The Quiet Moments

I a home in California after nearly a month traveling. My itinerary included New Mexico (Valencia County and Albuquerque), Texas (Houston and Austin), and Mexico (Playa del Carmen and Tulum). The trip was filled with moments of excitement and energy, but also lots of quiet time. I so appreciate my solo reflective time while on the road. It's what gives me perspective on my life "at home" and allows me to reconnect with my internal North. Here are some visual captures of some of those contemplative moments:

While on the road I turned 35. This blazing sunset was taken on the eve of my last day being 34. I was in the parking lot of Bodyshock Fitness, a gym in Los Lunas I discovered on this trip that was my salvation while in New Mexico. After a particularly hard workout, I was rewarded with this fiery sky. I thought about the past year and all the change it has brought for me, the wild ride my heart and body have endured, and what I want from the next cycle - be it a day, a year, or a decade.

This snapshot was taken at sunrise on my 35th birthday, taken from the ditch road that runs behind my dad's house. I was feeling very proud of myself, as I'd managed to go to a 5:30am body combat class to start my day off right, an intense bout of movement before getting on a plane and heading to Houston later that day. I could hear the soft sound of water flowing through the irrigation ditch some doves cooing in the distance. I kept my ears and eyes alert for signs of sandhill cranes (they migrate to New Mexico every fall, often arriving on the day of my birthday) but didn't hear/see any although I knew they were out there somewhere.

As part of the Texas leg of my trip, I decided to drive to Austin for a night and experience the last place I called home prior to moving to Mozambique. I haven't been back since I left in 2005. I decided to visit the Umlauf Sculpture Garden and journal for a bit amid the greenery and bronze figures. It was hot and humid, but the scenery was so perfect for reflection that I found a bench in the shade and wrote for about an hour, trying to ignore the sweat dripping down my legs. What a strange experience to revisit Austin after 11.5 years. So much has happened in that time, yet in many ways it feels I'm back in the same psychological place I was in when I left Texas and headed to Africa. The end of one major chapter and the start of another, tumultuous at times but full of promise and adventure.

In the Mexico leg of my trip, I enjoyed reflective time while swimming in cenotes (freshwater swimming holes that dot the Yucatan Peninsula and were considered sacred by the Mayans). This one pictured here is Cenote Azul. The water was clear and refreshing, and the jungle scenery all around made it feel like the garden of Eden. Swimming here felt like hitting the reset button on my life, which may be a bit dramatic but it really did seem that way in the moment.

Finally here is a moment from the women's wellness retreat that brought me to Tulum. We did a clay treatment and then went into the ocean to wash it off. I am the person on the far right. This was the start to me swimming far out into the water, what I wrote about in my previous post. I felt very calm here, at ease with myself and my surroundings.

My hope is that I can carry these feelings from my trip into my California life, especially as I gear up for the busy holiday season with my jewelry work, and continue to navigate the up's and down's of my personal life transition. Starting my day today with blogging was a good way to reconnect and reflect, for sure.

Ten

Ten years ago I started this blog. I quit my job. I packed my things into a massive truck, bought a plane ticket, and left Austin. It was all very planned, plotted out. I spent a month in Rio, then moved to Mozambique.

Then reconnected with Rico. Lived in Chimoio. Moved to Maputo. Got cats. Made amazing blog friends. Grew to hate development work. Got married. Started selling jewelry. Lost a cat and got more cats. Left Mozambique. Changed careers.

Moved to Point Richmond, with my mom as neighbor. Sold Casa Rosa. Went to art school. Set up a studio. Started a gallery. Witnessed Rico become a contractor and furniture designer. Attended Rico's citizenship ceremony. Spent some quality time with my dad. Made plans for Emilia to move. Got a tattoo.

It has been one hell of a decade. Beijos a todos.

Yellow

A bit of yellow to brighten your day...

A faithful companion for a boat ride and a beer - Austin, TX.

Raw silk - Hoi An, Vietnam.

Walls of the old Fortaleza - Maputo, Mozambique.

Rafting in a crocodile-infested (!) river in Swaziland.

Bananas for the local market - Boane, Mozambique.

Colonial Portuguese architecture - Ilha de Moçambique.

Passing the time away - Trinidad, Cuba.

Bondinho - Santa Teresa, Rio de Janeiro.

The kitchen wall - Casa Rosa, Rio de Janeiro.

Still life - Chobe, Botswana.

Sunday Scribblings - Masks

There have been two occasions on which I danced with someone - a complete stranger in both cases - with such polish and passion it seemed as if we'd been preparing for the moment our entire lives.

The first time was in Santiago, Cuba. I was at the end of my 10-day public health mission and was sipping a mojito in the bar of a swanky hotel in the city center. A small live band played in the corner, predictably running through the set from the Buena Vista Social Club.

Strangely, nobody danced. That is, until the band struck up one particularly uptempo salsa song, straying from the tourist-pleasing formula. Out of nowhere a man appeared at our table and asked me to dance. I accepted, and we made our way to the makeshift dancefloor in the center of the bar. Only one other couple was on the floor, and all eyes in the place were on us.

