Way to Go Kevin!

The Avett Brothers - live!

2011-06-09T08:44:00.006-04:00

Concerts are funny things. You spend a lot of money to stand a little too far away from the stage and listen to music that sounds better coming out of your laptop speakers. You have to endure the delayed start time, the no-name opener, and (depending on the concert) the haze of marijuana smoke radiating from your neighbors.

And yet I love them.

A few weeks ago I crashed the Flower’s date night and went with them to The Avett Brothers concert. Before we booked the tickets, I wasn’t that familiar with the band, having only heard them when they performed with Bob Dylan at the Grammys this year. But Ken knew them, and when he found out that they were playing in Columbus in May he called to see if I wanted to go with him and Beth. Looking back, it is possible that he was calling to see if I would baby sit the kiddos, but was unable to bring himself to ask after I reacted with such excitement to the prospect of a concert (any concert), and invited me to come along instead. Win.

I did tell them that they could make out and I wouldn't look. I'm not totally insensitive to date night.

Going to concerts is a perk of living in the big city. For some reason, it was difficult for Alaska to attract big names to come and sing to us. They must be reluctant to navigate their tour buses around the curvy Canadian passes of the ALCAN (stupid Canada, you ruin everything).

The Avett Brothers are great. They have a very energetic presence onstage, and look like they’re having a good time and enjoy one another. I devoted myself to learning their music (thanks Grooveshark!) before the concert, and I like almost everything. My favorites are Murder in the City, I and Love and You, and Kickdrum Heart.

The Avett Brothers – Check ‘em out!

Of course, that might just be the second-hand pot smoke talking.

You're preaching to the choir, Paul Bowles

2011-06-01T10:45:00.003-04:00

from The Sheltering Sky:

As long as he was living his life, he could not write about it. Where one left off, the other began, and the existence of circumstances which demanded even the vaguest participation on his part was sufficient to place writing outside the realm of possibility. But that was all right. He would not have written well, and so he would have got no pleasure from it. And even if what he might have written had been good, how many people would have known it? It was all right to speed ahead into the desert leaving no trace.

Dog day afternoon.

2011-05-30T15:28:00.005-04:00

The spring has been mercifully temperate and rainy, but Ohio is starting to show her true colors now. I don't know if I will ever get used to the artificial, goosebumpy cool that my air conditioner churns out, but it has become preferable to the sweltering stickiness that is overtaking my house. So I closed the windows, and turned the AC on to 78 and am looking forward to welcoming the Columbus summer with open, bared arms.

And honestly, it's not all that bad yet. The sun is hot, but there is a breeze that shivers through the treetops all day and cools the evenings. And the thunderstorms (!) cover a multitude of sins.

Today is Memorial Day. The neighborhood is quiet - maybe people have taken advantage of the long weekend and have gotten the heck out of Dodge, or maybe they are waiting for things to cool down before they venture outside.

It's not like Anchorage. A day like this - warm, sunny - would set off a sort of panic in Alaska. Are we wasting it? We can't waste it! Garage doors would be thrown open to reveal homeowners ransacking their camping gear, feverishly praying that they remembered to patch that punctured bike tire, unwilling to lose valuable minutes of the midnight sun. Old women hack away at their gardens, mindful of the brief growing season. Children shudder through sprinklers filled with glacier water, screaming with...joy? Pain?

But here, everyone's a little more kick-back about summer. It's because I'm now around city-folk, who have chosen to be surrounded by skyscrapers and coffee shops instead of mountains and ocean. Or perhaps it is the comfortable knowledge that today is not an anomaly.

I would think that this is more my speed. Anyone who knows me would not put self-propulsion down on my list of strengths, and when I lived in Alaska I often had to straight-arm attempts from my friends to push me up steep, steep mountains or cycle over root systems. I have a hard time getting over "the hump," which is what I call that space in motivation between being outside exerting myself and the comfort of sitting on my sofa with a cup of coffee.

In an "absence makes the heart grow clichè" sort of way, I am all nostalgic about the fireweed and green grasses of the Alaska summer. I want to go flying and fishing and camping. I want to ride horses on my parents' farm and hike Flattop and make driftwood fires on the shores of Resurrection Bay.

But I'm not so far gone that I can't enjoy the rhythm of urban life, and until I visit AK in July I'm happy to fit in with the reality of the sleepy summer city, and take walks in the cool of the evening. I'm satisfied with reading at the park fountain with the rainy-day girl, and sitting on my front porch listening to The Who streaming from my neighbor's window.

Lock Your Cars, People. A Cautionary Tale.

2011-05-10T21:59:00.004-04:00

In a timely reminder that I live in a city now, my car was broken into last night.

I thought things looked a little messier even than normal as I approached my trusty Santa Fe, and upon closer inspection it was clear that my car had been breached. Someone had raked through my glove compartment and ransacked the middle console.

I peered through the window and hesitated about getting in. It seemed creepy, like the crook could still be in there, I don’t know, hiding behind the shearling seat covers. Also, do I need to worry about fingerprints? How high on the priority list is petty theft to the Columbus PD?

But as it turns out, I couldn’t see that anything was missing. Nothing was damaged on the outside of the car, leaving me with the unsettling suspicion that I may have possibly left it unlocked last night (rookie move, Jess). And as far as an inventory, it appears that he (or she!) had no interest in the following:

Ball of twine (1)
Plastic package of fast food condiment (several, various)
Plastic army guy w/ parachute (1)
Prism (1)
Teething ring (1)
Debit card, expiration 9/2008 (1)
Napkins (3)
Book on memorizing Scripture, purchased circa 2003 (1)
Dog food in Ziploc Bag (about 3 cups)
Playing cards (about 48)
$60 cash that was in the untouched lower compartment of my middle console (which I will now be referring to as the “secret compartment”)

He (or she!) also left my registration and car info alone. So not a malicious burglar. Not even a good burglar. Just a messy one.

How I Ruined Easter Service.

2011-04-28T07:47:00.001-04:00

I will be honest with you (it’s this new thing I’m doing). Easter is not my favorite Sunday of the year. My issues are practical, not theological. Often, and despite the best efforts of my church and friends, Easter kind of sneaks up on me. I find myself surprised on Saturday night that I have to find something on the high end of presentable to wear, cook an egg dish for the earliest potlock of the year, and show up to church before the sun rises. My groove gets thrown off – and I don’t even have any little girls to wrestle into tights.

This is a shame, because Easter Sunday (also known in my circles as Resurrection Sunday) is a celebration of the very core of my identity. Jesus Christ, the perfect son of God, willingly died an unjust death and unlocked a depthless mercy. This mercy is what makes me a Christian. Christ rose to life again on the third day. He conquered death. And now he wraps his arms around me, warts and all, and presents me to the Father.

It’s a beautiful story, and an every day story, but once a year we celebrate this remarkable event in a special way. With egg dishes and sunrise services and cantatas.

Cross City Church, being the reasonable baby church that it is, opted for a simple celebration for Easter. A nine a.m. service followed by lunch at the Burns’s house.

We all had our roles. Ken was leading music, Scott was teaching. Melissa prepared to feed us all afterward. Beth was teaching the kiddos something involving palm branches hidden in Easter eggs. Others in our congregation brought friends and family and food. I, jetlagged from a redeye flight and reeling from the four hour AK-OH time-zone gap, was tasked with printing and bringing the song sheets.

When my cell phone rang on my nightstand at 9:15 Sunday morning, my first thought was, “There’s no way I can fix this.” Those were also my first words to the person on the other end of the line, who turned out to be Scott. Ken couldn’t come to the phone, because he was too busy standing up front with his guitar strapped on his shoulder.

The meeting had started, and Christ has risen, but I was still abed.

The irony is not lost on me.

We don’t have songbooks, or hymnals, or any kind of projector yet. Each week, we print the lyrics on a sheet of paper and make a copy (more or less) for everyone. Unless Ken wants to lead us in some kind of worship solo performance, we need those song sheets.

My one job, the “bye” job, had disrupted the whole flow of the morning.

“No problem,” said Scott, his voice an octave higher than normal, “we’ll just sing at the end. Come as quick as you can.”

I threw on some clothes (definitely not on the high end of presentable), battled my printer and rushed out the door. The trip from my house to the community center where we meet takes about 2.5 minutes. Unless you catch the one red light. Then it takes about 15.

Ken was waiting as I pulled into the parking lot. I could see the whites of his eyes. He traded me his six-month old for the sheaf of songs and rushed into the building, just as Scott was wrapping up an uncharacteristically prompt sermon.

I was unshowered, bleary-eyed, and embarrassed. Easter service! It’s supposed to go smoothly! I’m supposed to look pretty! Everything was out of whack this year.

The whole church was nice about it, although I did get some deserved mockage. Ultimately, the blame was placed squarely on my jetlag.

Sweet, sweet, scapegoat jetlag. What do you have against Easter?

Calibrating.

2011-04-26T08:20:00.002-04:00

The subject of me being the worst blogger ever has been a recurring theme in my life – and for good reason.

Weeds are growing up through the floorboards of this blog. The eyes on the potatoes of this blog have sprouted into curling vines that spiral around the feet of anyone who dares to visit. It has a layer of dust on every surface, it smells damp, and the mail has piled up on its front porch. In other words, it looks a lot like my house, to which I just returned after my three-week trip to Alaska. Cute infrastructure, pleasant history, but obviously unlived-in.

It’s not like I don’t have anything to write about. I just moved across the country to a new place, bringing with it a host of awkward moments and funny stories. And it’s not like I don’t have readers – my dad harangues me about writing every time we talk.*

But when I sit down at my rapidly aging computer to tackle the day’s events, I run into the same wall.

I don’t want to look like an idiot.

“But Jess!” you protest, “You’ve never had a problem looking like an idiot in the past. Wasn’t that you who got her jeans stuck on a doorknob? And hit the moose with your car? You know that every time you pen a sentence, you display your utter lack of “when in doubt, leave it out” comma mastery.”

That is all true. I do my best work with the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks.

But while I don’t mind being an idiot about driving, or England, or even my own failure as a grammarian, I’ve found there are some subjects that are a little too close to my heart for me to comfortably share.

Right now I’m in the midst of the early days of a new church plant in Columbus, Ohio. It is a hard, often awkward, uncertain process. I am on a team of good-hearted men and women who love the Lord and are doing their best. I’m confident that God has called us to German Village, and that our efforts will result in His best plan. I am even fairly certain that His best plan is a healthy, thriving church in the middle of the city. The road to that church, however, is paved with the stones of setbacks. It also seems to be coated with some kind of sticky syrup that is slowing everything way down.

Now, I feel compelled to say that there have been some huge encouragements. I don’t want to miss the wonderful people that God has brought to our church (the few, the proud), or the overwhelming financial support form believers who don’t even live here. Or the awesome neighborhood which features a huge park, streets paved in brick, and a restaurant called The Sausage Haus.

Still, we are toiling – praying for more believers to commit to our church, for direction and leadership, for shared vision, for funding, for the heart of the community. And, not being clairvoyant, I can’t help thinking that it’s all “too soon” to commit to print.

In writing about Columbus, I know that I will be betraying my naiveté, my selfishness, my ignorance about church planting and a fair amount of presumption. But the effort to present my life devoid of mistakes and troubles has paralyzed my writing voice. If I knew how everything turned out – if I could control my story arc – then I think it would be easier. But I don’t know what I’m going to learn through this process. I don’t even know what I don’t know yet.

I miss being a blogger. I look back over the years and see every post as a snapshot of my life. When I have to quantify a feeling or impression into a sentence, it draws my perceptions into focus. I also know that Christ did not come for the well, but for the sick, and any true thing I divulge about myself on this simple, silly website is already known by God and forgiven by Christ’s sacrifice.

Don’t worry, this blog will never become an exposé of the innards of my soul, but I know it is read mainly by my family and friends scattered across the world, and I want you guys to know what’s really going on. And great things are going on.

Which is why my next post will be entitled, “How I Ruined Easter Service.”

______________

*don't worry, Pop, you don't really harangue me. Just a little authorial license to make the joke that my parents are the only ones who read this.

“Silent night, holy night…is calm…is bright, round yon…gin mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild…in……pea….sleep in heavenly peace.”

2010-12-18T03:26:00.008-05:00

Or “Guys start carols too high”

Caroling, right? What a great idea! Everyone, let’s get together and we’ll tromp around the neighborhood singing familiar Christmas tunes. How Christmassy! How effortless!

The emperor has no clothes on.

Or, to be more precise, not nearly enough clothes on. I held this truth to be self-evident about ten minutes into last night’s evening of caroling, as the temperature plunged in a sick inverse relationship to our group’s starting key. At least there were a lot of us – the body heat of 30 people raised the ambient temperature a good two degrees. And thanks to the quick thinking the organizer, we had song sheets pinched between frozen fingers, so the second verse of Joy to the World escaped sounding like an unintentional Christmas mash-up.

I’ve noticed that there is a moment in events like this – that moment between “this is going to be the best!” and “Well, we’re in it now, so let’s soldier on,” where you realize that real life is not a Christmas calendar. It’s cold and unorganized and some things go on a little too long. Some people are a half-measure ahead of you. Sometimes your driver locks his keys in his car.

Times will not always be sentimental, or hilarious, or traditional, or perfect. There are long stretches of off-key ordinary connecting the post-card memories. And that’s fine. You have to give good memories some breathing room. They don’t perform well under pressure.

And actually, I had great time caroling with the youth group last night. We weren’t going to be mistaken for a GAP advertisement at any point of the evening, but there is a bonhomie that comes from freezing your collective keister off with a group of happy people. It was fun, it ended with a gift exchange, and I was treated to some of those flashes of brilliant humor that teenagers display during their great transformation.

And it was my last youth group at Chapel by the Sea, at least for bit.

So I guess it was sentimental and hilarious and traditional and perfect.

But seriously, somebody should have brought a pitch pipe.

this is a test

2010-12-17T22:54:00.001-05:00

of Facebook share

Sometimes I call it GV

2010-12-16T04:05:00.004-05:00

The vision of the Lumen Foundation is to plant several small, neighborhood-based churches in the city of Columbus over time.

I love the idea of neighborhood churches - congregations full of people who live near one another and can invest not only in their church, but in their community at the same time. A place where new attendees feel comfortable because the rooms are full of their neighbors. I like the idea of meeting actual needs without being saddled to a cumbersome program. I want people to come to church because I want them to hear about Jesus and to understand that the stories in the Bible are the key to unlocking the truth about life. I want them to experience the power and peace of the Holy Spirit. I want believers to have a place to be around other believers, to be encouraged and exhorted.

Cross City Church, the Lumen Foundation's first plant, is going to be established in German Village, just south of Columbus's city center.

Here is another reason why the decision to move was easy: German Village looks amazing.

