What I Brought Back

Most of the time, I am thankful for the dwindling nature of memory.  Life can be overwhelming enough.  We couldn't possibly live a normal life with every experience we've had at the forefront of our minds.

But how I do wish the memories of travel stayed with us a bit longer...or rather, that the travel afterglow lingered for just a bit more.

When I got back from my time in the Middle East, that specific "travel feeling" clung to me for exactly a week.  I wandered around in a dopey, happy haze.    The smells and sounds were still within grasp.  Since most of the trip was an intensive learning experience, I had much to process.  The thoughts and feelings started at the top of my head, and continued to melt down through me.

I felt so certain this trip would stay with me the longest.

And so soon it started to fade away.

Many people asked me, "When are you going to write about your trip, Elissa?  You must have such great writing material now!"

Of course I did have lots to write about--but it has taken--and may yet continue to take--some time.  Israel is not a place to remain unmoved and neutral, no matter where you stand.  There was much to filter through in the days that followed.

So far a couple of poems have come from the experience.  I may not be able to recapture that feeling in full--but writing the poems was a little like visiting again.  And until I can visit again for real, that will have to do.

Where have YOU been?  Or, where are you going?  Go.

Salty Breakfast    4/27/09

"Boker Tov!"  

I blink red-eyed at the sunny smile sitting at the breakfast buffet desk, searching for the Hebrew response to good morning.  

"Boker Or!" My mouth fumbles around the alien words.  Morning light.  My brain is gummy with jet lag and exhaustion.  I pry it open each morning for the deluge of facts and experience that comes with the day. 

Deep breath in, and enter a clinking and crunching commotion.

Blood sugar drains down my spine, leaving my brain hollow and achy.  Juice will help.  I rush to the beverage table, and drain what I suppose to be orange juice into a glass.

But what is this?  Eyes scrunched, I peer at the pallid concoction in my glass.  It is definitely not fresh squeezed.  More watered down than concentrate...yet salty-sweet.  Is it?  It is.  Tang.

Hmm.  So they like Tang in Israel.  I can live with that.  Now for the food.  

Scanning the steaming rows, I first notice what there isn't.  No bagels.  No pancakes.  No waffles.  No more thinking.  I turn off my brain and take.

After many tong fumblings and awkward "no, you first" with other travelers, I sit and stare at my plate.  I took some things that are not the norm for my breakfast.  No fear allowed.

Cottage cheese is a familiar comfort to start with.  I spoon it in.  Surprised by a thick tanginess.  I semi-successfully spoon it onto a round roll, shove it dripping into my mouth.  Laugh.  This is fun.

The buffet was fertile with salad.  Lentil, cabbage, carrot, pasta, pickled vegetables.  Crunch into the cabbage.  Peppery, brackish, and slippery.  Perfect counterpart to the chewy, soft cheese and bread concoction.

Now for the next step.  Pickled herring.  I carefully introduce it to my tongue.  And am shocked by delicious brininess, the texture firm and inviting.  I can do fish for breakfast.

Cheesed pasta--not unusual for lunch, but this is 7:30 am.  Kind of heavy.  Sip bitter and sweet Wysottsky tea, pray for it to be found at home.  Orange watermelon, yellow grapefruit, lemony avocado.  I squeeze it in, no longer hungry, but because I can.   And we do.  I look at my companions, each drowned in his or her own adventure: struggle down instant coffee, indulge in Cookie Crisps with 3% milk, suck on hard boiled egg.  Get up and get more and more and more!

I saved my obsession for last--a plateful of Kosher pickles.  Julienned, a deeper olive green.  I could cry at my favorite food being offered at all hours.  Place one in deliberately--one would think I was savoring a damn priceless truffle.   

Yes.  Nothing could have made this better.  There is no vinegar in these pickles.  Just a simple brine, which I suck out, then bite down into a crunch.  I eat one and another and another, until a lonely white plate with green tear drops stares back.  

Drunk on this salty newness, I see my friends stretching into action.  Time to go.  One last swallow of Tang for the road.

Surprise?  After all the savory salinity, the Tang kind of works.  

The day is ready for me.

Three Times to Kotel 4/30/09

Achat

The sky spits on us as we walk through the Dung Gate--an unceremonious introduction.  We are lagged and still adjusting: spine empty, brain grasps at everything handed to it.

As we approach the square, the sun does not come out.  There are no rainbows to confirm a revelation.  The sky remains a watercolor gray wash above.

But then we pass through some sort of vortex: an immediate energy change shivers through me. Our walking bodies fall into a murky slow motion.   Wall up ahead to the right, fortress to the left, ice-rink golden limestone underneath.  I look, and look, and look.

We stop, to listen and learn about this place.  But I am not for learning right now.  The wall wants me to feel it.  I stand impatiently in my body.  

And then I hear Jerusalem.

Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.

Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah. 

The Muslim call to prayer.  Haunting, alien, resonates across the square and through my organs.

Then the clanging of the Christian churches.  Familiar, slightly jarring, counterpoint to the call.

Underneath it all, the vibration of prayer and wailing at Kotel itself.  Even at this distance the exposed emotion transfers.

How is this happening?  How did I get here?  Everything comes together at the Kotel everyday.  

But for me this is once in an eternity.  Surreal, and so real....

I accept my place at this moment.  Contact will Kotel will come.  I can listen.

Shtayim

Evening now.  Aquamarine twilight soothes down the golden walls.  Now we can touch.

A small group of us move towards the women's side.  We approach slowly and with reverence.  I clutch a piece of white paper filled with printed prayers of friends, family, and students:

I wish people would stop fighting and have a peaceful day.

I wish my tummyache would go away.

May all beings be free of suffering.

I hope people stop throwing trash on the ground.

Will there be room for my note?  I suddenly get nervous in this position of an ambassador of prayer for so many.

There are many women praying close to the Wall.  Some are davening, but in near silence.  I feel large and awkward.  Is it ok to be doing this?  My friend smiles at me, anticipating and encouraging.  We get closer.

It takes a minute to find space.  I stick my arms against myself so not to jostle the pious.  Finally there I am, squeezed up against a stairway on the far right side.  

Before reaching out, I look up.  The Kotel is much taller than I had thought.  And this was only the outside wall of the Temple.  Imagine the real thing...

