Queen

 She wanders through groves of shades, 

A Queen alone among Her people. 

A smile here, a clasped hand there, 

A pat on the cheek, 

A hug for the smallest child. 

A measure of comfort

To those who grieve 

For lost opportunities, 

Lost loves, 

Lost life. 

Hail Persephone, 

Queen of the Underworld.

 

Science and the Great American Eclipse

Earlier this year, Science was under attack by the new administration.  Gag orders were issued to scientists at the Environmental Protection Agency and other federal departments who might wish to air “inconvenient truths” about climate change and more. Severe budget cuts were proposed for not only the EPA but also the National Institutes of Health and other scientific agencies. In response, thousands took to the streets in cities and towns across the country and around the globe to March for Science. That science needs protection in the country which first put a man on the moon (and dropped the first atomic bomb), the country that is the birthplace of the iPhone and the Google search engine seems ironic, if not surreal.

Of cours, there are those who refuse to believe that we are the cause of climate change even as they comment on the weird weather, those who refuse to vaccinate their kids out of fear or paranoia even as they spray disinfectant everywhere, those who insist that their religion’s creation story be taught alongside Darwin, even as they take medications that would not exist without the theory of evolution. There are even those few who, like the Amish, largely abjure technology altogether.

And yet, science is still embedded in and entwined with our civilization, even if we disagree with or are frightened by some of its discoveries and applications.

To see this, we need look no further than the upcoming eclipse.

Nicknamed The Great American Eclipse, the August 21, 2017 event will be the first total solar eclipse in decades to be visible across much of the continental U.S. An estimated two-thirds of Americans live within an easy drive of the path of totality, that diagonal swath from Oregon to South Carolina, while those outside the band should be able to witness a partial eclipse, weather permitting.

News media as diverse as The New York Times and Fox News are putting out eclipse guides and gearing up to cover the event.  Amazon, Loews and others are doing a booming business selling, or in the case of libraries and science museums giving away, disposable eclipse-safe eyewear.

Not even the White House is questioning NASA’s eye safety instructions.

By contrast, the early colonists would have seen an eclipse in an altogether different light. Living as they did on the border between the medieval and the modern, the Puritans would have seen the Great American Eclipse as part of the cosmic battle, as well as a direct message, from either God or Satan to their community. Unfortunately, there don’t seem to have been any solar eclipses visible in New England during the 1600s, so I can only imagine the dire warnings of ministers and magistrates that the end was near. Their reference point for eclipses would have included the Biblical account of the sky darkening during the afternoon of the crucifixion, as though the hand of God was showing His displeasure by momentarily obliterating the sun. The fact that the story is set during Passover, a full moon holiday, and that a solar eclipse requires a new moon-- and a lunar eclipse only happens at night-- would not have fazed them.  

Needless to say, they did not have eclipse-safe eyewear.

That most Americans view this solar eclipse as an exciting, if not quite rare, astronomical event (the next Great American Eclipse is only seven years away after all), one to be observed with appropriate precaution, rather than feared as a sign of the apocalypse, is just one example of how the scientific revolution and its technological applications have shaped our minds, our nation and our future.

Just don’t forget your eclipse-safe glasses.

The Supreme Court and Whippings

In the wake of Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia’s death and the upcoming fight over his replacement,  let’s not forget that not only are abortion rights at stake, but also access to contraception. A brief look at the confluence of religion, women, and the law in one decision by the last Supreme Court reveals how the Puritan legacy continues to play out in American politics and in women’s lives.

 Two years ago, the Supreme Court ruled 5 to 4 that privately-held corporations may refuse to pay for certain forms of contraception for their female employees, if doing so would be against the owners’ religious beliefs. This was despite the fact that the federal government’s Affordable Care Act requires contraceptive coverage. The decision was made not on the basis of the First Amendment’s protection of religious freedom—a concept that would have appalled the Puritans---but on the basis of the Religious Freedom Act passed by Congress. Judge Samuel Alioto, writing for the majority, which included Scalia, claimed that this was a narrow ruling, effecting only contraception, and only closely-held corporations without public shareholders. However, the dissenting judges pointed out that any religious group could make claims beyond those related to contraception, expanding the scope of the law, and that many of the country’s largest corporations are closely-held.

The case, brought by Hobby Lobby Inc., a family-owned crafts supply retailer, is a stark reminder of how the Puritan concern with other people’s business, especially their sexuality, lives on in modern America, albeit alongside a consumerist culture that uses sex to sell nearly everything. Why would the owners of this company care if some of their 16,000 workers use the IUD, a contraceptive device generally recommended only for women in monogamous relationships, or the hormonal contraceptive known as Plan B?  Yes, these may interfere with fertilization, but according to U.S. law, life begins at implantation, not at fertilization. But so what? How do the choices employees make in their private lives concern their employer? Not surprisingly, this ruling only affects women, not men, who, for example, may want to use Viagra, inside or outside their marriage.

This concern with a female subordinate’s sexual behavior harkens straight back to the early 1600s when both Plymouth and the Massachusetts Bay Colony, two early theocratic English settlements in what would become the United States, were established by members of the Protestant sect known as the Puritans. Not only was there no right to privacy, the very idea of privacy was suspect. Everyone was expected to pay attention to everyone else’s affairs.  The Puritans saw themselves as having made a pact with God: their good behavior in exchange for His protection, and so any bad behavior was believed to threaten the entire community.  And having sex before or outside of marriage was near the top of their list of sins.  Trials were public and penalties designed for maximum humiliation. While a man might be given the opportunity to pay a fine, a women, as a seductive daughter of Eve,  was more often whipped.  

Even married couples in New England could be tried for fornication, with both partners subject to being whipped, if they had a full-term child less than 32 weeks after their wedding. However, since English law allowed couples to marry without the benefit of witnesses or clergy, many ordinary people believed that once a couple had “pledged their troth,” publicly or privately, they were as good as married and entitled to enjoy conjugal relations.  Puritan officials vehemently disagreed with this and with the custom of informal divorces where a couple simply separated and took new partners, charging the latter with either bigamy, if they remarried, or adultery—a capital crime—if they did not.

This battle between official standards and popular attitudes, which Richard Godbeer describes as a “culture war” in his book Sexual Revolution in Early America, continued through the 18^th century, and, in my opinion, resurfaced after the sexual revolution of the 1960s, itself the result of widespread access to reliable forms of contraception.

We may think that we have come a long way from the worldview of our Puritan founders who punished sex outside marriage with whipping or even hanging, that we are a long way from those societies that attempt to control female desire by mutilating the genitals of girls and punish women with honor killings and stonings.  But in allowing employers to discriminate against female workers by denying them access to their choice of birth control, we are still minding other people’s private lives and punishing women for being sexually active, within or outside of marriage.  

Let’s hope the next Supreme Court sees such cases as Hobby Lobby and the more recent Texas restrictions on abortion for what they really are: attempts to undermine women’s rights to self-determination, and perhaps even revive our own version of a theocratic state.

                                                                 

                                                                    

The Power of Place: A Lapsed Catholic in Italy

For a lapsed Catholic, traveling to Italy can seem a bit surreal.  I instantly recognize most of the ubiquitous religious images, from the bust of a blue-veiled young woman (the Virgin Mary, of course) to the painting of a blonde maiden holding her eyes on a plate (who other than Saint Lucy?). But though familiar, I see them less as objects of devotion, and more with the dispassion of a classical archaeologist viewing a statue of the Roman goddess Juno or the Etruscan Minerva.

Nowhere is this feeling stronger than at the Vatican Museum.

Intent on seeing the Sistine Chapel, I enter the museum on a sweltering afternoon in July, the height of the tourist season. Although I am traveling alone, I am herded through turnstiles, past ticket windows, along corridors, through halls filled with priceless works of art. The power and wealth of this papal legacy takes my breath away—and makes me feel ashamed. Two themes run through the collection: classical gore, think the The Rape of Europa, and papal glory, expressed in gold-embroideries of crossed keys and papal crowns. There are few, if any, images of the Madonna or the pious saints, let alone the humble carpenter who started it all.

After a couple of hours of winding through this stifling treasure gallery, my section of the crowd  finally nears the Sistine Chapel. At the entry, signs in several languages remind us that this is a place of worship, but inside the scene is more akin to an airport terminal. A lone guard periodically shouts, in English and Italian, “Silencio!”  “No photos!” Next to me, a young woman asserts, “We’re from Queens and we don’t listen!” as she and her friend take photos of each other, as do other groups of tourists.

