10 Years Ago: Antigua, Guatemala: Yogurt and Bread

 

My typical food menu remains the same today as it did 10 years ago, as do my prejudices about food trends that purport to perform miracles of super-health. Fortunately, I'm a person who feels satisfied with the same foods day after day. Maybe that's because my daily food is sexy to me, so I don't lust for paramours. OK, well. There is kettle corn, a long-time lover with which I pass a little time maybe twice a year. 

I rarely have bread. Revisiting this 10-year old post on bread sends me into reveries of delicious memories. 

About that blackberry yogurt in Antigua: While in Quito this past year, I sought jugo de mora, that magical potion that I experienced in Quite decades ago, the memory of which is permanently embedded in my brain, but the closest I could get to it were packets of powdered blackberry drink, which I bought at every opportunity. They were quite good. Sadly, I abandoned my accumulated packets in Lima, Peru, under duress, a story I will likely tell sometime soon. Months later, my regret at their loss remains palpable. 

Monday, May 2, 2016

Antigua, Guatemala: Yogurt and Bread

Generally, I live on a pretty straightforward menu, which consists of some protein, bread, lots of vegetables and fruit. Strong-flavored cheese at times.

No worries, I'm not about to embark on a litany in adoration of the latest trend based on junk-science, whether it be paleo, blood-type, gluten-free-for-everyone, raw food, whole30, or whatever else the shit is out there being hawked by modern-day snake-oil sellers these days. Also, I'm not a foodie, at least not in the sense of being a gourmet.

I'm just offering a preface to get to today's topic: yogurt and bread.

Because although my dietary regimen is pretty boring by most measures, I love the food I eat. And when a particular item on my usual menu surpasses my expectations, I get a little swoony.  Don't even get me started on the wonders of the snappy, sweet, jumbo carrots you can get inside Antigua's cavernous municipal market.

Or how I practically licked the plate at an Italian restaurant in Antigua, where I lapped up the pasta in an Alfredo sauce with such enthusiasm, a dish I hadn't had in maybe a year or more, that the gentleman I was with appeared a little alarmed at just how much I enjoyed that meal. I looked him straight in the eye and smiled without shame.

But anyhoo, on to the main point of this post.

Yogurt. I don't remember if I stumbled on the yogurt at Doña Luisa's little storefront bakery adjacent to the well-known restaurant, or if someone recommended it to me, but Goddamn, that yogurt is good! I tried the blackberry (mora) yogurt first, as a bit of nostalgia from my trip to Ecuador in my youth, where the memory of whipped, frothy blackberry juice I bought there has stuck with me ever since. The texture of Doña Luisa's yogurt is thick and a little granular, so in addition to a delicious flavor, it has a luscious mouth feel.

It's more expensive than any of the other yogurt  I tried in Antigua, but exponentially richer in flavor and feel.

Bread. By pure chance, on a certain day at a certain time on a certain stretch of sidewalk near Central Park in Antigua, I bought a bag of rolls from a woman who sat on said sidewalk. I am rolling my eyes heavenward just thinking of them. Round, kind of flat, with a bit of chewiness, and just a little sweetness. 

Sadly, after I consumed all of the rolls, I couldn't find them anywhere again. Anywhere! I didn't even know what they were called. In describing the rolls to just about everyone I met, someone would offer a name for them, and I'd hie myself to the multitude of bakeries in town and ask about them. I tried a couple that were similar in looks and shape. No!

Eventually, after some goose-chasing leads, I got a couple of new name possibilities from my Spanish teacher: "pan de Patzún" or "pan de maxtate." Bingo. The reason I couldn't find this bread in any of the bakeries is because it isn't sold in any of the bakeries in Antigua (at least not that I found). It is a local bread from the countryside, let's call it a farmer's bread, perhaps considered too rustic by city folk.

With the new intel, I continued to ask around where I might find this bread. A new lead came to me, I think it was from the guy who sells bus tickets to Lake Atitlan in the cafe across from a local supermarket: "If you go over there (pointing to an area outside the supermarket) on Tuesday afternoons at about 3:00, no, maybe 4:00, you'll find a woman who sells this bread." I learned from this gentleman, or perhaps another informant, that the bread is normally sold inside the massive Antiguan municipal market, brought in from the countryside only on the big market days.

Guatemalan bread: Pan de maxtate or pan de Patzún. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

I couldn't find this woman on the designated afternoon, so to the municipal market I went. I asked this vendor, and that vendor, and the other vendor. "Pan de maxtate? Pan de Patzún?" No, no, no. Then someone pointed deeper into the darkness of the market, "Back there." I kept asking. Finally, a woman indicated she knew where I could find this bread, and she led me there. Aha! A woman had baskets of it! The holy grail!

I bought a huge bag of the rolls to hopefully last me the duration of my visit. And it did.

Guatemalan bread: Pan de maxtate or pan de Patzún. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Guatemalan bread: Pan de maxtate or pan de Patzún. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Sigh. Mission complete.

10 Years Ago: The Church of Zydeco

This 10-year old post happens to feature Curley Taylor. He and his band re-entered my post-Louisiana orbit in June 2019, when they performed at Tucson's Monterey Court.