A historical neighborhood with brick streets, old houses, and a big second-hand bookstore, German Village is the kind of place I would visit on vacation. As near as I can tell (using my trusty resource, Google Maps), GV is located just south of the city center, near the river (whose name I can't remember) and close enough to the freeway (whose number I also cannot remember). It's about 12 minutes from Ohio State University, so I expect to be dusting off my enthusiasm for college football. And that's...pretty much all I know.

So, I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to insinuate myself into what seems to be a fairly tight-knit neighborhood. I mean, even when I moved to Bath, I had an MA programme full of potential friends, and more than 5 people attended my church. But my plan is to try to get involved in community activities - like a writers' group, or a scrabble night, or some kind of volunteerism. I will most likely spend a lot of time standing around, trying not to look awkward.

Nothing new there.

Next.

2010-11-05T02:32:00.009-04:00

If all goes as planned, I'll be leaving the mountain-hemmed port town of Anchorage, Alaska and moving to the Midwestern plains of Columbus, Ohio in four weeks.

If you’re surprised, imagine how I feel.

Some good friends of mine have been praying about Columbus for over ten years, and ultimately have felt compelled to pack up their SoCal lives and move to that city, in order to plant a God-honoring, gospel-centered church.

More power to you, I said two years ago.

I was happy for them, and happy to help in any way I could…from Alaska.

But itchy feet, it turns out, are not always the sign of an encroaching foot fungus. Sometimes they are more akin to a dewy fleece. I began to feel restless, and ready for a change. Maybe another international trip, or an exciting romance, or ramping up my business and hiring a bunch of baby bean counters – I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I wanted something. And I wanted whatever it was to count.

So this past August, when I visited the Burns and the Flowers in California and listened to their plans, the idea of actually joining them began to take root.

And after a month of prayer and talking with people I trusted…it was a yes.

These past few months have been some of the best of my life – all the stars that had to align to make this move possible have flown to their places, as though guided. My job is flexible enough that I can work from anywhere, and travel home to Alaska regularly. My apartment will be left in the capable (?) hands of my newly-graduated kid brother. My dog will learn the meaning of “humidity.”

The unknowns are legion, but at this point I do not feel anxious.

In fact, I’m super excited.

™Eigguns

2010-01-08T05:16:00.005-05:00

Dear Makers of the the Snuggie™,

I'm about to make you a million bucks.

Please don't scoff at me.

I know that you've already made a million bucks. I know that your cheap polyester fleece "blanket" with "sleeves" has swept the fad-sappy American psyche - hemorrhaging dollars.

But I'm telling you as a friend that you guys have missed the marketing boat.

If you look at any officially endorsed Snuggie™ commercial, you will most likely see some woman with a Dorothy Hamilton Haircut and a Dolly Parton Smile cozied up on some studio couch, working a crossword puzzle while draped in a bright blue blanket (with "sleeves").

Never has this image appealed to me, Makers of the Snuggie™. Too many times have I been burned by QVC and her evil cousin, the in-flight magazine, to be taken in by such a gimmick. A blanket with sleeves? I already have blankets! I already have sleeves! Lots of both! Also, I'm horrible at crossword puzzles.

So, even though Jimmy Fallon featured the Snuggie™ on his hip, new show targeted directly toward young professionals in their mid (late!) twenties, I wasn't buying. Not even those cool guys from Roots could convince me.

But, MotS™, you'll be happy to hear that this is not where our story ends.

Because everything changed when I journeyed from my home in the wilds of the Alaskan wilds through the Lincoln Tunnel and into the heart of New York City. That's right. The Big Apple. The mecca of all things fashion.

And it was there that my impression of the blanket with sleeves was subverted. Was turned inside out. Upside down. Or, more literally, back to front. My new friend Ginger had a drafty apartment. But what was that she was wearing to keep warm? Some kind of designer wrap? Some cutting edge leopard-print fashionista experiment?

Whatever it was, I wanted one. I wanted ten.

A Snuggie™ may just basically be a robe worn backwards, but that does not mean that a Snuggie™ worn backwards reverts to a robe. Oh no no no. It is way cooler. Hem sweeping the floor behind you. Monkish sleeves. A massive cowl neck. Who doesn't look awesome in a cowl neck?

Elegant. Cozy. It's like Cruella DeVille's car coat, except it's not made from puppies.

Get a Snuggie™, but don't wear it like an out-of-work ice skater trapped in a hospital gown. Spin it around. Elongate your vowels. Smoke with a cigarette holder. It's 2010 after all, dah-ling.

If you employed this approach, Makers of the Snuggie™, maybe people would actually start buying your product.

And I expect a percentage.

All the best,

Jessi the Great

Life on the Range

2010-01-06T14:26:00.010-05:00

Many may think that something was lost with the advent of highways and property lines and barbed wire. That the Great American West, full of migrating tribes of people and herds of animals, swirling around the prairie like air currents, is gone forever.

But take heart! There is still a place where discouraging words are seldom heard. Where the deer and moose play in the street. Where the biting, incessant wind pushes cloud formations across the sky, so rarely is it cloudy all day. That place is Lazy Mountain.

Most recently, the buffalo roamed over to my parents' house.

They were quite orderly about it, and everyone stayed together.

Maybe to borrow a cup of sugar for some neighborly cake they were baking?

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that these tatanka were bred in captivity and destined for the slaughter shed. So Dances with Wolves this is not.

But still, it was kind of fun.

Ooh, and speaking of ranges. After a year and a half of hotplate cuisine, I finally got a stove!

Another interest for my dossier

2009-12-12T15:52:00.006-05:00

Carmen Sandiego. Ugh. Even the name turns my stomach, churning up 20 years of animosity and frustration. Ever since that fateful day in 1989, when her henchman flunky, Rob M. Blind, slipped through our fingers with the Rio Grande, I have devoted myself to the destruction of Sandiego and her V.I.L.E. criminal empire.

Our irreconcilable differences have knit us together like a sweater made of irony. Her experiences and adventures become mine as I chase her around the globe – our lives lived in lockstep with Carmen always one step ahead.

Most recently, this cat-and-mouse game took me to Iceland – a small island country known for its geothermal energy, fish exports and Viking heritage. Sandiego was there to coordinate the effort of V.I.L.E. operatives to steal Yoko Ono’s Imagine Peace Tower, a shaft of light beaming up from a rock off the coast of Reykjavik.

One can only assume that the malignant madam planned to use the tower to light her secret hideout.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

I started with this whole Carmen Sandiego thing because that was where I first learned the term “spelunking.” And I went caving in Iceland. And I’m not patient enough to write an effective transition.

So we went to a cave in Iceland and crawled around. It was nice, but I there were many things that I will have to chalk up to “learning experience.” The next time I go caving, I’ll be so much better. Here are a few lessons for you, my faithful readers, so that you can avoid my mistakes and make a whole bunch of your very own.

1. Do not wear a stocking cap under your helmet. It might be nice for the walk out to the mouth of the cave over uneven aa boulders but once you get inside, the cap will constantly slip down over your eyes and blind you even ore than the intense belly-of-the-whale darkness.

2. Do not wear Danskos. There are two reasons for this – 1) the rough volcanic basalt that you will be clambering over and tripping on will not be kind to the soft leather uppers of your favorite shoes, 2) If you are already pushing 6feet and entering a cave that will scrape the head of even the shortest spelunker, do you really want to be two inches taller? I didn’t think so.

3. If you are a beginner caver, as I was, am and forever will be, it is probably best to take the short cave tour. That way, just when the reality of your situation – that you’ve willingly buried yourself underground (with nothing but a headlamp and a very fragile human guide to keep you oriented) and are wiggling through holes that look just big enough to permit your 6-year old niece – you can catch a glimpse of blue light and know that around the corner the mouth of the cave, blowing snow, and freezing winds are awaiting you with open arms of open space.

4. Never translate cave names from Icelandic into English. Our cave was called Leiðarend, or “the end of the road.”

The way is through.

Oh, and incidentally, Carmen did get the Imagine Peace Tower. But nobody really minded.

Winter wonderland.

2009-11-30T06:26:00.002-05:00

"I'm not exaclty sure how Iceland in winter is going to be different from Alaska in winter." This from Jacy, one of my three travel partners during our one and only planning meeting for this, the Iceland trip.

She had a point. Iceland is an isolated, sparsely populated hunk of land in the Arctic. Main activities for tourists include walking on a glacier, ice climbing, and buying cool winter gear. Not exactly the typical beach vacation for wintered-in Alaskans.

But, after being ehre for 2 days, I think that we are all in agreement that Iceland is waaaay different than AK and can totally justify the expense, time, and hassle of traveling thousands of miles laterally across the hemisphere.

First of all, although yesterday we battled a blizzard that blew two-foot drifts across the road and pelted sand-like snowflacks at our faces - we've been promised that the weather is usually quite mild. The Gulf Stream is Iceland's friend and generally keeps the country cool and moist all year but saves it from the deep freeze winters we experience over in the West. Temps in the winter swing between 5 and 55 degrees. We (lucky us!) just happed to catch them in a 5 degree valley.

Second, Iceland is full of Icelanders. Alaska, on the other hand, is very low on Icelanders. Here it seems everyone is Icelandic! It's great! The fashion is more Euro-Nordic (but still sensibly warm), the hotels look like Ikea threw up in the lobbies, and the buildings are a mix of traditional quaint houses and contemporary steel-and-angles design. Way different from the T1-11 subdivisions at home.

Also their language rocks. A mouthful of consonants and funky vowels spoken very quickly. It´s amazing they can get anything said with words like Rauðarárstígur in their vocabulary. But they seem to make it work. And there is nothing cuter than a little girl in braids jabbering to her father in excited Icelandic.

Three. Iceland may not have cool animals or beautiful vegetation or enormous mountains, but it does have one thing that makes it much cooler than Alaska.

Geothermal energy.

Why didn't we think of this? They use it for everyting - inexpensive heat from the steam, geothermically heated water for pools and hot tubs and long, long showers, they pipe water under their sidewalks and parking lots and driveways so they don´t freeze up. It´s fabulous. And I know from experience that winter is easier to bear after a long, hot, free shower.

So there you have it. We are obviously not crazy for traveling to Iceland for a winter vacation.

Honest.

2009-11-24T14:08:00.004-05:00

I spent eighteen bucks on a package of digestive biscuits and a thing of British candy.

I can't afford nostalgia.

The key.

2009-09-16T02:47:00.003-04:00

I have a long list of wants when it comes to actually sitting down and committing words to (figurative) paper. But there is one thing that transcends mere want. There is something more important than inspiration or a functional computer or a hot cup of coffee or sheets of blank, college-ruled notebook paper or index cards or the Sense and Sensibility soundtrack or a solid character or a laugh-out-loud opening line. Above all these very reasonable requests shines one necessity, the Key Ingredient to Authoring, if you will.

I must have vast wastelands of time.

In England, this was handed to me on a silvah plattah, because as an unemployed expat with no friends, no TV and no internet, my greatest resource was time.

But back in Anchorage, life gets a little more crowded. I have a car, so I can actually go places. I have some people, so I have places to go. I have a job so, that I can continue feeding myself in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. I have church events. I have a Blockbuster card. Suddenly the hours that used to drift upon my doorstep have melted into an icy puddle of commitments and 99-cent 5-night rentals.

But I think I’ve found a loophole. Turns out, this is a pretty big state. And there are many villages and towns in Alaska that feel even further from home than England. And if by some twist of luck you can find yourself paid to go to these remote villages armed with a calculator and a cooler of groceries, you might also find yourself facing evening after evening of quiet solitude.

I’m writing this post because there is literally nothing else to do.

It’s a foggy, rainy night here in King Cove, a small fishing village on the southwestern tip of Alaska’s mainland. The one channel that comes in on my television’s bunny ears is ratnet – a haphazard conglomeration of all the networks that gets shot out to rural Alaska antennae. Currently the program playing is a how-to on recording and reporting Maritime weather (“only you know the sea and weather conditions at your boat’s coordinates!”), and it puts me in mind, both in tone and era, of the old McDonald’s training videos where they still use the Styrofoam McDLT containers.

I’ve cooked and eaten dinner. I’ve finished my book. I walked around town for awhile until the clerk at the mercantile said, “Aren’t you afraid of bears?” and I decided it would probably be prudent to be a little wary. I’ve fought with the Paleolithic internet.

And still the hours drift.

So I break down and write.

Porcupyre

2009-05-27T17:38:00.003-04:00

“Mom, porcupines are pests. Once they come up to your house you have to get rid of them,” JR said as he loaded shells into my dad’s old 22. “They chew wood, they get under your deck. Think of the dogs! Think of the horses!” And with that, my oldest brother strode through the back door and sighted in on the unfortunate prickly porcupine treed in a nearby evergreen.

Like everything my oldest brother says, there was merit. And little room for argument. Or sentimentality. And my mother, with her sixteen years of experience parenting adult children, folded her arms across her chest and decided that she would not pick this battle.

Two muffled pops and the porcupine was dead, a still and spiny little heap. I held our hysterical neighbor dog by the collar (he wanted nothing more than a face full of quills) while JR rolled the body into a laundry basket, walked over to my parents’ burn barrel and lowered the porcupine, basket and all, into the cold ashes.

“Well,” he said, “gotta go.” He loaded his family into their car and headed home. The family farm had been saved from unwanted incisors, and he other irons in the fire.

Which is how the Great Porcupine Cremation of 2009 fell to me.

I’d like to say, for the record, that this was my first ever cremation attempt. Here was what I knew going into it:

1. The human body is 80% water – I apply the same percentage to quilled rodents
2. The porcupine has been dead (by this time) for two days. Rigor mortis is sure to have set in. And it will probably have glassy open eyes. And its tongue might be hanging out like it was on a dead squirrel I saw once.
3. Mom wants her laundry basket back before the cremation commences.

And here are the steps to cremating a porcupine, should you ever be called upon to do so:

Step One: Dump porcupine (hereafter referred to as P) out of laundry basket, into burn barrel.

P appears intact – tongue still contained in mouth; eyes, as hypothesized, glassy; quills white and gray; claws curled into tiny fists to protest the world’s injustices, which have hit him rather hard of late.

Step Two: Start fire by pouring half a cup of gasoline on P and several pieces of pressure-treated junk wood. Watch for nails. Also, as I was told later by JR, watch for explosions from trying to start a fire with gasoline (no explosions noted).

P a bit singed, but was still primarily intact given that the fire was mostly happening above him.

Step Three: Build a bigger fire by throwing all manner of junk wood into barrel until flames are taller than you. Pause to find work gloves. Have a glass of iced tea as you wait for inferno to die down enough to check on P.