In fact, the only people not armed with cameras are the groups of nuns in long black habits standing in small clusters against the high walls, presumably trying to have a religious experience in the midst of the international cacophony. As for me, I crane my neck and squint at the images of Adam and God on the ceiling high above.

I start to count the number of people in the room, but give up; there must be at least 500 of us. How different the experience might be for me, not to mention the nuns, if the guard let in only a few dozen people at a time.

Over the next few days, I find my feelings towards religious art remain largely dispassionate, although I am drawn to one painting in a side chapel of Siena’s cathedral in which a young woman saint wears an enraptured look while her parents’ faces express fear and worry: the juxtaposition of youthful bliss and parental anxiety resonates with my own experience.

This theme is certainly present in Italian director Franco Zefferilli’s tribute to Saints Francis and Clare: “Brother Sun, Sister Moon.” Lapsed Catholic or not, I am still thrilled to be in Asissi, home of my favorite childhood saint. Entering the Saint Francis Basilica from the top of the three-story structure, I walk into a soaring Gothic cathedral with its famous Giotti frescos. Although cracked with age and earthquakes, the paintings still shine with pale jewel colors of peridot, topaz, tourmaline, and aquamarine. I am touched by their beauty, but the content leaves me feeling distant.

Descending to the next level, I come upon the stout pillars, rounded arches and lowered ceilings of the earlier, Romanesque era. In the central sanctuary, a priest is celebrating Mass. I am not comfortable joining in, but not yet ready to leave the church. Looking around, I notice the stairway leading down to the crypt. With the masses of tourists occupied, this seems to be the perfect moment to visit the saint’s grave. I grab the iron rail and follow the stone steps down.

The small crypt is lined with bricks bare of artwork and furnished with a dozen folding chairs facing a rock cleft. I am not alone, but nearly so.  In the relative stillness, I hear or sense a murmur, a pulse that seems to surround me like a low hum. Is it creaks from the aging ventilation systems, or vibrations of worshippers from the floor above? Is it emanations from the buried saint, or perhaps the power of an ancient deity or the land itself? Whatever the cause and whatever its meaning, the feeling of something more, something deeper continues the entire time I am in the crypt.

As I leave the cathedral, moved by the wordless experience, I dab my forehead with holy water in a gesture to the ambivalence of belief and the power of place.

The Other Worlds of Glastonbury

Fairy wings flutter in the audience as the “burlesque fairy” at the front of the room blows kisses of green glitter. In the crowd are pirates, flower fairies, and even geishas as well as aficionados of Steam Punk style (think Victorian in goggles a lá Jules Verne). A man in moon boots and a woman in a tutu, are dressed all in white with strands of blue LED lights. In a corner, two mermaids are combing their long tresses, flapping their tails, and showing the few children in the room their treasure box of shells. The band comes on, the blonde lead singer in black leather opening with an Irish jig that gets the crowd moving, and then switching to hard rock that keeps them dancing until the clock strikes midnight. Welcome to the sold-out Avalon Faery Ball of 2012 in Glastonbury.

A mid-sized English town, west of London, in the Somerset Levels on the Salisbury Plain, Glastonbury is best known for its eponymous music festival. Every other summer, thousands of young people camp on a field outside the town, braving mud and rain for a chance to hear some of the best contemporary bands. Late at night the recorded music, spun by one or another of the DJs simultaneously performing, is piped through special headphones, so the dancers move to different beats in silence.

But on this weekend just before Halloween, we are here not for the music, but for the fairies. Also known as All Hallows’ Eve, this night before All Saints Day is a time when the veil between the worlds, the living and the dead, the human and the fey folk, is thought to be at its thinnest. What better time to visit this New Age center with ancient roots, a place where belief in the otherworldly springs like indigenous flora from the land itself.

For in ancient Britain, the Somerset Levels would flood, and the North Sea was much closer then than now, so that Glastonbury, with its sprawling Abbey and Tor hill, appeared to be an island shrouded in mists. The Lady of the Lake supposedly lived in the waters; she was the Faery Queen who gave King Arthur his magical sword, while a plaque in the Abbey ruins marks the graves of the legendary king and his lady, Guinevere.

Our first day in Glastonbury, we woke before dawn to climb the Tor, a grassy hill topped by St. Michael’s Tower, the only remains of a nunnery that thrived here before King Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, including the great Glastonbury Abbey. After breakfast at our B&B, we attended mass in a small, whitewashed Anglican chapel with frescos of early Saxon saints on the grounds of the Abbey.

In the afternoon, we entered Chalice Well Garden, named for a goblet found in Victorian times, supposedly of ancient Near Eastern origin. Some believe this same cup was used at the Last Supper and that it is the Holy Grail of Arthurian legend. This garden also houses the spring of iron-rich water that flows over the rocks, turning them red. The fount of the Red Spring is covered with a lovely glass-and- oak lid, decorated with two overlapping ovals, a design known as the Vesica Pisces, which has become a symbol for Glastonbury itself. Given its illustrious history, I somehow expected something grander than the manicured lawns and flowerbeds of this rather small property.

But the biggest surprise of the day was the White Springs temple, although I had never even heard of it before coming to Glastonbury. The small, nondescript white-washed building that houses the calcium-rich White Spring  is around the corner from Chalice Well Garden, on a side street leading up to the Tor. The only indication that this is a special place is the tree outside decorated with a multitude of colorful ribbons, presumably representing prayers or thanks to the spirits of the place. Whereas Chalice Well Garden is peaceful and airy, the White Spring temple is chthonic and dark, a place of palpable earth energies, lit by candles and adorned with natural offerings.  Both springs are known for their healing properties.  At the pipes on Wellhouse Lane,  we filled a bottle with water from each spring.

On this, our second visit, the weather was cold and wet, and we had head colds, leading us to spend much of our time indoors.  At the annual Faery Fayre in the converted town hall,  a score of artists plied their wares. One painted my face with green vines and silver glitter. From another I bought a silk scarf hand-painted with a petulant fairy poking her head up through the flowers. Meanwhile, my partner, Michael, found a claw-shaped pendant recycled from a piece made for one of the Harry Potter films - a perfect gift for a friend who loves the Hogwarts crew.  (Love this!!-S.)

We wandered the high street of Glastonbury, browsing in shops selling Buddhist Kuan Yin statutes, Wiccan chalices, and Native American dream-catchers. There were crystals, herbs and incense galore. But best of all were the bookstores. We spent the last rainy afternoon going from one to another.  The bookstores were filled with used and remaindered as well as new books on everything from the I-Ching to Stonehenge, from goblins to Mary Magdalene. I found the hilarious  Wood Nymph Seeks Centaur,  a “mythological dating guide” by Francesca Lia, which left me wondering if I am more of a wood nymph or a fairy or even - yikes -  a banshee.

As we boarded the bus back to London the next morning, laden with our books and containers of water from the Red and White Springs , we looked forward to our return to Glastonbury, with its unique mix of legend and history, archaeology and magic. 

Note: This piece first appeared on the travel blog, epicaro.com. 

On Fifty Shades

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Emerald may have been declared the color of  2013, but the color I’m seeing everywhere,  from sweaters to bed linens, is grey. Fifty shades of it, to be precise.  In this year between the novel becoming a bestseller and the movie’s filming Fifty Shades of Grey, has clearly become a cultural reference.

I bought the book the summer before last at Heathrow, hoping that the erotic tome would distract me from the inevitable bumps of transatlantic and transcontinental flight. Suffice it to say that ten hours later, I had only made it through the first 70 pages.

 The fact that it took 70 pages to get to the first kiss suggests that author E.L. James was aiming to write a mainstream book.  However, this reader could not suspend her disbelief long enough to step into what novelist John Gardner called “the dream” of fiction. Take the characters, for starters. Christian Grey is not only drop-dead gorgeous, but, at 28, a billionaire. Not a millionaire, which would require only a stretch of the imagination, but a billionaire. Like a younger Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook merged with Swedish actor Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. Or perhaps Ian Somerhalder, whose character Damien Salvatore in The Vampire Diaries smirks nearly as often as Christian Grey. In fact, Grey reminds me of nothing so much as the current spate of fictional bad-boy vampires, with their rock hard abs, ancient wealth and tortured souls.