My hand reaches, makes contact with the Wall.  

Smoothness.  That is what touches me first.   Glossy, no rough edges on this surface.

I run my hand up and down it, and the magnitude of it all crashes onto me--how many hands have felt this, rendering it so polished?  Thousands and thousands.  So many tears and hands and raw emotion laid bare onto this surface.  It pulses into me.

I look to my companions, wondering at their experience.  One has her head bowed to the wall, eyes closed, deep in touch with it.  The other looks at me, her face open and smiling in recognition of the incredibleness of this moment.

Remembering my mission, I remember to breath and concentrate.  Predictably, there are no vacancies in the cracks around me.  No choice but to unceremoniously put my prayers on the ground.  The paper looks like a common piece of trash down there.  I feel shrunken and childlike, wondering if my and everyone's prayers will be heard.  

Surely God will hear them in my mind?  This is the closest you can get to God, many believe...

I creep closer.  Close eyes.  And think.  Hard.  For me.  For everyone.

Peace to Israel and all people of the world.  Health and happiness to my friends and family. Peace to friends and family no longer with us.  

My parents' prayer.  May Elissa and her group have a safe and mind expanding trip.

Four year old Brody's seemed especially relevant.  I hope that people stop fighting over the Jesus story.

Fingers continue to stroke the smoothness that has seen everything, and I feel something.  A humming, singing vibration.  My hand stops.  Right there.

I don't know where God is.  If God is.  But an energy persists here.  As if the Wall has absorbed all the emotion, fervor, longing, tears into it.  I cannot avoid it.

Or maybe God is here after all.  

I see my companions backing away, and I break contact.  

We walk backwards; slowly, slowly.  Back into the walking, talking now.  Back into comfortable, Godless reality.  We go on with our night.

Remembering that smoothness to this day.  

Shalosh

Friday evening.  We are deposited here once again to witness the Shabbat fervor for ourselves.

Alone I go towards the wall.  But this time is different.  There is a hushed intensity among the ever-increasing commotion in the square.  I feel more an interloper than an anticipated guest.  But I need to see this.

Woman pray quietly, sitting or standing by the wall.  The men's side, starting to swell with noise and activity, tempts me to watch.  I glue myself to the partition, peer between the metal slats.

First I smile at our three guys, let loose in the mayhem.  They have pulled up chairs right in the middle, absorbing the pious pandemonium around them.  I envy them.

I see all sorts of hats entering.  Tall black ones, circular fur ones, kippahs.  What else is there?  Long black coats, army green jackets, blue windbreakers.  Long gray beards, trimmed ones, smooth child faces.  Guns.

There is a maddening stacking and unstacking of white plastic chairs--to what end I have no idea.  Men start to gather in small groups, nodding, talking, touching.  A celebratory seriousness.

Still more come and come...where are they fitting?  They stream into every open space, eddy into the corners.  

Sometimes I focus in on one person.  An older man mouths words from the Torah in his hand, slightly rocking back and forth.  Behind him, a young man in bright blue kippah and raincoat spasmodically sways in a veritable trance.  Amazing to see, and a little frightening in its unfamiliarity.

 

I look back to my male trip mates, and see they have disappeared.  Maybe the thickening intensity finally got to be too much for them.  It would have for me.  I remain shielded behind the division.

Energy and voices continue to swell.  And I hear something--something I know!

David melach Yisrael,

Chai, chai, vekayam...

A song we sing with the children at Shabbat, being sung here at Kotel!  I feel a surge of connection once again to this place that was distancing from me.  I cling to the slats, pressing closer.

Now it is nearly dark, and the men's area nearly full.  Songs everywhere rise on voices, bodies rock back and forth, arms grip around backs.  Pulsing energy rides a wave of raw religion.

I shiver out of my own trance, and notice my whole group stands together in the square, minus me.  Once again I back away, slightly pushed on ripples of zeal.  

Once up and away and released, we look down on the joyful madness.  Even at a distance the voices shine on, now in full discordant harmony.  

Shabbat means day of rest, but the Wall Shabbat seems the farthest from rest.  Celebrate first--rest will come. 

The third time I was not so much a part of things--almost a voyeur--but remain thankful for having seen nonetheless.

We stroll along fortress walls, bask in the turquoise twilit calm.  The wall retreats behind me, ever and ever farther away.

Kotel is now months and miles from me.  Everyday more and more.  

I have left the wall.   I may leave it again some day.  But it will never leave me. 

What is the Real Near Death Experience?

I'm not trying to be morbid or anything.  But death is something that has kind of been on the mind. I attribute it partly to strife in the world, and to the fact that in a month I will be visiting a country that is currently at war.  This is something I have never done before.  And some people in my life are understandably concerned.

But how do I feel?

Incredibly fortunate.

I feel this way because I, like many, live a sheltered life.  It will be an incredible experience to go to a place where stability is not guaranteed.  It will be incredible no matter what.

It is not like I am completely unafraid of death.  I have recently developed a fear of flying.  And what is that really is about is a fear of dying.  It is not so much  about death, but that I don't want to stop living.  I don't want to miss out on what's to come.  But what can I do about it?  Not a whole lot.

There is the possibility of danger on my trip.  There is the possibility of that anywhere.  Life is the near death experience.  And that is exactly why we should live without fear.  Try to, anyway.

Here are a couple poems about this subject.  Spread the love and not the fear.

The Worm and the Word

I search for signs of death on this afternoon walk.

Like much of San Francisco, Buena Vista park once housed the deceased.

Their bodies were quarried long ago, but the headstones remain.

Fractured into large bits, they are much more useful as pieces of the walls that line the walkways.

Scouring the damp paths, something else catches my eye--an enormous worm, trying to burrow into the wall.

He is not the diminutive garden variety, but a long, engorged night crawler--being bright daytime, he is pulling an “all nighter.”

Boring into a stone wall is a futile job.  So I grab him. 

The violent disruption of work inspires a spasmodic dance of protest in my hand.

I watch, delighted.

I glance down at his attempt at penetration.  The stones were scraggly gray granite, except one.  

Ivory marble glowed ghostly from the earth.  A fragment of gravestone.