P appears slightly more singed, however quills are still intact and glassy eyes still accusatory. At abdomen, P has split open to reveal a ballooning large intestine, color: green.

Step Four: Staying well away from the mouth of the barrel to avoid possible large intestine explosion shrapnel, obtain a large stick or board and attempt to lever P up from its position at the bottom of the fire to the top, without actually pushing him over the edge and on to the ground. The idea being to create a sort of funeral pyre for P in manner of King Arthur or that one crazy king in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Or a Jedi warrior.

P starting to look charred now – no sign of quills. Lots of sizzling as body fluids are released. Skin breaks apart revealing pink flesh underneath. Pervading smell: banana candy.

Step Five: Continue in this manner for…I don’t know, two hours? Add wood, and stir P to the top. Add wood and stir P to the top.

P has lost his tail. His lower organs are also gone, but his lungs are hanging in there like little troopers.

Step Six: Now it’s time for dinner. Get some good pieces of wood (none of that plywood crap) and rebuild your pyre, capping it off with P and then the little grate lid that goes on the barrel. Go inside and wash your hands. Eat rotisserie chicken.

P looks disturbingly similar to rotisserie chicken.

Step Seven: After you have eaten, go check on P. He will look just the same as when you left. But wait! Take off the grate! Tap P with stick. He will dissolve into a pile of dust.

Congratulations! You have just cremated a porcupine! Please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Way to Go Kevin, along with your check or money order for $29.99, so we can we will mail your commemorative porcupine plaque, complete with certificate of authenticity.

Roadblock of Flesh and Bone

2009-01-17T14:57:00.002-05:00

“Watch for moose!” has been my mother’s constant refrain to her children since my parents moved up the mountain two years ago. Their new house sits nestled among acres of tilled fields and scrubby forest and the occasional neighbor farmhouse. In other words, a perfect breeding ground for the oversized ungulates. They walk through our horses’ electric fence about once a week. They browse for potatoes in the garden. They meander along the side of the road as we whiz past, heading back to Anchorage after a weekend of leisure and hauling firewood and a backseat full of Sunday dinner leftovers.

Katy once had a near miss. A bull moose standing just outside the reach of her headlights leaned a little too close and his antlers clattered across the side of her car as she tried to stop on the icy hill. Other than a shaken Katy, and a bull moose whose head probably rang with vibrations for days, they were unharmed.

But a few weeks ago, I crossed an item off my Alaskan list that I hoped would always remain unticked.

I hit a moose.

She just appeared in the far reaches of my low beams, scrambling in the center of the road, trying to avoid my car. I stood on my brakes and the Santa Fe slowed. It slowed almost to a stop on the wind-cleared roads and, for a split second, I thought we were all going to be okay. But, just as the Santa Fe was halted, we caught up with the moose, and clipped her back legs. She sat on my hood, her rump making a loud, metallic thump that I had only heard in the movies when unsuspecting teenagers hit pedestrians in the road.

She recovered her footing quickly, and I don’t think she ever hit the ground. We were all still for a moment – me, with my hands wrapped around my steering wheel; Peter Segal from Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me telling some joke over the radio; the moose, avoiding eye contact, her right back leg lifted gingerly.

As we stood there, avoiding eye contact in the middle of the road, I thought of the moose/vehicle confrontations that I’d heard of in the past.

In high school, I drove past an accident. The car was totaled, its front bumper pushed into the dashboard and windshield shattered. And the moose lay, her legs curled under her, and a stream of blood flowing to the storm drain. They were waiting for the police to come and put the animal down.

When I was in elementary school, my dad hit a moose on his way to work. Again, the car was totaled and the moose was shot.

I’ve broken her leg, I thought. I’ve totaled my car. Now we’ll have to call the Troopers and make them come out and shoot and quarter this animal in negative-fifteen degree weather.

I don’t mind the fact that people kill and eat moose. Moose is a staple in Alaska – its lean meat is healthy and plentiful. But if I’m going to hunt, I want to do it on purpose. Neither of us was looking for a fight. We both just wanted to cross the road.

My fears were allayed when she started putting weight on her leg. Eventually she stepped over the snow berm and crunched through the snow - walking off without even exchanging insurance information.

So she wasn’t broken, although I’m sure that she’ll be sore for a while. And aside from a large dent in my hood, my car was unharmed.

As moose collisions go, this one went about as well as it could have.

And now that I’ve crossed it off my list, I can drive as fast as I want down that mountain.

Just kidding, Mom.

Aw, you're just pulling my leghorn.

2008-12-14T05:52:00.004-05:00

Sooo, picking up a chicken isn't as easy as it looks.

Camera work - Natalie Rose (she digs the artsy "everyone is sideways" look)
Chicken consult - the Queen Mother
The video is about 2 1/2 minutes. Budget your time.

Victory!

Caleb had it down on the first try. Smuggo.

Future Jess.

2008-10-22T04:29:00.002-04:00

I read in a magazine that the Sahara Desert has a humidity of 20-25%, and that airplane air has about 1%. This may be why I feel like my contacts are going to stick to the insides of my eyeballs when I fly. Any why my tongue swells to twice its original size as I sit, strapped into my blue upholstered chair, and think about the bottle of cool, clear, "geyser-fresh" water that TSA made me throw away.

Sleeping in the arid airplane cabin is especially awkward for me. I clench my jaw in the hopes that muscle memory will spare me the humiliation, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my jaw hangs down like a stroke victim's any time I manage to nod off. My mouth and sinuses feel like they have been swabbed out with cotton when I jolt awake to the sadistically loud and staticky captain announcing that we are experiencing some minor turbulence.

Last week, flying back from China, I had my first experience flying east-to-west across the international date line.

Our flight left the eerily empty and modern Beijing airport at nine in the morning on Saturday. I wore my pajamas and my glasses (see above: "contacts") in the hopes of sleeping the journey away.

We flew for what seemed like a weekend. I ate several meals. I watched a couple movies (have you seen The Hulk? Pretty good!). I read about two hundred pages of my book (Wild Swans - meh). I flipped through the in-flight magazines and the duty-free catalogue. I went on several field trips to various lavatories.

We landed in San Francisco and almost exactly the same time we took off out of Beijing. Nine am, Saturday morning. So really, I was coming from the future.

But if I'm any indication of the future, here's what it's like:

The future is peopled by a bunch of staggering zombies with thick tongues, haggard skin, and dark circles under their eyes. Their fashion seems to consist entirely of jersey-knit pajama pants and chenille sweaters.

Their priorities upon arriving from the future appear to be twofold -
1. Locate, overtake, and habitate any sources of fresh water and western-style toilets
2. Begin the search for an allusive, holy-grail-like item known only as "baggage"

People from the future are desperate to get their baggage. It is not uncommon to hear them say things like "Where is baggage claim?" and "Don't leave your baggage there, what are you crazy?" Be careful, people from the future are liable to move in a mob created by singular purpose. You do not want to get between them and their baggage.

But, above all, if you encounter people from the future who have just landed in their metallic, cylindrical vehicle, and traversed, on foot, a "jet-way" and maybe even a "moving sidewalk," treat them gently.

They will most likely be cranky.

Are you still there, World Wide Internet?

2008-10-22T04:11:00.002-04:00

London - Frankfurt - Whitehorse - Anchorage

Anchorage - Houston - Birmingham - Memphis - San Francisco

San Francisco - Tokyo - Shanghai

Chongqing - Xian - Beijing

Beijing - Tokyo - San Francisco - Memphis - Birmingham

Birmingham - Houston - Los Angeles

These have been my flights over the past month. Only a few more next week - Los Angeles - Seattle - Anchorage - and I'll be done with air travel for 2008.

I just got back to the States after a couple weeks of touring like a tourist in China, and I am facing the ever-intimidating prospect of Settling Down in Anchorage. This means finding a job, getting plugged back into ministry at the Chapel, searching out an Anchorage-area writers group, and finally unpacking that bright yellow toiletry bag that has been my constant companion over the past year.

It also means, I hope, taking some time to reflect on everything that has happened since last September, and maybe even sharing some of it with you. It has been a great year, I can tell you that much right now, and I stand on the other side humbled and blessed and tired.

So the posts may be a bit chronologically random as I strive to keep you up to date with my present while catching up on my past.

But I'm back to the blog! Spread the word.

Filler post.

2008-09-18T13:25:00.000-04:00

I have been busy wrapping up my time in England during the weeks that have intervened since my last post. (Wow, Jess, wordy much?)

I think I’m just going to skip all the goodbyes and wrap up posts for now, as they are a little overwhelming and I’m trying, trying to be a good novelist and get my thesis ready for the 30th of September (yipes!).

So friends, I’ll see you soon! Stick with me!

Jess

An Infestation

2008-08-26T20:03:00.004-04:00

When I was little, and we lived on Greendale Drive in Anchorage, fall arrived with the shrews. While we went about our business - buying new winter coats and enjoying the frosty September mornings - a legion of rodents would begin their annual assault.

Operation Warm and Dry

I, in fact, never saw a live one in the house - just their little mangled corpses pinned beneath a metal bar or a thin, naked tail snaking its way out of the mouth of "Kitty," who was meaner than spit but a fine mouser. Nevertheless, I learned through this experience that home invasions should be frowned upon.

This impression was further reinforced throughout the years. There are those Looney Tunes cartoons featuring a horde of termites that buzz up a wooden home, leaving only a porcelain sink, a tub, and a bewildered couple behind. Then that little baby termite would come and eat up that last toothpick in the guy's mouth. The poor Ingalls family lost their home to those vicious locusts. A cockroach on the counter means there are like twenty thousand in the walls.

And now, as fall approaches, I find that my small-but-fabulous flat is being invaded by a small army of pill bugs.

They're crawling under my back door. This much I know.

Of all the things that I could find every morning on my bath mat, I am happy to say that two or three pill bugs isn't so bad. They don't move quickly, opting for neither "fight" nor "flight" when faced with a stressful situation. Instead, they do this:

Kind of cute, actually.

But even these tiny creatures with their cute little exoskeletons can give me the heebie-jeebies. I blame it all on my Alaska roots - we are taught from a very young age to give moose a wide berth and to never run from a bear, but on the subject of creepy-crawlies we remain largely uneducated and inexperienced.

So it is with a nervous cringe that I tweeze these hapless little critters between my thumb and index finger and fling them out into the back garden (where, I'm sure, they immediately begin the long march back to my bath mat). If they stay still, I'm usually okay. But if they move a tiny little antenna or brush me with one of their hair-like legs, I can't take it. I make a very childish noise and drop them back onto the bathroom floor, where they roll around like tiny billiard balls. And we try again.

I think I'm secretly afraid they are going to run into my mouth.

Do you know where this shirt came from, lady??

2008-08-17T15:24:00.007-04:00

PARIS, FRANCE!*

What is it about Paris that intimidates me? Is it the high fashion, the gourmet food, and all the people (even very small children) speaking fluent French?

Yes.

Of all the places that we visited, Paris was the stop that I was most worried about. I saw it as a city that I should know a lot about - it is famous after all - but the things that make it famous are things about which I am an idiot. High society. Romance. Just standing around looking really good. So forgive me if the thought of spending time in this city dredged up those feelings of thirteen-year-old Jessi trying to hang with the cool kids.

As it turned out, Paris is wonderful. Although none of us speak a lick of French beyond the basics like bonjour, merci, and buffet, and although we didn't have Rick Steves or actually any guidance with us whatsoever (we bought a map from a vending machine at the train station), Paris wooed me like she's wooed the rest of the world.

If we had known more about the city, or if we were spending more than 24 hours there, we probably could have done it up solid. But, in the spirit of making the best of it, we just gave it a go, strolling along the Seine from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower.

Paris is just chock full of ambiance, with her tree-lined neighborhoods and street vendors. Being there made me want to study art history, to make friends with bohemians, to learn French, and to shop somewhere other than the Gap.

Started at Notre Dame. I wasn't sure if you could see Sarah and me, so I drew a little arrow.

Close up in one of the doorways of the church.

The most legendary foosball table ever is on the bank of the Seine. I really wanted in on that action, but didn't know how to say "C'mon guys! Give me a turn!" in French.

The Arc! Just a few days after the Tour de France, too.

No label. You're not stupid.

Laurilee and I took a Ferris wheel ride to get a different view of Paris.

Eiffel, extreme close-up.

So, Paris was lovely. I understand now why everyone is so crazy about her.

*Mel Gibson, Maverick. It's time to watch it again.

We all need goals.

2008-08-16T13:36:00.004-04:00

Much like Michael Phelps, I have some records to break.

I've had the opportunity to visit a lot of different countries in the past ten years. But never could I claim to have slept in three countries on one night.

Until now.

That's right. On one Thursday night/Friday morning I slumbered my way through Italy, Switzerland, and France via an international night train.

I know, I know. Amazing.

Amazing enough to be mentioned in the same breath as the most winningest athlete in the history of the Olympics? (Most winningest? They're running out of superlatives for this guy!)

You be the judge.

Nevermind. I'll be the judge.

And yes. Amazing enough.

I just let the train do all the work. That's my secret.

I think that it could have been built in a day.

2008-08-13T19:59:00.011-04:00

Rome! (this is a long one)

We were sad to say goodbye to Florence with all her magical vistas, beautiful statues and cheap accommodations, but the time came to catch a rail and head south to the Capital.

The Termini station gave us our first impression of the city - big, hot, and crowded, with plenty of McDonald's. There are TWO in the train station!

Well, one was across the street.

Our place (a pension, accent on the "on") was near the station, which was always a relief for this pack mule. We found it without incident and immediately participated the grand Roman tradition of taking a long nap during the hottest part of the day. It was glorious.

This started a pattern for our four days in Rome: Wake up, breakfast, see the sights, lunch, sleep, evening walk and dinner. And Rome has got some stuff to see, let me tell you!

On our first evening, we found Capitol Hill and the ruins of the ancient Forum.

And we visited the Pantheon for the first time - this became a nightly stop. There were restaurants lining the piazza and usually a musician or two - see the guy singing opera?

The next morning we sorted out the Metro (we're pretty much experts on any underground system now) and rode it to the Borghese Gallery, an amazing museum set in the middle of a park.

The Gallery used to be the Borghese family's party villa on the outskirts of the city. The downstairs rooms contain mostly sculpture - each room featuring a particularly famous piece in the middle and less-famous pieces around the edge. Oil paintings covered the walls of all the upstairs rooms. Paintings by masters like Michelangelo, Rafael, and Caravaggio.

Hmm. At this point I had planned to describe some of the works that I saw, but I can see that might bog things down a bit. If you're like me, and you can only recognize the names of the great Renaissance artists because of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,then we all have a ways to go before Way to Go Kevin! can focus on art appreciation. So I'll stop there for now.

After the Gallery, we hung around the surrounding park. We rented one of these puppies...

