See! This IS a travel blog.

Minneapolis part one.

Minneapolis has never been in my top ten must-see destinations. I’ve never longed to wander the streets of its famous…mall? I’ve never thought, “that would be a nice place for a honeymoon.” I’ve never looked out the window in October and thought wistfully, “I bet Minnesota is lovely and chilly at this time of year. “ All I knew about Minneapolis is that it is somewhere north of Siberia, and I sort of got deported from there once.

So when we set off for a conference, sarcastic remarks abounded.

As I got in the car to the airport:

“We’re going to Disneyland! Oh wait.”

As we alighted from the plane.

“I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go to Minneapolis.”
“Yeah, I remember you talking about it…that one time.”

And then, at the hotel…

When you’re attending an anti-tobacco conference, guess what might be an important requirement for your hotel room. Go on, take a guess. I’ll give you a hint. You can SMOKE tobacco.

That’s right, we like our hotel rooms to be nonsmoking. That’s putting it mildly. Telling us that you’re giving us a smoking room is like a red rag to a bull. It’s like telling a kosher Jew that he’ll be sleeping in the pigsty tonight, hope that’s all right sir. It is most certainly not all right.

Evil hotel clerk insisted that our travel agent had requested it. Nice hotel clerk whispered behind his hand that that was not quite true – apparently Best Western does this all the time. Anyway, Nice Hotel Clerk ended up putting my co-worker R and I in a smoke free suite, which worked out quite nicely.

And look! Sunshine! See, Minneapolis isn’t all bad.






And Minneapolitans (excepting Evil Hotel Clerk) are lovely.

F’rinstance.
We arranged to meet the rest of our group at a sushi restaurant after we picked up our registration materials. We walked and walked and walked like determined pioneers, and came to where I thought we must be within a block of the restaurant for which we sought. (Origami).

We found instead another restaurant, where a nice man told us that ours was back in the direction we’d come from.

We had the barman call us a cab. And waited and waited like very patient pioneers.
The barman called again, and we chatted to Nice Man about the history of Minneapolis, e.g. the Guthrie next door, The Mills (next the other door), (did you know that Minn. is the home of Pilsbury?), and the warehouse district. (where they kept the flour etc that they milled, and where our restaurant was).

Then the hostess (we were getting to know several people in the bar by this time) called us – she’d been looking out for the cab while having a cig. But yet another cab sailed by, like a Cardine bus.

Then Nice Man came out again. “There’s my Volvo. I can take you there, be about 5 minutes out of my way, and come back and eat my dessert.
After a couple of '“no” “I insist"s', we hopped in and he delivered us to our restaurant, where our friends were starting to get worried and send us concerned texts.

And the sushi was soooo good. A couple of our party hadn’t tried sashimi before, and it was fun to introduce them to its fresh beauty.

Calling All Word Nerds

There's a site: http://www.freerice.com/index.php run by the UN, or through the UN, or something to do with the UN. Anyway, you play a multiple choice word game, and for every word you get right, 10 grains of rice are donated to the UN's food program.

I got up to level 50. Game on?

Aww

There’s some movie in which the hero makes fun of chicks that tell boring stories about the cute thing their niece or nephew did last night. Well, SEE if I CARE, movie hero! You’re neither the boss of me, or George Clooney.

My cute six-year-old niece H. brought me a note/picture. Now, here’s some writing skilz:

I love you. p.s. I love you. I am very happy, love H___. I love you.

I think she makes her point well, no? She also drew pictures of us both together, wearing matching outfits. I’m not sure if that means she is going to start wearing heeled boots and lipstick, or if I get to wear t-shirts with candy-coloured flowers and the odd cartoon character on them.

We played Trouble twice and I beat her both times. I’m pretty sure it’s not ethical to beat a six-year-old at a board game twice in a row, but she took it very well. To be honest, I was too lazy to work out ways to lose. I’m not sure I deserve favourite aunt status.