And then there is the protagonist: Anastasia Steele, a college senior who is not only a virgin, but one who has barely been kissed. Anyone old enough to remember Leonard DiCaprio carousing  with models after the success of Titanic will find it hard to believe that a young, handsome billionaire would choose a girl who trips over her own feet to be the object of his desire.

Ah, but there’s the crux of the matter. For the reader (female) is meant to identify with the clumsy, innocent naïf.  Despite it’s S/M overtones, the Fifty Shades plot is all too familiar: beautiful girl is lifted from her ordinary life into the stratospheric world of the rich and powerful-- only this time the prince not only sweeps her off her feet, he also ties her to the bedpost. 

At least she doesn’t have to cook.

Waiting for Grandbaby

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Waiting, in a liminal space, on the threshold, betwixt and between. This is where I find myself now, in mid September, waiting for my first grandchild to be born. His due date is the 22^nd, ten days away. The doctors thought he would be early, but he is in the safe zone now. Every time the phone rings or beeps with a text message, I jump, wondering if this will be the call from my son, telling me that labor is underway. And then I will return to waiting, for news about his wife and the birth,  for when I can catch a flight to England to meet my grandson, my next generation.

Chilling Out in Stockholm

Each winter, deep in the boreal forests of northern Sweden, a hotel is built anew, all of ice. Reindeer hides cover the ice beds, where guests are ensconced in down sleeping bags. There is even a wedding chapel, akin the Snow Queen’s palace in Hans Christian Andersen’s tale. Or so I imagine, for the touch of frostbite I got at the Norwegian Olympics in 1992 has left me with little inclination to sleep on ice, no matter how well insulated.

However, I was still curious, so I did the next best thing and visited the Ice Bar in downtown Stockholm.

“Your feet will freeze,” the attendant said with a laugh, looking down at my sandals. The weather in Stockholm was unusually warm, 80 degrees and no wind, practically sweltering by Swedish standards. But we were about to leave all that behind, as my 26-year-old daughter and I pulled on blue hooded ponchos that hung below our knees with attached gloves - but no foot coverings.

Nonetheless, we walked through the double doors. About a dozen people were standing around, including a group of women from Southern California. The room lived up to its name: the bar was made of ice; the shelves behind were ice; there were blocks of ice topped with reindeer skins to sit on and more blocks of ice forming alcoves and walls. Some of the blocks had designs carved into them. And yes, my feet were rapidly cooling.

The first drink was included in the entry fee, and the beverages fit the theme, with such evocative names as Torne River (a version of a lemon drop named for a northern waterway), Wolf Paw (lingonberry jucie and lime with Absolut 100), and Snow Flake (vodka with coconut, peach, pineapple and cranberry juices). All but the three virgin drinks were based on Swedish Absolut vodka. Tina had the Husky Sledge (vanilla vodka cinnamon, and apple), while I went for the Northern Light (raspberry vodka, crème de cassis, lime and raspberry puree).

The drinks were rather strong. That, plus the prices (95 or 125 Swedish per drink , depending on whether you retained the same glass, or about $15 and $20 at the time) and the cold kept us to one. Despite my lack of appropriate footwear, I enjoyed our brief sojourn in a winter wonderland. We walked through the exit, returned our ponchos, continued past the gift shop, and back out into the still-warm summer twilight. 

This piece first appeared in the travel blog, e-Picaro  (http://epicaro.com/hp_wordpress). Please check it out. 

Japanese Tea and Sweet Potatoes

In one of the most elegant and minimalist shopping plazas in Kyoto. a city of elegant and minimalist Zen architecture, a city known for its tea shops serving mochi, traditional sweet rice cakes, is Chaimon, a restaurant devoted to tea (cha) and sweet potatoes (imon).

My 20something daughter, Tina, and I were visiting Kyoto several years ago when we happened upon Chaimon. As soon we stepped inside, we noticed the two piles of sweet potatoes, one golden, the other purple, beside a grill, along with a display case of delicate petit fours. Tina and I were led to a table along the back wall and handed two menus. The table was edged in dark wood, with a square metal hot plate in the center. The menu was entirely in Japanese, and although I had studying nihongo for over a year, the only word I could make out was the ideogram for “tea.” There were no plastic models in the window and the couple of tiny pictures on the menu were for decoration rather than explanation.

When the server came to take our order, I indicated in my halting Japanese that I would have the same as the woman at the next table, although I wasn’t entirely sure what she was eating. Having already decided that she wanted a whole sweet potato, Tina led the server back to the front to make her choice. When the waiter asked what we wanted to drink, I answered tea, but had no idea how to reply to his follow-up question of which kind. I racked my brain but the only two types that came to mind were matcha, the bitter bright green powder used in tea ceremonies, and genmaicha, a low-caffeine green tea with roasted rice kernels. The waiter suggested sencha, a high-quality green tea, and reached under the table to turn on the heating element connected to the metal plate, which would keep our cast-iron teapot warm. To drive away the chill of the early spring evening, I also ordered a glass of  the lovely, fuschia-colored liquid I had seen on the counter, which turned out to be shochu, the Japanese equivalent of vodka. Although made with sweet potatoes, this shochu didn’t taste at all of the vegetable, but instead had the same roughness as other grain-based alcoholic beverages.

Waiting for our food to arrive, Tina and I noticed that the walls of the cozy jewelbox of a room, painted the color of garnets, were subtly adorned with sweet potatoes, painted a slightly darker shade of red-violet, an unexpected touch of humor.

The waiter set down a selection of delicate sweets in front of me: a small pile of candied, matchstick sweet potatoes, a scoop of off-white ice cream, and two little wagashi, the Japanese cakes usually made with beans but in this case, with sweet potatoes. One of the cakes was golden and topped with a fresh cherry blossom in honor of the season, the other dark pink; all were delicious. Tina’s single oval, purple sweet potato, carefully placed on the diagonal of a square, matte black plate, was more refined than any I have encountered before or since. I don’t know if this unusual café is still in business, but for me Chaimon encapsulates, as clearly as any Zen temple, the Japanese aesthetic, developed over the centuries in the ancient city of Kyoto.

Note: This piece first appeared in the travel blog: http://epicaro.com/hp_wpordpress/

Personal Branding?

I’m a sucker for quizzes and questionnaires, from the serious Myers-Briggs and silly ones on Facebook. The only problem is that I usually come up as a little of this and a little of that. Equal proclivities for being helpful and wanting to be in control, for being an artist and being an intellectual. Introvert and Extrovert. When it comes to fashion, I’m a mix of casual and romantic, bombshell and rocker, with a little gamine thrown in for good measure. My home is even harder to categorize although eclectic comes closest to describing my mix of classic modern Scandinavian, friends’ cast-offs, and Crate and Barrel furniture, accessorized by textiles from far-flung travels and dog paraphernalia.

So when I found “Style Statement,” a book with nine questionnaires that held the promise of distilling my style down to two words, I couldn’t resist. The questionnaires covered everything from body image to money issues, from dream travel destination (Easter Island) to what you would wear to the Oscars (strapless lavender silk gown).

But after taking all the questionnaires and reading all the profiles, from authors Carrie McCarthy (“Refined Treasure”)  and Danielle LaPorte (“Sacred Dramatic”) to their clients (“Timeless Constructive,” “Genteel Vitality,” etc.), I still felt a bit lost. I re-read the explanations of the “foundation words,” which represent your 80% “core identity,” as opposed to your  20% “creative edge.” The second word came fairly quickly: allure, which in my mind includes playfulness and feminine mystery. But I couldn’t settle on a foundation word that encompasses my intellectual and creative sides, my practical, cut-to-the-chase directness, love of travel and propensity to nurture. Was I “Feminine” or “Sophisticate” or “Genuine”? Genuine Allure sounded pretentious while Feminine Allure seemed redundant.

 I like the description of “Elemental” as being interested in the mysteries of the universe, but I wasn’t sure that I could live up to the quality of making everyday life magical. “Elemental Allure” did have a nice ring to it, plus the dot com address was available. The authors encourage readers to use their style statement as a tool in everyday life, which led me to wonder what kind of enterprise I could launch as Elemental Allure? (Hand-carved wooden furniture and jewelry with raw gemstones came to mind.) How would my life, or just my wardrobe, change—if at all—were  I to adapt this as a motto of sorts? 