Still holding the creature, I squat down and drag my fingers across the stone.  It is bone cold smooth, and lovely.

I have to laugh.  The cliché of it all--finding a worm, the eater of decay, digging near a gravestone!

Stroking my viscid  friend with my thumb, I see the one remaining word upon the grave--”DIED.”

My laughter folds into a thoughtful frown, as the mention of death often will do.

That is all that is left of this person?  No “Loving Husband,” “Cherished Mother,” “Beloved Brother” or “Sister?”  

No.  Just that he or she, some unknown time in the past, “DIED.”

As if to remind me of his role in all this, my companion waves his blind head in the air.

Where was the worm going? Is he finishing a job started long ago?  No doubt this annelid’s ancestors rendered the bones of ours.  Will his progeny feast upon our children’s children’s children?  

I see the word again: “DIED.”

But are the dead forever dead?

I look up at the eucalyptus tree.  That body now rests in the chloroplasts of leaves.

I feel the sun’s photonic fingers tickle.   The individual’s soul is beyond Antares. 

And all that is left to the rest of us is one word and one worm.

I look around at the cretinous mass of joggers and dog walkers and baby-pushers. 

We all brush death off, though the leaves and stars await us as well.

My clammy friend stirs, hopelessly trying to bore into the crease in my hand.

I place him in the soft dirt above the stone, with a nod of respect to him and the missing dead.

Someday, we’ll meet again.

Whispering Room

All I know about the Columbarium is that it has a "whispering room:" a perfect circular shape that allows one to whisper and be heard on the opposite side.

Sounds like a fun diversion, and I take my six year old companion Ali in a spontaneous moment.

We arrive at the stately and solemn building, my eyes glancing over the words "This is an Internment for Endowments."   Don't know what that means.  We enter.

Inside, the hushed air quiets us.  Lazy light drifts through stained glass, and we notice four orbicular levels rising above the open center.  

Look around.  We are surrounded by names.  Names on strange drawers built into the wall, and boxes, and shelves, and oh....I see where we are.  We are with the dead, with their dusty remains to this earth.

I keep fearfully still as I carefully explain to Ali.  Will he be frightened?  But no, he is calm and accepting, as children often are of these things.  Taking my cues from him, I decide it is safe to explore. 

Slowly we circumnavigate, trying to imagine these named niches as a living body.  They were once messes of flesh and water, blood and organs, disappointments and dreams.  Now they are neatly compartmentalized on a shelf.  So much simpler.

We see this "Internment" is more personal than your average graveyard.  There are letters, jewelry, toys, other possessions the deceased is allowed to "keep."  These artifacts speak of travels, interests, loved ones.

George has a stone hippo.

Kelly, a glass carousel horse.  

Otto--only 2 years old--a Hotwheels car.

Vincent--a Kit Kat!  Even the ashes of a cat are with one man.  I am astounded by the ingenuity of humans, even in death.

Outside of Richard's urn, there is a gathering of cards, teddy bears, and flowers.  I see "Happy Birthday!" and "I miss you" written on the cards.  I can't help to touch an antique metal tin among the offerings.  Now I have a connection to this man I will never know.

Ali, a boisterous little Italian, is unusually pensive and quiet.  I point out interesting items and read him names and epitaphs, and he takes it all in.  But I censor some unspeakable tragedies, like several family members who all died on the same day.  I can only picture an appalling accident.

We notice the drawers have handles on them, which leads to some questions I don't really want answered.  Can you ask to see your beloved's ashes?  Would you want to?  Do they continue to decompose until there is nothing?  Nothing to see, anyway?

Up and up we wind to the top floor, intruding our presence among the forever rested.  We decide not to try the whispering game after all.  Such a diversion would be abrasive.

There are many "Reserved" empty cases, so patiently waiting for their owner to come home.  One stands out-- a Post-it note attached to it says, "Ann--Now you never have to worry about leaving San Francisco!  --Jim."  Funny, sweet, and macabre.  I am a bit taken aback by this laugh at death.

I try to meditate on a vacant mini-lot.  How does it feel to look at your own "plot," knowing your dust will be there longer than you were on earth?

I think about it....

But all I can think is how small it is.  So small...and suddenly I am cramped and nauseous.  I tell Ali it's time to go.

Outside, we breathe the uncloistered air and take stock of our corporeal selves.  I brush myself off, as if particles of death stick to me.  But don't they always?  Living matter is formed from the dead....

Suddenly, a hawk lands so close to us!  It is viscerely alive, shocking to experience after being around the unseen fragments of former life.  The hawk should be hunting, but it just watches us.  We don't dare to move.

Ali speaks first, and finally his voice leans towards plaintive wisdom.  "Elissa," he asks.  

"Will you show me how to write my mother's name?  So I can find it when she dies?"    

Before today I may have found his question sadly strange.  But now this is serious.  

Statued under the hawk's hypnosis, I say, "Yes Ali, I will."  I will write down all the names.  Someday, every one of us will join the growing pile of dusts.  How will we begin to find the ones we love?

I have to smack myself from this terrifying trance.  

As we leave, I watch the hawk watching us.  It keeps watching us.  Watching us until we're gone.

 

Don't Fight It, Feel It

I have been kind of a baddie about the blog lately.  My excuse is that I was taking some classes that occupied time I would have spent writing.  One of these was a writing class, and the other was an art history class.  This foray into "Elissa Enlightenment" resulted in a withdrawal and a C.  

So much for that.  Who needs a class to reach enlightenment, anyway?  

The writing class did produce some good writing, at least.  This piece is about my recent epiphany regarding certain cultures I used to loathe, and now embrace fully.  Part of it uses excerpts from my Vegas piece in the "In Sleaze I Trust" entry.  But I assure you it is much shorter.  That one was damn long.

The title of this entry is the title of a song from one of the best bands in the universe, Primal Scream.  There are so many things we have the urge to fight against, to resist--whether it is something tangible or a state of mind.  And sometimes we should.  But I suggest to take a look at what you may be fighting and ask yourself--Is this worth the fight?

I'll give you a little example from recent life.  I work at a preschool.  After the first rain, an enormous puddle formed in our play yard because the drain was clogged.  We knew the two year olds in our class would want to play in the puddle.  And we knew they would get soaked.  Only a few had a rainboots.