...which are surprisingly fast and complicated. Yup, we were those tourists, tottering on the edge of control, taking up the sidewalk, laughing and yelling at one another to slow down.

It was great.

On our second full day, we demolished ancient Rome (figuratively).

Palatine Hill, home of generations of Caesars and Emperors, is a mound of red-stone ruins today, but with a little imagination, you can picture the Imperial Palace. It also helps if you've seen Gladiator.

After that, we went to the Colosseum. It's a wreck! The floor is all torn up. The walls are falling down. I mean, sure, it's nearly 2,000 years old, but still.

Actually, it was very cool. Not temperature-wise.

Throughout it all, we consulted our good friend Rick Steves. Special thanks to Sarah, who brought him along.

My nose was stuck in this book the entire time.

At Trajan's Column:

At the Forum:

Enjoying the Colosseum:

And Palatine Hill:

On our last day we visited St. Peter's Basilica and the Vatican Museum.

Sistine Chapel, baby!

There was really only one thing at the overwhelming Vatican Museum that we wanted to see so we made a beeline for it and it still took about half an hour of steady walking to even arrive at the chapel door. We were herded like cattle the whole way. Apparently a lot of other people wanted a gander at that ceiling.

But it was worth it. We couldn't take pictures. We couldn't stay long. The overall effect of the chapel was, I'm sure, marred by the hundreds of tourists packed into the room like sardines. And it was still worth it.

St. Peter's Basilica and the home of the Pope were interesting, too. I've only ever seen this square when it is featured in the news because of some papal event, and then it is always smothered with worshipers.

The church itself is huge! Bigger than St. Paul's in London, which is also huge. All the furnishings and statues inside are built on a large scale in order to make the overall effect of the church seems smaller. Does that makes sense? Just ask Rick Steves - he explains it better than me.

Okay, almost done. We ate good food and saw more fun things like the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain. We ate a LOT of gelato.

We also hiked halfway across Rome for this exciting picture:

Less exciting was the line we discovered when we got there.

Then it was on to Paris via the night train!

Florence.

2008-08-12T06:57:00.005-04:00

Florence, or Firenze for those in the know, is very photogenic and I am tempted to skip the airing of my Florentine ignorance and just post some pictures. But I’m not happy if I’m not embarrassing myself, so here goes.

Ask me a month ago, and the only thing I could have told you about Florence is that Lucy wanted to go there in While You were Sleeping.

And I knew it was in Italy.

Reading up a little on the train, I learned that Michelangelo’s David was there, and upon arriving I realized that, overall, Florence is a pretty arty place. The home of
Renaissance art, you might say. And even today, if you can see past all the tourists and the pay toilets, the theme of the city is beauty. Beautiful buildings, music, statues. For centuries, marble figures have been standing on pedestals, posing for students and their sketchbooks. Street musicians are out every night, playing in the piazzas. Sidewalk artists recreate famous paintings with chalk and concrete day after day.

It’s touristy, yes. But I almost feel like that’s fitting. The appreciation of the people around me affected my appreciation, and the impact of this city has reached far beyond her walls. This is where important things started – where men learned how to achieve perspective paintings and how to capture emotion in stone.

And I think that the amount of work and effort and imagination required to try and replicate this world in oils or marble is a testament to the power and imagination of the One who created everything in the first place.

The Piazza della Signoria was my favorite place in Florence. The statues have been there for hundreds of years, turning the square into a famous open-air gallery. This is the original site of Michelangelo's David, but he was moved into a nearby gallery and replaced with a copy in the eighteen hundreds (don't quote me on that date).

Getting our art on.

In the middle is Megan, a friend of a friend who graciously opened her flat up to us for three days AND showed us around town! She's great. You should be friends with her.

Our sweet digs, Florence edition.

An open-air puppet show!

Degrading famous works of art!

Street musicians!

Teaching the next generation the ropes. Very sweet scene.

I took this picture to prove that I was really there, but, on reflection, it looks a little superimposed.

Canal Retentive.

2008-08-10T12:09:00.006-04:00

“That is impossible. There is no night train to Venice.”

Laurilee and I stare blankly at the woman behind the ticket counter for so long that she begins to worry that her English wasn’t correct.

“What I mean is,” she says, “That train does not exist.”

“Huh,” I say, “But it’s on the timetable.”

“It does not exist.”

The woman in Marseilles was sweet and helpful, and although she couldn’t magically conjure up a non-existent night-train to Venice, she could get us as far as Nice today and then on to Venice the following afternoon.

Better than nothing, we said, and started looking for accommodations in Nice.

This was the most unexpected hiccup (hiccough? I never know.) during our entire trip, and as problems go, it wasn’t earth-shattering. We had to book a semi-expensive, semi-dodgy hotel near the train station in Nice and we lost half a day of Venice, but other than that it was a piece of cake.

And then, Venice!

It’s all true! No roads! Just canals!

I can’t remember the first time I had ever heard of the concept, but I remember as a little girl trying to imagine what it would be like to use a boat instead of a car. I loved the idea of Venice, full of water-roads and winding walkways.

It was exciting to step out of the train station and be immediately greeted by a busy stretch of the Grand Canal, with tourists loading onto buses and mail-boats zipping past with bags of letters and stacks of parcels.

Venice has some really wonderful sights, including the Guggenheim Museum, Saint Mark’s Basilica and the Accademia art gallery. But we didn’t go to any of them during our shortened stay.

But that was fine. I was mostly just there for the canals.

The day train.

Venice!

See?

Some gondoliers. Too rich for our blood!

The place we stayed brought breakfast to our room. They're sweet.

Word is, the rain in this country stays mainly in the plain

2008-08-08T21:02:00.004-04:00

SPAIN!

Although we had to walk up three flights of stairs and share the bathroom with the rest of the floor, I think that our hostel in Barcelona was my favorite. Our room was large – with a bunk bed and a double and a twin. High ceilings, tile floor. We had a small conservatory with giant windows and a table with chairs where we could sit and look into the back windows of the entire block.

Our sweet digs.

The view.

We're so crazy!

I wanted to purchase one of the canaries that the vendors were selling on Las Ramblas, the city’s main pedestrian drag. To my mind sprung a picture of a little yellow bird swinging in his wire cage in our conservatory. We could try and take him on the train, I reasoned, as a fragile and complicated mascot. Or we could have staged some sort of do-gooder freeing ceremony where we flung the bird into the air and watched him fly to liberty, his feathers blending with the setting sun.

Here's me checking out the price of birds.

But, as it turns out, the birds were 40 euros, not even counting the cage, so it was not to be.

All for the best, I suppose. Our freeing ceremony, although good intentioned, would probably have left the bird unable to fend for himself after years of captivity, fighting pigeons five times his size for crumbs of paella and trash. Eventually, we would find him with a five o’clock shadow on his little feathered cheeks and fingerless gloves on his orange feet, whistling a tuneless song, a tiny little hat at his feet to catch contributions.

I don’t want that on my conscience.

So we left the birds at the pet shop and enjoyed our time in Spain anyway. We bought breakfast from the same little coffee shop (The Times) every morning, carrying it back to our hostel to enjoy in the conservatory. Our days were spent rambling on Las Ramblas, learning the Metro, visiting La Sagrada Familia Cathedral, and finding the beach.

Barcelona is in the Catalonian province, and I was worried that everything would be in their own special, secret language of Catalan. But our stammered and fuddled high school Spanish was enough to get us around.

Laurilee and Jannell have a conversation on Las Ramblas.

Sarah and I buy some bread for dinner at the market.

Paella. Probably the most accurate-looking food known to man. There's no mistaking what you're getting yourself into with a plate of paella.

The interior of that eternal work-in-progress, La Sagrada Familia.

On to Italy via the south of France! Note the discrepancy in backpack proportions.

...to visit the Queen.

2008-08-05T18:51:00.002-04:00

One of the highlights of being here in England has been the opportunity of living so close to London. I've been able to visit the "Big British Apple" many times, always with a new mix of friends and family.

Although catching the 4 am bus from Bath to Victoria Station in London wasn't my most favorite scheduling in the world, I was able to meet up with my three traveling compadres just a few minutes after they arrived in the city, for our first stop in our four-country tour.

All I could think on the five-hour drive was "please let their backpacks be as big as mine!"

They weren't.

When my three dear friends rounded the corner, strapped into their cute little pill bug packs, I realized that maybe I should have left the tennis shoes at home. And the regular-sized shampoo. And the two sweatshirts. And the jacket. Everything that seemed so essential at two in the morning (just a few short hours ago) was now slung over my shoulders. Ah well.

Seeing my Alaska friends at the Victoria Station threw me into a world-colliding-disorientation that is becoming more and more familiar. Laurilee, Sarah, and Jannell, after all, round out my total American visitor list to an even 10.

London can be a pricey place to sleep, but thanks to Hotwire we were able to find some very reasonable accomodations in the beautiful London haunt, the Holiday Inn Express. We were happy to camp out there for a few days, see some sights, and get adjusted to time zones and group dynamics.

Some things that we did:

Visited the Borough Market (I think that outdoor markets might be my new favorite. Does that make me a yuppie?)

Sound of Music! Maria was a little over the top (your place in my heart is safe, Julie Andrews) but the music was, as always, fabulous. Those Von Trapp kiddos have some pipes!

Hunted and discovered a good old, dark paneled, English pub.

After a few days in London, we braved the Gatwick Airport and entered the orange-hued world of EasyJet to fly to Spain.

Wait Jess, you may ask. Haven't you already been to Spain?

Well, yes. I did just go last month. But this is different Spain. This is Barcelona! Home of all the Barcelonians!

aaaaand we're back!

2008-08-03T20:23:00.004-04:00

Beginning on July 17th and ending on August 2nd, Jessi and her three intrepid friends, Laurilee, Sarah and Jannell, set off to see the world.

Well, part of the world.

Armed only with enormous backpacks, pre-moistened face wipes, and doggedly cheery dispositions we chugged through Western Europe in a flurry of camera flashes and mispronunciation.

Now my tiny flat is littered with ticket stubs and loose change and sleeping pallets and the empty shells of backpacks.

I don't want to say much more until we get through some of the pictures. Maybe a country per day? That sound like a healthy pace?

Firenze

2008-07-26T15:30:00.002-04:00

So I'm in Florence right now.

Guess who's here?

David.

More from Rome!

La Sagrada Familia

2008-07-22T06:44:00.005-04:00

Started in 1882, with a planned completion date sometime in the next twenty years, the Temple of the Sacred Family, or La Sagrada Familia is the ultimate example of budget and time overruns.

I mean, really. I know that it is very huge and very elaborate what with the stained glass and the marble arches and the stonework covering the outside, but over one hundred years and still under construction???

Lazy.

We were able to go and see the work on this cathedral and go up one of those impressive looking towers (four of the towers are completed, there will eventually be thirteen - one for each apostle and a big one in the middle for Christ. I have walked through a lot of old Catholic churches in my time, but this was the first time I´ve been able to see one in the process of being built. Priests and nuns were replaced by men in hard hats and ticket takers.

I´ll be interested to see La Sagrada Familia when it is completed. It is going to be an awesome and beautiful building. But I wonder if it will succeed in pointing people toward Christ or toward man´s architectual prowess.

PS: These aren´t my photos. Will share some when I get home.

The Girlz

2008-07-20T11:34:00.004-04:00

Currently in Barcelona, with three of the coolest girls in the world. So far, we have:

Slept in

Visited the Borough Market in London

Made the first stop on our "Jason Bourne" tour for Laurilee - Waterloo Station

Talked, talked, talked

Ridden trains, planes and buses

Spoken Spanish and been laughed at

Taken a bunch of pictures

I would love to write more, but I´m on a ticking internet cafe clock!

See you in Venice!

Ireland!

2008-07-10T10:29:00.003-04:00

Tyler and Laura stopped by on their way home from South Africa for about five days.

We flew to Ireland and boy are our arms tired!

From Dublin we took a bus tour into the country.

The ceiling on the bus was super low. This is Tyler saying, "Jess, I'm not a freak show!"

Cool Celtic cross at an old monastery.

And here I thought an Irish weaver was some kind of bird.

No trip to Dublin is complete without a trip to the Guinness Storehouse. Everything you ever wanted to know about Guinness. And a lot more.

Then it was back to Bath for a short night of sleep before heading to London the next morning. They look pretty chipper for 4:20 am.

Bit o' London sightseeing...

...and then a musical! We Will Rock You is, hands down, the best musical featuring the songs of the legendary band Queen that I've ever seen. It was a very cheesy and very fun show. Bohemian Rhapsody will never be lame.

Wimbledon? Wimbledid.

2008-07-08T12:55:00.005-04:00

So Wimbledon is this tennis competition that happens every year in London. All the best players are there and the courts are grass.

Yeah, that's right. See how much I know? I'm pretty much a tennis expert, now.

But it wasn't long ago when the bulk of my knowledge about the sport came from playing Super Nintendo Tennis. When John McEnroe could have been a celebrity chef or a mandolin player. When a Grand Slam was nothing more than an egg-heavy breakfast dish served at Denny’s.

But now I've been to Wimbledon, so I know lots of stuff.

First of all, I know that it takes a loooong time to get into Wimbledon.

In order to buy day-of tickets to the tournament, you must wait, for several hours, in what is affectionately and accurately called “The Queue.” Thousands of people stand, sit, or stretch out in The Queue as it winds its serpentine way around a huge field. As we took our place in line, we were handed a queue card, designating our position and eliminating the ever-present temptation to cut, and (I kid you not) a pamphlet on "queuing etiquette." Aren't the British just so cute?

Newspaper vendors walked up and down between the folds of the line hawking their wares. There were plenty of coffee stands and toilets. Next to us, in a patch of open grass, a football (soccer) game started up. It was nice. You can't fight the queue, man. You gotta embrace it.

Here we are in the queue: Me, Jonny and Tomoki.

And here's Mina...and a giant tennis ball. Awesome. These pictures are actually all Mina's because I was a dork and forgot to put my memory chip in my camera.

Fast forward three hours, and we're through the gates, ready to watch some tennis.

Secondly: The real show is on the sidelines.

I don’t mean the fans. In fact, I think that tennis ranks second only to golf for most boring fans ever.

What I mean is that it truly takes a village to run a tennis match. In the match we watched, there were five line judges, six ball boys/ball girls (ball people?) and a small army of teens in green polo shirts on rain patrol.

The ball boys and girls were fun to watch because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone scurry that much in real life. They ran everywhere they went – even very short distances. And when they weren’t running or crouching at the net, they were standing “at-ease” at each end of the court, with tennis balls in their hands to give to the players. It was a little silly looking, but I gotta admit, a very smooth system.