The idea that two words could make sense of my past, help me in winnowing out what no longer works in the present and choose more wisely in the future is incredibly seductive. And certainly for someone working in the design field, especially as a consultant, like the author and many of those profiled, a style statement could help differentiating oneself from the competition and develop a kind of brand identity. But for the rest of us, the idea that any person, even oneself, can be summed up in a single phrase, a personal brand if you will.  is just a little disturbing.

The New Vampire

Remember Dracula, the Transylvanian villain who gradually drained young women, including the hero’s fiancé, of their life force, in the book by Bram Stoker? This vampire may have been wealthy, clever and suave as ancient nobility, but there was no question as to his basic nature: he was evil personified.

In contrast, Angel, the vampire star in the TV series by the same name, is the good guy. He’s not unblemished—he killed hundreds of men, women and children in earlier years—but he is repentant; he has been cursed—or blessed—with a soul. He struggles against his basic vampire nature to drink the blood of living humans and instead subsists on bottled pig blood, warmed in the microwave. He still kills, but this time it’s the undead whom he stakes to save individual humans. He is capable of genuine love, for his miracle son, for his beloved, for his friends, making him almost human.

Despite lacking breath and a pulse, Angel is hot. Tall, brunette, and handsome, with a buff body and a brooding nature, he is the strong, silent type, a man of action rather than words. Played by David Boreanaz, Angel is a knight without the armor, literally saving damsels in distress from the deadly attentions of vampires and demons, seeking nothing, not even gratitude, in return.

But Angel is only one example of this new breed of vampire. Edward, the heart-throb of the “Twilight” movies is another. Tall, handsome and fair, he is also a strong, silent type. He, too, has integrity, drinking only animal blood and killing only to protect his beloved Bella from another vampire. Bella pleads with Edward to turn her into a vampire so they can be together forever, but he refuses, unwilling to risk her immortal soul. Unlike other vampires who literally catch fire in sunlight, those in the “Twilight” series merely glitter.

In “Daybreaker,” Ethan Hawke plays Ed, a hemotologist turned vampire by the younger brother who can’t live without him. Although Ed says he can’t remember what it was like to be human, he dedicates his life to finding a cure for the bloodlust that is destroying both humans and vampires. Made in Australia, where the Earth’s ozone layer is dangerously thin, the movie also portrays an entire society for whom the sun is death, albeit not the comparatively slow demise from metastasized melanoma but  immediate immolation.

And then there are the vampire romance novels, such as the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by J.R. Ward. Here, too, the vampire males are strong, silent, types who form a bond with their beloved which can only be broken by death. Once a vampire has found his mate—which can take a century or more-- he will protect her with his life. If she dies, perhaps in childbirth or at the hands of an enemy, he is like as not to walk into the sunlight and certain death. Not only is he incapable of hurting his mate, he can’t cheat on her either. The female struggles to maintain her independence in the face of her mate’s protectiveness, but she recognizes that he’s hard-wired that way. Besides, between their chemistry and his stamina and size, the sex is out of this world.

Angel, Twilight, the Black Dagger Brotherhood books-- all can be seen as 21st century fairy tales for adult women who still long to be swept up in a protective embrace and passionate love-making by a male who is capable of committing for eternity.

And then there are the two television series "True Blood" and "Vampire Diaries"; the central plot line of both is two vampire males fighting for the attentions of the female lead. These stories explore the archetype of the sociopath-- charming one moment, sadistic the next-- and the possibility of redemption, by power of love, specifically the love of a good woman (be she human doppelganger or telepathic fey). In an era of terrorists and serial killers, these stories can also be seen as morality plays posing the question of what it means to be truly human.

But beyond the sex, love and violence, there is another layer to these narratives. Although we are manifestly at the top of this planet’s food chain, we don’t seem particularly comfortable there.  We want there to be other forms of intelligent life among us, whether alien visitors from outer space, demons from another dimension, soulful vampires from this one, or angels from the great beyond. Nor is this desire necessarily a reflection of a more secular culture: look at the  succubus and  incubus of the Middle Ages,  demons who took the blame for unlawful sexual encounters. Even the saints, who intercede with God on behalf of a particular individual, can be seen as another form of unseen but intelligent beings who keep us company. The fact that all of these beings are largely invisible means their existence cannot be disproved; it remains a leap of faith.

As science discovers more about the size of this universe and other daughter universes, perhaps our human need to not be alone, with or without our Maker, is intensifying. Perhaps we are looking for a more intelligent being who will not judge us, but who will save us from ourselves, not only as individual sinners but as a species. Perhaps these other beings can reverse environmental degradation and restore our planet to some semblance of Eden-- or at least unite us in a common cause.

Nude Heels

Nude is one of this season’s hottest trends. Nude not as in clothing optional, but nude as in (Caucasian) skin tones.  In other words, beige gussied up with names like oatmeal, flesh, and taupe, as well as spring’s perennial pinks and peaches. Not only is this palette “in,” but wearing heels in a color that matches your skin will make your legs look longer, at least according to best-selling fashion author Charla Krupp, quoted in an interview in “O” magazine. At 5”3”, I can use all the illusion I can get, so off I went in search of nude heels.

Surfing the fashion blogs turned up a pair of peep-toe stilettos by Giuseppe Zanotti in a patent leather pale pink that looked as though they would “make your legs go on forever,” as the description on TheShoeGoddess.com suggested. The only hitch was  that I’ve never mastered the peculiarly feminine art of walking in high heels. Mastering as in being able to walk down the street with my usual long strides in the delicate, sexy shoes my eyes are invariably drawn to. Despite the fact that I’ve ended up giving away or returning virtually every pair of high heels I’ve ever bought,  hope--or marketing-- springs eternal. Perhaps this time I would find a shoe that was sexy, comfortable and matched my legs. Surely, that was not too much to ask.

My first stop was the Nordstrom shoe department, primarily because of its generous return policy. I tried on two pairs of Cole Haan pumps with Nike Air heel pads, one with peep toes, the other closed, but the toe box in both felt too confining and the shade of beige was too yellow for my coloring. A pair of Athena Alexander leather slides in a cream color were fairly comfortable, but not vamp enough. And then I spotted the Nine West ankle strap pumps in a variety of colors, including a deep metallic blue and a pinky nude. The latter were the closest match to the color of my feet, and fairly comfortable, but the blue ones also tugged at my heart strings. I could imagine wearing them for a night out with black tights and a little black dress or even to work with black tights and a navy dress. In contrast, the nude heels would have to be worn with bare legs or pale fishnets and couldn’t go to work. I tried not to think about the fact that both pairs had three-inch heels, and put both on hold, heading off to the gym to ponder my choices.

The next day, I settled on the nude heels. My boyfriend suggested I wear them to an upcoming party. After prancing around my apartment for an hour in my new three-inch shoes, I felt my back noticeably relax when I removed them. I went back to the store to look for another pair, a lower-heeled, more comfortable one, but alas, the only one I found was a taupe snakeskin slingback with a kitten heel, which at $278, was several times the cost of the Nine West pair and out of my price range.

Saturday night came and we arrived  in San Francisco’s Mission District. Once we were inside the party, I slipped on my nude heels. In the dim light, it took me a few minutes to find the right hole in the ankle strap. At first, I walked hesitantly but by the end of the evening, I was dancing in them. I felt not only taller, but also sexier and more confident. No one mentioned my shoes but one woman told my boyfriend, “Your girlfriend is hot.”

At the end of the party, I took off my magic slippers, releasing my foot from its arched position-- a position that mirrors the foot’s natural tensing at certain moments of bliss.  Perhaps that, rather than any leg lengthening, buttock lifting, or back arching, is the real reason for the allure of high heels.

As for me, I’ll wear these again indoors for a few hours, but I’m still looking for that sexy comfortable pair, the ones with the grace and delicacy of a Manolo Blahnik, the sexiness of a Christian Louboutin, and the comfort of Pumas. Those would truly be magic slippers.

The Lure of the Little Black Dress

“Wear more greens, blues, and purples—and less black,” reads the note I’d written in a bout of self-improvement. A former color consultant once suggested that I would feel less depressed if I wore less black. She was right. My face lights up when I wear turquoise and bright, grass green sets off my hazel eyes and brown hair. And the bright, clear colors of summer do make me happy, whether they’re on my bed, the wall or my feet. So why did I just buy another little black dress?