We thought about tying plastic bags around their shoes.  Finally I said, "Let's just take their shoes and socks off.  It isn't that cold out.  So what if they get wet.  We'll change their clothes."

And that is exactly what we did.  Don't fight it.  Feel it. 

Teachers and children alike had the most joyous time jumping, splashing, laughing, and in some cases rolling in the puddle.  Half the kids had no pants on by the end.  Wonderful hilarity.

The sad part?  We were the only class out of 10 that even went outside.  The other teachers did not want to fight their children about going in the puddle, or have to change them afterward.

But for us, there was no fight at all....

Enjoy the piece.  Enjoy it all.  

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Las Vegas and Disney World

"Self-fulfillment is no longer considered selfish; it's considered spiritual."  

--The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World for Grown-ups

I used to be terrified of Las Vegas and Disney World.  

How could a person possibly dread the ultimate pleasure center, or the "Happiest Place on Earth?"  For me, the concern was not the place itself.  It was about my reactions to them.  One's identity is a process in the teens and early twenties.  Part of my identity, for semi-valid reasons, was a fear of alcohol, drugs, and general losing of control.  Hence, a trip to Las Vegas would be a peek into Pandora's Box.  Who knows what I would find there?  It would be better to never know.

My aversion to Disney World had less to do with fear and more to do with extreme loathing for all things excess, plastic, and corporate.  Kind of like Santa Claus, the "magic" of Disney was real only when I was younger.  Obliged to visit many times after my brother Dan went to work there when I was 20, I drove my family crazy by complaining most of the time.  And even that did not ruin the magic for them.

Then something happened when I turned 30.  Trips to Vegas and Disney World were due, and yet I found myself surprised to be looking forward to them.  What was this?  Granted, there was nothing wrong with being more relaxed about things.  But was losing part of who I was?  I had always had an aversion to being "normal," one of the masses.  If I actually enjoyed Las Vegas and Disney World, would I become....one of them?

I had been to Vegas twice before.  The first time it was one of the last stops on a cross-country trip, and followed several stops at very scenic and peaceful national parks.  To be affronted with the clanging noise, florid lights, and humanity at their lowest I found overwhelming and depressing.  We didn’t even stay at a casino, but at the Aztec Inn.  Never heard of it?  Don’t bother to investigate.  We did some gambling and I had enough fun, but was way too glad to leave.  The second trip was a few years later with some girl friends.  I had loosened up considerably and enjoyed myself more.  We did more gambling, went to some bars and clubs, stayed at the Tropicana.    While it was fun, I still was affronted by seeing humanity at its greediest and sleaziest.   This most recent trip not only changed my view of Vegas, it kind of changed my life.

When my girlfriends and I landed in Vegas for my third time, we did not head right for the casinos as is expected.  We hopped in a cab and headed downtown.  Downtown Vegas is off the strip.  I imagine people who actually live in Vegas go downtown, as do the cool kids like us wanting to do something “different.”  

Downtown has a very different feel to it than the rest of Vegas.  The casinos are very old-school style, with animated neon signs rather than dancing fountains.  The hotels actually look like hotels, rather than gargantuan play palaces.  It is much mellower, almost like Reno--but not as sad.  One of my friends thought we should check out the famous bar that most people never visit, Hogs and Heifers.  It is the bar the movie "Coyote Ugly" is based on.  Now how could that not pique your interest?

Hogs and Heifers turned out to be one of the coolest bars I’ve ever been in, period.  Big, hairy bouncers with a defined “don’t fuck with us” look bordered the door.  Yet they welcomed us with a “Hi ladies, come on in!”  The first thing I noticed was a sign that said “No Whining.  No ties.  No douchebags.”  My friends had decided lately that “douchebag” was the insult of the times, so I took it as a sign we were meant to be here.  

The place was huge, dark, and the patrons stood along the walls, evaluating newcomers.  Some bearded daddies were playing pool and cheerfully invited us to play with them.  Signed dollar bills wallpapered the ceiling, many bearing celebrity signatures.  Animal heads lined the walls, and the ones above the bar were draped with hundreds of bras. A bumper sticker behind the bar said, “What Happens in Vegas Ends up on Myspace.”  I loved it.  

The bar ladies were scantily clad, quite hot, and did indeed use megaphones.  You did not mess around in there.  Within a half hour of us arriving, a woman got escorted out for being too drunk and a guy for apparently being a douchebag.  “Say goodbye to the asshole, everyone!”  one of the bar ladies blasted through the megaphone.  “Goodbye, asshole!”  we all obeyed.  

The stories held true, and in time the ladies jumped up on the bar and danced.  And damn, they could actually dance!  Afterwards I asked one of them how she does this move where her entire body vibrates.  I could not understand the logistics of making your body do that.  I inquired.  She was very friendly and gave a demonstration.  I’ll never be able to do it, but I appreciated the lesson.    

I learned something from Hogs and Heifers.  There is a genuine, uncorrupted side of Vegas.  Sure, the bar is famous and had its shtick, yet it wasn’t gimmicky.  It wasn’t showy or pretentious.  You didn’t have to spend tons of money.  The people there were down to earth, nice, and real.  I thought about my experience at Hogs and Heifers as I feel asleep that night, and realized it was refreshing, and made me feel good about Vegas.  But then I second guessed myself.  Did I actually felt good about Vegas, a place I used to avoid?  Did this mean I was a sell-out?  I decided to wait and see what other interesting paths this trip would take before I judged myself.

The story of Disney is a bit different.  Obviously, I never had to fear that Pluto was going to force me to do tequila shots.  My family visited Disney World a couple of times when I was a teenager, and I was completely taken in by Disney's attempts to make me feel special.  I truly saw it for a wondrous, captivating place.  But when I entered college, suddenly I knew everything.  Consequently, I thought many things were evil.  Disney World and the Disney company were included in this.  That is when my brother went to work there, and family trips started happening almost yearly.  My comments during the last couple trips were along the lines of the following: "Everything here is giant and plastic!  Disney is an evil corporation that runs half the world!  Why can't we, like, go to another country or something for vacation?  Dan, how can you work for these people?!"