Here they are in their natural habitat:

I learned some other stuff about tennis, but I think that I’ve covered the bulk of the important info.

Wimbledon’s over now – the men’s finals were on Sunday in one of the best championship matches ever. Federer, the reigning champ who has won Wimbledon for the past five years, was trying to be the first person to ever win six championships. But he was beat out in a match that lasted nearly five hours by a Spanish guy named Nadal. I watched the highlights because I’m such a tennis fan. On the women’s side, I think that Venus Williams won again in a championship match against her sister, Serena.

Feel free to forward me any of your tennis-related questions.

Kevin Recommends #2

2008-06-24T19:48:00.005-04:00

(This is the place where we get to recommend things that we like. Once again, in the spirit of credit where due, the idea was 100% ripped off from McSweeney's.)

Spelling out alphabet letters_Actually just one: Aitch.

Poetry readings_Turns out, these are going on all the time. And poets are really friendly in a desperate-to-be-understood sort of way.

Billy Elliot, the Musical_The movie is better, in our opinion. But the dancing kid in this musical is phenomenal.

Spain_The only place where you get to practice your high school Spanish AND flush your toilet paper!

The Gadsby Project by Red Mountain Church_Rearrangements of old hymns by a church out of Birmingham, Alabama. We like every song, but especially the Johnny Cash-like ballad – Christ, Or Else I Die. Plus, harmonica!

Getting some friends with cars_It just makes life so much easier.

Not getting crapped on by pigeons_We recently gave this a try and can state unequivocally that getting crapped on by pigeons is lame.

Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh_We’ve been hearing a lot about this book and the related movie, and finally picked it up at our local library. Read most of it with a tight throat because it is gross and sad. In the comfort of your own home, try reading it out loud – Scottish brogue, baby!

Happy Birthday, Ty!

2008-06-18T08:51:00.003-04:00

Awww. They grow up so fast.

Hey Jude!

2008-06-17T14:25:00.002-04:00

I'm always a little behind the YouTube curve, so I'm sure you've all already seen this video.

But it's great.

I'm kind of on a watching-babies-on-YouTube kick right now, so there may be more of these in our future.

The Papa

2008-06-16T18:16:00.003-04:00

This is my dad.

Here he is fixing the hole in my ceiling.

Here he is schlepping my stuff to London.

Things that are great about my father:

1. He loves the Lord and has raised us kids to know and love our heavenly Father above all.

2. If there is an open container of sour cream in the refrigerator, I can pretty much guarantee that he has sprinkled some Tabasco in there. Maybe even some french onion dip mix.

3. He wired a universal remote for the family television set. And when I say "wired," I mean he put our DVD remote and our TV remote back-to-back and wrapped a piece of wire around them. Ghetto? Maybe. Effective? Yes.

4. He has always loved me unconditionally. I know this because he says (often), "Do you know I love you, daughter?"

5. He LOVES to pick people up from the airport. Or drop them off at the airport. Or rescue them from a stalled car at the side of the road.

6. He usually just smiles, but sometimes you can get him to laugh really hard. That's always fun.

7. He's always up for a drive.

8. He's smart and creative.

9. He's usually game for an episode of Star Trek or a late-night movie. And he's always been an easy touch when it came to an ice cream at McDonald's or a basket of fries at the Breeze Inn.

10. He is characterized by his kindness, hospitality, and graciousness.

He is especially gracious with his eldest daughter when she fails to call or write him on Father's Day and tries to make up with a long and sweet (though belated) post.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

See you soon!

Grathiath for your Patience

2008-06-04T15:08:00.002-04:00

So, the posts are going to be a little patchier than usual as I'm in Southern Spain (or, as they say it down here, "Thouthern Thpain").

Many interesting and culturally inaccurate observations to come!

Stay tuned!

Eurovision Song Contest 2008

2008-05-25T18:32:00.008-04:00

Yeah, I'd never heard of it either.

But I'll tell you what, when Europe gets together to put on a show, the sky's the limit.

The Eurovision Song Contest has been going on for like sixty years. Forty-three European nations compete, but only twenty-five are permitted to perform in the final televised extravaganza. Musicians from the twenty-five countries perform their songs one after another in a marathon concert with no commercial breaks. The concert is held in the country that won the contest in the prior year. This year, Serbia.

After all the songs have been performed, the viewing public call in their votes (sound familiar, Simon Cowell?). But (major twist!) you can't vote for your own country. We voted for Latvia. Of course.

After fifteen minutes, the polls are closed and the real fun begins. Turns out, ALL forty-three participating countries get to report their top ten results. Representatives in each country were standing by to read their nation's scores via live satellite feed, and to enjoy their fifteen seconds of fame. It takes a long time.

This was the scene at Andy's house about three hours into the Eurovision Song Contest 2008.

The show was saved by the acerbic commentary of Terry Wogan. His snide observations kept the whole thing just ridiculous enough to stave off pity and just funny enough to keep watching.

According to my British friends, Eurovision is no longer a song contest, but a political popularity contest, with countries voting for their neighbors regardless of their performance. This was the explanation for the UK tying for rock-bottom last. They had a good song, but no love from Europe.

Russia won with a saccharine ballad about believing in yourself.

Here's a clip of the Best European Song.

Yup. That's an ice skater.

Naturally, we capped the evening off with a rousing game of Bible Trivia.

Living Alone

2008-05-24T10:17:00.006-04:00

The other day, while digging in my hall closet for some shoes, my belt loop managed somehow to wind itself around the handle of the closet door. This was an unexpected complication in my running-out-the-door plan. I tried to slide it off, but it was really caught and I couldn’t swivel my neck around enough to quite see the problem. I’m not made of rubber, you know.

I stood for a few moments, shoes in hand, door attached to jeans, and reviewed my options:

1. If I was my father, I could pull the Leatherman out of its belt-holster and free myself by either cutting my belt loop (sad) or dismantling the handle. But the dismantling would have to happen blind, with my hands behind my back, and I don’t know if I trust my fine motor skills enough to carry me through the tricky project. This is the same girl who can’t plug in an appliance in the dark. I have to feel for the little holes in the outlet and try to guide the metal prongs to it and I’m always a little nervous about being electrocuted. Plus, no Leatherman. So, moot.

2. If I was Wonder Woman, I could unbutton my pants and pull myself out of them using nothing but upper body strength and the door jam. But, as we all know, Wonder Woman doesn’t wear jeans (it’s like her kryptonite).

3. I could wait for the next two hours until the guys across the hall got home from work and then yell at them through my front door. But, I couldn’t open the front door unless the closet was closed, and I couldn’t close the closet unless I was inside of it. And they already think that I’m nuts.

4. Wriggle.

For those of you who want closure, I went with option four. Eventually, through some very complicated maneuvers that I’ll never be able to replicate on the dance floor, I was free.

But other than the danger of freak belt-loop-induced starvation, the solitary life ain’t bad.

Pronounced 'brooj"

2008-05-20T15:22:00.006-04:00

The characters are multi-faceted. The plot is an oldie but goodie.

Overall, I'd give it a go.

Just remember that it's all ketchup, and you'll be fine.

The Queen Mother

2008-05-11T18:47:00.003-04:00

My mom is great. Pretty much everyone knows that.

Here she is with JR and baby Jill about a year and a half ago.

Conversion Story

2008-05-10T07:56:00.004-04:00

I have no idea what the temperature is, and this is because of history.

Once upon a time, two scientists, Dr. Fahrenheit and Dr. Celsius-Centigrade fell in love with the same woman.

The men, formerly best friends forever, fought over the beautiful Dr. Kelvin. They stopped speaking to one another, and even parted ways professionally, dividing their years of research between them.

However, as it turned out, Dr. Kelvin wasn't interested in either of them, but was only trying to get close enough to steal valuable information about how to get the mercury to go up that little tube.

So through the tragic combustion of fate, science, and love, we now have to deal with three separate ways of measuring the temperature.

They gave Kelvin absolute zero - because she was so cold.

Anyway, that's why I can't tell you exactly how warm it is outside. But it's nice. It's weather that makes you want to be out in it.

The girls enjoy a little sunshine after class.

Kim and I had a picnic in front of the Royal Crescent on Friday...

...but a thunderstorm drove us indoors for pudding and Seinfeld. Not a bad evening.

Let's be honest.

2008-05-02T19:06:00.003-04:00

Did you cry in Finding Neverland?

Me neither. That would be stupid.

And weak.

Freestyle

2008-05-02T16:54:00.003-04:00

Remember swimming? Going to the pool for open swim on Monday nights, with the kick-boards and the pool noodles and the clamor? Wearing the skin off your toes on the rough cement floor?

That sickening belly-flop feeling.
That panicky I-went-too-deep feeling.
That horrible high-dive-what-was –I-thinking feeling.

You could pick people up in the pool – even really big people like grownups. I mean, you could actually lift them, not take them out on a date. You could do flips and handstands. You could float.

Remember those oversized lifeguard chairs and that big giant clock?

Our hair would freeze when we walked out to the car – even our nose hairs. Our eyes would burn and itch because, for some reason, they never got the chlorine levels quite right in Seward. We would lay on the living room couches, disinfected, damp and exhausted and my mother would listen to the silence and thank God yet again for swimming pools.

In college, there was a short time when Sam and I would go swimming every morning. This was a big step for us – Sam with her fear of sharks and Jessi with her fear of exercise. But it was good, using all those childhood strokes. Listening to my thoughts underwater.

I’ve started swimming again, here in Bath.

It has worked out pretty well, although people don’t take as kindly to a grown woman showing off her aquatic strength.

“Put me down!” they bluster.

Things I’m into right now

2008-05-02T16:10:00.003-04:00

1. sandwich – bread + tortilla = wrap. Mmm.

2. Holiday planning – we are going to go EVERYWHERE this summer!

3. Flannery O’Conner – seriously, why does anyone write anymore? Have you read her stories? Unbeatable.

4. The elliptical. That’s right, you skeptics! Forty minutes. Three days a week. Give or take.

5. Losing my wallet. Actually, I’m not so into that.

6. The Word in Action series at Widcombe – it had a very promising start last night

7. Dancing with strangers – I just can’t stop the beat! Must be all that natural rhythm.

8. Lost – are they seriously all dead?

9. Having people over (but if there are more than three, then someone has to drink out of a jar)

10. Café Nero’s. It may be a chain, but it’s my chain and we’re happy.

April 25th in Anchorage

2008-04-26T03:42:00.004-04:00

This photo of fresh snow was taken yesterday by my sister-in-law and emailed to me.

I feel for you guys! I really do!

Kevin Recommends #1

2008-04-25T08:13:00.005-04:00

(Editor's note: This is the place where we get to recommend things that we like. Hopefully it will be a regular feature. The idea was 100% ripped off from McSweeney's. But they should be happy - imitation and flattery and all that.)

Christmas and Birthday lists_Some may think them presumptuous and materialistic, but lists really can make life easier for the unimaginative gift giver. The more specific the better. In fact, if you can email the list with attached hyperlinks to Amazon, that would be best. Make sure to offer a range of prices, but don’t be afraid to throw some big-ticket items on there. You never can tell. Somebody we know got a horse.

Riding the bus_Forty minutes to read your book or listen to your podcast. Often you have to stand up. Sometimes the bus drivers are terse but sometimes they call you “luv.”

Infamous_The other movie about Truman Capote. We were surprised by the humor and the humanity. Also, we haven’t liked Sandra Bullock this much since While You Were Sleeping.

Frying Ramen_Can the delicious twenty-cent meal be improved upon? We submit that it can with a pat of butter, one egg, freshly grated Parmesan and a frying pan. Mmmm.

Toning it down_Sometimes you just gotta take a step back and say, “Whoa, I should just tone it the heck down.” Not a bad idea.

No news is good news

2008-04-23T13:44:00.002-04:00

It has been a very quiet week. Which is good. I’ve been spending a lot of time writing. A lot of time in coffee shops. A little bit of time watching Batman Begins. And a lot of time enjoying the beautiful weather that we’ve been graced with the past several days.

Yesterday, after a somewhat distracted afternoon at Café Nero’s, Hannah and Abby and I went for a walk to look at the newly-flowered trees.

Those girls are great.

Check out the new jeans! Jehovah Jireh!

New Word Alive in Eleven Bullets.

2008-04-16T18:00:00.003-04:00

In no particular order, here are some things that I learned last week at New Word Alive:

1. In Welsh, a double “L” (i.e.: LL) is pronounced like a guttural “CH.” Sort of like channukah. So the conference was in Pwllheli. You do the pronunciational math.

2. One of the best definitions of the Trinity: That God exists as three Persons, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, loving each other. I heard that from Mike Reeves, who gave a three-day lecture series on the Triune God. I really appreciated his seminars.

Curious about the Trinity? I’ve got pages of notes!

3. I finally finished the notebook that Daylan gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday! Woo Hoo! Now I can tap into the brand-spankin’ new Molskine that I got for Christmas.

4. I like John Piper even better in person. He spoke for two of the evening sessions on the topic of suffering using Romans 8. “The meaning of all misery is that sin is horrific.” Very challenging.

5. D.A. Carson, who I had never heard preach, reminds me a little of my old business prof, Dr. Mackey. He walked us through 1 John (which I call “First John” and everyone else over here calls “One John”) during four of the morning sessions.

Great stuff along the lines of “I’m a Christian, but I sin.” How do we as believers deal with the dichotomy of both the light and the darkness in our lives? Answer: You must not walk in the darkness. And praise the Lord for his grace.

Curious about 1 John? I’ve got pages of notes!

6. Stuart Townend is alive. Who knew? Well, most people probably do, but I kind of had him in the John Wesley/Charles Spurgeon generation. The first time I had heard of him was my last year at Master’s when we started singing “How Deep the Father’s Love for Us.” I always thought it was like an old Irish ballad for some reason. Ah well. He’s alive and kicking and led some rock-awesome worship sessions.

7. You don’t necessarily have to wash soapy water off dishes when you’ve washed them. Some do, some don’t. It’s very freeing.

8. I am a bad car DJ. (Bad like bad. Not bad like good)

9. Jo Mango is a female Scottish folksinger. Not, as initially thought, a male Caribbean-cruise lounge singer.

10. I go to church with some very cool people.

11. In general, it was just wonderful to be around people who believe in the Father’s plan, the Son’s saving work, and the Spirit’s sustaining power. It was refreshing to sing with thousands of other voices and to be reminded that this world is fleeting. I’m so encouraged that God created us for relationship and then gave us the Church.

So that was my week. I am now back in Bath and happy to be here, hanging out with good friends from the MA and writing my little fingers to the bone.

A bit of posting maintenance

2008-04-11T15:01:00.003-04:00

'ello, 'ow are 'ou?

Just practicing my cockney accent, which I have been informed needs a little work.