It’s not like I needed one; I already own several already. There’s the Nicole Miller, a classic LBD with ruched sides that I bought for my 50th birthday. There’s the dress I bought in London at the Goth-Glam chain, All Saints, that has gold threads subtly woven into its textured cotton fabric and a strappy neckline. It’s closest cousin, a shorter, more form-fitting black cotton knit that I found on sale in Berkeley, also has an unusual neckline, intricately cut out to highlight my décolletage.

Perhaps that is the theme of these dresses, as even the most demure, long-sleeved, knee-length, mock turtleneck LBD in my closet has an envelope opening between collar bone and cleavage. (I admit to being a tiny bit proud that at 53 my décolletage is still smooth and fair, the direct result of having spent my youth indoors reading rather than outdoors sunbathing.)

And then there are the two most outrageous ones: a cotton knit bandage dress and a fluttery-sleeved number with a deep scoop neckline in the front and an even deeper dip in the back, only slightly obscured by two sashes that keep the dress from falling open. (Actually the most surprising thing about this garment that I even bought a backless dress that reveals the long, faded scar from my scoliosis surgery.)


But none of this explains why I dropped more cash than I care to admit for another short, sexy, sleevelss cotton knit LBD? Was it because none of the others had this precise feeling of beachy casual? With its ropy halterneck above a keyhole opening, flattering draping, and just above the knees length, this dress is both soft and sporty—which makes sense as the boutique where I found it was inside a gym.

Was I hoping to show off arms toned (at some indefinite point in the future) by lifting weights and legs strong from stationary biking while obscuring the belly that only surgery can flatten? Or was I reacting to the fact that it was a medium rather than a large, proof that my new diet of whole grains and veggies was paying off? Was I responding to the subtle pressure of being told that it was the last one in the shop? Or was it something about the way it recalled the draped tunics of ancient Greece and Rome, of the Amazons or Diana the Huntress? All I know is that when the saleswoman held the garment up, I fell for it from across the room.

Clothing announces us to the world, whether we like it or not, whether we are even aware of it or not. There was a period when all I bought were long gowns that were perfect for the Renaissance Faire but totally out of place with my suburban housewife lifestyle. And yet those velvety creations moved and reflected something of the priestess, the artist, the time-traveler, the romantic in me. Similarly, the LBDs that I have acquired, all of which are perfect for travel and none of which are appropriate for teaching, carry a message to others and for me. Perhaps because my job is so consuming, I am unconsciously choosing to assert a different image on my own time. When I look in the mirror at the woman in the modern little black dress, I see a woman who revels in her sauciness, choosing rocker chic over rocking chair, a late-bloomer who devotes her weekends to exploring San Francisco’s alt culture scene, dancing with her boyfriend to a techno-beat.

Return of the Girdle

I have vivid memories of watching my two older teenage cousins getting ready for a night out. Their hair in rollers, they took turns sitting in front of the vanity mirror in their mother’s bedroom, applying concealer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Their bodies were encased in white nylon bras and white latex girdles, the latter extending from the waist to below the thighs, designed to hold in their voluptuous figures and hold up their nylon stockings.

By the time I was a teenager, pantyhose had superceded stockings, bras were being burned and the girdle had gone the way of the buggy whip. Not that I had much to hold in-- or up, for that matter; my figure was more Twiggy than Marilyn Monroe.

Fast forward a few decades to the return of the girdle. It started with control top stockings and then control top panties, with lycra substituting for the latex of yore. And then Spanxx came along with a well-publicized line of items to smooth and shape, targeted directly to the women of my generation. The same women who had escaped having to wear girdles at 16 were now at 36 or 46 or 56 buying the lighter-weight, more comfortable but still confining modern equivalents, a.k.a. “shapewear.”.

Certainly, there are times and places when one would want to have all of one’s “jiggly bits,” as Bridget Jones described them, smoothed and shaped, especially if being photographed is on the agenda. If you’re walking down the red carpet or down the aisle, or attending a high school reunion, then shapewear and false eyelashes make sense. But aside from these rare occasions, why would anyone want to wear tight “bike shorts” or a “long-line” undergarment that extends from just under the bust to a few inches above the knees.

A bra is one thing, providing embellishment as well as support. And a corset, while too confining for my taste, can be lovely enough to wear on its own, as seen in the recent designer fashion shows. But, really, how sensual is a layer of nylon and lycra against the skin? And how sexy is it to slip off a dress, and then have peel off the tight girdle beneath. Of course, since we live in a visual culture where image is paramount and the firm thighs, flat abs and pert buttocks of a teenage athlete are the ideal, who can blame us women for wanting at least the illusion of a Barbie body?

Blocked

Blocked, that's what I am. Blocked as in writer's block. The words that used to flow through me onto the page, the screen, have slowed to a trickle. No longer does the perfect sentence percolate up to the surface of my consciousness as I drive down the highway. No poems, however illogical, come to me in dreams. The days and nights of losing myself in the rhythm of language, when time and space collapse until only the words on the screen and my hands on the keyboard exist-- these are no more.

As one who came to the craft through journalism, I was trained to produce, on deadline, no matter what. Writer's block was never an option. Now, I teach writing, but no longer write, illustrating that horrible cliché that those who can't, teach. Although I have had my work published for several decades, I barely even journal. Of course, as an English teacher, I do still write: emails, lists, and, every couple of months, a new syllabus or three, not to mention corrections and comments on several dozen student papers each week.

I could blame the block on my day job, on my commute, on my dog, on my resolution to get in shape, all of which take time. Yet I have hours to spend watching "Angel" and "True Blood" on DVD or reading fashion magazines and browsing such shopping sites as Pixie Market. I even have material to work on: three different book projects, all on serious topics, all of which strike me as far too depressing. If I were to pick up any one of these again, the angst would drain me more than teaching four hours straight.

Perhaps the problem is that I am basically happy with my life by the sea. I have largely laid to rest the torments of the past and have little interest in digging them up again. Does one have to be tortured to create?

Actually, I'm a little embarrassed that what captures my attention now are colors and shapes: the sculptural folds of a garment, the play of light on the ocean outside my windows, the fun of pulling together a costume, the challenge of creating an apartment home that feels cozy rather than cramped. But compared to war, recession, health care reform, the fiscal nightmare in
Sacramento-- not to mention global warming-- my fascinations seem too, well, trivial. Frivolous.

If I could, I would write a book that was light and playful, warm and charming, one that would make a reader smile or even laugh, although I have no idea what the topic would be. The year I learned to party? But while I wait for inspiration, I'll just keep blogging

Virtual Obsolescence

Since the '80s, I've been a loyal Apple customer; in fact, I've never owned any other computer. After my gorgeous "Bondi Blue" iMacG3 kept freezing, I almost switched to a PC, but once again fell for Apple's cool design and bought the smallest iBook G4, which I'm writing this on.

Although I've had to replace the battery once and the keyboard several times, the hardware is still completely functional. But suddenly, I can't view the videos friends post on Facebook, call my children on Skype or update my profile on the directory at work. Apparently, my computer's operating system is too old to run a host of common software applications. When I tried to upgrade to the latest version of Adobe Flash Players or Safari or Internet Explorer, I discovered that they only work on a Mac OSX 10.4 Tiger and above-- and my computer's OSX is a 10.3.9 Panther. At the Apple store, I was told that I could buy a 10.4 Tiger upgrade for $80 from Amazon and maybe prolong the life of my machine another year and a half.

Upgrading to Apple's current Leopard operating system isn't an option apparently, so my other two Apple alternatives are to buy a brand-new Mac laptop with Leopard already installed (starting at $1000) or wait until the summer when the newest operating system, Snow Leopard, is expected to be released.

Yes, I know that three years in a lifetime in the frenetic world of software development and that there have been two major upgrades since Panther was the latest and greatest, but really, how customer-friendly-- not to mention environmentally-friendly-- is it to create an operating system that won't run on hardware that's only a few years old?

It's interesting that Apple has chosen to name its operating systems after endangered big cats, and somehow, apt. In a world with overflowing landfills, where Third World children "recycle" the heavy metals from First World computers, this kind of planned obsolescence isn't merely annoying-- it's virtually obscene.

Facing Fear

I first heard about the February 22nd terrorist attack on Cairo’s Khan-el-Khalil market when a friend called from Germany. Hours passed in a daze before I went online and found more details about the attack on the famous market, where I had spent a memorable Sunday evening, just last winter with my son, Michael, and his Egyptian friends.