My brother's response was, "Elissa, it's like being part of the magic."    

He did not joke.  I was certain my little brother was permanently brainwashed.

Scoff if you must, and believe me, I used to.  But while I do think my brother was (and still is) very cheesy, I slowly began to see his side.  Disney World exists purely to make you feel good.  Participating in extravagant activities not only doesn't damage you-- it can be good for you!  Like Vegas, there is much to learn from these in-your-face icons of entertainment--if you have the right attitude, of course.  I started to view them as a whole different culture, like how I might in a foreign country.  

While Vegas makes little attempt to hide its seamy side, Disney World projects itself as pure, uncorrupt goodness.  You really are not allowed to have a bad time .  You are pretty much guaranteed that an employee who has directed thousands of cranky kids, close-to-death grandparents, and maxed-out parents onto Space Mountain will still smile at you.  You don't have to worry about a bathroom being dirty.  The rare occasion that I did see a piece of trash on the ground, a "cast member" (what they call employees) dropped out of the sky to sweep it up, and he or she never failed to smile at me while doing it.  As much as I might tease my brother, I had to give credit to these never-to-fail employees.

Disney World gets at the core of your emotions and sense of nostalgia.  Depending on where you are in the parks, the scent of chocolate chip cookies, jasmine, or campfire smoke is being pumped at you through nearly invisible pipes.  I was 14 when we first visited, and we actually got a brief private audience with Mickey Mouse.  (Today you have to wait in line for hours and then have impatient guests glare at you.)  Honestly, I was thrilled.  And Mickey seemed genuinely as excited to see me (as excited as someone who cannot make facial expressions, that is).  Even at the height of my cynicism, I really couldn't grumble at the sight of one of my favorite characters.  Sometimes I would even feel tears come to my eyes!  Keep it together, Elissa! I would think to myself.  If you start getting emotional, that means Disney has won!  When I went on this last trip, I just let the emotions happen.  Why should I hold back?  There is no sense in resisting the Mouse.  And it felt much better not to be directing anger at a place I could never possibly change.

Vegas can bring out emotions in a person too, and not just the joy or desolation brought on by gambling.  For me this happened during this most recent trip when we went to see the Cirque Du Soleil show, Ka.  I am doing my best to become a connoisseur of Cirque Du Soleil.  I had seen two shows that nearly made my heart explode with joy.  Ka would no doubt be especially fantastic, since it is in a permanent theater.  

We walked into the cavernous theater to find the space above laced with intricate passageways and cages.  Giant flames spewed forth from a stageless stage area.  “Oh my god, my stomach just dropped!” one of my friends gasped.

“I have goosebumps!” I exclaimed.  This was the type of thing that would have made me cry from excitement when I was a child.  I did so when I saw all the World Champion Ice Skaters and went to my first IMAX show.  

It turns out all three of us would come close to tears several times throughout the show.  Ka was the most extraordinarily over-the-top production, yet it was perfect.  The stage moved all over the place, including vertically--completely.  At one point it was like an enormous Plinko game, and the actors fell through pegs and dropped into the air.  There was a very sweet and quiet moment when a boy and a man made shadow puppets with their hands projected onto a large screen.  The animals they made had expressions, for God’s sake!  

The scene that floored me the most was when the stage became a Day-Glo colored jungle, with weird tubes and pipes and ropes dangling from the ceiling.  The actors swung on “vines” doing crazy acrobatics, and gigantic puppets of snakes and insects meandered up and down the trees.  The whole experience was something like an innocent, happy acid trip.  I’ve heard that some kids these days like to do hallucinogens at these shows.  I think if I had done that, I either would have run out screaming or tried to join the joyful jungle.  

Drugs were quite unnecessary.

  Although it was a totally different experience than Hogs and Heifers, it left me with a similar feeling--a positive one.  You could go to Vegas and actually have uncorrupted fun.  Granted, it would cost you--our tickets to Ka were $100.  But it was $100 of pure psychedelic joy!  The sole purpose of a Cirque show is to make you happy, to appreciate the phenomenal feats our fellow humans can accomplish.  Everyone that goes to Vegas needs to see this, or something similar.  Now that I had seen one of Vegas' over-blown productions, had I truly sold out?  According to the old me and my old standard, maybe.  But I had finally accepted that there is really no harm in that.   

One way Disney World exerts its insanely positive influence is through its employees.  This can show itself in bizarre and amusing ways, adding to the "cultural" experience of it all.  The cast members have strict protocol hammered into them to make sure every guest feels welcome and at ease.  Dan once told me that cast members are not allowed to point using one finger.  If they were showing a guest where something was, they had to use two fingers.  That way it did not look like the employee was pointing at someone, which contains the unthinkable possibility he or she could be poking fun at the guest.  

Naturally I did not believe Dan.  "Just watch!" he said one night at the Magic Kingdom.  We approached a girl working at a snack stand and asked her where the closest restrooms were.  

"There are right over there," she said, as she pointed the way with two fingers!  I almost died.

Disney's Animal Kingdom is the most recently created park, and that is where my brother works.  One time my family was admiring the tigers in their habitat made to look like the ruins of an Indian temple.  There were no cast members to be seen.  Suddenly one tiger swiped and roared at another.  It was a very powerful and resonant sound; I felt it in my chest.  The crowd gasped.  As if by true magic, a young male cast member had appeared behind us and was explaining that the tigers were buddies just playing around, and absolutely no harm would befall them.  Everyone looked at each other with skeptically raised eyebrows.  "Where did he come from?!" I whispered to my mom.  That is anyone's guess, but it was just another example of how almost nothing can go wrong at Disney.  Again, this is something I used to deride, saying it was way "too perfect."  While things like the two-finger point and employees falling from the sky are comical, I now see there is nothing wrong with a place that goes out of its way to make everyone feel comfortable and welcome.  Indeed, it can be a welcome change to the norm.

Another reason I was once averse to Vegas and Disney World was because of the sheer sensory overload they gave me.  Once you land in Vegas, there is no escaping the jangling of slot machines, the over-conditioned and smoke-saturated air, and dizzying neon lights.  The sheer size of everything in Disney World is overwhelming.  The hotels have monstrously huge bowling pins, movie characters, cowboy boots, or Big Wheels outside of them, depending on the theme of the hotel.  The huge and frenzied crowds at Disney are the main thing that ruin it for me now.  I have wanted to pull out my “I’m a mandated child abuse reporter!” a number of times upon seeing parents scream at their exhausted and overwhelmed children.  While I still do not always enjoy the sensory bombardment, I have at least begun to find amusement in it.