Granted, it's much easier to dance well when you have a man for a partner who is a strong lead. Even that, however, isn't a guarantee that you will dance well together. There is chemistry involved in dance, just like in meeting someone in a bar. No matter how good the two of you look separately, you may not click at all when you are together. And so it is always somewhat of a gamble when you get up on the dancefloor to dance with a stranger.

That night, in the warm Santiago heat, I clicked with this anonymous Cuban man. We started out simple, a quick basic salsa step. Then the man discovered that I spoke Spanish, that he could give me little cues like "Venga!" or "Espera!" as we danced, verbal affirmations of what my body was already anticipating. Our moves became more complex, and I was able to follow each double-step, cross-back turn he led me through.

At this point we were really in sync and the entire crowd in the hotel bar was watching the two of us, clapping their hands to the beat and shouting out encouragements as we spun together. We sensed that the music was coming to a climax, one of those songs that was sure to end with a bang. My partner's eyes told me that he wanted to nail the ending. He began to twirl me, fast revolutions under his arm. I tried my best to spot a fixed point with each turn so that I wouldn't become dizzy and stumble.

Faster and faster I spun until he gave a sharp whisper, "Ahora!", then expertly hooked his foot behind my ankle. In a split second, he jerked my feet off the ground, sending me sailing backwards with the momentum of my turns. I didn't even have time to panic from the fall; I had already landed in his waiting arms, my back arched, one arm above my head and the other by my side, as if it had all been planned and painstakingly rehearsed months in advance.

The second time I danced in such a way with a complete stranger was at a Halloween party in Austin, TX. We were in a warehouse that was packed full of people, some in costume, others just dressed homegrown Austin-weird. A dj was spinning a great mix of Brazilian, Salsa, Merengue and Drum 'n Bass.

That evening I wore a black dress of my maternal Grandmother's from the 1940's with a matching black shawl that I attached with a spectacular brooch of rubies, aquamarines and diamonds that used to belong to my paternal Grandmother, a woman I never met. My hair was up in a bun and I had on deep, wine-colored lipstick. I was a vintage vision of elegance and demure style.

I had been dancing in a group wtih my girlfriends in one corner of the warehouse-turned-danceclub. We grooved and gossiped and sipped at free glasses of wine in plastic Dixie cups. A classic Celia Cruz number started playing and I felt someone tap the back of my shoulder.

I turned around and began laughing hysterically when I saw my prospective dance partner. He was a short man wearing an oversized, guffawing George W. Bush mask. Strapped to his chest, on the outside of his dark pinstripe suit, was a massive set of plastic tits with bright pink airbrushed nipples.

"Do ya wanna daaaaiiince?" he drawled from under his mask, extending his hand to ask for mine.

What the hell, I thought, and walked arm-in-arm to the middle of the dancefloor with the short, tittyfied version of our President.

From his appearance and stature, I was not expecting much from my partner. I figured it would be one of those comical dances, where you make complete asses of yourselves in lieux of actual coordinated footwork and proper turns. "Whatever," I thought, I was up for some fun on Halloween.

And so we started dancing, the connsumate odd couple. To my ultimate surprise, the guy was a strong lead, his hand firmly placed in the small of my back guiding me through some simple steps at first, then increasingly intricate footwork.

Maybe it was the wine I'd been drinking, or maybe it was the hilarity of the idiot mask and the size DD plastic boobs on my partner. Whatever the reason behind my high, I was completely in the zone. I was following each little step, hitting every spin, moving in time with this costumed stranger in a completely effortless way. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear my girlfriends cheering us on.

We ended the song with a tight, fast series of turns, our legs so close they were almost interlocking. I could feel Mr. Bush's prosthetic nipples digging into my sternum as we spiraled, causing me to giggle, but not to lose my step. With Celia's last belted-out melody, my partner pushed me out of our spin, held onto my arm and dropped to one knee by my side. He had some serious jazz-hands going, and I gladly followed suit. The perfect, Broadway-cheezy end to our moment together.

As the next song came on, boobie Bush quickly bowed to me, then waved his little hand goodbye and sprinted off into the crowd, never to be seen again that night.

Saudades Trapped in Song

Listening: “Open” by Bruce Cockburn.

Remembering: Life in Austin, driving by myself along Farm-to-Market Routes, watching a state that wasn’t mine slowly grow on me.

I always used to listen to a radio station called KGSR. They played a mix of music totally different from that played by my station of choice back in Albuquerque – Viva 101.7, featuring all the best in Pop en Español. When I moved to Austin, my song horizon widened inadvertently with all the country and folk influence in the city. KGSR was my favorite teacher, and I learned all about Lucinda Williams, Waylon Jennings, Steve Earl and, of course, Willie Nelson.

One day as I was driving to work, a song played on KGSR that immediately resonated with me. I had no clue who the artist was, but there was something about his sad fiddle and earnest singing that perfectly captured how I felt about Austin and everything I’d been through the previous year to get me there. This was my introduction to Bruce Cockburn.