I have a photograph from that night. We were gathered around a tiny brass table laden with water bottles, small teapots and glasses. We were inside the bazaar at a table in the alley outside Fishawi’s Café. Beside each person, save me, was a sheesha, or standing water pipe. In the photograph are my son and his friend Sharif, who lives in London but had come to Cairo for a family wedding; his sister, Yasmin; and their step-sister, Natalie, as well as a family friend, Steve, who was a university student in Pennsylvania. Also at the table were Khaled, a high school friend of Sharif’s whom my son had met in London, and Khaled’s friend Waled.

In a way, we were there because of Khaled, who had offered to show Michael around if he came to Cairo and graciously included me in his invitation. Since elementary school, I had wanted to see the pryramids and as a college student, I had studied Egyptian history as part of my major in Middle Eastern Studies. At that time, I couldn’t afford to travel to Egypt but later, when I could, the country always seemed a little too dangerous to visit, especially with two children in tow, especially after the terrorist attack in Luxor. But as I approached 50, I realized that it was time to take a few calculated risks. Egypt was at the top of my list of dream destinations, the place I would immediately hop on a plane to see if I ever got a terminal diagnosis. So why wait? Going to Egypt meant confronting not only a fear of terrorism but also more personal fears, of being raped, which I very nearly had been while traveling as a young woman in another North African country, and fear of getting sick. My intrepid son offered to come along but a sudden spike in airfares delayed our plan for a year. When Michael met Khaled the following Novemeber, the timing suddenly seemed serendipitous. A fortnight later, we had booked our trip, arriving in Cairo shortly after my 51st and my son’s 27th birthdays, at the beginning of my sabbatical year.

Sharif and his sisters turned out to have booked the same flight to Cairo. On our arrival, Sharif showed us where to get a visa and negotiated a taxi to take us to the boutique hotel we’d found on-line. After checking in, we met Khaled across the road at the local Gar, an Egyptian fast food chain.

Michael and I both noticed the Viagra sandwich on the menu but were too embarrassed to ask what it was. Khaled ordered hummus (garbanzo bean dip), tabbouli (cracked wheat salad), baba ghanoush (eggplant dip), falafel (garbanzo bean patties) and fool, (fava bean dip) to go with the hot pita bread. I was nervous about getting Pharaoh’s Revenge, but relaxed a little when Khaled pointed out that in a place this busy, the food wasn’t sitting around and was more likely to be fresh and hot, which it turned out to be, as well as tasty.

Late the next afternoon, Khaled took Michael, Steve, and me to see the pyramids. We drove through the back streets near the famous tombs, eventually stopping at a stable. It had been years since I’d been on a horse and to say that I was anxious would be an understatement. Fortunately, when my horse started trotting off on its own, the guide grabbed the reins, slowed its pace and steered us in the right direction. Gradually, I got used to the rhythmic gait of the horse moving through the sand. I started to relax and really enjoy the amazing scene. There were no cars, no buses, no houses, no pedestrians even, just horses and camels, with or without riders, the pyramids to our right, and elsewhere, desert as far as the eye could see. Despite the occasional dune buggy whizzing by, there was a timeless quality, as though nothing much had changed in the past century, We headed up to a ridge where a weathered man handed us cups of hot tea as we watched the sun set. Then back through the falling darkness, the guide now managing not only my horse but also Steve’s, which kept heading in the wrong direction. While my son rode peacefully alongside us, Khaled had disappeared. No, he hadn’t gotten bored with our leisurely pace; his horse, eager for dinner, had galloped all the way back to the stable.

For our own dinner, we headed to Andrea’s, where we met up with Sharif, his brother and sisters and several of their friends, male and female, most of whom had gone to Cairo’s American High School. Before reaching the main entrance, we passed women baking pita bread over an open fire and rows of rotisserie chickens being roasted outdoors. The food was simple but cooked to perfection. In addition to moist chicken and hot pita bread, the 12 of us shared mezzes, or appetizers, including filo dough triangles stuffed with spinach, grape leaves filled with rice and ground meat, grilled eggplant, meatballs, French fries, coleslaw, sliced tomatoes, drumsticks, and various dips including yogurt, baba ghanoush and hummus.


The following day, Michael and I visited the Pyramids again on our own and took each other’s pictures in front of the Sphinx. We toured the Egyptian Museum and saw some of the finds from King Tutankhamun’s tomb; we had seen some of the same funerary items 25 years earlier at San Francisco’s DeYoung Museum, although my son, who would have two at the time, had no memory of them. Later that afternoon, we had Cleopatra Cosmopolitans, made with hibiscus instead of cranberry juice, in the bar at The Mena House Hotel; we could see one of the pyramids through the window. For dinner, Khaled took us to a traditional Egyptian restaurant, Abu El Sid, where my favorite dish was the Circassian chicken, a mound of rice and chicken blanketed in walnut sauce.

It was near midnight that evening when Khaled found a parking place near the Khan El-Khalili souk, or bazaar, which dates back to 1382 A.D. There were four of us, including Khaled’s friend, Waled; Sharif, his sisters, and Steve would meet us later at Fishawi’s, a café in the bazaar which has been open 24/7 since 1773, with the exception of one day during WWII. Many of the shops in the bazaar were shuttered by this time on a Sunday evening, but a surprising number were open. They were clustered together by type: perfume sellers, clothing vendors, spice merchants. We wandered around for a while, watching a man making fettir, Egyptian crepes, and stopping in various shops for a quick peek. I was surprised by how many things seemed to be made in China.

At a perfume store, we checked out a variety of scents: from amber to gardenia to blends with names like Moonlight Garden. The clerk insisted that the perfumes were all natural, no alcohol, and put a lighter near an open jar to prove it. The shelves of the shop were lined with delicate blown glass bottles, some in the shape of animals, like the elephant that Michael bought for his girlfriend. I chose a small curved vial, with swirls of gold and red and 50 ml of Cleopatra’s Secret, which smelled of roses and spices.

Sharif phoned to say that they were on their way. When we got to Fishawi’s, the café itself was full, so the waiter simply grabbed a few chairs and a tiny table and set us up in the adjacent alley, adding another tiny table and more chairs when the rest of the group arrived. Each table was just big enough to hold one of the brass trays the waiters carried on their shoulders then set down with a flourish. We ordered soft drinks or tea-- I choose hot karkadeh, hibiscus infusion-- and everyone but me ordered a waterpipe with tobacco flavored with apple or watermelon. I would have tried one but I had arrived in Egypt with a cold that I didn't want to worsen.

After chatting for a while, Sharif led his sisters, Steve and I off on a shopping expedition. In one three-story shop, I watched Sharif and Yasmine haggled in fluent Arabic for a dumbek, or hand drum. They also bargained on behalf of Natalie, who had found a snakeskin handbag and a couple of chunky bracelets that would look great back in London. Steve thought he’d like several statues of the Egyptian gods to take back to friends in the States. When he asked how much they were, Sharif explained that Steve had to first decide what he was willing to pay for them and then they could start the bargaining process. Although I had studied Arabic at university for more than two years, I understood virtually nothing of the conversation but it clearly involved more than prices; there was a back and forth banter with smiles and laughter. In fact, the verbal interaction seemed to be the main point, with the actual exchange of purchased objects and Egyptain pounds a mere after-thought.

The next morning my son and I left for Luxor, where we visited the ancient temple complex at Karnak, with its statue of the lion-headed goddess, Sekhmet, tucked away in side shrine, and the temple of Hatshepsut, the female pharaoh, carved into the desert rock, both monuments so enormous that it was hard to believe they were built by ordinary human beings. We saw descendants of the builders, dressed in long, traditional robes, living in mud-brick houses near the papyrus fields; the scene could have been from the distant past, save the ubiquitous cell phones. One evening, we ran into friends from Stanford, who suggested a hot air balloon ride over the city of the dead.

Waking early to meet the van on our last full day in Luxor, I was nervous and excited. Taking a hot air balloon definitely involves some risk, but I rationalized that the Egyptian government has a vested interest in keeping the number of crashes low. As it turned out, our pilot had previously flown jets for Egypt Air but had switched to ballooning to spend more time with his family. I tend to get airsick easily and I’m also afraid of heights. But my excitement over having a bird’s eye view of the monuments we had previously explored on foot won out over my anxiety, which proved mostly groundless. Perhaps because the ascent was slow, vertigo never hit and the only wave of queasiness I felt came at the end, when the basket hit the ground, and passed quickly. Overall, the ride was exhilarating.