To survive in Vegas, one must embrace the kitsch.  Again, it helps to see the absurdity as culture, or even art. Take the monumental bronze of Siegfried and Roy and one of their beloved tigers, for example.  It is not Andy Warhol, but does it not shock and appall--and amuse--just like a Warhol can?  I have not visited it yet, but there is a “Neon Graveyard,” where all the signs of departed casinos go to rest.  During my last visit to Vegas, we stayed at the Venetian.  There is an actual canal in the hotel, lined with shops and even gondolas.  It was pretty incredible, though I did miss the sewer smell of the real Venice.  I used to deplore this fakery.  Now I’ve realized I should just appreciate it for what it is--another way to make you forget about reality, and hopefully make you happier for the time being.  

While Disney World also has its share of enormous and cheesy things, there are also many minute details to be discovered.  This is what separates the Disney parks from all other theme and entertainment parks.  The Animal Kingdom is divided into “Continents,” including Asia and Africa.  But the “continents” were actually designed and built by people native to Asia and African countries, right down to ragged posters hanging on walls.  The “Himalayan” section of Asia was particularly impressive.  Actual used backpacks, hiking boots, and camping gear hung from restaurant ceilings.  I imagine it was like really being there, but without the fear of malaria.  Tibetan prayer flags and music drifted in the breeze.  The waiting area for the ride Expedition Everest was a literal museum.  The ride is a roller coaster in which you encounter the (maybe) mythical Yeti.  You wind through hallways with all sorts of real artifacts from Tibet and Nepal, including some "evidence" of Yeti encounters, such as giant footprint.

Every park and area has little things that contribute to this feeling of a whimsical non-reality.  R2D2 is depicted in hieroglyphics in the Great Movie Ride.  Two skeletons at the famed Pirates of Caribbean are huddled over a chess game.  Turns out they are at a stalemate, and that is what led to their deaths.  My favorite one of these is at the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror.  It is a giant building that contains an elevator drop ride, and the story is that you have been transported back into a 1920's Twilight Zone episode.  There is a directory of the hotel mounted in plastic on the wall in the lobby, and little plastic letters are used.  If you look at the bottom of it, there are some letters that have fallen.  They spell out, "DANGER.  TURN BACK NOW."

Perhaps the best thing about Las Vegas and Disney World are what they have shown me about myself.  I was judgmental, fearful, and naive about two places who exist only to give people an escape.  Now I not only enjoy the escape, but embrace many aspects of it.  A few reasons account for the change.  One is simply growing up, which for me meant becoming much more relaxed about situations in which I do not have total control, such as a night out in Vegas.  Another reason is after traveling to more far away and vastly diverse places, I discovered I really don't know much at all.  Who I am to judge a manically happy place like Disney World, when so many people who would love to go there never will?  Disney World and Las Vegas exist solely to make their visitors happier and forget about "real life" for just a little while.  I can certainly use some of that in my life these days.  

But Disney World and Las Vegas have more to offer than raw entertainment.  There is genuine goodness, interesting things, and--dare I say--culture to them.  A visitor merely has to get off the usual path or open his eyes or peek a little closer to find it.  Disney and Vegas are not going to offer you the same growth a trip to Cambodia or South Africa might, but they certainly can challenge you and help you learn things about yourself--and isn’t that what every good trip should do?

I am quite pleased with myself that I have embraced regression, cheesiness, excess, and plain weirdness when it comes to places I visit.  I am still the same person.  But I am so much happier now.

     

 

Methinks the Turkey Doth Protest Too Much

A while ago I posted a story called "Faultless Angel."  I am hoping it will be a chapter in a memoir I am slowly writing about my child and teenage-hood experiences at a horse stable.  In honor of the holidays, I thought I would put up this one.  It is mainly about turkeys--living with them, loving them, and eating them.  Hope you enjoy it, and enjoy the holidays.

“So I have some news, everybody.”

Terri strolled into the aisle.  Andi, Steph, and I paused with our pitchforks.

“We are getting some new Ashberry Hillians.”  Ooh, this was exciting.

“A new horse?” I wondered.  

“Ha ha.  No, thank god.”

“Doggie?”  chirped Steph.

“Nope.”

“Uh, more children to use as slave labor?” suggested Andi.

“I’ll give you a hint.  We can eventually eat them.”

Now Terri had said things in the past that hinted that she was not entirely opposed to the concept of eating people.  If we have to right to eat animals, why not each other?  We three girls looked at each other and then Terri with slightly fearful wondering.

“Turkeys!”  

A three way “What?!”

“The farrier shoes for a guy that has a bunch of turkey chicks and is giving some away.  We are going to raise them and then eat them.  As true free-range turkeys!”

The concept of free range was fairly new back then, and I wasn’t quite sure of the meaning.  We were all curious about the pet then food creatures that were about become part of our semi-functional family, and thus the topic for the day’s tack room talk was provided.

“So what does free range mean anyway?” I asked, foaming up the scrubby sponge with glycerin.  I pictured a gang of turkeys cruising the hills in ATVs.

“It means the turkeys or chickens are free to walk around and not be stuffed into cages smaller than themselves with their beaks cut off.”

Steph looked up from her furtive scrubbing.  “Is that what happens?”

“Oh yeah, you didn’t know that?”  Terri responded calmly, wrapping up Court’s bridle.  “That along with pumping them full of chemicals and antibiotics.  “The free range ones are free of that too.”

I looked at my lunch bag that had a turkey sandwich in it and frowned.  Suddenly I wasn’t in such a hurry to finish my tack and eat.

“Are there free range cows too?”  Andi wondered.

“Well, believe it or not, beef cows don’t have that bad of a life,” Terri answered as she started on the short black dressage girth.  “They get to wander around a bit.  It’s the milk cows that have the living hell.  They’re impregnated again and again, and are forced to stand still all day.  Then of course their babies are killed for veal.  So yes, you can buy cruelty free milk these days.”