Okay, so this isn't really a post. I'm just back from an incredible week in Pwllheli, Wales with a group from my church. We attended the New Word Alive, an evangelical conference. Did I say evangelical? I meant magical.

No. Actually I did mean evangelical. But it was great.

I have a stack of work to do for Monday. A stack of laundry to do for tomorrow. And that novel ain't getting written by itself.

So, stay tuned, dear readers, for some posts about the trip and about the week and also I have some "tags" to catch up on (more on that later).

Also, my blogroll needs updating. I'm still toying with the move to WordPress. I haven't hoovered (vaccummed) in about a month. And I still haven't dealt with that tomato.

Soon! Very soon!

a battle of wills

2008-04-03T16:31:00.003-04:00

About two months ago I sliced a tomato in half.

One half was used to add color, flavor, and valuable nutrients to a sandwich.

The other was deposited in a small Tupperware container, stuck in the door of my fridge and promptly forgotten.

A few weeks ago, while reaching for my block of Parmesan cheese, I was reacquainted with the existence of this half-a-tomato, if it can still be called that.

I didn't take a close look. I know that it can't be pretty.

I also know that eventually I will have to pull the small Tupperware out of the door of my refrigerator and deal with the now-putrid food product therein. But for some reason I'm putting it off. I can't really explain why. I know that I can't win.

Unless I move.

Hmm.

Just another day in Bath

2008-03-27T09:59:00.004-04:00

The other day I was awoken by a man on a PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said through my window, "please note that the race will be delayed by one hour, one hour ladies and gentlemen."

It reminded me of living in downtown Ketchikan during cruise ship season. From my bedroom in the attic I could see the huge ships, docked and teeming, and hear the morning announcements:

"Please be back on board by one-thirty. If you'd like to take part in the gold-panning tour, please see Sourdough Sal over by the information center."

This was my summer wake up call.

But now I'm in Bath, and the nearest ocean is miles away. When I peeked out the window of my daylight-basement flat at the feet of the passers-by, I saw not the orthopedic walking shoes and matching track suits of aging tourists, but rather high-quality tennis shoes, spandex leggings and over-muscled calves.

The Bath Half - an annual half marathon that begins and ends on my street.

I should have signed up for it, being an experienced half-marathoner myself. But the conditions of the day were cold and wet and generally not very pleasant, so I'm happy that I decided to give it a miss.

The best part about the race (which I didn't actually watch) was the giant foam sandwich that was handing out flyers on my street corner.

I mean really, when is that going to happen again?

Don't disrespect the Banoffi, man.

2008-03-21T22:04:00.005-04:00

For a while I thought that the British just really liked pudding.

I mean, I have nothing against it. My old roommate, Melody, can make just about the most delectable banana pudding you have ever consumed (I think it’s actually mostly cream cheese and condensed milk). But besides Mel’s banana-infused Turkish Delight, I have always listed the viscous dish way down the favorite dessert list. Like near black licorice and raisins.

Over here, though, everyone is talking about pudding. People were asking me if I would like pudding and what I would like for pudding and what’s my favorite pudding. They would gaze at me with blatant disbelief (well, blatant for a Brit) when I very honestly said that I don’t usually care for pudding.

A brighter bulb than I would have realized much sooner that pudding is a catch-all word for dessert. Much like Coke in the South, pudding can mean any number of after-dinner delicacies. “What’ll you have for pudding?” simply means “What do you want for dessert?”.

It’s nice in a way, because you don’t have to remember how many S’s are in pudding.

I’ve got the hang of it now, and I no longer pretend to be a person who doesn’t care for pudding.

Nowhere is the British attitude toward pudding more pronounced than that most fabled of cultural activities: The Church Potluck.

This past Sunday’s meal being my first church potluck, I tried to hang behind my friend Serena and watch her movements in my “Jessi’s trying to not humiliate herself" mode that has become a habit. The pudding table was laden with more than a dozen options and I wasn’t sure what kind of custard went on which sponge and how much people were taking and if the raspberries were for the cheesecake looking thing or the chocolate cake.

Turns out, I didn’t have to worry. No matter what you call it, dessert is dessert, and the only rule seemed to be “don’t leave anything out.”

But there was one dish that definitely outshone them all.

I could hear the excited buzz of conversation building as I approached the table in the slow-moving queue.

“Ooh, banoffi pie!”

“Someone made banoffi pie.”

“I hope there’s some of that banoffi pie left.”

My curiosity couldn’t help but be piqued. Banoffi pie sounds like something you concoct when you’re five years old and your mother has turned her back in the kitchen. She returns after running to the end of the driveway to get the mail and you’ve emptied the contents of the fridge into a pie pan.

“Look, Mom! I made some picklemustardnoodle pie with ketchup frosting!"

In fact, banoffi pie is a popular British dessert that involves a complex recipe.

The name comes from the two dominant ingredients...wait for it...bananas and toffee.

In the books, it looks like this:

At church, it looked like this:

But I’m sure that’s because of my poor scooping abilities and that unforgiving fellowship hall lighting.

It was good.

Maybe a little sweet.

I missed it!

2008-03-17T07:36:00.006-04:00

So, a couple of days ago, Lance Mackey slid into Nome for the second year in a row!

Last Thursday I wore my Iditarod shirt in support of Dee Dee Johnrow - the one I stole from Linda that says "Alaska, Where Men are Men and Women Win the Iditarod" - but she came in 15th. In fact, I don't think a girl has actually won the race in over a decade.

But I'm happy that Lance won it. He seems like a nice guy.

It's been hard being so far away during the Iditarod. It's not a race that is exactly on the tip of every British tongue.

For the uninitiated, the Iditarod is a major sled dog race that happens in Alaska every year. It takes just under two weeks for the best mushers (sled dog drivers) to make it from Anchorage to Nome, Alaska. There are prizes and checkpoints along the way.

The Iditarod happens at the end of the winter festival Fur Rondy, an annual event in Anchorage that includes a carnival, ice sculptures, outhouse races, and a chance to pull out those wolf-head hats that grace the closet of many an Alaskan.

It was also the first year they had this...

...and I'm so doing it next year. Or at least watching it.

Tyler (my brother) was in charge of the TV ad campaign for Fur Rondy and he made some really great commercials with local sports, entertainment, and political celebrities. You should check them out and then you can say you knew him when. He's in the commercials, too. Well, his voice is.

If you have the time, I'd encourage you to click here to see some real Alaskan athletes. (I think number 52 looks a little like Ryan Gosling)

Warning to Diabetics: This post may be a little sweet

2008-03-15T12:14:00.004-04:00

This was my first public reading of my own work. I knew almost everyone in the audience, and I only read for about three minutes, but it was still nerve wracking.

Writing is a gateway to vulnerability. You put something down on paper, revise it, revise it, and then send it into the void saying, "Well, this is the best I got." And if the people don't dig it, you just press on.

I have, however, an incredible group of friends who dig everything I write, if only out of loyalty. I could have read my class notes on Samuel Beckett and they would have cheered me on. I really appreciate the shelter that the good opinion of my fellow writers is providing while I work on developing my thick skin.

So, that made me think about my blog and the same kind of warm, sappy, fuzzy feelings surfaced. You guys are great. Thanks for reading the good posts and the boring posts. Thanks for sticking through the lean months.

Wow, am I really going to post something so sentimental?

At least it's short.

An eggplant by any other name...

2008-03-08T14:57:00.003-05:00

Despite all my efforts, I still don't like eggplant.

But over here they're called aubergines, so I'm hoping that my luck's about to change.

The Bud

2008-03-08T14:54:00.003-05:00

I found this picture of Natalie, and I think it's great.

In addition to being beautiful, she's pretty funny.

And she taught her cat to sit.

Luck of the Draw.

2008-03-08T14:21:00.004-05:00

Variety Packs. A good way for the consumer to avoid a decision, and for the producer to off-load the gross flavors.

I don't know about you, but my variety pack MO has evolved over time.

When I was little, the variety pack was a shared resource. If I ever wanted Cheetos, Maple and Brown Sugar Oatmeal or the Chocolate Malt Carnation Instant Breakfast, I had to be thinking ahead, jockeying for position when Mom came home from Costco, and snapping up the good stuff at the first opportunity. Otherwise it was Peaches 'n Cream and Sun Chips.

This communal approach left the undesirables flopping around in their overlarge packaging for weeks, unconsumed. Finally, some martyr fell on the sword because we all knew Mom wasn't going to buy more until it was gone.

Now, I find myself (inexplicably) a grown up.

I have sole access and ultimate control over the variety pack. So my tactic has changed. I eat my least favorite flavor (i.e. the granola bar with raisins) first, knowing that its superior brothers and sisters will wait patiently in all their prepackaged and chemically preserved glory.

Most recently (let's just get down to brass tacks) that means I've had to muscle down three of these babies...

...before I can start on the Cheese and Onion.

Ew.

My Pages are Due Tomorrow: A Poem

2008-03-05T16:43:00.005-05:00

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I'm a procrastinator

Did you know that you can get extra points on Tetris if you push down?

The Bath Sports and Leisure Centre has my number.

2008-03-05T08:45:00.002-05:00

I’m joining a gym.

I know what many of you may be thinking.

“Jessi, didn’t you try this once before at the Women’s Nautilus Club. Wasn’t that you who signed up for a six-month membership and went once, count ‘em once? Is this the same Jessi Gates who doesn’t like to run, doesn’t like to sweat, and has the endurance of a feverish sloth?”

Yes, yes, and yes.

It’s all true and don’t think these thoughts haven’t flitted through my mind as I’ve been contemplating this membership.

But, at twenty-seven, I think that it is high time I experimented with this crazy fad I’ve heard about called “working out.” And I have the time right now. And as a student, it is pretty cheap to join the gym. Plus, they’re haranguing me.

I went in last week to look at prices and plans with the membership guy, one of those intimidating Beautiful People who frequent these kind of establishments. He showed me around – it’s a really nice facility – and I filled out the little “interest” form and said I’d be back to sign up for real.

I didn’t go back.

Sunday, the membership department called me to ask if I was still interested in joining. “Yes,” I said, trying to noiselessly fold up the bag of chips I had been eating. I told them I’d come in Tuesday to seal the deal.

Wednesday morning, another call from the membership department. Although there were no accusations of being a flake, I know that my file says something like “SKIPPED APPOINTMENT” or “FLIGHT RISK.” I’m supposed to go in this afternoon, and if I bring my friend who’s a member, they’ll give us twenty quid cash back.

If they’re as persistent about my physical condition as they are about my membership, I’m going to be a Greek goddess soon.

Mind your PMQs.

2008-03-04T10:52:00.004-05:00

At first, I thought that BBC was playing a clip from a football match or a town meeting gone terribly wrong. The crowd’s voice on my radio was full of derision and scorn, and although the words were unintelligible, I could picture them saying something like, “Aw, c’mon ref! My grandma could call this game better than that!”

But after a few seconds of attentive listening, it became clear that this cacophony was not produced by a pack of sports fans or a riotous mob or a bunch of irate parents at a PTA meeting. It was the leaders of Great Britain in a little Wednesday afternoon tradition called the Prime Minister’s Question Time.

I know that the title sounds innocuous, but let me assure you that Gordon Brown is not seated in a rocking chair in the middle of the story circle, reading Where the Wild Things Are to the Members of Parliament. Nor is he pulling slips of paper out of a cardboard suggestion box labeled “How can Britain do better?”

Every Wednesday for a half hour, Britain's Prime Minister hoofs it down to the House of Parliament to face the questions of the MPs. There’s a lot of sitting and standing, a lot of booing and hoorahing, and more than the occasional snide comment. It’s great. But I think that they would get a lot more done if the crowd wasn’t always interrupting the proceedings with all the shouting.

My thoughts on the matter:
I don’t think it’s a bad thing that the leader of a country has to stand before his peers and support his policies on a weekly basis. I mean, I’m sure that Brown has a bunch of lackeys to gather evidence for him and write responses to questions, but ultimately, it is his face in front of that microphone and his voice defending the position that his party has elected to take. It puts me in mind of the presidential debates that have been going on in the States. But I’m also sure that it has its disadvantages…complicated explanations cannot be laid out in twenty seconds and often the questions that fly around Parliament are designed less to inquire and more to accuse.

But it’s fun to listen to, even as an ignorant outsider.

Also, by way of a heads up; do not go into politics if you have personal space issues. I cannot believe how they pack those MPs on the benches.

Carrying the Banner!

2008-03-02T19:11:00.003-05:00

I don’t know what made me think of it. Perhaps it’s an unrecognized longing to return to childhood. Maybe it’s all this Christian Bale I see in the movies these days. But something has got me thinking about that fateful Tennessee summer day when my cousin and I decided to take a break from Bubble Bobble on her Nintendo and watch a movie.

A musical.

Newsies.

When I was little, musicals were as commonplace as mismatched socks around the Gates household. My mom had all the good ones (The King and I, My Fair Lady, Music Man, Sound of Music), and none of the bad ones (Carousel, Funny Face, Beaches). Repeated screenings at a formative age taught me a lot about Nazi-occupied Austria, the cockney accent, con artists, and the geo-political situation of Siam at the turn of the century. Very educational.

It also taught me to accept the fact that sometimes the main characters in a movie can just better express themselves with a song and perhaps a little dance. I call this “suspension of disbelief.” I do not accept my brother’s label of “delusional.”

So a movie about street toughs who sing and dance through hard times? Westside Story Lite? What's not for a girl to like?

Last year I attempted to introduce my high school small groups girls to the wonders of Newsies – a virtually untapped resource in their generation. I had them over for a movie night and watched the opening song with a fifth-grade grin on my face. The girls looked at one another and at me with their sweet, patient, patronizing, eyelinered eyes and an expression that said, “We are waaay too old for this.”

It’s a shame. You gotta get ‘em young, I think.

Yes, musicals are cheesy. Yes they’re historically inaccurate. They’re pretty long, too. But for me, nostalgia conquers all.

For those of you who are with me:

Yesssss!

2008-02-29T09:25:00.002-05:00

Guess who has internet at her very own flat now?

Me.

The blog posts are going to start pouring forth!

As per your request.

2008-02-08T10:09:00.000-05:00

No one can say that we here at Way to Go Kevin! aren't responsive to the changing tastes of our blog-reading demographic.

Well, I suppose that somebody could say it, but he or she had better say it quietly, like under his or her breath in the form of a mutter or sotto voice. Because otherwise someone else might hear him or her and think he (or she) is a doofus.

Anyway, all that to say, here are some pictures requested by our loyal fans (or, in this case fan).

Well, let's just be up front. It was Sam. Sam wanted to see these pictures.

This is my street in Bath. The building down at the end of the street is an art museum.