I’m glad I took the chance and went to Egypt. Perhaps because I was an older woman, the mother of a grown man, I was accorded a certain level of respect, and not only by my son’s friends. Michael, who is engaging and genuinely interested in the lives of other people, was treated with respect and friendliness. Sometimes people assumed that I was my son’s wife, rather than his mother, which we both found hilarious. I had only one creepy moment, when someone touched my upper arm in passing; I turned and shouted “Imshee,!” Egyptian Arabic for “Go away!” but the offender had already disappeared into the crowd. Like every other tourist, we were accosted every few yards as we walked along Luxor’s main thoroughfare by men offering to sell us a boat ride, a taxi ride, a carriage ride, but a polite “Laa Chukran,” or “No, thanks” in Arabic was sufficient. I never felt in danger, but then again, there were soldiers everywhere, particularly in Luxor. Nor did I get sick, although I was careful to drink only bottled water or hot tea and avoided raw produce and dairy products. My only culinary regret was that I didn’t try the milk pudding, one of Egypt’s national dishes.

There is always a certain amount of risk involved in traveling, as in life, and therein lies some of the excitement. For me, traveling is a way of encountering other ways of being, thinking and doing, as well as a way to gain perspective on my own life. Often, I return with a deeper appreciation of what I have, both as an individual and as an American.

My decision to travel to Egypt was also an opportunity to face my fears-- of political violence, of personal assault, injury and illness, even my fear of heights-- to acknowledge them, manage them and move through them, and in the process stretch my capacity to do so again, in future situations.

The whole point of terrorism, whether political or personal, is simply to terrify, to cut away the ground beneath our feet, to rip away the illusion of safety that allows us to venture out into the world. While I’m not suggesting a vacation in a war zone, if we let terrorists determine where and when and how we move in the world, then we are surrendering our inalienable rights. Sometimes fighting back means taking up arms, other times it’s simply a matter of living life: getting on the bus in London the day after 7/7, heading back to work on Wall Street after 9/11, or sitting down for a cup of tea at Fishawi’s Cafe in Cairo’s Khan el-Khalil market.

Following the Thread

Ever since I was a girl sitting on the front porch with my best friend, the two of us making clothes for Barbie and troll dolls, I’ve nurtured a secret wish to be a fashion designer. When the opportunity came to take a step in the direction of at least exploring that childhood ambition, I went for it, signing up for a week-long course at the London College of Fashion. Doing so required me to set aside my qualms about the garment industry, fears about my finances, and an amorphous guilt over indulging in something so seemingly vacuous as fashion, to follow the thread of my own fascination, wherever it might lead.

The course began at 10 a.m. on a Monday in mid-December, on the top floor of a building near Oxford Circus. Despite the number of students enrolled in this week of short courses, the college’s heat had been off all weekend. Vanda, our teacher or tutor as the English would say, coped as best she could with the freezing conditions, giving us a tour of the ground floor (and much warmer) library, followed by an early lunch. We spent most of the afternoon back in the library, exploring possible research topics; we had to choose three by the end of the first day, which we would present to our classmates at the end of the first week.

After class, some of us walked to the fashion bookstore R.D. Franks, where I found a book about the designer I’d chosen to study, Vivienne Westwood, a Brit whose work combines Edwardian tailoring with a fondness for the outrageous. (She and her partner Malcolm McLaren, manger of the Sex Pistols, were at one point fined for “exposing to public view an indecent exhibition.”)

For someone as word-oriented as I am, whose idea of research is to read a lot, it was an interesting departure to focus on the visual, to search magazines not for articles but for images to create the mood boards, which were the jumping-off point for design development sheets that led to finished illustrations.

Day 2: I dressed as warmly as I possible, with long underwear over my tights and Ugg boots on my feet. The room was still freezing but at least I wasn’t. We spent the morning learning design development by taking an item from our bag and using its colors and shapes as inspiration for clothing and accessories. I pulled out my skeleton room key with a red trapezoidal rubber tag and eventually had a page with drawings of shoes whose edges matched that of the keys, a suitcase the same shape as the tag (“Sweet,” Vanda said approvingly), and, at the teacher’s suggestion, a red T-shirt dress with an enormous black key on the front of it. The afternoon was devoted to learning some of the basics of fashion illustration, beginning with how to quickly draw a proportional “8-head” human body from a piece of paper folded into eighths. “Give yourselves the gift of a life-drawing class,” Vanda urged us all.

In addition to reading about Vivienne Westwood, I decided to pay a visit to her boutique on Conduit Street. Despite the swarm of Japanese tourists, I was enchanted by the mix of bright-colored rubber heels and tailored plaid suits, the reproduction T-shirts from the designer’s 1970s Let It Rock shop, and the whimsical house logo, a royal orb in the middle of a flying saucer (or one of Saturn’s rings?), on everything from cufflinks to pendants. I appreciated the kindness of the clerk who said of the too-snug wrap dress I was trying on, “It’s made in Italy, so it runs small,” as he went off to fetch the next size up. If I didn’t live in 70-degree California, I would have been tempted to splurge on the purple wool knit number, with its ruffled neckline that managed to be flatteringly plunging but cut so that it didn’t need a camisole underneath. As it was, I succumbed to the charm of a pair of red jelly flats with ankle straps that took forever to put on or take off and had just a hint of fetish to them. After all, one of the subjects I was investigating was bondage’s influence on fashion.


Day 3: I woke up late, only minutes before we were supposed to meet at the Victoria and Albert museum, but managed to arrive at the Tsarist exhibit before the rest of the class. The exhibit was small but there were some intriguing military jackets that could easily be adapted to the 21st century. More poignant was the sweet little coat worn by Tsar Peter II, who died while still in his teens after ruling only three years. Called a “soul-warmer,” the coat was once scarlet but now a faded salmon hue, its removable sleeves tied to the shoulders with matching ribbons.

In an adjacent gallery was an array of couture gowns, including Westwood’s “Watteau” shot silk and taffeta evening dress in sea green with deep violet trim, one of her corset dresses with the boning inside, a style which would suit my willowy daughter very well. From there the class proceeded to another exhibit, Fashion V. Sport. Interestingly, the featured Westwood design included a felt hood that covered everything but the mouth and chin, with two vertical eye holes rimmed in copper metalwork, a reference to a 1965 Edward Mann hat in another concurrent exhibit on the Cold War. The most fantastic piece though was a sparkly extravaganza by Dior: grey tracksuit leggings topped with a fluorescent green corset and tutu embellished with sparkles, vintage white lace undergarments and a tangle of silk lacings.

While the other students took off for the shops in nearby Knightsbridge, Vanda and I had coffee in the museum dining room. Afterwards, I headed to Dover Street Market for another of our shop reports. My favorite piece of clothing in this multi-story consortium was a black taffeta skirt, which would have been rather formal if not for the two giant pairs of lips, edged in pleats, cut out through both sides of the fabric; they would like great with a red slip underneath. I also liked the market’s signature black T-shirts with their black heart-shaped appliqué of two black eyes.

The afternoon class was missing several students, presumably captivated by the post-financial collapse, pre-Christmas bargain frenzy. Vanda showed a film of a runway show by a Japanese designer whose work was inspired by the igloo at the back of the catwalk, the colors of the polar sky, and the region’s fauna. The take-home message was that anything can inspire a collection: all that is required is a fascinated imagination.

That night my daughter and I went to Selfriges, a department store chain which is somewhere between Saks and Macy’s, for another of my assignments: to choose a designer represented there and try on a piece of clothing. The street-level window had a scene featuring Alexander McQueen’s vision of winter with a ballerina dressed in snow white and blood red and another figure with a jeweled headdress and huge red cloak, so I decided to check out his ready-to-wear upstairs. What the hell, I thought as I took a crinkly scarlet ball-gown costing 2,025 GPB from the rack. The off-the-shoulder puff sleeves and empire waist flattered my decllotage, but under the voluminous (and heavy!) skirt, the rest of my body disappeared.

Day 4: Today we were all hard at work, leafing through magazines, cutting, drawing, pasting and printing things off the Internet. By 2 p.m., when I’d finally finished my third mood board, I was so light-headed that I had to stop for lunch. The next part of the process was to do a design development sheet for each mood board.