“GOD, Terri, are you trying to make me VOMIT!”  Steph exclaimed, foam flying from the sponge in her emphatically gesturing hands.

“How do you know this is all true anyway?”  I asked.  I always assume Terri is right, but why should I?  Even though she almost always is.

Terri smiled that annoying half smile when she knows she is correct.  “Jenny told me, and I’ve read about it in magazines.  Think about it.  Meat is processed in mass quantities for the public.  What other way could it be done?”

We were contemplating and silent for a moment.  Then Steph tosses her hair back and proclaims, “Well, I’m becoming a vegetarian!  Right now!”

“Don’t do that!”  Terri said.  “You have to help eat our new pets!”

I cracked up.  “Terri!” chided Andi.  

Tack finished, we opened our lunches.  Steph contemplated her ham sandwich, and decided to become a vegetarian tomorrow.

A couple days later our new fowl friends arrived.  You would have thought a celebrity was coming.  “The turkeys are coming, the turkeys are coming!” Steph was exuberantly shouting all day.  Andi and I shook our heads and laughed, not exactly sharing her enthusiasm.  I loved all animals, even slimies and scalies.  But I was never really into birds.  They made annoying noise, you couldn’t really pet them, and they got feathers everywhere.  But the turkeys would be a diversion. 

“Here comes Thanksgiving dinner!”  Junior strolled down the driveway, carrying five turkey chicks in a grate.  We had prepared the old rabbit hutch for them.  Everyone put down their pitchforks and hoses to greet the newcomers.  I must say, they were halfway cute.  They were certainly much bigger than chicken chicks, and covered in gray downy feathers.  

“Oh, I LOVE them!”  squealed Steph.   “Are we really going to eat them?”

“Wait ‘till they get bigger,” laughed Junior.  “They won’t be so cute, and these suckers can be mean!  You may change your mind.”

  We barely heard him over our cooing.  

“Ok, men,” Terri commanded.  “Time for Operation Move the Turkeys.”  We tried just opening the crate door and holding it up to the hutch, but they wouldn’t go in.  Not a good start in terms of proving their intelligence.  We ended up having to reach in and manually put them in.  I was scared they would peck me, so opted to watch.  It was all Steph could do to keep from kissing them.

 

Our turkeys grew quite fast.  Shortly, they were “teenagers,” and we were able to distinguish them from each other.  We had two females and three males.  The males’ pulpy wattles were starting to show, the downy feathers were replaced with silky dark ones, and their talons more dangerous looking.  Despite the “don’t name an animal you’re going to eat” credo, we wanted to.  

Terri, Steph, Andi, Pam, and I peered into the hutch.  

“That one guy is really big,” noted Andi.

Pam and I were currently studying English literature in school, and had a certain playwright on the brain.  “How about…Shakespeare?”  I suggested.  The others nodded thoughtfully.

“Well then, naturally the others should be Shakespeare characters,” said Pam.

“Macbeth!” I yelled, my favorite Shakespeare play.

“Hamlet was from Shakespeare, right?” asked Terri.

“Indeed,” said Andi.  “And they both die horrible bloody deaths.  It’s fitting.”

So there were our tragic male turkeys.  Steph seemed to have a bond with the two females, so we left the naming of them to her.  We let the turkeys walk around loose during the day, and Steph could often be patting and speaking lovingly to them.  

The next day I was cleaning out the shed row when I heard Steph’s unmistakable undulating voice.  I walked around the corner and saw her kneeling near the two females, who were pecking the ground without any notice of Steph.

“Oh Thoughtful, you’re so beautiful and so nice!  Curiosity, did you find some food?  Oh yum yum!  You are such WONderful turkeys!” 

I really tried to hold it in, but an explosion of laughter burst from me.  “Thoughtful?  Curiosity?  Ahem.”

Steph stood up, completely unbothered by my outburst. “Hi Lissa!  Yes, meet the two loveliest turkeys in the world, Thoughtful and Curiosity.”

By now Terri and Andi had approached, smiling widely.  “And how did you bestow such names upon them, dear Steph?”  Andi asked.

“Well, Thoughtful is just that--very thoughtful and nice.  She likes to be patted, and she genuinely enjoys the company of people.  And Curiosity isn’t quite as affectionate, but she just loves to explore!  Aren’t they WONderful?”

We had trouble hearing the end of her description as we were doubled over laughing.  

“Oh Steph!” gasped Terri.  “You are amazing.”

But Steph truly was amazing.  No one else would take the time to examine the personality traits of these seemingly simple creatures.  We may have laughed, but Steph was to be admired.

Shakespeare and company continued to grow.  Their size and stature became quite impressive, particularly the males.  We all remember making turkeys using our hands in kindergarten, and then using different colors for the feathers.  At first glance turkey feathers look black.  But when the light hits them, they take on a beautiful iridescent quality.  Shades of green, orange, and burgundy appear.  Their wattles were red pulpy lumps of a plasticky looking substance.  One weird wattle hung over the large curved beak, and they could bring it in or let it hang down. Pretty gross.  What I found most intriguing about the turkeys were their talons.  They were huge, with flesh colored scales and monstrous nails.  Jurassic Park had come out recently, and every time I looked at the turkey feet all I could picture were the raptors' killer claws.  Take one look at turkey legs and tell me birds aren’t descended from dinosaurs.  

One day I noticed we were down a bird.  I knew the answer, but I asked Terri what happened to Macbeth.  

“He’s in the fridge.  Want to try him?  He‘s quite tasty!”

I cringed inwardly, but only for a second.  “Yeah, why not?  It will be my first free range turkey!”

  We went into the house and Terri pulled a half eaten carcass out of the fridge.  It was a little strange to think this was once Macbeth, but I got over it.  He was tasty, leaner and healthier seeming than most turkeys you eat.  And hell, he had a good life.  Better than most poultry. 

 

Junior hunted, so the idea of raising animals for food was nothing bothersome to them.  The first time I went into Terri’s house I started at the sight of a giant buck head bolted to the wall.  “Oh that’s Rudolph,” Junior joked.  “He missed the roof and ended up crashing through the wall!”  I laughed weakly, not quite used to the idea of hunting yet.