Doing: Writing and editing for the final draft of the feasibility study we’ve just done for FAO. For the last several months we’ve been evaluating different scenarios for the development of the Maputo Green Zones, agricultural belts within the city where some 15,000 smallholder producers grow vegetables for local markets and their own consumption. Currently all production and sales by the smallholders are on a very informal basis. We looked at different ways FAO can support the Green Zones producers to organize their production and establish market linkages, thus increasing their incomes and improving nutritional status.

Realizing: That I am starting to really like Mozambican / Angolan music. Rico and I bought a little boom box the other day and have been listening to the radio quite a bit recently, a first for both of us. I’ve always loved Afro-Pop songs, but some of the passada, zouk and marrabenta styles that are so popular here were very slow to grow on me. Sort of the same way I absolutely hated most pagode songs in Brasil until having a fabulous time at Carnaval with a group of friends and actually establishing cool memories to go along with those songs in my head.

I think it’s a definitive point when, as an expatriate, I actually start liking the music of the country where I’m living. It is usually a sign that some subtle internal balance has shifted, adapted to the fact that “home” is now in a different geographical location. It’s a sign that I’ve stopped totally evaluating my life in a new country through the lens of an outsider. I’m ready to hear songs not as a manifestation of a novel, exotic culture that I don’t understand, but as a catalyst for memories of caipirinhas with the girls, long days with Rico sweating in our non-air-conditioned home office, and occasionally, if it’s just the right rhythm and sweet lyric, of the way I’ll one day look back on the time I spent in Mozambique, a foreshadowing of the saudades sure to come.

California (or, I can't think of a creative title)

This beautiful full moon over Mt. Diablo was our welcome to California. Ricardo took this photo off the deck of my mom's house just before we sat down to a fabulous scallop dinner. Earlier that afternoon Rico went through one of the essential experiences of getting to know American culture: Costco! We cruised around and bought this huge pack of scallops, some wild salmon, blueberries, strawberries, V-8 (I had a craving) and 3 bottles of local wine. I made a simple sauce for the scallops with white wine, butter, chicken stock and onions, my mom made asparagus and Thai red rice, and we sat down for a gourment, healthy meal. And boy did we need to detox on some healthy food after a week of enchiladas, tacos and sopapillas in New Mexico!

The next day we took BART to the Embarcadero and walked to the Ferry Building. There is a great view of the Bay Bridge and the water, and we braved the chilly weather for a few photos. Here I am with Ricardo, wearing my mom's Maui Jim sunglasses (that I liked so much she ended up getting me a pair as an early birthday gift).

And here I am with my sweet Momma Dog. I missed/miss her so much I start to cry just thinking about it. My mom is an amazing woman. She is beautiful, wise, strong and funny all at once. She gives great pep talks to my friends. She has a jewelry collection that I covet, and wears it all in style. She and I are so much alike, so close, that anytime we reach a small bump in our relationship it feels like the world is about to end. To me, at least.

Coming home is such a wonderful experience, but it can be really hard, too. I had a significant wave of culture shock when I got to the US, and I wasn't always the most mature person in the ways I chose to deal with it. My mom went out of her way to make sure that Ricardo and I had the best vacation possible, that everyone was happy and that things ran smoothly in the short time we had together. I got all hung up on the fact that I was once again in the land of schedules, appointments where you must arrive on time, concrete cities clogged with cars, a house where I am not the decision-maker and things are shared...it was pretty overwhelming at times and instead of just dealing with it, I'm afraid I made my mom feel bad, like I wasn't enjoying my trip.

We hashed it all out in the end, plus a lot of other stuff, but it still makes me feel bad. I hate the feeling that I've spoiled even a second of the precious time we have together. I know my mom feels the same way, and it's heartbreaking to realize that despite our fierce love for each other, we manage to fuck up sometimes. So it goes...

Anyhow...after the Ferry Building we walked down towards Pier 39. It was so bitterly cold, windy and foggy that we decided to take one of those bicycle-driven carriages. Our driver was a loon, but he got us to the sea lions much quicker than if we'd hoofed it. We had some coffee and fudge (yum!) to warm up, then sat and watched all the animals in front of the pier. Ricardo and I decided that the sea lions make noises uncannily simmilar to those made by hippos.

Unfortunately Rico had to leave the next morning to go back to Brasil. It was sad because I wish we'd had more time together, but he was going for a good reason: his mom's birthday on the 11th.

The same day Ricardo left, my friend Erin arrived from Austin. We met a few months after I moved to Austin in 2003 while waitressing at Carrabba's, an italian chain restaurant. Those were some tough months for me, but Erin became a great friend and helped me make it through to a better job and a better spot in my personal life. I had extra frequent flyer miles, so I decided to fly her out to Oakland for the weekend so we could catch up.

We met up with Jamie, another friend from my days in Austin, for some seafood appetizers and cocktails (including a champagne toast - we were really having a decadent evening). We ended up once again at the Ferry Building and took some great photos by the water as the sun went down and the city lights came on.

Here Jamie is dipping me to illustrate what her husband learned how to do in their pre-wedding dance classes. It was pretty impressive, especially considering we were balanced on a little wall and had just had said seafood, champagne and cocktails.