My apartment is not nearly so posh as my street. It's studio with a small livingroom/bedroom and a kitchen. It's enough for me, but I feel the pinch when people come over. This was taken on Thanksgiving. It's a good thing my friends don't mind sitting on the floor. Behind the white iron lattice is my bedroom.

So this is open into the living room, but I've solved that problem with some clever use of tulle. Well, almost solved it.

The bedroom and living room make an L-shape that is filled in by the cutest little kitchen you've ever seen. (I took this picture before I moved in, it's less bare now)

Well, that's it.

Except:

Oh, and this is haggis.

I don't know if the casing in this instance is really sheep-stomach or if it's plastic. I didn't look into it. Sue me.
The potatoes and yellow stuff (called neeps) were great. The haggis was okay. It tasted like weird-tasting sausage.

So...what next?

2008-02-07T13:01:00.001-05:00

My friends Stephen and Jared from AK stopped by England on the beginning of their TOALT (Trip Of A Lifetime (my title)). It was great and bizarre to see Alaska friends walking along the streets of Bath.

Some highlights:

Eating haggis (not as revolting as you might think)

Lunching in Oxford at the Eagle and Child (the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein and some less famous authors met twice a week)

Watching SPAMALOT in London's West End (I'm never one to turn down a musical)

Visiting All Soul's Church in London and being reminded, yet again, that the body of Christ is vast and encouraging

Watching Star Trek: Voyager in the cave-like "chill-out room" at a London hostel accompanied by the sweet, sonorous slumber of Les, the old Welsh stoner.

Going by the name "Maisy" for an evening

Museums: British, Tate, Ashmolean, Maritime

Best of all: Standing at the Greenwich Observatory with one foot in the eastern hemisphere and one foot in the western hemisphere. Very exciting and not anticlimactic at all.

The boys are very laid back travelers, which suited me just fine. They've gone off now to do Paris and the Middle East.

And I'm back home, facing my looming classes.

It'll be nice to get back in the swing of things after two months of lost momentum. My context module is The Short Story and starts on Monday.

It's gonna be great!

It’s not so much insomnia as it is being a moron.

2008-01-28T07:21:00.000-05:00

There are, I’m sure, several ways to deal with a nine-hour time zone shift. People have been doing it ever since the Spirit of St. Louis first winged her way across the Atlantic.

But I have been struggling.

My problems started when I decided to fly on Air New Zealand for the Los Angeles/London leg of my trip. It was my first time cruising with the Kiwis, and I didn’t really know what to expect.

It was wonderful.

Number one: Good food and free wine with your meal.

Number two: No one in the middle seat (I know that ANZ cannot actually take credit for this, but it sure made my trip a lot more enjoyable).

Number three: Ridiculous, ludicrous, fabulous selection of in-flight entertainment. In addition to Planet Earth, Extras, Flight of the Conchords, Fawlty Towers, CSI and other TV shows, guests aboard the Air New Zealand 747 were able to choose from the following movies:

The Heartbreak Kid
Grow Your Own
Superbad
Hot Rod
Shortcut to Happiness
The Simpsons Movie
Knocked Up
The Jane Austen Club
The Nanny Diaries
The Darjeeling Limited
Resurrecting the Champ
Transformers
Live Free or Die Hard
Into the Wild
Across the Universe
Feast of Love
Control
Goya’s Ghost
The 11th Hour
The Lives of Others
The Brave One
Stardust
Talk to Me
The World’s Fastest Indian
3:10 to Yuma
Rush Hour 3
The Hunting Party
The Seeker
The Bourne Ulitmatum
The Invasion
The Game Plan
Ratatouille
Garfield Gets Real
High School Musical 2
A Beautiful Mind
Casablanca
Dirty Harry
Funny Face
Gone with the Wind
LA Confidential
Lethal Weapon
Roman Holiday
Saturday Night Fever
Something’s Gotta Give
Shadowlands
Terms of Endearment
The Conversation
The Bridges of Madison County
The Shawshank Redemption
The Untouchables
The Usual Suspects
The Wedding Singer
Top Gun
Unforgiven
An Angel at My Table
Once Were Warriors
Rain
Smash Palace
The Navigator
The Quiet Earth
Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
Lord of the Rings: Two Towers
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King

Seriously?

So I spent the entire flight not sleeping, as I had planned, but watching four TV shows, three and half movies, and trying to wake my seatmate up in such a way as it could look like an accident so that I could go to the bathroom.

This was not a bad way to spend the ten-hour flight, but by the time I had landed in London, took the bus to Reading and the train to Bath my internal clock was a little woozy.

I got to my flat at about four in the afternoon, and by four-fifteen I was in bed and deeply sleeping until four the next morning.

Wednesday: Up and around at four am, then asleep by ten thirty in the morning, awake at four in the afternoon and asleep by ten at night.

Thursday: up at four thirty, asleep at two, up at seven, asleep at one and up the next morning at six.

Friday: Up at six in the morning, asleep at two in the afternoon, up at two in the next morning. That means I was awake for a total of eight hours.

This is ridiculous. I have to pull myself together and stop sleeping like a two month old.

The happiest traditions on earth.

2008-01-26T05:49:00.001-05:00

I was able to stop through LA on my way back to Jolly Ol'. It was fabulous.

I chilled like a vill with Sam and the Burns and the Flowers. I hit all the great restaurants before my plunge into a world of culinary mediocrity (Baja Fresh, Rubios, In N Out, Egg Plantation, Wood Ranch). Additionally, I visited a little place called Disneyland with Ken and Beth.

Ever heard of it?

New Tradition: Mickey Mouse pancakes

But why stop there?
Donald Duck

Goofy

The UK

California (Beth got a little carried away with Catalina. Or is that Alcatraz?)

Old Tradition: If you're cranky, you have to wear the mouse ears

New Tradition: Eating your PB&J and Ruffles on Pirates of the Carribean
Old Tradition: Pretending like we're spinning like gangbusters on the teacups, but not actually spinning at all because it's just not worth it.

Retro Pic: circa 2002 w/Ryan Kendrick

New Tradition: Arriving at noon and leaving at ten like grown-ups

Bizarro Family

2008-01-15T03:41:00.000-05:00

My favorite is JR with Tyler running a close second.

Ohhh the Humanity!

2008-01-14T20:14:00.000-05:00

The Fam.

Go My Favorite Sports Team!

2008-01-14T03:32:00.000-05:00

I've decided to pay more attention to American Football, at least for the next few weeks. Mainly because I just received a jersey* for Christmas from my brother Nathaniel.

The number of professional sports teams playing in Alaska can be counted on one hand that has lost all its fingers, so my family has always favored the Boston teams in honor of my father's youth. The Red Sox, Celtics and Patriots - these were the logos that graced the walls and ball caps of my brothers.

For some reason I was never bitten by the bug that infected my siblings. Instead of pouring over sports statistics and computing batting averages, I just did my math homework. Instead of Topps baseball cards, I collected porcelain dolls and Star Trek memorabilia. Sports was okay, but mostly it was just an excuse for the males in my house to get free reign with the TV. I remember hours and hours of sports on the family television, including one particularly memorable Sunday when we had to watch the SuperBowl instead of the twenty-four hour musical marathon that TNT was hosting.

But in the spirit of joining those you cannot beat, I have gradually become a sports enthusiast by osmosis. I'll sit and take in a game. I'll ask questions. I'll get emotionally involved. Still, at best you could only categorize me as a casual fan. A social watcher.

Now, though, the stakes are higher because I have this jersey. And I have some English friends who expect me to have Belichick's playbook memorized. And the Pats are going to be playing in the SuperBowl** while I'm in the UK.

So I'd better bone up on my NFL lingo if I ever hope to represent.

It's all about Special Teams.

_________________________
*Number 81, Randy Moss
**Unless the earth swallows the entire team up in some sort of freakish catastrophe.

What better way to ring in the New Year...

2008-01-02T03:01:00.000-05:00

...than with shellfish.

On New Year's Day we celebrated Dad's birthday a week early with the first-ever Gates Family Boil.

No, not the skin disease. That was last year.

A boil is some sort of Cajun affair where you cook a ridiculous amount of seafood and dump it all in the middle of the table for a salty medieval free-for-all.

Note: this post is graphic heavy. Meaning I took a lot of pictures.

Jill's ready for the boil.

So's Callie Jane.

We covered the table with newspaper and wax paper. I'm not really sure why the bags are on the chandelier. I think the plan was to have them handy for shells and other shrapnel.

Zach and Aunt Lucy wait for the deluge.

Dad shows Ty the ropes. Apparently oysters are resistant to being pried apart.

Tyler regarding raw oysters: It's like riding a roller coaster. I've done it before but it still makes my stomach feel funny.

Did Nathan know what he was getting into when he married Katy? We've yammered him into doing all sorts of things since he's been mixed up with our family. Swim with snakes. Eat raw oysters. He's a gamer.

This is as close as Katy got.

I have no idea how we convinced Zach and The Bud to take the plunge.

They did not dig it.

Seriously.

Crawdads are creepy.

Callie and Mom are pretending to eat the crawdads. None of us actually ate them. Again, creeeepy!

And there were twelve baskets remaining!

Mom's ready to roll it on in but Pop's still chuggin' along.

How we digest.

One month later...

2007-12-27T17:11:00.000-05:00

I'm really sorry. Something happened to this month. Every time I sat down to chronicle my musings and experiences I was drawn away from the computer as if by magic.

Now I'm so far behind that I don't even know where to start.

Here are the posts that I meant to write:

Happy Birthday! Love, London
Hannah and I have birthdays one day apart, so we decided to go for an overnight in London to celebrate!

Put a Fork in Me
I finished the term at Bath Spa in a flurry of printing and revision.
These are the ladies in my novel workshop (Abby, Hannah, Fran, Me, and Mimi).

There's No Place Like It
Home to Alaska for Christmastime

Tree Trek 2007
There wasn't a ton of snow this year, but we made up for it by choosing a really, really cold day.

Poor Champy couldn't handle the chill, so he rode took turns riding in our coats.

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party 2007
There really is nothing that says Christmas more than a lot of ugly sweaters.

Jared and Mel wore basically the same sweater. People were getting them confused all night. It's a good thing Jared wore that sweet mock-turtle neck.

So I am happily home and enjoying Christmastime with family and friends. I hope you all had a Merry Christmas as well.

I promise to be a better blog-friend in the New Year!

Check, Mate!

2007-11-28T10:09:00.000-05:00

I have been a happy Mac user for the past three and a half years. I still love the aluminum-silver casing of my PowerBook G4. I love saying, “Shh, it’s sleeping” to friends and pointing out the pulsing light that hearkens the slow, heavy breaths of a slumbering child. I like using key-strokes. I like not having viruses (digital or biological).

But, like my failed relationships of years gone by, there is always an inevitable, nagging problem.

In this instance, it’s a lack of palatable pre-loaded games. The PC’s got you here, Apple. I have whiled many a happy hour away with my WinBook or Dell Desktop to the simulated sounds of cards flipping and pinball machines clattering. I love that the little smiley face wears shades when you win at Mine Sweeper. Back in the Rattler Race era, I am not ashamed to say that I dominated to the detriment of my eight o’clock class: American Government.

What does this Mac-Oh-Ess-Ten, the tiger or the panther or something, offer me?

Chess.

Be still, my palpitating heart.

It’s kind of fun to flip through the various style options for board and piece materials (Marble? Wood? Grass? That’s crazy!), but eventually, you have to play. I started on super dummy easy-time which felt a little like playing a chicken, such were the random, jerky movements of my digital opponent. While I enjoyed winning, I could almost hear the inner workings of my computer comment amongst themselves. “Oh, she’s playing on chicken-level. Bless her heart.”

I couldn’t handle that kind of patronization, and have since slid the blue dial away from “computer plays faster” and a little closer to “computer plays stronger.” The computer is still not playing at half-strength and I am losing consistently.

I’ve never been very good at chess. Occasionally, in a fit of father-daughter bonding I’ll sit down across the board from my dad. He tries to hide his glee at my obvious ineptitude, but it’s difficult to disguise the giggling.

“Are you sure you want your knight there, daughter?” he’ll choke over rising waves of mirth.

“Of course,” I posture, my eyes scanning the board for the hole I most certainly cut in my defensive line.

Then it’s bam, bam, bam, all my interesting pieces are gone and I’m left with my king and two pawns hobbling around the battlefield, while my dad slowly draws his rooks and bishops into a wolf pack for the Pinscher maneuver.

Chess: It’s like bleeding to death, but more boring.

Thanks Steve Jobs!

Contemplating another BM

2007-11-21T09:59:00.000-05:00

I've been putting it off. Resisting the temptation to flock from one blog site to another like a lemming.

But recently I've been feeling constrained by the limits of Blogger, and have found myself wandering over to Wordpress, "just to look around."

It may happen. It may not.

But if it does, which is better:

jessithegreat.wordpress.com

or

waytogokevin.wordpress.com

Lists

2007-11-19T10:15:00.000-05:00

from: mcsweeneys.net (aka: one of my favorite places)

Top Hip-Hop Acts of 18th Century England
BY MIKE RICHARDSON-BRYAN

Earl-Grey-T
Snuff Daddy
Haughty by Nature
Notorious W.I.G.
Tuppence

Chain Restaurants That Went Kosher.
BY JACOB STULBERG

Applebaum's
Matzo Barrel
Red Snapper
T.G.I. Friday's (until sunset)

Personals From Nonpersons.
BY PETER CAMERON

Toyota Prius seeks irritating pseudoenvironmentalist for smug attitude and poorly informed dinner-party rant on Middle Eastern oil politics.

California relocation for "fresh start" seeks disaster-prone individual for postmove loneliness and employment difficulties followed by crippling "sleep all day" depression episode.

Cringe-inducing racist remark seeks grandfather for slip of the tongue during family get-together.

Tedious recounting of last night's nonsensical dream seeks potential suitor on first date for obliteration of second-date possibility.

Surprisingly explicit and seemingly unending movie sex scene seeks family for very uncomfortable viewing moment.

Hallow-losses and Well Wishes

2007-11-10T10:05:00.000-05:00

First I believe that I must formally concede to the champions of the 4th Annual Pumpkin Carving Competition.

Congratulations Blake and Bekah, your pumpkin was great. I never would have thought of hacking my pumpkin into cross sections.

Actually, there were a lot of really cool pumpkins. I'm feeling a little outclassed and will have to start researching my pumpkin designs for next year soon just to stay in the game.

Fortunately this was a busy week, and I was not left with the luxury to nurse my loss for days on end.

My life has fallen into a repeating pattern of "on" and "off" weeks.

I have two lectures every week, the workshop and the context module. My workshop is structured around writing and receiving criticism for my novel that is still in its very fetal stages. My context module (entitled The Love Story) is a class where we study literature of a specific genre and focus our writing on that genre. So I find that I write a lot of short stories for that class on the theme o' luv.