One of the reasons I headed down there was to deliver my nephew’s b’day pressie, and I am pleased to say it was quite a hit. Have you heard of ‘The Dangerous Book for Boys’? It’s an old-fashioned, Boys Own-type big book of all things that boys (and girls) should know – knot tying, lists of things like the seven wonders of the ancient world, ‘Girls’ and how to talk to them, Morse Code, and things to keep in your pockets (string, pen-knife, etc). It’s wittily written, and bits were read aloud for everyone’s amusement as it got passed around during the evening.

The book is apparently flying off the shelves, and I’m wondering what that says about our society. I rather like that it’s teaching boys to be boys, and the kind of boys that will grow up to be Men. Is it me, or is there a lack of Men? Are others feeling this? I suspect our tech-savvy male peers feel something is lacking in their lives if they’re not also expert in something manly (like knowing how the internal combustion engine works, or whittlin’) that they can teach their sons. Not sure where the pressure originates (women? their fathers? Innate need?). The book made me nostalgic for the days of Richmal Compton’s Just William. Maybe that’s all it is– the pull of nostalgia.

Party Girl

In which Lena’s immune system fights back by putting her in a coma.

This has been one of those weeks that, on paper, sounds quite glamourous, which gives one a sneaking suspicion that the lives of the rich and famous aren’t as glamourous as they sound, either. Which is, let’s face it, what they have been trying to tell us all along. Like JLo in her tragic anthem, Jenny from the Block. Do you believe them now? Me neither.

So, Week O’ Glamour began with a party in a very hip condo with very hip people, as my fabulous friend Crystal (who runs a hip restaurant) prepared to hiply move to Hawaii. I was somehow unprepared for the level of hipness with which I met, as I’d thrown on a pair of old jeans and I think whatever top I’d worn to church. Nevertheless, I talked with very delightful and interesting people, and enjoyed the sushi.

Monday and Tuesday was an ad shoot. Monday’s was in the glamourous setting of a bar. Horrifyingly, someone dropped the camera, or the camera overbalanced…anyway, somehow the camera ended up on the floor with a big crash. Fixable damage, but it lessened the glamour while increasing the drama for a few minutes.

Wednesday was TKD testing night. Not glamourous, definitely not. But cool! Men smashing through blocks of wood with terrifying yells. Of this I shall write more later.

Thursday was climbing night. Of this I have written.

Friday was an art show. Back to the glamour! M. and I visited our talented (and glamourous!) friend R, who had some wonderful paintings and encaustics (she had to remind me of the word) on display. And I also developed a temporary crush on another artist whose photographs and paintings we loved.

Saturday I was nursing an incipient cold, and dipping dried fruits in chocolate for that evening, while IT SNOWED (in SEPTEMBER!) outside. The RS broadcast was great, followed by a chocolate buffet. M. said something about finding a space where we could enjoy our guilty feast.
“Guilt? I feel no guilt,” I said.
“How did you become so liberated?
“Many years of practice.”

Then another party, which was not necessarily glamourous, partially because it was in the home of some straight men (I deduce their sexuality by the decorations on their walls, which were non-existent, and by the size of their TV, which was considerable), but which was entertaining. We played with a Wii, and danced, and drank (water) until…well, not the wee hours. More like 11 PM actually. But I was tired, and M. and I had done our party duty, and I went home, to go to bed around 1 and wake up the next day at, disorientingly, noon.

I told B. I’d slept for eleven hours. She said, “that’s not something you tell a mother of two.”

She made fun of me for apparently being the kind of person who goes to parties every night and sleeps until noon. Am I that person? I think the sleeping’s got more to do with the cold. The partying? You know, I’m just a girl like everyone else. I like to just hang out, y’know, with my friends, just chill. I totally went out without lipstick the other day*. I’m like, so low maintenance. Everyone who knows me can’t believe just how normal and down-to-earth I am…just like all you ordinary people…

*Lie. You know I’d never leave the house without lipstick.

Lena Travels Up a Cliff

You know how you start getting into something, like running, or morris dancing, or something, and you start seeing it as being this incredible metaphor for life? You know, you start relating EVERYTHING to running. To the point of being kinda irritating. Sometimes beyond that point. And you can FEEL yourself doing it – you hear yourself saying “scripture study is like running – you always know you’ll feel better after you do it, but sometimes you just eat another brownie instead,” for about the fiftieth time, and you can feel your friends being patient with you, and yet you keep going?