That weekend my aunt and uncle from Denver (the same ones Rico and I went to Botswana with back in June) flew in for a conference in San Francisco. We went to Chinatown for dim sum that Sunday and ate ourselves silly. Here we are (l. to r.): my aunt Michelle, my mom's husband Bob, me, my momma, and Unc (my mom's brother).

Here I am with Erin outside the dim sum restaurant, looking stylish and ready for a day of shopping in Chinatown.

I wish I'd had another 3 weeks to spend in California with my mom, but I have a feeling Rico and I will be back before long...who knows, maybe even to live for a while!

stolen time

I think I~m one of exactly three people in this internet place actually surfing the web. The other two are my friend Jenna and her friend Jason. Everyone else is 1) male, 2) between the ages of 13 and 30, and 3) playing RPG and other assorted arcade and fantasy games. They make a LOT of noise. I~m trying to get in a creative writing mood but it~s not easy given the sirens, explosions, and screeches going on around me. Every few seconds someone yells out ´Porra´ or ´Caralho´ having just exterminated the guy sitting across the table in some dorky fight game.

As you can tell, I~m still struggling with the international keyboard. I can~t wait to get to Mozambique and have a high speed line to plug my laptop in. Also, some of the sites here are restricted, so those of you who follow my Fotolog will note a gap in my postings. For some reason I can~t sign in from any public computers...photos to follow once I get to Africa.

---- ----- ----

I don~t think I could have imagined a more fantastic last day in Austin. I spent the morning packing the last remaining things into the truck - Grandpa Hugh~s red glittery accordeon, a box with stereo equipment, and some dishes. Melvin and Joseph, two of my ex-staff members, came by to help load everything and install the partition in the trailer. We struggled for a while with this large, unwieldy piece of plywood but finally screwed it in place. I used exactly 6 feet of the truck. Perfect planning. Leticia came over and hung out for a bit, then we had to say our goodbyes. Of all the friends I left beind in Austin, she is one I~m certain I~ll see again soon. She is from Rio, and I just know our paths will cross again in this chaotic city. Although I~ve only known Leticia for a few months, it was a surprisingly poignant goodbye. There is a connection between travelers that forms more quickly and sincerely than most ´normal´ friendships, and Le was no exception. We hugged tight, thanking each other and making plans to meet again soon. That~s when it really started to sink in. I had just said goodbye to all my best friends...

Instinct told me to double check my itinerary. I thought I was supposed to leave at 4pm, but when I pulled out my ticket it said 7pm. I had an extra 3 hours to take advantage of the perfect spring day before leaving for Rio! Keith and I started making plans. I felt like a little kid, literally jumping up and down in the middle of his living room when he suggested a motorcycle ride and swimming at Barton Springs.

My poor mom...I don~t mean to worry her unnecessarily, but she has this fear of motorcycles, and I always seem to ride on them when I^m far from her reach. I called to tell her about my new flight time and plans for the afternoon. ´Ali, it gives me quivers in my bones to know that you~re riding on a motorcycle on the day you~re supposed to leave.´

´Don~t worry,´I told her, ´I~m with someone that, together, I´m certain we´re shrouded in good karma.´

I clung to Keith~s back, looking at my reflection in the mirror. The sun was hot on our backs and my hair whipped around my face, too short to pull back. We stopped for smoothies, then headed for the springs. The water in Barton Springs in notoriously cold, so we hung out on the big rocks by the banks for a while, getting to know more about each other. It~s so strange how you can feel so comfortable with somebody and know relatively so little about each other. We told endless stories and baked in the sun, then Keith convinced me to get in the water. It wasn~t as bad as I~d anticipated, but the rocks were slimy and I had to test each step before shifting my weight so I wouldn~t lose my balance. We swam out to the middle of the creek where the current was swift. It was like being on a swimming treadmill, endless breast strokes without advancing forward. Keith grabbed my hands and drew me back upstream, and we made our way back to the shore.

And then it was time to go...

After an intense but tearless goodbye, I loaded my suitcases into the rental car and drove myself to the airport. I sang along to the radio, felt the wind on my face, and started sobbing. This was it.

I dropped off the car, strapped on my backpack, and barely managed to carry all my suitcases to the check-in desk. The Continental agent informed me that the flight to Houston was slightly delayed, but that I should still have time to make my connection to Sao Paulo. I waited at the gate, called my mom and dad, and said phone goodbyes to the remaining friends I hadn~t seen. Closure.

Then the agent announced that the flight was even further delayed. I wouldn~t have time to get the connection in Houston. I would have to stay another night in Austin!!!! I think I was the only happy person in the line of stressed-out travelers waiting at the podium. I called Keith and broke the news...I had another 24 hours in Austin. I took a cab back to his house (my house!), ate some cashews, and thought about my situation. Clandestine time in a city after saying goodbye to everyone I know. I toyed with calling everyone up and organizing one last big night out, but something inside me was against it. I sort of enjoyed the idea of being in a place I wasn~t supposed to be anymore. Only one person knew I was there. Stolen time.