I'm required to turn in work for both classes every other week. That means that nothing is due during week one and in week two EVERYTHING IS DUE. Last week, everything was due. This week I'm on easy street.

So all that to say, I was too busy trying to think of a synonym for "handsome" to mourn my near victory too much.

I also received some great mail this week, in honor of the Halloween season, which lifted my spirits.

You may not know this, and I in fact was not aware until I made the plunge across the pond, that Oreos are not as ubiquitous a food item as many Americans presume. In fact, they are well-nigh impossible to find in Bath, England.

So the present of Oreos and Ramen and vampire ears from Laurilee and Sarah was very, very welcome.

And the hand-painted pumpkin from Callie Jane was the best ever.

We are so, so close!

2007-11-07T06:53:00.000-05:00

After an astonishing show of solidarity that brought pumpkin-sized tears to my eyes, we and the Scholar Pumpkin have rocketed into SECOND PLACE!! That's right, we are only three votes behind Blake and Bekah Boys and their Mummy Pumpkin as of the early hours of November 7.

I really think that we can pull it off - those of you who were waiting until the drama hit a fever pitch can feel free to go ahead and vote now for #13.

Hmmm, maybe the Boys don't have this competition all wrapped up.

Retro Pix

2007-11-05T11:15:00.000-05:00

So I know that infectious disease is not generally something you can laugh at, but in early 2003, Newsweek and Time Magazine made it just a little easier.

special thanks to: Chie Burns, Franchesca Wright, Sam Neylan, and Ken Flower (may he live to be beaten in pumpkin carving competitions for years to come)

Blood is thicker than Grandblood

2007-11-05T11:05:00.001-05:00

I'm a little afraid that my mother may have voted for this hackneyed pumpkin:

I mean come on. It looks like it was carved by a three-year-old.

Poll Update:
Well over one hundred votes have been cast in the 4th Annual Pumpkin Carving Competition, which is a pretty amazing feat. Less impressive is the fact that Ken Flower holds 25 of those votes and the Mummy Pumpkin is still holding strong with 21.

However all is not lost, and the Scholar Pumpkin is hanging in there with the best of academic spirits. We have eight votes so far, and I know that there are readers out there who have yet to cast their vote. It's easy and fun, too. The only price you'll have to pay is having Ken and Beth's blog pop up in the search bar when you're trying to get to the State of Kentucky home page for the next thirty days.

Campaign Update

2007-11-02T13:05:00.000-04:00

Well, early exit polls show Blake and Bekah Boys in the lead with their "mummy" pumpkin followed closely by Ken Flower and his depiction of some unnamed metropolis.

What? You don't know any of these people?

Then click here and vote for me! Polls close November 7.

What my pumpkin may lack in artistic acheivement and originality, it makes up for by just being really pleasant.

So let's win this together "with the mighty sword of teamwork and the hammer of not bickering!*"

___
* The Shoveller, Mystery Men

Vote for Jess!

2007-11-01T09:05:00.000-04:00

The 4th Annual Pumpkin Carving competition has begun!
(and the people rejoiced)

Make sure that you go to the Flower's Blog and vote for the pumpkin* you like best.

*Let's not kid ourselves here, we all know that this is just an annual popularity contest for people who never got voted for homecoming court (Ken excepted). So when I say vote for the pumpkin you like best, what I mean is Vote for Me! Because I'm really nice. And I'm all alone in a new country.

And the pumpkins are really small here and hard to carve.

'Da Bomb. Otherwise entitled: Why should Britain be any different?

2007-10-27T08:44:00.000-04:00

So in true trying-to-be-casual-with-new-people-and-also-funny-fashion, I had one of many Alaska Yankee in King Arthur's Summer Home type blunders.

Scene: Outside The Porter, a pub in George Street (that's right, in George Street, not on)

Characters: Me (Jessi), Matt (new friend from the MA)

Awkward pause, like those common in pubs worldwide

Me: Did you know that every time there's a pause in the conversation, somebody's thinking about Abraham Lincoln?

Another awkward pause. This time it's my fault.

Matt: Yeah, are you quite sure that works over here?

Me (internally): Doh.

Why do I cling so to that joke? It's not even that funny in the States.

Residential Weekend

2007-10-24T13:48:00.000-04:00

This past weekend I went with some of my fellow students to a retreat in the English countryside about an hour and a half (or two and a half hours, if you trust Bruce, the talking GPS) south of Bath.

It was sort of like my initiation week at my undergrad with fewer relays and more wine. Several of the tutors came and led workshops. We wrote haikus about our feelings. Two guest authors also came to give readings and pep talks. Mostly, though, it was just a get-to-know-you-and-eat sort of time.

In other words, my kind of weekend.

Anyway, here are some pictures.

The outside of one of the buildings. The main meeting/dining room was a converted barn.

These are the girls in my workshop - Hannah, Abby and Fran. We break each other's hearts every week with constructive criticism.

I went on a walk with some of the tutors. Here is Commander in Chief Richard Kerridge getting us unlost.

The Dorset cliffs.

Ollie (another student) and me and the Dorset cliffs.

Some cows. They're everywhere, and you know what that means. Tread carefully, my padawan.

I think this cow means to do Ollie a harm.

Farmers and friends, but not friends who are farmers...yet.

2007-10-16T10:56:00.000-04:00

This Saturday I walked over to the weekend farmer's market. I was expecting it to be the size of the Saturday market at home, but you know what happens when we assume.

The market was small - maybe about twenty booths, but there was plenty to look at and too much to buy. I ended up with some milk, butter and bread this time and plan to make it a weekly stop.

Later that same day, I went to Bristol with some friends (friends! huzzah!). Bristol is much larger than Bath and is a quick 10 minute train ride. It was so refreshing to hang out with living breathing people.

This is Hannah (front) and Abby (back). They're both Americans and are in one of my classes at Bath Spa.

You'll meet them when you come visit me.

Happy Birthday Kevin!

2007-10-11T10:28:00.000-04:00

I am so sad that I missed Way to Go Kevin!'s first birthday. That's right, folks, a year ago on October 7, I brought this tiny, mewling little blog into existence and look how far it's come! We've worked our way through burp cloths and rice cereal and I can now watch proudly as it balances on its pudgy little digital feet and totters around the living room of my heart.

Certainly there have been times when I was afraid that it wasn't developing properly. I'd see other women's blogs at the park and wonder if maybe I was doing something wrong or missing some key that would emotionally stunt my blog for life.

Why hasn't my blog had any embedded videos? I would wonder. And what's all this about changing the template?

But I realize now that everyone's blog develops at a different rate and no blog is better than another.

Anyway, Way to Go Kevin! for having a birthday.

The birthday of my blog has caused me to reflect on my own year and the many changes therein:

My backyard in October 2006:

My backyard in October 2007:

A nice view in October 2006:

A nice view in October 2007:

My neighborhood in October 2006 (although this picture was actually taken in December):

My neighborhood in October 2007:

On an unrelated note, I'm experimenting with removable wallpaper ideas. Just so you know, spray starch works pretty well on dry fabric and not so well on wet fabric.

Yeah, could I get a melee over here? Thanks.

2007-10-05T09:13:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time I was pretty into Halo. I had my brother’s game system at my house and I would come home from work, take off my trouser socks and spend a little quality time with Oreos and X-box. I could get through several levels, willing myself to forget that I was on little kid super easy mode. I liked having the small pterodactyl aliens and the big blue Aquaman aliens explode with a single shot from my shotgun. I got pretty good at maneuvering in the various all-terrain vehicles. I finally figured out which button I needed to push to switch weapons. Things were going pretty well.

But as fun as it was to play Halo poorly by myself, it was doubly fun to play Halo poorly in front of other people. Occasionally my brothers or some friends from work would organize a game of Halo that involved days of preparation. We would have to lay in stores: seven layer dip, Coke, Oreos (for me), several televisions and something called a hub. The hub always gave us problems. Nobody really knew who had the hub or if we had a hub. Once it was finally located in the back of someone’s car, there were several cooks in the kitchen of the hub, trying to hook it up to all the different X-boxes, trying to make everything talk to everything.

I just tried to stay out of the way. I know that I was only invited as a circus side-show freak Halo playing girl and wasn’t expected to participate in the set-up.

Eventually, the world was as it should be and everyone was on the right map and the right team and the game commenced. I was always put on the better team as a sort of sexist handicap. My job usually involved running for the hills and trying to snipe people from a safe distance, or drawing enemy fire as I got stuck in a corner or lost my bearings in the middle of the map.

I never was any good at Halo. If I played too long my contacts would dry out and I'd get a headache. One time I made the people I was playing with turn their controllers upside down to play, and I still didn’t win (although that was a pretty fun game for me).

I’m not going to psychoanalyze why I liked playing it so much. I think it’s got to be the camaraderie. Or the addiction to entertainment. Or the latent aggression.

Take your pick.

Well Worth the Eight Bucks

2007-10-05T04:50:00.000-04:00

Oh you tiny little pint of wonder!
Did you come across the sea from Vermont
to fill my freezer with home?
A bowl of cookie dough ice cream and a cup of rooibus.
I could be in Aro Circle.

Settling in.

2007-10-01T07:55:00.000-04:00

Well, so here I am in England! I've been spending my days wandering around the city and my nights studying the various denominations of the British pound so that I don't have to stare blankly at the change in my hand as I try to buy a cup of coffee.

I can move into my apartment (flat) on Tuesday. It's teeny tiny - it could easily fit into my bedroom at home - but it has everything that I need and it's close to the bus stop and the city center (centre). I've found a little coffee shop with wi-fi nearby.

People I've met:
Geraldine, the matronly B&B manager
Rupert, the hot letting agent
Su Ann, the friendly missionary
Jama, the amorous drifter

It's been an interesting week! Yesterday I went to a Church of England. The service was very close to what I'm used to: hymns and choruses, a sermon on Genesis 2, innumerable announcements, tea and coffee and fellowship. The people were great and I was excited to meet Su Ann, the missionary with the Christian Union that I emailed a few weeks ago. She came and picked me up from the B&B and took me to a student lunch afterward. It was so refreshing to just be able the hang out with other believers. The body of Christ really is universal.

Tonight I head over to the University for registration, meet and greet, and (fingers crossed) some awkward icebreakers.

Sorry about the lack of pictures. I still need to download them from my camera to my computer. It'll happen, though!

Remember him? I know you do.

2007-09-23T01:43:00.001-04:00

So today Jenni and I went to "the Broadway," as she calls it in her never ending love affair with the definite article. We actually got in this time because we paid The Man a lot of money. The Drowsy Chaperone is a new musical comedy. There's a tap dancing groom, pun weilding gansters, an over-the-top Latin lover, and a dance featuring blindfolds and rollerskates. It also stars Gilbert Blythe.

Imagine my shock.

Johnathon Crombie (Gil) plays the Man in the Chair - a neurotic, theatre-loving, cardigan-wearing, depressed New Yorker with a sing-songy voice and a swish in his walk. It actually took me quite awhile to recognize him as the hair-pulling heartthrob of my youth. But it was indeed he. (he? him? hmm.)

I'd like to say, "What a treat!" But I'm afraid that it will sound corny.

Jenni and I had trouble getting the sign in the picture:

Here it is:

We also went to "the MoMA":

Lottery Shmottery

2007-09-21T22:31:00.000-04:00

So, we had hoped to replicate last year's success with the Broadway lottery.

C'est la vie.

It's all happening!

2007-09-21T00:38:00.000-04:00

Well kids, here we go. After months of planning, weeks of leaving, and days of packing, I've completed the first leg of the BM.

I'm now in New York with my friend Jenni Kim for a whirlwind weekend of crizz-aziness before finally heading over to England for grad school.

I'm taking my dad with me - because I'm secure in my grown-upness. We're going to bash around England for a week (and hopefully procure some accomodations for Jessi) before he heads back to his real life. My brother once drove from Anchorage to LA with my father in what he dubbed "a ten day nugget of wisdom." I have high hopes. We've already covered Morality in America, Creativity and the Christian, the definition of "impossible," and John Piper. Well, I'm pretty sure that Piper has not yet been exhausted.

We flew from Anchorage to Newark together, but then parted ways at the airport. I went to Jenni's to spend the weekend eating and going to shows and shopping, and he's going on some man-vacation that will involve many many hours behind a car wheel, a fair amount of sunflower seeds, and more cans of A&W Diet Rootbeer then I care to dwell on. We will meet up on Sunday afternoon for our trip across the pond.

Before I left, I did this:

Also, with the help of many willing movers and shakers, we were able to turn this:

Into this:

More to come!

It's a veritable smorgasbord-orgasbord-orgasbord!

2007-09-08T19:31:00.000-04:00

Oh my goodness, the Alaska State Fair, aka Mecca of Fried Food.

We poured honey on our fried bread - you know, to sweeten it up a little.

Appropriate order of operations: Ride then eat.

He started the fire.

2007-09-08T19:05:00.000-04:00

Anchorage isn't really known as the comic venue of America. In fact, it is a notable event when big names wander into our neck of the woods. So when B.J. Novak (big name, small man) came up for the UAA kick-off, we rearranged our busy schedules to attend.

It was a lot of fun, and we were only three rows back. He sounded just like Ryan from the Office. It was eerie.

This is him reading his new children's story "Wikipedia Brown"

Sorry about the poor picture quality. I didn't want to use the flash at the risk of being singled out for public mockery.

Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

2007-09-08T18:58:00.001-04:00

Here are some pictures from my cruise to Alaska. It was a great trip with Linda, Katy, Mom, Aunt Lucy, and Mrs. Harding.

Weather? Gorgeous.

Katy and I enjoyed this sign warning drivers in Petersburg of speed bumps. You can never be to careful, that's what I say.

Camping in Hope

2007-09-08T18:37:00.001-04:00

With our eyes fixed on the future grace that has been promised, believers in Christ reside, or "camp" if you will, in hope throughout our born again lives.

Recently, I was able to not only camp in the state of hope, but also in the town.

Hope, Alaska.

Actually just outside of Hope, but I can't come up with any theological tie-ins with Coeur d'Alene Campground.

We car-camped in Coeur d'Alene on a beautifully overcast night.

And I mean "car-camped" very literally:

Jannell's set-up in the back of her wicked-awsome truck.

Stephen's set-up. I especially like the rifle.

My set-up. I think it was more comfortable than my bed at home.

The campin' crew.

I'm going to miss this place.

Slosh

2007-08-23T20:52:00.000-04:00

When you have a burger and shake at Lucky Wishbone, it's called "slosh."

According to Callie Jane.

I love to have slosh, although I find that I can't do anything afterward other than sleep.