 

Monterey Court in Tucson, Arizona. May 2019. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

 

Monday, November 23, 2015

Louisiana: The Church of Zydeco

Performance center, Vermilionville, Lafayette, Louisiana. June 2015.

Every Sunday afternoon, Vermilionville hosts the Bal du Dimanche ("Sunday Dance") from 1:00 to 4:00. Usually they alternate Cajun and Zydeco each week, with the occasional "swamp pop" or blues thrown in to the line-up.

I love both Cajun and Zydeco, mind you.

But. ... On every Zydeco Sunday, the same strange phenomenon occurs: I walk into the gift shop, show my membership card, get my paper bracelet, walk out of that building and into the courtyard, pass by La Cuisine de Maman's, and as I hear the Zydeco waft from the nondescript Performance Center in front of me, my mouth begins to form into a smile. It's an involuntary response, I tell you.

The nearer I get to the Performance Center, the louder the music gets as it flows through the cracks of the doors, and the wider my smile becomes. Heck, it makes me smile just writing about it.

A pale, pale sample of this phenomenon is in the video below:

On this particular Sunday in June, the Most High Reverend Mister Curley Taylor preached, along with his holy men, Zydeco Trouble.

Curley Taylor and Zydeco Trouble. Vermilionville, June 2015.

We celebrants confessed our sins and were blessed for another week. Or until later the same day for serious sinners, who congregated at Whiskey River [now closed, following a fire in 2023]. Or again that night, maybe at Randol's or O'Darby's or Feed n Seed.

Curley Taylor and Zydeco Trouble. Vermilionville, June 2015.

When a Zydeco band gets into a special groove, and the band members are in the music, and they lead us, the audience, up the road with them, and we add our energy to the band's energy, and the entire room thrums with a soaring, transcendent force, it evokes to me a trance dance that brings euphoria, of connection with humanity of today and humanity going back, back, back all the way to our very beginnings.

It's not just Zydeco music that does this, of course. Any music can do it. I remember a singular experience at the Lupus Chili Fest in 2013, in a garage. I described the feeling like this:

Sometimes when you listen to music, live especially, it pushes against you like an ocean wave or like a force of air, where you feel exhilarated and breathless at the same time, where your head actually falls back a little from the strength of the sound coming at you.  

This is what it felt like in the Lupus Garage when The Harvest Season played, as the band's flow rolled up and back in small waves, then pounded the shore in a rush against the beach.

If they had been calling to people at the back of the church to come to Jesus, why, I might have been tempted to do just that.

Amen.

 

10 Years Ago: Learning to Dance: The Pause

 

In re-visiting this post of 10 years ago, I remembered "Caroline" and the power of a pause. Caroline is the protagonist in the book, The Camel and the Scorpion, about a young associate professor pulled into the case of an American woman arrested in Israel for espionage in the 1970s. Despite her innate shyness, Caroline had been a champion member of a college debate team; she knew that the force of a well-placed and well-timed pause is an effective tool for debates, speeches, sermons, and calls to action. [Disclosure: I know both the book's author and the real-life person who Caroline is based on.)

As a guide for daily living, there is also the acronym STOP to help us respond instead of react to an emotional or physical trigger:

• S: Stop:  Remember to pause.
• T: Take a few breaths.
• O: Observe my emotional and physical reactions in the moment
• P:  Proceed with awareness, choosing our response

 Perhaps I will claim self-actualization on the day I conquer the art of the pause.

Monday, October 12, 2015

Learning to Dance: The Pause

Dancing La Marinera in Tularosa, New Mexico. San Francisco de Paula Festival 2013.

Last year, at the Feed 'n Seed, I danced with an older gentleman. A slow-ish song. About 30 seconds into our dance, he said quietly in my ear, "Slow down, we're not in a hurry to go anywhere."

This centered me right then, and for the rest of the dance, I could be in the moment with where my partner was going and which rhythm line of the song he was choosing.

Holi Festival 2014, Lafayette, Louisiana.

Earlier in the year, before the Feed 'n Seed experience, at a Vermilionville Bal du Dimanche, a woman generously tutored me on a zydeco movement. I had taken zydeco lessons a month or so before, and I'd learned a basic zydeco shuffle in which every beat of the eight-count in zydeco was accounted for with a step or tap. But this woman was showing me something different. I didn't see the eight counts in her steps, I couldn't replicate her movements, and it confounded me.

I asked her about the step count, and she said - bless her generous heart - "don't worry about counting, just move with the music." I couldn't do anything with that information, so I asked her to keep demonstrating her steps until I could solve the mystery. She graciously complied.

Finally, I saw it.

On the third and seventh steps, she PAUSED. The fourth and eighth step were there, but "silent." Ohhhhhh.

When I excitedly shared my newfound understanding, the woman looked a little puzzled, and then shrugged, as if to say "whatever," apparently not excited as I about my tremendous breakthrough in understanding. I'm guessing she had so internalized her step movements, she didn't even notice the pause, and thus didn't think to explain it.

Feed n Seed, Lafayette, Louisiana.

