Reconstructing Stacey

On the road - The July Project #3

9:58 p.m. (a note about the July Project)

Tonight is the first night in almost two weeks I have had a moment to myself. I got home from work and almost danced down the hallway when I realized no one was home. This is because I left home at 2:30 a.m. July 2 to attend High Sierra Music Fest, where I blissed out for 4.5 perfect days of sunshine, trees (and therefore wildfire smoke), live music and friends. I got home last Monday night, showered, went out to dinner for a friend's birthday, went to work the next day and within 15 minutes of getting home from work, my sister and her friend arrived for a 3-day visit. I worked during the day and hung out with them at night; on Friday, we picked up our rental car and drove down the coast to Santa Barbara, then LA, then San Diego, and back to LA. I was picked up in a shuttle at 5 a.m. this morning, landed in SFO around 9:30 a.m. and went to work until 6:30 p.m. (This is also why I haven't written in more than a week.)

So yes, I almost danced down the hallway when I realized no one was home except for my very affectionate kooky cat.

I shouldn't really complain, since the past two weeks have been incredible... it's just that when I don't have any time to myself I get cranky. 

High Sierra Music Fest was heavenly. Truly, the festival is four day of pristine happiness where the only thing you have to concern yourself with is what band you go to next, or what delicious organic vendor you're going to patronize for dinner. I stopped thinking about my future, my writing, my work, my upcoming travels to Ohio and Israel (!!), my endless to-do list, my lack of any romantic prospects. I tuned out all the analytical noise in my brain and instead of dwelling in the mundane bullshit of everyday life, I marinated in music and my own body odor (90-degree heat, camping and one shower doesn't really leave one any other choice, but since I happen to enjoy being dirty, I capitalize on situations in which it is socially acceptable to smell). Anyway, the point is that I was present. I lived in the moment. I danced when the fiddle or guitar or banjo or drums moved me, and I laid down when a ballad reminded me of my fatigue. I didn't even take a single photograph, since lately I feel as though a camera makes me distant from what's in front of me. (My friends took lots of pictures, so the weekend is memorialized.)

Musical highlights included:

• Railroad Earth - Whimsical, danceable and gorgeous bluegrass.

• Rotary Downs - Genre-defying rock band from New Orleans.

• the everybodyfields - Twangy alt.country band with songwriting that's full of sorrow. Female lead singer with a voice like silk.

• Trombone Shorty and Orleans Ave. - Funky blues band fronted by a hip-hop singer who also rocks the trombone and trumpet

• Dusty Rhodes and the River Band - '70s-rock-band-influenced indie band that made me shake my groove thang

• Cornmeal - Let's just say I have never seen a bluegrass band shred like these guys do. Chicago-based über talented group with a standout fiddle player

• Oneside - Four-piece folky band with a banjo instead of a second guitar. 

• Benevento/Russo Duo - Mind-boggling that two guys can make such a loud sound. Experimental jazz meets rock and roll meets indie boogie.

• The Slip - Sort of a jammy indie rock band with an electric glaze. Easy on the eyes.

• Surprise Me Mr. Davis - See above then add a dash of brilliant songwriting and a gooey folky center courtesy of the next Dylan, Mr. Nathan Moore.

• Nathan Moore - A genius who with his acoustic guitar fills the stage with insight and pretty music 

• Carolyn Wonderland - It's like she conjures Janis Joplin from beyond the grave.

• Stephanie Wrembel Group - Awesome Parisian-influenced funky jazz music.

Music feeds my soul in a way that nothing else does. So of course HSMF is my most ideal respite from reality.

So after this fantastic excursion, I took another vacation the following weekend down Hwy 101 and Hwy 1 to Santa Barbara, which is my new favorite place in California (behind most places in the Bay Area, of course). It's stunning. You've got the ocean and the mountains and a warm breeze all in one fun, bougie college town. My sister, her friend A and myself fell in love. We stayed in a hostel just blocks from the beach. It was not in the best condition, but it was a fine place to sleep. We ended up going out for a late dinner after arriving into town and then happened upon retro night at some random bar, so of course we danced for a while. When it got crowded and we grew disturbed by the many scantily clad women doing body shots on the bar, we decided to peace out to another bar, where we continued to dance until we were totally spent. We indulged in almost 6 hours of beach time the following day. I can't recall a time when I felt so at peace and not bored while laying out.

Yesterday (Sunday), we drove to San Diego to see my great Aunt Charlotte, who my sis and I had not seen in five years. She is a delight, especially because she's a lot like my grandmother (her sister) who died slightly more than five years ago. I miss her often. I think R does too. So it was nice to spend the evening in her apartment, help her make dinner and sit around shmoozing about food, politics and a bit of family history. For instance, I finally learned how my grandma learned to sew (she was a MASTER seamstress and would definitely have kicked ass on Project Runway: Bubbe Edition). Turns out she hated school and protested going as a teenager so much that her parents allowed her to "drop out" as long as she learned a trade. They found a talented seamstress who agreed to let my grandmother apprentice, and so she did. And that's how she learned. 

It's been 20 minutes but I'm not totally done with my little freewriting exercise. Therefore I will keep going.