Damn. My internet time is about to run out. More later. I am doing well, enjoying this crazy place, and sleeping more than I ever thought possible.

Love you all.

Last Days.

So this is it. In a few hours I'll be in the plane for Rio. My last few days in Austin were nothing short of amazing. Good friends, sweaty nights dancing downtown, motorcycles and swimming in the creek, and an experience that put a zen smile on my face and reminded me that sometimes the very thing you seek is, quite literally, right next door.

My mind is in a blur. I feel like I'm getting sick and I have symptoms of vertigo. Not exactly the best mood for writing, but God do I have a lot to say! I look forward to spending day after day writing in the courtyard garden in the house in Santa Teresa, banana trees and jacaranda blossoms perfuming the air.

Thank you to everyone that made this chapter in my life so special. I look forward to the next adventures.

I got the truck!!!

UUUUUHUUUUUUUU!!!!! WOOOOOWOOOWOOOO!!!!

The 28' moving trailer fit in the parking lot!!!!!!!!

I literally jumped and skipped around the parking lot yelling, and probably would have kissed the ABF guy had he been slightly younger!

I must capitalize on this burst of ridiculous energy and get a'packin'!

YAAAAAYYYY!!!

TOTAL DISASTER averted

So I think I figured out one of the big reasons behind my recent insomnia. Two nights ago I was tossing and turning at 3am and decided to try something new: counting sheep. I made myself concentrate on the images, giving personality and wardrobe to each sheep, not letting any other thoughts occupy my mind. I created moustached Groucho Marx-style sheep, pucker-lipped Geisha sheep, and boisterous surfer sheep, making each one's journey over the fence last at least 30 seconds. When I reached the 300th sheep, however, I gave up. More frustrated that before, I finally allowed myself to obsess over the remaining planning details I've been stressing over all week.

And then it occurred to me. Something BIG was wrong. Something that had the potential to undermine all of my careful planning and organizing. I DIDN'T HAVE MY PLANE TICKET TO AFRICA!!!!!

No, I didn't forget to *purchase* the ticket. Several weeks ago, on the day I started this blog, I logged onto South African Airways' web site and bought a $1600 ticked from Rio de Janeiro all the way to Maputo. A few minutes later I received a confirmation e-mail, complete with seat assignments, locator number, and credit card info, and filed it away in the travel folder of my Yahoo account. Since I'm so used to e-travel these days, the fact that I didn't have a paper ticket in my posession wasn't immediately alarming. But for travel to infrastructure-challeneged places like Mozambique, you most definitely need a paper ticket. And I didn't have mine!!!

Panic. Clammy palms and feet. More squirming and flopping around on the bed trying to fall asleep. Realization at about 6am that my efforts were futile. Decided to get up and make some coffee, then call the airline until someone answered the phone.

When the South African Airways US ticketing representative finally answered my call, I tried to clearly and calmly expain the problem. "Yes, hi, I purchased a ticket on April 5th on your site, got a reservation confirmation, but have not yet received my paper tickets. Could you please verfy the mailing address you have on file for me?" I was certain that was the problem, just a simple mistake in a data base entry. Maybe they sent them to Brasil by mistake. I gave the woman my locator and she looked up my flight information.

"Miss, I'm showing here that this reservation has been cancelled."

"WHAT????? CANCELLED???? BY WHOM? WHEN? WHY? OH-MY-GOD!!!!"

She put me on hold to check out the situation, cutting off the beginning of my hysterics. About 20 loooooong minutes later, the agent got back on the line with an explanation.

"It was cancelled by the internet." Of course. The internet. That bastard, always the guilty party when something goes wrong and you don't have the faintest idea why.

"Okay...so what do I need to do to get my reservation back?"

She put me on hold again and then, as if rebooking 8 flights was the easiest thing in the world, informed me that everything was good to go. I requested another e-mail itinerary and hung up, suspicious of the ease with which she resolved the situation.

By the end of the day I still had no e-mail itinerary, so I called the airline again. A different agent looked up my reservation and said that it was confirmed and in the system, but that the person responsible for sending the e-mails wouldn't be in until Monday. I called back this morning, still waiting for the itinerary. This time the agent told me that it was impossible for her to send me an e-mail, that I had to go on the SAA site. I started crying I was so frustrated. I went to the site and couldn't find anywhere to request an e-mail. Called back again, and now the person told me that an e-mail request was in the system and that I should have it by the end of the day.

Guess what I still don't have? Yeah. I must say that the customer service provided by South African Airways thus far has been a supreme disappointment. And I'm not going to completely relax until I have the new itinerary and the paper tickets arrive at my mom's house. Those ticketing agents are *really* going to get sick of me.

***

On the brighter side, my landlord finally paid attention to my e-mails and got some guys out here today to prune the trees in the parking lot. I now have well over the 14-foot clearance necessary for the moving truck to squeeze in here tomorrow morning. Now the only problem is the tight little turn in from Lamar Blvd. Please, please, please let the truck fit in the parking lot!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, I'm going to get back to packing. Anyone in Austin that is just dying to pack some boxes, give a call and we'll negotiate. Nothing like a little free labor!