These two experiences planted seeds in my neonatal dance mind, but they didn't stick until I took a new round of zydeco dance lessons this month.

The instructor informed me several times that I was going through movements too quickly. He EXPLICITLY directed me to pause. He hammered these points when I struggled to make turns correctly, so that I'd finish on the right foot at the right beat.

Finally, I got it. I have to PAUSE when I take that first turn-step.

The pause makes all the difference.

There is a maturity, an elegance, a sensuality, in the dance pause.

It's gratification delayed, it's listening and feeling, it's a breath.



Related posts: 

Learning to Dance: Solving for X
Learning to Dance: The Tao of Following

 

10 Years Ago: Louisiana: Sweet Potato Talk

 

I do love sweet potatoes. 

 

Sweet potatoes. Longmont, Colorado. June 2023. Credit: Mzuriana.

The original source, from Al Jazeera, about "troubling work conditions for North Carolina laborers" who harvest sweet potatoes is no longer accessible. Here is a November 2015 replacement source from NPR: Behind Your Holiday Sweet Potato Dish, Hard Work in the Fields. 

Friday, August 14, 2015

Louisiana: Sweet Potato Talk

2010 Yambilee poster, Yambilee Festival Building, Opelousas, Louisiana

I was standing in line at my neighborhood grocery store the other day, and a man came up behind me with only one item to buy, so I invited him to move ahead of me. A happy consequence is that he noticed the two gigantic sweet potatoes I had among my stash, and this sparked a memory for him.

Yam sign outside Yambilee Festival Building, Opelousas, Louisiana

When he was a kid, he dug up sweet potatoes during the harvest from, he said, first thing in the morning til the end of the day. It was terrible hard work, he said, but at mid-day, the labor was suspended for a large meal, which gave him energy to re-commence with the work in the afternoon. The man allowed as how it made him feel strong and good. ... though I suspect this is more how it feels to him in retrospect than at the time.

Sweet potato patties, Walmart,t Lafayette, Louisiana

The man observed that digging the sweet potatoes is no longer necessary, as there is a machine that can do it now.

Yambilee Festival Building, Opelousas, Lousiana

Recently, I've been buying sweet potatoes in bulk because the price at my local grocer is so giddily low right now and I love the durn things. I bake two racks of them at a time, skin them, distribute them into portions, then freeze the portions in freezer bags.

Sweet potato chips, Louisiana

The man's story got me to thinking about sweet potato agriculture.

The American leaders of sweet potato production, in order from largest to smallest, are:

1. North Carolina
2. California
3. Mississippi
4. Louisiana

Louisiana State University produced the video, The Sweet Truth About Sweet Potatoes, which focuses on commercial sweet potato agriculture, from planting to harvesting and curing:

Based on what I've learned in the above video, I'm thinking the sweet potatoes I'm buying today are those that were harvested last year.

What I see in the LSU video about commercial sweet potato agriculture in Louisiana is at odds with the troubling work conditions for North Carolina laborers that I'm reading about [in 2015]. In the LSU video, I see mechanical harvesting (which conforms with what the gentleman at the grocery store told me), but the reports about North Carolina refer to hand-harvesting, which is where labor abuses come in.

North Carolina Sweet Potatoes [said] this about mechanical vs. hand-harvesting [at the time of the original post in 2015]:

"Sweet potato roots are turned up on top of the ground by a side angle disk plow and partially exposed to aid the workers in picking and sorting. Sweet potatoes are very susceptible to damage at harvest; therefore hand-harvest is preferred over mechanical harvesting. ... To harvest, the field rows are usually plowed with a modified disk or moldboard plow with a spiral attachment. Roots are then hand harvested and graded in the field. Sweet potatoes can also be dug by a chain digger or a riding harvester that conveys the roots to a sorting crew using a harvest aide. Potato harvesters are sometimes used to harvest sweet potatoes but damage is usually unacceptably high."

Even though Louisiana might use mechanical harvesting, and therefore maybe there aren't all of the same labor equity concerns here as in North Carolina, there is still a question about how commercial farmers in Louisiana protect workers during and after pesticide spraying.

Just as the movement builds to protect people from second-hand smoke in businesses .... when we have an opportunity to do so, let's encourage our food suppliers, legislators, and local, state, and federal regulatory agencies to create and enforce safeguards to protect agricultural workers (and their families - and consumers) from unhealthy work and living conditions (when provided by the farmers). Some advocacy and regulatory organizations include:

Farmworker Justice
Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA)
United Farm Workers



On a different note ... Do you notice how I side-stepped the whole yam versus sweet potato conversation? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 Years Ago: Rootless Brow-zing

 

I ventured into threading again while in Tucson. Ouch. 

In my search for past posts that touched on waxing, threading, plucking, or razoring, I uncovered one from 2014, in which a stranger in Louisiana uttered this proposition to me: 

"I'd really like to wax your car." 

 

 

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Rootless Brow - zing

The other day, I had my brows waxed. While I lay on the table, I remembered other such times.

