My Gregory Deva 60 has been packed. Cats fed and freshly littered. Plants watered, dog loved to pieces. I have successfully minimized my caffeine habit and have been (unbelievably) working out in order to prepare for some challenging hikes. Yes, it's true, I am leaving for New Zealand, today!

My past experiences with travel have been short-lived and infrequent. As kids, my parents took my sister and brother and me to tourist Mexico many times. It's probably where I learned so much bad Spanish. I spent about 10 days in Spain in high school. I think I was so insecure during that time, though, that I was more concerned with how fat I was going to look in the pictures than the gorgeous mosques and cathedrals we visited. I spent five weeks in Germany as an undergrad, studying the correlation between Wagner, opera, and WWII. Suffice to say, I spent most of that time avoiding the depressing subject by studying German beer instead. (The only German I can remember are references to beer--I couldn't tell you how to ask for a bathroom, but I could still order you your brew of choice in German.)

Traveling now is different. I don't plan to drink the weeks away (although apparently NZ has amazing wine), and now I realize the pictures aren't about how fat I look, they're actually about capturing the allure of other places.

Here are a few things I am looking forward to:
1) Seeing my sister
2) Seeing the ocean
3) Hiking on the South Island
4) Kayaking with Aunt Linda
5) Eating fresh apples and avocados
6) Respectfully learning about Maori culture
7) Seeing the Southern Cross

Here are a few things I am not looking forward to:
1) The plane ride
2) Missing my girlfriend and our pets
3) Figuring foreign currency
4) Coming home completely broke

Luckily, I have no qualms about going--even though I am afraid of coming home without any money, I know it will be worth it. I have only heard wonderful things about New Zealand--about how beautiful it is, how breathtaking, how wonderful.

So...check the blog...I will try to post once in a while if I can. I may even post some pictures, since Stacia has so generously offered to let me take her camera.

Aurora Avenue

This morning, I took our new puppy Luna for a walk (more on her later), and as we were making our way back home, a short white woman came jogging up to us. She was very friendly and introduced herself and asked if we were new to the neighborhood.

I said that my girlfriend had bought a house on Aurora Avenue a few months ago, and that we had been here since the fall. We made the typical small talk about meeting people in the neighborhood, the prospect of light rail coming through University Avenue, and blah blah blah, and then she said, "God, it's so nice to see some other young white people in the neighborhood."

I thought it was an odd, sort of racist thing to say. I mean, what do young white people represent in a historically African American neighborhood? And if you want to live among young white people, move to Uptown or something, not St. Paul's Frogtown.

But I didn't say anything in response to the comment. I just sort of changed the subject, and we wrapped up our small talk. And then she said, "Feel free to stop by for a beer sometime. We like to have a few after we put the kids to bed."

I thanked her--I don't drink, but I always appreciate an offer like that. It's an extension of friendship, a really socially accepted offer of kindness. I don't usually out myself as someone who is sober in an instance like that, because it's not about whether I drink or don't drink, it's about the generous invitation.

But then she started to go on. "I mean, we really like to throw 'em back. People don't talk about drinking enough--it's like it's a taboo subject or something. Our neighbors in that house, who don't live there anymore, invited us over all the time for beers. You couldn't leave their house without getting sent home with a beer. Used to get drunk and do lines with them all the time."

Yikes. Now, this was getting uncomfortable. Five years ago, I would have planned a wild party with her on the spot. But now?

Feeling too uncomfortable to out myself as a non-drinker and non-drugger, like it would show how lame and boring I really am, I just sort of half-laughed in feigned agreement or something.

"It was really nice meeting you," I said, as I started to turn to walk away.

"You too," she said. "Don't forget to come over sometime for a few beers! Bring your girlfriend!"

"Thanks," I said, realizing how strange it is that I feel comfortable enough to out myself as a lesbian, but not comfortable enough to out myself as sober.

Then she said, as I was walking away, "Yeah, I gotta go too. My kid is at the principal's office."

Well, anyway, she was really nice, and I always enjoy meeting the neighbors. Shaking off that weird feeling of isolation that occurs when someone mistakenly assumes you drink, I took Luna home. I do like our neighborhood. I like our friendly neighbors, the lady two doors down who offered to split some plants with me in the spring, the fifty-something twins on the other side who just got two little german shepherds, the rowdy kids across the street who play football in the road, the hott young black man who lives behind us who thinks Luna is the cutest dog ever, the other pair of lesbians who live a couple streets over, the 90-year old man who has lived here for decades, the deaf family kitty-corner from us, even the notorious "yellow house" that we are convinced is partaking in illegal activity, our friendly neighbor woman who left us a Christmas card in the mailbox without even knowing our names.

I was thinking about all of these great people, about how much I like our neighborhood, and about how quiet it is, when, as Luna and I arrived at the door to our house, I heard a woman scream, "GIRL YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT IT!"

Stunned, I turned around. No, thank God, she wasn't talking to me, but to another woman who was walking toward her. Luna and I escaped inside the house just as the fight broke out. I looked out the window and saw hair, arms, legs, tumbling on the ground. I was about to call the police when two men pulled them apart, and they each went their separate ways.

And, now, as I am finishing this blog, I see that someone else called the cops anyway. Both women have just been escorted into squad cars.