TooMuchToDo!

I feel like my already busy life has been playing in fast-forward these past few days. I wake up at 8am with my mind in a swirl, to-do lists and appointment times repeating over and over, being modified as the reality of all that I have to do sets in. Luna bars, coffee, and Emer'gen-C are the staple components of my diet right now, backed by healthy doses of adrenaline and stress. I put so much time and effort into planning this trip, but even so it seems that I'm perpetually four hours behind schedule. I STILL HAVE SO MUCH LEFT TO DO!!!

I tried to take a nap this evening and couldn't fall asleep, despite my total state of exhaustion. That's when you know it's bad. You can't even get 20 good minutes of rest until everything is checked off, shipped out, and squared away.

My day started out early, depite traces of a hangover from downtown with the brasileiras last night. Leticia and I drove up to North Austin to get my car appraised by a brasilian friend that owns a dealership, then I raced to Vickmay Day Spa for a mini facial and swedish massage. I booked the appointment over a month ago, anticipating the frazzled state I would be in five days before the big move. God, was it a nice break. I made myself put all neurotic tendencies aside and just enjoy the lavendar oils and meditative music before hitting the errands again two hours later.

My friend Jesus gave me *the best* going away present the other day. I have a small obsession with Mr. Natural, this delicious vegetarian mexican restaurant down the street, and have eaten there at least twice a week since moving to Austin. Jesus' family owns the place, and he surprised me with a gift certificate for free meals at Mr. Natural from now until I leave!! So after my spa break, I had tofu sunflower tamales, black beans, and fresh strawberry lemonade for lunch. I plan to stop by for sweet potato empanadas and horchata early tomorrow morning so that I have an extra incentive to get out of bed.

After lunch I went back to the car dealership to seal the deal and sell Phoebe. (We name cars in my family...Inga the Volvo; Pia, Uma, Bibi, and Luna the Saabs; Petey the PT Cruiser, Bob the orange pickup.) It was more sentimental than I'd anticipated to part with my car, but I was happy that she went to a good home. The car dealer's sister, who just had a baby and needed a 4-door sedan, bought the car on the spot and paid me cash! I feel like I have a fatty bank account right now, but I know the bills are going to roll in next month in a big way.

My friend Carmen gave me a ride to the airport and I rented a car to use for the rest of my time in Austin. It's amazing what a luxury it seems to be driving a Dodge Neon. Nothing like power steering and a cd player with good speakers to keep me going!

Erin came over around 7:30 and we made some coffee, put on makeup, and prepared for the latest adventure: a mini road trip to San Antonio to see Juanes in concert!! It was a super show that deserves (and will get) a post all of its own once I get a chance. Suffice to say the night delivered in true Erin-and-Ali style.

It's way too late right now and I keep thinking that I'm spending too much time on writing and not enough time on packing boxes. Gotta get some sleep, even if my dreams are peppered with the same list of errands that has been reeling through my mind nonstop. Tomorrow is wholly dedicated to goodbye celebrations, and I have to wake up early and drive to the lake with all my good friends in tow.

Buenas noches mi gente!!!

Austin is Already Weird

Oh dear God, how do I even begin to whirl together a narrative that will do tonight justice? It was Weird in the best style Austin has to deliver, strange yet strangely perfect. Let me begin with a bit of background...

Every time my friend Erin and I go out, there is this peculiar chemical reaction that takes place and we just attract random, fabulous situations out of nowhere. The night always starts out straightforward enough - "Let's go grab a cocktail," or "We'll just have some dinner and call it an early night." Our intentions are there, but somehow things *never* end up that way. In our evenings together we have crashed parties at strangers' houses, spoken a dozen foregin languages, danced bluegrass, and met members of what I swear is the Moroccan mafia.

We've been on a run lately, though, with each night out somehow surpassing the last in terms of randomness and fabulousness. But tonight...ha! Tonight crowned them all and then ran off, leaving us agape in the parking lot wondering what the hell had happened.

We decided to check out Toni Price's regular Tuesday night gig at the Continental Club, one of Austin's stubbornly authentic haunts on South Congress. Toni's voice filled up the room with blues and Texas twang so soulful it defied her petite frame, pretty face, and long gray hair. She held a drink in her hand, and Erin and I both agreed that the show got increasingly entertaining the more Toni sipped and let her voice go.

After a few minutes, three guys approached us and offered to buy a round of drinks. Now I'm pretty good at the "guess my nationality" game, but these guys had me stumped. From their accents, I would have guessed Scottish, maybe Welsh, like the actors in Trainspotting where you know they're speaking English yet can't understand a damn thing. But the image was all wrong. Although their jeans were tight, a sure sign of a Brit, they were tight in a Belen High School 4-H Club kind of a way, not a metrosexual Europop kind of a way. And they all looked Mexican, especially one guy that resembled my ex-boyfriend Oscar only 40 pounds heavier and much more abrasive. To top it off, these boys knew how to rock the mullet. We're talking bald in front with a nappy, shoulder-length party going on in back. I finally broke down and asked where they were from.