In Awassa, Ethiopia, two men at a salon threaded my brows. After my brows got cleaned up, I continued my walk "home," and saw:  

... there were 15 giant storks. Huge. One alighted, then disgorged food into the mouths of two gangly "teenagers." I watched, agog. A short walk further, directly before me, another tree filled with storks. Walking underneath (glad I had my hat on), I looked up and counted more than 10 oversize nests. As with the Bale Mountain forest, this was the stuff of medieval fairy tales.

Around the corner-ish from my temporary digs in Istanbul, I got my whole face threaded. Amazing how that works, cause you wouldn't think it would.

In 2010, on a road trip with my mother, I had my face cleaned up in a Walmart in Canyon City, Texas.

In Rustavi, Georgia, there were a couple of rugged waxings at a local salon. Yeow. But speaking of Caucasus Georgia, the Georgian women have spectacular brows.

Here's one woman's experience getting her brows done in Nice (waxed) and Palestine (tweezed).

 

10 Years Ago: Opelousas: The Fall of a Blessed Tree

 

There's nothing I can add to this ten-year old post. Unless I were to add cat pictures. Which I won't.

 

 

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Opelousas: The Fall of a Blessed Tree

Blessed tree, Opelousas, Louisiana. June 2015.

Once upon a time, I read a magazine article by a man whose hobby was to travel to different parts of the world while history was being made in those exact parts. When the Berlin Wall fell, for example, he scooped up his kids and they flew to Berlin from the US to be witnesses.*

I've often thought about that practice, it's damn cool, but how many of us have the means to do the same? Not me.

Well, not me on such a large stage.

But I can be a witness to some historic events, and the recent fall of a blessed pecan tree was one of them. When I say blessed, I mean the Virgin Mary appeared in this tree during the 1970 and 1990s, prompting many folks to visit the backyard of a house on Larry Street, where the pecan tree stood.

Blessed tree, Opelousas, Louisiana. June 2015.

I read about the tree in this Opelousas Daily World article: A Dramatic Final Act for a Famous Local Tree, by Cheryl Devall.

I couldn't get over there for a few days, and I was a little worried that it'd be all chopped up by the time I did get there. But it wasn't, and I was even able to chat with the owner's caregiver and grown daughter.

Blessed tree, Opelousas, Louisiana. June 2015.

 

 

 

And the daughter let me take a stick that came from the blessed tree. Personally, I don't put much truck in these kinds of things, but I don't demean them, either. Blessed sticks are no less magical than nutritional supplements, juicing cleanses, or Warren Buffett, and we know all those things to be holy. 

It feels good to have this stick from a tree beloved by many people, and some day I'll come across someone who needs it.  

Blessed tree, Opelousas, Louisiana. June 2015.

I like the intimacy between the sacred and mundane in the picture above - a holy tree with pretty offerings, next to a stubby, cheery barbecue grill. There's a little flavor of the magical realism in One Hundred Years of Solitude, where the impossible and the possible get along just fine.

There's nothing I can add to what the article covered, except for one thing: I asked the daughter if it had been a good pecan producer in its day, and the immediate response was a chortled no!

I am pleased to offer a cat pic (!) on this blog, thanks to the blessed tree visit. She bewitched me into taking her photo and publishing it here, that green-eyed temptress: 

Opelousas cat on Larry Street. June 2015.

*This reminds me of a sci-fi story where people from the future came to the past and rented rooms in a - let's call it a form of airbnb - house somewhere in Italy. They knew this particular house in this city in this country would have a commanding view of the sun going supernova or something, and they wanted first row seats. .... Then there's The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, one of the books from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, where people can travel far (really, really far) into the future, just before the universe collapses, but have a good meal first.

 

10 Years Ago: Fear and Adventure: A Skydive Story

Paraglider off Lookout Mountain in Golden, Colorado. June 2023.

 

The above photo isn't a skydive photo, it isn't me, and it isn't from 10 years ago. But I did take the photo.

The skydive story happened more than 10 years ago, and it happened when I was still rooted. 

However, I did share the story on my blog 10 years ago.

With disclaimers proclaimed, here ya go:

 

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Fear and Adventure: A Skydive Story

Starting with an Important Birthday Milestone years ago, I decided to create an adventure for each of my future birthdays. The criterion for choosing the adventure was that it had to challenge me emotionally, mentally or physically.

One year, I was pondering on what my birthday adventure should be. In this particular year, three choices came to mind, all of them very challenging. One was to go out dancing. Another was to participate in a gestalt therapy exercise, which entailed the exploration and release of great emotion, culminating perhaps in that proverbial primal scream of pent-up feelings. The third option was to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet. After considering these options over a number of weeks, I decided that of all three choices, jumping out of a plane was the least frightening.

I didn’t really want to do this by myself, so I invited family members and friends to join me. Many said, yeah, that sounds cool! Maybe I'll do it! As the time for the jump loomed closer, however, those who’d expressed interest dropped out, until at the end, no one intended to go with me - not even to watch.

One of the things I've learned about life is that if I really want to do something, I’ve got to be willing to do it alone. Otherwise, I may never get to do it.

I decided to do a tandem jump, where I’d jump while connected to an experienced skydiver.

