, during which the screaming children on the path miraculously disappeared, San stood up a little, saying, "I have something for you." And out came the ring box. My graceful response: "Are you serious?" Unperturbed, he got down on one knee and opened the box, asking something to the affect of, "Will you be my wife?"

I cried a little, gave him a giant hug, and (obviously) said yes! And onto my left hand went the sapphire and diamond ring, which he had designed over the course of the previous three months.

Thankfully people didn't wander into the little clearing long enough to for me to regain my composure. Unfortunately, they also wouldn't wander into the little alcove so that we could coerce them into taking our picture. We finally left the island, both of us grinning and trying out the title "fiance," and made our way out of the park since we weren't really paying attention to it any longer.

And so that's the story. No, we haven't set a date. In fact, we haven't even narrowed it down to a month, or a specific time of year beyond "not hot." Unfortunately for the rest of us, the only months that qualify as "not hot" in San's view of the world are December, January, and February. We'll keep all interested parties informed.