I think it is only appropriate to dedicate this moment to the town of Wallace, Louisiana.

Dear Wallace,

My sincere congratulations. You have perfected the formula for producing top quality, country-fed, mixed ethnicity REDNECKS. May you continue to shape the denizens of St. John the Baptist county with the culture and refined social graces necessary to work at Golden Chick'n and travel the south in an El Camino.

Yours truly,
Ali

Honest to God, I have never met people like the Wallace Three in my entire life. My friend Erin had a leg up, being from the Florida panhandle and all, but even she was shocked at the back-ass-wards-ness of it all. The guys were all half Black and half Dutch, self-described gypsies that wandered the South in the winter and went to Pennsylvania for the summer. "We just laaiiiike to have a real good taaaiiiime, you know, dancin' and draaiiiinkin' and such. We even got a couple uh reeeaaaal good joints, we do laaaiiiike to smoke and all."

Erin and I stepped out to the back alley for some fresh air, and the Wallace boys followed us so they could, um, smoke their good Louisiana joint in the middle of Congress Ave!! They sparked up and slowly attracted a crowd. First this huge hippie man with tie dye, a headband, John Lennon glasses, and a beard down to his chest walked up and joined in the fun. Then, not two minutes later, who should saunter up but Leslie, Austin's most illustrious homeless cross-dressing political advocate. How weird is this city, you ask? Just last year Leslie ran for mayor, decked out in his fuschia thong and devilish goatee, pushing for less corruption in the police department.

And there we were, watching Leslie, the large hippie, and the Louisiana rednecks smoke pot in the middle of a busy street on a Tuesday night. Doesn't seem like the "Keep Austin Weird" campaign has much to worry about. And I don't, either. Life is good.

Erin and I walked back into the Continental Club and danced the night away to a Western Swing band with an upright bass and an accordion, laughing at the characters we'd met. Truly, we agreed, the night had been the epitome of Austin.

Oh, I will miss this strange, delightful place.

I Hung Out With Leslie Tonight

Leslie, Austin's infamous homeless cross-dressing ex-mayoral candidate, just one of the colorful characters that shaped my evening.

For more on Leslie and his politics, check out http://www.austinchronicle.com/issues/dispatch/2003-03-14/pols_atlarge.html

Lord Help Us All...

(posted this evening on the mailbox, by the washing machines, and on my front door)

Hello Neighbors –

I am moving to Africa next week and will be loading all my things into a 28’ trailer starting on Tuesday 4/26 and ending Thursday 4/28.

I am planning on parking the trailer in the two southern-most parking spots in the lot (by the fence and empty lot). If you see orange cones in the parking lot on Monday, it’s just me trying to save those spots for the truck.

If you have any questions or concerns about this, please see me in apartment #213 or give a call.

Best,
Ali

New Heights of Laziness

There's something about moving that not only brings about new levels of slothfulness, it also provides a sweet justification. I think we all can agree that I have a bit of a messy side, but honest to God - this is getting out of control.

My house looks like a hurricane swept through several times, scattering books and art supplies and clothes in its wake. And why would I bother actually folding the laundry or shelving my clutter when I'm going to turn around and pack it all up tomorrow? That would just be illogical and a waste of precious time.

Use actual silverware and dishes? Hah! Not when I'm too lazy to handwash and don't want to waste energy with the dishwasher. My meals from now until I leave the country will be either 1) take out, 2) on paper plates/in plastic cups, or 3) in the form of protein bars. Good, balanced nutrition I tell you.

The height of this newfound laziness can be seen in my bedroom. Granted I don't make the bed every morning, but I do regularly wash the sheets, change the duvet cover, and tidy up when company comes. But now...now that I have no visitors and I'm shipping everything out to California, I can't seem to find the motiviation to even put a fitted sheet on my bed. I'm currently sleeping directly on top of a foam egg-crate mattress pad, covered only by a crocheted blanket my stepmom made when I was in college. Forget sheets or pillow covers or hospital corners! And secretly I'm loving it - some of the best sleep I've ever had. I never knew that foam could be so downy soft and comforting...

*** *** ***

So the theme of the day is dropping lots of cash on stuff for the move. In the space of 3 hours, I spent:

$65 on beads, pliers, stringing wire, and clasps for my jewelry making (taking it all to Africa - I have visions of making elaborate tribal necklaces with local beads)

$19 on yarn and knitting needles (making a blanket for my god-daughter who will be born in June, shortly after I arrive in Chimoio)

$98 on boxes, bubble wrap, packing tape, and dish protectors (why is it so damn expensive?)

$1,115 on global health insurance. (necessary, but hopefully unnecessary)

Good thing I'm selling my car on Friday otherwise I'd be squeezing the last drops out of my bank account right about now. I'm always amazed at how expensive it is to move!!!

Well, I'm off to pack and clean. Leatrice is coming over tonight to pick up about half of my furniture and my tv. At the moment, you can't see the surface of my kitchen table it is so covered with STUFF!