I drove alone to the airport and upon my arrival, started a series of bathroom trips every five minutes. I also watched a short video that provided a bare-bones review of what it would be like to jump and that I’d need to pull up my knees upon landing so the instructor with whom I’d be connected by a strap could hit the ground first, as he’d be immediately behind me. The video also noted how dangerous the sport was, that I could die or become paralyzed or suffer any myriad number of other bad things. After watching the video, it was time for me to read and sign the consent form,which again told me in HUGE PRINT that I could die or suffer serious injury and I waived all liability from the jump school, the airport, the instructor, the airplane, the fuel supplier, the road construction crew, and the guy who mowed the lawn. If I were going to die through this exercise, it was going to be by my own free will. I signed the papers.

The next step was a five-minute “training” in which someone had a small group of us show him that we could jump off a picnic table bench while bending our knees and holding on to them. I passed this with flying colors.

The next step was to get into a jump suit. Now, at this point I was feeling no fear. Some nervousness, certainly, as evidenced by my frequent bathroom trips. But I was feeling no fear because my brain had checked out. It was waiting in the parking lot in my car, refusing to have anything to do with this ridiculous enterprise.

So anyway, it was now time for the jumpsuit. Let me tell you about this suit. It was bright pink and it was Spandex. You know how Spandex is, right? It fits you like a second skin. It shows everything. It reveals every flaw. I was not a svelte woman.

I put the suit on. I was so relieved that it fit! I was feeling OK. I walked around a bit, getting the feel of it.

I walked in front of a full-length mirror.

I gasped. The sight of myself in this Spandex suit was so preposterously preposterous I had no other words to describe it. I JUMPED out of the view of the mirror.

From then on, I stayed out of range of any mirrors, and convinced myself that if I could not see myself then no one else could either, like a toddler who believes that she's invisible when she covers her head with a cloth.

The next step was to get me into a harness. This was a leather contraption with wide straps that went between my legs and around my thighs, with a brace up my back, and then straps that went around my shoulders and upper arms. It was pulled VERY tight. The result was that it affected my ability to walk with my legs together or lift my legs, and my back was pulled so straight with the brace, I could hardly bend over. Therefore, that entire five-minute exercise of jumping off the picnic bench in a tuck was utterly pointless. I could barely walk.

Ah, but too late. It was time to board the plane. I walked to the plane just like one of those science-fiction robots from cheesy sci-fi movies in the 1950s.


And then I saw I’d have to climb two or three steps to get into the plane. Oh my God. Carefully and awkwardly I somehow managed to do this. The next challenge was to bend over as I moved to the front end of the plane because the ceiling, of course, was low. The plane was outfitted with two benches along each side of the plane, and everyone straddled a bench, one person tucked in front of the other, like a roll of Lifesavers. My instructor went in before me, straddled the bench, and I straddled the bench in front of him. It was REALLY hard to be bent into a sitting position with the harness on. I was like a stuffed animal with legs that are permanently outstretched, and when you try to sit it on its butt, it keeps tipping over onto its back. My body kept wanting to fall backward, into the instructor, and I grasped for something to hold to keep my balance. I found the tiniest ridge above the window to clutch, but the instructor yelped a little bit and said not to hold onto that, as it could pop the window out.

Somehow I negotiated an uneasy balance until it was time for me and the instructor to get up in preparation for the jump. We would be the last ones to go. As I walked toward the plane door, I concentrated on bending over sufficiently so the instructor - much taller than I – could use some of the space over my head to bend over himself so he wouldn’t hit his head on the ceiling. I focused completely on taking one robot step after another while trying to bend down.

I arrived at the open door and I could see down into the depths of sky and land so many feet below me, and I was suddenly appalled. Not because I was about to hurl myself from this tiny plane into the empty sky. (Remember, my brain had washed its hands of the whole affair.)

No, I was appalled because between the airplane floor and the open doorway was the tiniest little lip of a ridge. Maybe a half an inch tall. And I knew that somehow I would have to lift my foot that infinitesimal height, while bent over in this harness, and stand on the lip before I could jump. I didn’t know if I could do it.

Somehow I did and thus FELL out of the plane.


They don’t really tell you how to land until you’re in the air and falling. Therefore, as we plummeted to the earth, the instructor told me, “OK, now we’re going to practice how to land. What you’ll need to do is practice pulling your knees up and grasping them so my feet can hit the ground first.” Now remember, I had lost most of my flexibility due to the harness. So here was the instructor asking me not only to pull my knees up, but to bend over to grasp my knees – and to do this all the while I’m plunging to the earth.

But it seemed pretty important, so I tried it. I pulled my knees up, or thought I did, but there was barely any discernible movement. The instructor observed this, and said, “Well, we’ve still got plenty of time to practice this, so let’s try it again.”

I did, and again there was only the tiniest of movements. And the instructor said, “Well, we’ve got some time still, but that’s not quite going to do it. Let’s try another way. Why don’t you do this: Stretch your legs straight out in front of you and hold them up straight.”

So I tried it, and asked, “Is that enough?”