Ahhhh, Frogtown!

Splash

In an attempt to get into shape, I have started swimming three times a week at the St. Kate's pool. It's been really nice--convenient, reasonable alumni prices, and almost always a lane to myself or shared with one other person.

But that guy, Captain Speedo, the one who tried to woo me with his talk of turds in the pool, is really starting to get on my nerves.

Earlier this week, I was minding my own business, counting laps and letting my mind wander as I fell into that predictable rhythm of swim, breathe, kick, swim, breathe, kick, when all of a sudden--
Splash!

Rudely awakened from my swim trance, I stopped in the middle of the pool and looked to my left. Captain Speedo had friggin splashed me, and was treading water with a big grin on his face. "Hey," he said.

"Hi," I said, reflexively. I found myself treading water too, waiting for him to explain. I thought there was some emergency. I half expected him to say something like, "Sorry to splash you, but we have to evacuate the pool---it was a turd after all." or, "Someone is drowning, quit swimming."

But he said nothing. He just kept treading water with foggy goggles and that silly grin.

Two parts annoyed, one part angry, and a half part flattered, I just nodded and then continued with my swim.

This was on Wednesday. When I went this morning, all lanes were taken except the lane next to the pack of men in Speedos. I took a deep breath and hopped in--I wasn't going to miss my morning swim because of some flirtatious man. I just kept swimming, without stopping, keeping my head underwater as much as possible.

That seemed to work. I guess if I have to be inspired to swim as fast as possible, then this is as good a way as any.

But I do feel a little bit objectified. I mean, I'm in a swimsuit. He doesn't even know my name.

At the very least, he could introduce himself. I mean, I only recognize him by the color of his Speedo.

Before I Go

Lisa is one of my favorite students. She is ten and painfully dramatic.

This week, we learned about a new time signature. She was having trouble feeling the pulse of three beats in a measure, so I asked her to count out loud.

Looking shocked, she took her hands off the piano, stared at me with an open mouth, and then wailed, "But my life is already horrible!" She went limp and collapsed headfirst onto the keyboard. Imagine about thirteen half-steps suddenly ringing out from beneath the wailing head of a ten-year-old.

Wincing, I said, "Lisa, it's not the end of the world. In fact, I will count with you. Okay, ready? Here we go: one, two, three, one, two three....." And she slowly and defiantly sat back up and started participating.

She has also discovered that her electronic keyboard can make some really fun sounds, and after she successfully completed the counting exercise, she hit a button that filled the room with the sound of applause and cheers. She stood up, grinning, and took a few bows.

Ever the calm, fun-hating piano teacher, I said, "Sit back down, Lisa, and let's go to your next book."

I am always impressed with her knack for exaggeration. I can relate to this, a little. Or a lot. I think the ability to reasonably stretch a story is part of what makes stories so interesting. I mean, come on, did she really hit thirteen keys? I don't know, I didn't count, but she may have. So I have come to expect her reactions to be a little bigger, a little louder, a little stranger than what is essentially true. After all, I have the same affliction.

At her lesson last week, I had asked her to open her Performance Book to page something or other. She slowly and deliberately opened the book to the aforementioned page, set it on the piano, and then looked at me from beneath a droopy head of hair.

"I didn't practice this page," she said, sadly. She said it completely shamelessly, but she had the look of a girl who just lost her puppy.

Accustomed to her pouty reaction to the concept of "practicing," I sighed. "Lisa," I said, "You know you are supposed to practice every day. Otherwise it makes it really hard for us to make any progress. I might as well stay at home."

She nodded, solemnly.

"So why didn't you practice?" I asked her.

"I spent the entire week in the hospital!" She said this with wild, wide hand gestures.

"The entire week in the hospital?" I repeated. "Wow, that sounds really serious. Are you sure you should be having a piano lesson right now?"

Most kids would say something like, "No way, I shouldn't be having a piano lesson right now," and then dart off to play a video game or something. But Lisa?

She sighed and looked at me with her big, round, tragic eyes. "I just....I just want to have one more, before I go."

On the Inside

I forgot to bring my guitar to music class at the preschool this week, so it made a perfect day for talking about the piano. I gathered ten bouncy four and five-years olds around the church basement console and gave them a keyboard overview. Then I tapped the soundboard and said, "Does anyone know what is inside a piano?"

Andy, a four-year-old class clown who routinely grins and gives his peers purposeful sideways glances in order to make them giggle, raised his hand. This time, though, he wasn't trying to make his buddies laugh. He tilted his head and, teeming with sincerity, said, hopefully, "Water?"

Turd or Hairball?

What does one do when she is in the middle of her morning lap swim and a pack of men in Speedos interrupts her to team-flirt by making really asinine comments about the turd-shaped hairball in the deep end?

If she is me, and she is already feeling insecure in her new kelly green, high-hipped swimsuit, she does this:

She blinks through her foggy goggles and politely laughs when Captain Speedo stretches out his arms along the side of the pool and puffs his chest, winks at her, and says, "Turd or hairball? I know it's a hairball, because I went to check it out. It tasted more like a hairball, so I just left it on the pool floor."

Then, when she can't think of any appropriate response (or any inappropriate response for that matter), she simply dunks her head and swims away. And that is that.