I have a new hobby. And I think it could be a fabulous source of metaphors.

I went climbing again the other night. I’ve only been twice outside, so it’s a little early to be over-metaphoring yet, but I shan’t let that stop me. One of our co-workers took us. Even though she’s several years younger than me, I pretty much want to be her when I grow up. She can do everything.

So, climbing is a great way to enjoy the mountains, and a lot of fun, and not even as scary as I’d imagined, but there was this one patch that almost beat me. It was maddening. I was about two-thirds of the way up, and to my unpracticed self, this bit of rock seemed as smooth as a parking lot. My feet kept slipping out of every tiny foothold I found, I kept ending up dangling at the end of the rope being grateful for my belayer, and I broke a nail. That’s when I seriously considered giving up. My legs were wobbly, my arms were crampy, and I was getting tired.

But I knew that it was clime-able. I knew that A. wouldn’t have sent me up the cliff if she hadn’t been pretty sure that I could do it. I knew that I was physically strong enough, and I knew that the equipment was there to help me if I took a little risk.

In the end I made it past the smooth bit, and after that it was beautiful. There was a lovely crack in which I took a breather, and then a nice foothold-rich climb to the top, followed by a leisurely rappel down.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

I was talking to another friend at the end of the evening, and we agreed that it’s like life. You get the slippery patches—sometimes longer than others—but there’s always a way through them, and usually a rewarding view or breathing space soon after. And you have faith, and people, and tools to get you through.

Of course, knowing this isn’t going to make my nail grow back any faster.

Don’t need to say please to no man for a happy tune

I was late for TKD today. I took too long to change, and by the time I got over there, everyone had bowed in, which meant I’d have to wait for a break to join, and wouldn’t be able to warm up, etc. Not in the mood for hanging around the stuffy do jong doing nothing, and it was a glorious day anyway, so I went to the park and ran. First time I’d run three miles in quite some time (goal 52 in my 101 list is now checked off), and it felt good. It was that rare running day when, instead of just wanting it to be over, and trying to distract myself from the run, my legs felt powerful, and I could enjoy the lake and ducks and beautiful weather as I pounded the track. I had some fun random music on the mp3 player – Cracklin Rosie was hitting my rhythm today. It was on the edge of being a stormy evening, and the air had that great, clean, just-washed feeling; the sun kept breaking through the clouds, and there were a few intermittent showers to cool me down. The spring-fed water fountains seemed to be in spate, so I got a little shower there too, and then stretched in front of the lake. I never regret exercising, but it’s especially gratifying when I enjoy the process.

September

On Saturday, M. and I went to the tomato festival and Avenues street fest.

A perfectly ripe tomato is almost a perfect pleasure. We had tomato sandwiches with salt and pepper and pesto and crusty local bread, and I dripped tomato seeds on myself. We tasted tomatoes with names like zebra and black cherry and sunshine, and discovered we had favourites. We listened to the mellow band music, and sat on benches and enjoyed the weather and view of old houses around us.

M said it felt like we were in some city like Portland. I agreed, but I also love that we were right here in SLC. Someone once told Germaine Greer that she didn’t look 40. She responded “this is what 40 looks like”. I think sometimes my favourite SL moments are the ones where I might be inclined to say, “this doesn’t feel like SL”. But this is what SL is like.

SL is also the Avenues Street Fair. Jewelry and crafts, and art. Some fun pieces; eyepopping abstract acrylics, sandstone and metal trays, fabulous glasswork with broken pieces of glass fused and melted together. M. wanted to go home and make everything herself, and probably could. I wanted to shop. I bought a pretty, pearly, shiny choker from a jewellery maker from Hong Kong. We both had chocolate-dipped frozen bananas (M. and I, not the jewellery maker. As far as I know). The mayoral candidates were there, presumably looking for babies to kiss. People with causes wanted us to adopt greyhounds or save water or use huge solar power panels. M intimated that I could fit a solar panel on my balcony. “How often do you use your balcony, anyway?”
“I’m not putting one up there. You can’t make me.”

This is a wonderful time of year in SL.