“Well, no, but let’s just try it again. Next time, hold your legs out straight and hold onto the seams of your jumpsuit to help keep them up. ” I tried it, and asked, “Is this enough?”

“Uh, no .......... but we’ll figure something out by the time we get to the ground. Just try to do the best you can.”

And I said, “OK!”

In the end, I basically landed on my stomach. It didn’t hurt. It worked out OK. As a matter of fact, I laughed. Relief. Embarrassment. The absurdity of it all.  Or all of the above, I don't know.


Here's what I do know: In order to jump out of that plane, I had to give up control and trust that it was going to be alright. If I was going to practice living my life to the fullest, I had to be willing to do something I wanted to do by myself, without waiting for someone to do it with me. I had to be willing to look really stupid. I had to risk embarrassment.

Something I'll always remember is that the instructor never treated me with anything other than the greatest respect and kindness. He was professional and calm at all times, and he played a big part in the positiveness of my experience.

It took weeks before I fully appreciated what I did – before my brain was willing to talk to me about it, so to speak. One night in bed, just as I was about to fall asleep, I relived my experience of falling out of the plane – no! - VOLUNTARILY jumping out of this plane 10,000 feet in the air – and it was only THEN that I felt fear. WHAT HAD I BEEN THINKING!?!?!?

 

10 Years Ago: Lafayette: International Festival Intersections

 

"Cast" updates since the original post in 2015: 

• You can watch the completed movie, Dirt Road to Lafayette, on Youtube, Tubi, and Amazon Prime (and Freevee). 
• Pamplona's is still open in Lafayette.
• I wish I had updates for Alfredo, Ms. Orelia, and Mr. Lawrence, but I don't have enough identifying info on them to find out.

 

Monday, April 27, 2015

Lafayette: International Festival Intersections

You never know what the standouts of a festival or a trip are going to be. This was true for the International Festival.


One fun thing was that a movie was being filmed at the festival, called Dirt Road to Lafayette. On Saturday, when it was so rainy, I watched a scene play out at Pamplona's Restaurant on Jefferson.
 
I took my own little movie of this scene:

Consider the shakiness of the video to be an intentional bit of cinema verité.

After the Scottish laddie (who is the movie lead) did his bit, I noticed awhile later a gentleman carrying the young actor's accordion, wrapped in plastic to protect it from the rain. I have no idea why, but I was so taken by this. Having an accordion-carrier.

The next day, Sunday, at the Heritage stage, Corey Ledet performed with his band, and the movie crew was there again. When I saw the laddie pass through a dance crowd with the accordion, and then the same gentleman from the day before subsequently have the accordion in his arms, again wrapped in plastic, I had to check it out. Which resulted in me meeting the very pleasant Alfredo. He does more than carry the lead actor's accordion, but at this moment, that was his responsibility.

Alfredo, International Festival 2015, Lafayette, Louisiana

Shortly after my visit to the Heritage stage, I scurried over to the International Stage where I had volunteered to do security for the Buckwheat Zydeco performance. And this is where I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Orelia. They share the exact same birthday, a fact they didn't discover until they were married. It was common for Buckwheat Zydeco (aka Stanley Dural) to practice how to play the accordion on Mr. Lawrence's and Ms. Orelia's front porch. See, before then, Mr. Dural had been a blues and funk musician, focusing on the organ. Mr. Lawrence said it was not a big jump to move from the organ to the accordion.

Ms. Orelia and Mr. Lawrence, International Festival 2015, Lafayette, Louisiana

At the end of the day, which coincided with the end of the festival, I found myself walking down Jefferson Street, past Pamplona's Restaurant, the street now empty of festival-goers, en route to the shuttle bus.  Three guys talking in the street. One telling the other two about the movie being filmed and how he was in this scene where .....

And, you know, it was this guy: 

Filming Dirt Road to Lafayette, International Festival 2015, Lafayette, Louisiana

OK, so I'm a nosy wench, and I stopped and listened outright while he told his adventure story to his friends. Presently, I interrupted, and said, "You know, I think I may have a video of you doing your scene. I'm not positive you're in it, but I'm pretty sure, and I've uploaded it to youtube if you want to go look." I told him how to find my youtube channel.

Do you know how good it felt to bring such pleasure to someone because of the dumb luck of happening on the movie scene the day before, filming it, and then the dumb luck of walking by this guy the next day while he told his friends about his experience? It felt very good, indeed.

So in this one day, I had the good fortune to intersect with four congenial people.

 

10 Years Ago: Where the Hell Am I, Louisiana: The Map App

 

Speaking of maps, Judgmental Maps is always binge-worthy. 

And these:

• 2013.05: Another Geography Lesson: Americans' Map of the World
• 2013:05: Geography Lesson

 

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Where the Hell Am I, Louisiana: The Map App

Part 1: 

A few years ago, I listened to a family member, let's call her Kiki, explain why she had not yet used the Onstar program in her new car. .... "Because it could take me into a dangerous area and I could end up DEAD!"

At the time, I thought two things:

1. Paper maps could do the same thing; and 
2. Hoo boy. 

But I kept my mouth shut.

It wasn't too long after that when Kiki was prevailed upon to try out her Onstar and she loved it!