My bondage board included black and white images of strappy sandals, a Dolce and Grabbano dress with “chastity belt,” a corset and laced gloves, all cut out with tabs like paper doll clothes and mounted on a red rubbery surface. For the design development sheet, I had already sketched some pastel silk skirts and tops with corset-like lacing but Vanda pushed me to do something raw with the bondage theme. For my finished illustration, I came up with a red satin strapless, tight, bandage-style mini-dress, with overlapping layers of fabric like lacings, worn with black espadrilles.

At an inexpensive fabric store that night, I got samples of bright green and hot pink silks for my colors of India project, along with a crinkly silk sample which would work for the strapless bondage dress if it were in red rather than pink.

Day 5:. In researching the use of color in India (my third topic), I learned that while there are regional differences, Hindu culture generally equates bright colors with youth and fertility, two qualities which brides hopefully epitomize, hence the opulence of Indian bridal wear. As women age, they are expected to wear more muted colors and use less embellishments in keeping with a belief that older people should be less interested in the affairs of this world (a view which is found in other cultures as well). While my mood board included magazine images of hennaed hands and Bollywood stars, the design development sheet focused on images of the ornate, close-fitting, sleeveless or short-sleeved tops worn with saris, clipped from the pages of an South Asian wedding magazine. I had the idea of creating a line of corsets in such saturated solid colors as emerald, tumeric, lapis and magenta found in Indian bridal wear and Bollywood gowns. I added a few sketches of corsets and the fabric samples I had gotten the previous evening, but ran out of time to do a finished illustration.

The work I was proudest of was on the topic I had put the most effort into: Vivienne Westwood. For the design development sheet, I cut and pasted pictures that showed the details of her tailored clothing. But how could I take this quintessential British look and make it relate to the culture of my country? How could I show the source of my inspiration without appearing to copy? In a flash, I thought of the colors of New Mexico, where I had spent so much time: the bright blue clarity of the sky, the deep green of the forests on Taos Mountain, the blue-violet of the mountain itself, and decided to incorporate those. I also liked the sexiness of Westwood’s clothes, so I took the waterfall frill from the neck of a blouse and put it on the back of the pine green pencil skirt, to highlight the booty. For the final illustration, I created a background collage of Southwestern colors, and then added the finished sketches.

Looking back on my week in the world of fashion, it’s too early to tell whether it will lead to a career change. What I did experience was a sharpening of my observation skills, an expansion of my range as a visual artist and the encouragement which is so vital for anyone in the arts. Vanda’s enthusiasm was infectious and I started noticing and recording the little details, the fleeting moments, which might serve as future inspiration for a collage or painting, if not a dress design. The rows of star-shaped twinkling lights in fuchsia, green and clear hanging from an office window, the wall sconces reminiscent of medieval torches at a café called Sacred, the intricate cut of a gothic-black silk blouse at All Saints, my favorite British chain. I’m seeing not only cut and color, fit and fabric, but also the connections between inspiration and final product, between past and present, the invisible web of fashion as an art form, an art which each of us participates in whenever we get dressed.

Lingerie and Ruby Slippers

Late this summer I attended my first lingerie trade show, Curves, at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Much as I loved working the show, one of the highlights of my day at the fair had nothing to do with undergarments, although it had everything to do with sex appeal: namely my visit to the Christian LouBoutin boutique, home of the signature red-soled stilettos.

I have a passion for shoes, which I seem to have inherited from my daughter. Shoes should be either fun or beautiful or both—blue Mary Janes made from Brazilian rubber, sneakers of silver kimono fabrics, bejeweled copper sandals. Unlike my tall daughter who favors heels that put her on a par with her 6’3” brother, I’ve always insisted on shoes that I can walk in, that is, flats. But that may be changing.

I was sitting in the Double Helix bar with my assistant, Rachel, having a quick lunch of Cosmopolitans, pate on toast and mocha cake when I noticed the shoe store a few yards away. Although I had never seen even a single pair outside the pages of a magazine, I recognized the boutique, named after its French designer, at once. The prices were as high as I expected, well beyond my usual splurge, but the red-soled shoes were also more exquisite than I had imagined. Beautiful but barely functional. Although there were a few token pairs of pointy-toed flats, not even these looked comfortable. No, this was part of the beauty as torture, “no pain, no gain,” aesthetic. As a young feminist, I hadn’t seen the point. Now, with two bad knees and chronic heel pain, I didn’t dare to even try on a pair lest their gorgeousness sweep aside my common sense.

There is one pair in particular that haunts me, a pair of burgundy patent heels that seem like the couture version of Dorothy’s ruby slippers in “The Wizard of Oz.” For me, ruby slippers are a metaphor for my Kansas childhood, my fascination with the faraway, the maelstroms of life, and my belief that in the end, we come home to ourselves. In the third grade, I had my first and only starring role as the Wicked Witch of the West (she who melts away while trying to steal the magical slippers) in a neighborhood production. Now, as an adult, I keep a photograph of a pair of sparkly red high heels to remind me that I can always click my heels three times and (with a swipe of my credit card) find my way home to San Francisco.

Since coming back from Vegas, I seem to be seeing pictures of red-soled shoes everywhere. And I’ve learned that CB as well as other famous shoes designers have actually created crystal-studded ruby slippers for the upcoming 70th anniversary of the movie. Although I’m not ready to fly to Vegas just to buy a pair of shoes that I couldn’t stand in without pain and that cost nearly a month’s rent, I have realized that these lovely heels do have something in common with undergarments after all. Just as a well-fitting bra can compensate for gravity’s effects, so too can a pair of stilettos. And then there is the argument that I may not be 25 or even 38, but maybe I’m still young enough to learn how to walk in high heels, and certainly more able to now than I will be at 70.

In the meantime, in my dreams, I’m painlessly and pertly prancing down the yellow brick road in ruby stilettos, in absolutely no hurry to get anywhere.

Twenty Years

How bad will climate change be? Is it irreversible? And if so, how much time do we have before we're all in really big trouble?

For one answer to these questions, turn to the last page of the November, 2008, U.K. "Harper's Bazaar," where British designer Vivienne Westwood, she of the famed corset dress, plugs her "Art Manifesto" (www.activeresistane.co.uk). Click to enter and look to the far right for an interview by Decca Aitkenhead with Jame Lovelock (reprinted from "The Guardian," March 1, 2008). The 'maverick" climate scientist is best-known as the father of the Gaia Hypothesis, the theory that our planet is "a self-regulating super-organism," an idea which, according to the article, "forms the basis of almost all climate science."

What is Lovelock's answer to the questions above? Bad, very bad. By 2020, less than a dozen years from now, he expects extreme weather to become normal. And it's too late to do anything about it.

In a nutshell, Lovelocks thinks we're fucked, pardon my French. When the interviewer asks what he would do if he were her, the octogenarian answers, "Enjoy life while you can. Because if you're lucky, it's going to be 20 years before it hits the fan."

From an individual perspective, his advice makes perfect sense, regardless of global warming. None of us knows how many hours we have left. Most of us plan our lives assuming that we will wake up tomorrow morning and the next and the next for decades to come, but most of us also know that this assumption is just that, an assumption that can be shattered by an earthquake, an aneurysm, a terrorist attack. If nothing else, enjoying life is an antidote to the fear of our individual mortality.

But collective mortality is another matter. As the mother of two adult children who are just beginning to carve their way in the world, who have always talked about the children they someday hope to have, my stomach clenches reading Lovelock's words. How does one plan for a future of mass chaos? And yet this is already the case in much of Africa where climate changes such as desertification and viruses like HIV have combined with human greed and hatred to produce large-scale death and destruction. While the rest of us might prefer to think that Africa's fate is far removed from our own, Hollywood is already busy imagining what might happen when the icecaps melt.

So how do we reconcile the need to live our everyday lives, with their individual dramas of hopes and dreams, loves and losses, with the knowledge that we may all be living in the equivalent of Darfur sooner rather than later, in this life and not in some future circle of hell? Perhaps Lovelock is right and it's already too late, but it seems to me that we have a moral obligation to try to stop the rising tides. It's time to put the environmental crisis, not the credit crisis or the Middle East crisis, front and center on the international agenda. And at the same time, try to enjoy each and every moment.