Terri often talked about the hypocrisy she and Junior faced when people brought up hunting. (Hunting for sport and food as opposed to trophy hunting or illegal poaching, which of course we were all against.)  “How can kill such a beautiful animal?”  Terri would mock about people referring to deer hunting.  “Yeah, enjoy your prime rib and fur jacket!”  Terri wanted to yell back.  I used to be one of “those people“, but Terri did get me thinking about it.  It was one thing to decry hunting if you were a strict vegan, but most people against hunting are not.  After the horrid stories were heard about the poultry and dairy farms, a hunted deer, duck, or rabbit’s life and death didn’t seem so bad.  You have a normal peaceful life, and then you are killed instantly (hopefully) and that’s it.  It’s quite different than being stuffed in a containing device, force fed and injected with antibiotics, and unwillingly made to watch your companions die.  Terri also said conscientious, responsible hunters like Junior and his friends knew more about nature than most and made regular contributions to wildlife associations.  Indeed, the majority of us wrapped up in our happy hypocrisy do more damage to animal life that many hunters do.   

The unusual rapport between Steph and Thoughtful and Curiosity continued for a while, although I believed it was pretty one sided.  I will admit Thoughtful did seem nicer than the other turkeys.  By that I mean she didn’t regularly try to attack you.  Curiosity on the other hand, was a total bitch.  While you were minding your own business cleaning stalls or something, her ugly face suddenly became florid and she started making this eerie “wooo, wooo” noise.  That meant you were in trouble.  She would proceed to the nearest life form and start barbarously pecking at it!  One may find it ridiculous to be scared by a turkey, but it hurt.  And it prevented work from being done.

  One day I was sick of being harassed by Curiosity.  I lamented to Terri about my fear of dismemberment by peck.  Terri simply said, “Show her who’s boss.  You’re bigger than her!”  I interpreted this as do what I feel is necessary, and returned to cleaning the shed row.

Soon enough, I heard it.  The trilly “wooo wooo!”  Curiosity approached, her vulture like countenance and vapid eyes fixated on my calves.  I glanced at the rake in my hand, suddenly no longer a common farm tool but a weapon against the ravages of barn fowl.  I pushed her away with the rake.  Unfazed, she returned.  Pushed again.  Same reaction.  This time, I gently hit her with the flat side.  Didn’t faze her a bit!  If anything, she came back with more bravura.  I hit her not-so-gently this time, and the thing acted as if nothing happened.  Was she a masochist or something?   Basically, I ended up whacking this turkey with the rake a number of times before she finally gave up.  I stood there for a moment, feeling proud that I dominated over this relentless creature.  Then guilt melted over me as I realized I had just committed animal abuse.   I waved it away.  Curiosity was not hurt, and the bitch deserved it.  My calves were safe.     

Steph took her love of the turkeys too far one day.  (Though it was always too far in my opinion.)  We were cleaning the indoor stalls when we heard Steph’s voice rising in  a crescendo: “Oh my God.  OH MY GOD!”  She came running into the aisle.  “Thoughtful…Thoughtful BIT me!!”  I stepped out of the stall, and sure enough there was a red mark on her cheek!  And she looked like her feelings were truly hurt.  Terri’s response was the usual: to start laughing uncontrollably.  

“HA HA HA!  Oh my god Steph!” she gasped, then mimed kissing someone.

Andi was laughing harder than her mellow self.  “Steph, why on Earth would you try to kiss a turkey?”

Steph continued to look betrayed.  “I just thought were had a bond, I…hey!  I wasn’t trying to KISS her!”  Round of laughter again.

I breathed deeply, trying to compose myself.  “Then how did she peck you on the cheek?”

“I was just talking to her!”  Suddenly her expression changed.  “Hmmf!  Junior was right!  Turkeys are evil.  Kill them now!”  

Another explosion of laughter ensued until we were exhausted.  Terri said, “Well, Steph, sounds like Thoughtful is no longer thoughtful.”  

“Yeah,” said Andi.  “A more appropriate name would be…Hateful!”

“Perfect!” agreed Steph, rubbing her hands together and that occasional maniacal look appearing in her eyes.

“And Curiosity can be Furiosity!” shouted Terri.  

Steph steered clear of the newly dubbed birds for the rest of their lives.  Incidentally, Steph did become a vegetarian of sorts for a while.  She continued to turkey--with uninhibited abandon, as if enacting revenge each time.

Hamlet and Macbeth were the only turkeys that met their demise by consumption.  We discovered Furiosity dead in the hutch one day.  She always looked like she was pecked on by the others.  Maybe she met her karmic fate.

Poor Thoughtful/Hateful had a sad ending.  Taking her free range status to the max, she ended up wandering into the woods and coming back every once in a while for food.  Once she was gone for a week, and we thought she had been killed by a coyote or something.  But then she wandered back in, looking as delirious as a turkey possibly can. She smelled terrible, and Terri theorized she had been sitting on rotten eggs.  Terri and Karen tried pouring water down her throat, but she still died.  

Shakespeare ended up living for over a year, and became our mascot of sorts.  He was huge, and a true poster turkey for Thanksgiving paraphernalia.  One could see him proudly strutting around, fanning his feathers and making this funny snorting sound.  Shakespeare was rather amusing, as he would gobble every time I sneezed.  He was fairly cool, and you could touch his weird wrinkly head and silky feathers without him biting.  The only things he tried to attack (and he was too big to move fast) were the blue manure bucket and my blue raincoat.  Somehow blue must have equated with other male turkeys in his little mind.   

Alas, fat turkeys are not meant to have long lives, and eventually his legs gave out.  We kept him around for a little bit and brought food to him, but it seemed an uncomfortable and undignified life.  Eventually one of the vets put him to sleep and we buried him.  Terri and the rest of us didn’t want to eat our mascot.  

As much smack talking as I may have done about the turkeys, there were fun to have around.  And it was a change to see animals usually used for meat getting a chance to live a "normal" life, even if we did eat a couple of them.  Towards the end of the "turkey era," Terri and Karen were seen dancing around them and singing, "We had joy, we had fun, we had good times in the sun..."

Of course, no one experienced the range of emotions a turkey can put one through as much as Steph.