Part 2:

So here it is March 2015, and I've got a smart phone now. On a fine weekend afternoon, I was fixing to drive from my new digs (oh, I haven't told you where I'm living now, have I?) to the village of Henderson which hugs a levee along the Atchafalaya River. I looked at about three route options on my map application, and selected one.

It was a pleasant day and my map app took me on a wind-y road, which was just fine with me. Then it wanted me to go over a bridge that wasn't there anymore, so I did a few circular maneuvers, asked a gentleman on the side of the road for some guidance, and he directed me to a way around that gone bridge, and then I was taken deeper and deeper into what reminded me of an old Stephen King story of the woman whose mission was to find the fastest way from Point A to Point B in Maine and her quest took her into a parellel universe where time got bend-y.

Until finally my map app carried me to what seemed to be an end of the road, on the other side of a wood-plank bridge with a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign posted, with my map app voice instructing me to go up the levee. Say what??

Near Henderson, Louisiana. March, 2015.

And it was at this moment that I thought of Kiki's dire predictions of murder and mayhem should she surrender herself to her Onstar.

Looking to my left, across the other bank of the bridge, I saw a group of men doing something along the river.

Having now read all of the Dave Robicheaux books (and having read Winter's Bone and watched the movie, based in the hinterlands of my own Missouri ), what might they be doing?  Running drugs for a South American cartel? Dispensing with a troublesome comrade? Or just fishing? Where's the ice chest to tell me all is as it should be?

Winter's Bone trailer:

"Talkin' just causes witnesses."

I crossed the wood-plank bridge with some trepidation and then asked one of the men, "I'm trying to get to Henderson from here ... but I'm confused about what I'm supposed to do now." One of the men said, "Well, you can turn on around here and go back the way you came ..... [insert my mental nervous swallow here] ... or you can go right and it'll take you 10 to 15 minutes to get there."

Because I am genetically programmed to not backtrack, I took a few moments to decide if "turn right" really meant "turn right" or did it mean "go up onto the levee and turn right?" Did the PRIVATE PROPERTY sign refer to the flat road to my right or the levee road up and to the right on the levee?

I chose the flatlander road on the right. When I say road, by the way, I'm talking gravel road.

This met with approval from my map app until a few miles down the road when it really, really wanted me to climb up onto the levee. Finally, I acquiesced and for some more miles drove on the gravel road up top, noticing that the flatland road kept on going on right beside me, down below. Eventually, I overcame the objections of my map app and got back down onto flat land.

All ended well, of course, but I took a different route home.  

I did see this pretty community of beehives on the way to Henderson:

Near Henderson, Louisiana. March, 2015.

Reminded me of Caucasus Georgia, on a visit to an agrarian technical school in Kachreti. 


[Update: A 2023 Al Jazeera cautionary story: Google Sued After Man Drove Off Collapsed Bridge Following Map Directions.]

10 Years Ago: Relocation: Living With Uncertainty

 

Uncertainty. 

 

A state of being that is so insidious that interrogators use it as a tool of torture. 

 

Some related posts: 

2023.07: 2023 Word of the Year: FEAR: Frustration, Ego, Anxiety, Resentment

2023.03: 2023 Word of the Year: FEAR: Forgetting Everything's All Right

2021.07: Word of the Year: Joy 7: Birdsong

2013.07: The Little Girl Who Rides the Train

2020.11: The Day After They Called the Election: A Subdued Jubilation

2020.05: Relocation: COVID-19 Unfolding, Part 20: Where Am I Going?

2019.10: Tucson, AZ: A Bully's Ripple Effect

2016.11: Toronto: Airport: Livestock Management 

 

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Relocation: Living With Uncertainty

Returning to South Louisiana for Year Two just two weeks before Mardi Gras may not have been the best idea. Based on my relocation experiences in the past - the speed at which I found wonderful permanent shelter, to be specific - it seemed rational to expect I'd be ensconsed somewhere cozy by the holiday.

But:

• The prices for temporary lodging right before a major holiday in these parts go way over my budget. 
•  I've learned that the demand for rental property in the Lafayette catchment area exceeds supply, especially at my price range. 
• Rental property is generally high around here, so there are significant compromises on condition, size, view, and ambiance

Based on the above realities, anxiety and discomfort have kicked in. There is a desire to stop this discomfort that has no time-certain end. This tempts me to retreat into what's comfortable, like staying in Lafayette in Year Two simply because it's a known entity, or snagging any place that is minimally acceptable solely to end the home hunt.

However, when I pause for a few minutes and take a breath, really, I've got to appreciate that I have exceptional freedom.

• For example, I don't even have to stay in South Louisiana! I could go anywhere! 
• The Mardi Gras holiday is only a few days - once I get past that economic hurdle, then prices settle down again and I have way more breathing space to find the right home. And if need be, I can visit another region during Mardi Gras.  A sunny beach, maybe.
• I could buy instead of rent, taking me into an entirely new adventure. 
• I can open myself up to a much broader range of South Louisiana location possibilities. 