Today I had my first coaching session with the journalist who's teaching my online writing course. It was spectacular and illuminating and went on for more than 45 minutes (I was only technically allotted 30 minutes). I had sent him a draft of a story last week, and we went over it together. He gave me all these helpful pointers and I spent most of the afternoon doing some extra reporting after he pointed out many holes in the piece. It only served to remind me how little guidance I'm receiving at my current job, and how much I crave support. It also made me realize how little time my professors spent talking about the writing process, and how much time they spent on the reporting process. This is unfortunate because the best reporting is dulled by rusty writing. Anyway, I hope that tomorrow I can rewrite the piece and make it feel polished and vivid. 

10:28 p.m.

Winter

I returned to California yesterday after 10 days in Cleveland, Minneapolis and Des Moines. It felt strangely euphoric and comforting to be back in the heart of the Midwest. As much as I love San Francisco, there is something about being in middle America that makes me feel grounded and relaxed. Also, I miss seasons. The snow was beautiful and serene even though I wanted to hibernate most mornings from the terrible icy air. (I say this and yet was overjoyed to return to SF's 50-degree weather.)

Here are some photos. Many more to be posted to Flickr in the next couple weeks.

Icicles in Minneapolis:

And a lonely tree in Iowa:

Notes from the West Bank

So I wrote this column almost three months ago when I returned from a 10-day trip to Israel, and it never ended up seeing the light of day. Until now. Hope you like it.

A new perspective: Reconnecting with relatives deepens understanding of Israeli society

I almost choke on my pita and hummus when I learn my cousins live in a West Bank settlement.

Settlers always seemed a bit crazy to me. Why live somewhere so controversial and potentially violent? But my family — well, not crazy.

“Can we go there?” I ask my cousins Miriam and Pinchas after they tell me where their daughter Noa moved three years earlier. I need to know how my uncrazy relatives live in Eli, a settlement 20 miles north of Jerusalem.

Miriam looks entertained by my surprise and interest. Then she tells me there simply won’t be time during my short, two-night stay in Nir Galim, her home, an orthodox moshav 40 minutes south of Tel Aviv.

The next morning, she knocks on the guest room door. Do I still want to visit Noa?

A shower and bowl of cereal later, I slide into the backseat of Pinchas’ Kangoo. Miriam regales me with stories about Noa, her rabbi/teacher husband Netanel, and their three daughters, Betami, Ori and Hadar. A fourth, Rachel, has since entered the world. 

I listen, stare out the car window as we drive through Palestinian towns where Arabs sell goldfish and flowers from the side of the road. Mostly, I’m amazed at the beauty of the West Bank, its gently rolling hills and clear blue sky. It is not the war zone I imagined.

When we arrive in Eli, I am stunned by Noa and Netanel’s panoramic view. It’s quiet, save for chirping birds and the wind. I don’t know what I expected of the West Bank (Gunshots? Soldiers? A dirty, barren wasteland littered with mortar shells and blown up buildings?), but certainly not the serenity surrounding me.

I sit down on the wooden bench in Noa’s backyard, and think again about my luck to have the opportunity to return to Israel in springtime. It is nothing like the five-week tourist teen trip I did in 1998. This time, I can look at Israel’s culture, diversity, politics and landscape through adult eyes, which reveal a place totally unlike that which my 17-year-old self saw.

Netanel soon comes home from work, where he teaches Torah to 18- and 19-year old Orthodox boys in preparation for their military service.  He was born in New York, and his English is perfect. I quickly realize how lucky I am to have him as a tour guide.

We all climb into his minivan outfitted with bulletproof glass to begin the tour of Eli’s five hilltop neighborhoods, which from a scenic viewpoint look like Lincoln Log homes propped onto a pillow in perfect symmetry.

Each hilltop has a school, a synagogue, a playground and a small market. A post office, shopping center, rec center and clinic are located in the biggest and most central neighborhood. Netanel says the goal is to eventually develop the land between each hilltop, sort of like a reverse urban sprawl.

Settlements begin with mobile homes, which settlers call caravans. Eli began with eight caravans in 1984. The families shared one telephone. When the housing authority approved their building permits, they built and moved into modest but comfortable homes. New (and usually young) families continue to move into the caravans, many of which are now fairly run down, and then move into nicer, new homes. About 3,000 people live in Eli today.

As we stand at a lookout on the side of a road, I can see the nearby Palestinian village of Qaryut. I know because the homes in Israeli settlements have red peaked roofs, while Arab villages are comprised of homes with flat, white roofs, always accented with one tall peak that marks the community’s mosque.

“Look, we are living together. Arab and Jew. We can live together. There is more than enough space for all of us,” Netanel says. If only the Palestinian extremists would share his opinion. He tells me that many do, but they can’t speak out without their lives threatened.

I’ve always thought of settlers as, well, strange for wanting to live in such a controversial and sometimes violent area. Netanel tells me that even Israelis — particularly in Tel Aviv and other coastal cities — don’t understand a settler’s passion for living in the West Bank.

So why does he? He tells me that the West Bank is the true Jewish homeland, the epicenter of our spiritual history. He says that the West Bank has been a part of Israel for more years than it hasn’t, and so of course Jews should inhabit and develop what is rightfully theirs. To emphasize his point, when he and Noa moved to Eli, they changed their last name to a Hebrew word meaning “returning home.”

And when I returned home to San Francisco?

I was sure I’d come back to the states with a stronger opinion one way or the other about the Israel-Palestinian conflict, what with my insider’s perspective and all. If anything, though, I feel less sure of my views, since now I see all the shades of gray in between what was earlier merely black and white.