Here's what a couple of folks say about living with uncertainty:

The Tiny Buddha: 7 Ways to Deal with Uncertainty

Psych Central: 5 Tips for Living with Uncertainty


Om.

 

 

 

10 Years Ago: Relocation 2015

 

 

This still makes me chuckle.

 

 

 

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Relocation 2015

So here I am in Missouri for my usual interregnum between annual migrations.

You may have noticed that I haven't yet announced where I'll be living in 2015.

I can announce that my original plan was to move to Oaxaca (city), Mexico. That was my plan all the way up to, maybe, September, and then I surprised the hell out of myself and decided instead to

 

10 Years Ago: The Creative Life: Brain Space

 

 

Coffee, a book, a notebook, and phone. Lalileba, Ethiopia. January 2011. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Ten years later, my struggle is no less.

I enjoy bursts of output, and then sink again into the pillowy softness of input from other people's creativity, to the exclusion of my own. 

Available time is not the problem. My available time is no less than it has ever been, but the acquisition of my very first smart phone back in Lafayette, Louisiana, and subsequent off-and-on-again subscriptions to streaming services, opened my door to that thief of time: screen stupor. 

I've come to believe that another variable is that somewhere along the way I forgot how much time it takes to write a piece and to process photos, something I did not begrudge, or even think about, in the past, but for some reason - unrealistically - I seemed to have come to believe was too much; that somehow I was too slow. Or something. 

So recently I've re-learned this: Writing takes time. The time it takes is intrinsic to the process.

Another recent development: I've subscribed to a couple of podcasts on how writers write, for inspiration. (Yeah, I know. Ironic.)

When out in public, I've also begun to mindfully practice the old art of just sitting in a place and looking around me instead of reaching for my phone. I used to be a good observer. I always liked the title of Peter Drucker's memoir: Adventures of a Bystander.

I have hope. 

P.S. After years of boycotting The Atlantic for its intellectual pretensions during the Christopher Hitchens era, while it simultaneously juggled Vanity Fair-like fluffery, I re-upped a few months ago.

 

Friday, January 2, 2015

The Creative Life: Brain Space

 

Mmmm, brains a-sizzlin'. Kutaisi, Caucasus Georgia. Credit: Mzuriana

Years ago, the Atlantic Monthly (before it devolved into the pseudo-intellectual organ it is now) ran a riveting article about how religious faith and ethics are two entirely different biological operations. An individual might have both in spades, or neither, or be rich in one and poor in the other.

I bring this up because the same idea is probably apt for the creative process. That is, a person's vision is separate from the discipline one needs to give light to the vision - to give birth to it.

There is a lot of raw creative material in my head or, in the case of photos, in my hard drive awaiting distillation. I'm not at all happy that 2014, especially the second half, saw so little creative output, notwithstanding tremendous amounts of input. 

It seems that my brain can focus on only so many things at once. My year in South Louisiana was filled with new things - both good and not-so-good - that sucked great swaths of brain energy. Learning to dance! Starting a new job! Car troubles! A wretched bout with backache. And more, some of which is none of your beeswax.

If I now know that I can only barely chew gum and walk at the same time, what does this mean to me and my creative life?

What it means is that if I want to push stuff out, then I have to set up the physical time and the brain space to produce. To effect the latter, I've got to divert my brain-energy flow to creative thinking from distracted thinking. Otherwise my creativity is just the snap and crackle without the pop. 

10 Years Ago: Louisiana: Opelousas: A Holy Ghost Party

 

Given the bendiness of the word ghost, it pleases me that the Holy Ghost Catholic Church in Opelousas, Louisiana, hosts the Holy Ghost Creole Festival around Halloween. 

 

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Louisiana: Opelousas: A Holy Ghost Party

 

Men of Vision, 2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana

So. Halloween. Not being a trick-or-treater or wear-a-costume sort of gal, my annual strategy is to get out of the house on Halloween and hide out til the littles have completed their rounds.

In Lafayette, it being a party kind of place and Halloween being on a Friday this year, you would surmise correctly if you thought that most getaways included dressing up.

But then I saw the perfect place to go - the 22nd Annual Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival. The festival is the first weekend in November, beginning on Friday. Gospel music on Friday night.

Here's a video from St. Landry's Parish, focusing on Holy Ghost women making potato pies for the 2011 festival:

I got to hear different styles of gospel music at the church: 

• Rap
• Jazz
• Blues
• and I guess what I'd call the traditional gospel style

Here's a gospel rap song called "Having a Holy Ghost Party," performed at the concert Friday night:

 

And one of the songs from the Mount Olive Baptist Church Men's Chorus:

And from three women whose group name I forget:

       

There was even a performance of liturgical dance by the youth, and at first, I thought, aha, this is a new idea for me, but wait .... liturgical dance is just a fancy way of talking about sacred dance, which has been practiced in many cultures for eons.

2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana

Sheesh, didn't I just spend a year in New Mexico, where traditions of sacred dance are carefully protected and handed down through the present generations?
 

2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana

 
It was a perfect way to spend All Saints Eve.

Men of Vision, 2014 Holy Ghost Catholic Church Creole Festival, Opelousas, Louisiana