Carlos delivers a reality check

My friend Erin recently spent 6 weeks in China and Tibet doing an internship in oriental medicine. She had a fantastic time, and came back with one main piece of advice:

Don't take yourself too seriously.

Just to be sure I got the message, life conjured up a lovely little reality check for me last Thursday. My friend Carlos and I had plans to see this tokaido japanese drumming group perform at the Texas Union ballroom. We were waiting to cross Martin Luther King, one of the main streets near the UT campus, when a truck full of construction-type guys drove by and honked. I automatically assumed they were honking at me, and started complaining about how people have no respect for pedestrians and we are not just nice pieces of ass to be gawked at on the street.

Carlos cracked up and said, "Ali, they were honking at the bus." Apparently a city bus was taking forever to move and I missed it all because I was facing the oncoming traffic and ranting about the men in the truck.

Sigh. Nothing like a good, sound reality check every once in a while. I did laugh really hard, though, to the point that my stomach hurt. And I think Carlos was entertained as well.

Well, I'm running around today trying to do as many errands as possible before it starts to rain. Highlights on my list include:

- buy lots and lots of moving boxes
- drop off dry cleaning
- apply for health insurance in Mozambique
- find a fax machine to use now that I've quit my job
- return a million phone calls and e-mails
- go to Nia
- walk to the convenience store on the corner in hopes that somebody will honk at me and my self-esteem will be redeemed!

Goodbye #1: Dad Comes to Austin

My dad came to visit me in Austin this past weekend. It was his first trip to any of the places I've ever lived outside New Mexico, and definitely a new experience for both of us.

I've always visited my dad at his house near Tome, not 5 miles from Adelino, the sleepy hispanic town where I was raised in the Rio Grande Valley. By default his house has become my home base in New Mexico now that both my mom and I have given up permanent residence. I have been "home" 4 times since moving to Austin, always happy for the chance to see old friends, but this time it was his turn. Te tocaba a ti, dad.

My cell phone rang earlier than it should have. I was still on my way down Highway 71, a couple of minutes from the airport.

"Hey dad, I'll be right there. I'm just around the corner." I tried to will the car to go faster. How did I end up being late? I planned everything so well...

"Okay, pup. I'm waiting in front of exit 2 near baggage claim."

It had been at least 10 years since the last time my dad called me "pup." I smiled and wondered if it had been at all conscious. My smile turned to a laugh when I pulled around the corner and finally saw him. My dad was wearing his signature tweed jacket and driving cap, with a khaki fly fishing vest thrown over the whole getup in the spirit of practical travel. Allen Ginsberg meets Orvis. Nice. We hugged and got back in the car, driving past bluebonnets and gentleman's clubs towards the city.

I have always liked hanging out with my dad. We have great conversations about everything from the second amendment to Quentin Tarantino's new martial arts effects. Hands down the best storyteller I know, he narrates with such involvement that your breath catches in anticipation of the details. I have been his audience for countless stories and even a few photography classes, but never his tour guide. I really wanted him to see my life in Austin, understand a bit more about what I've experienced in the last few years.

My dad's trip was particuarly important for me in terms of finding closure before moving to Africa. Just over a year ago I got a phone call from my stepmom in the middle of the night that made my stomach drop.

"Your dad had a heart attack!" She was hysterical, and it was difficult for me to understand exactly what had happened through her sobs. My stepbrother took over the conversation.

"Your dad tried to convince everyone it was just a bad burrito he'd eaten for lunch. They've got him scheduled for an angioplasty tomorrow."

When I finally spoke with my dad on the phone later that day, he was on morphine and I could barely recognize his quiet, slurred words. At least I knew he was alive. I flew back to New Mexico on the first flight out and spent the next three days on the sofa, just eating enchiladas and knitting. The whole experience had shaken me more than I was willing to admit, and my cheeks actually ached from putting on a strong face.

My dad's heart attack was the closest I ever want to get to losing someone I love without the chance to say goodbye. Too often we censor ourselves, holding back kind words and warm hugs because we see no justification for a sentimental outporing on a regular old Tuesday. We take it for granted that our loved ones will be with us on Wednesday, and Thursday, and each day after that. But there are no guarantees, especially with an ex-smoker that puffed for 40 years before ending up on the operating table.

My dad and I had such a nice time together this past weekend, just hanging out and having lazy conversations. We ate breakfast on Sunday at Cafe Mundi, this hidden hippie cafe next to the railroad tracks with a garden full of banana trees. Despite the overcast weather, we sat outside and ate migas while boat-tailed grackels looked on greedily. Then the raindrops started and we decided to drive west to Fredericksburg, an old German colony in the middle of the Texas hill country.

The hour and a half drive went by in a blur. My dad rigged his iPod up to my cassette deck and we jammed out to Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, and Miles Davis. Bright swaths of poppies and black-eyed susans blanketed the side of the highway, the colors running together to create long ribbons of red and yellow. About 7 miles outside Fredericksburg we came across Texas' version of a heat mirage: endless fields of wildflowers planted so close together they looked like solid blocks of color. We stopped and took pictures in the middle of the flowers, then treated ourselves to big bowls of homemade peach ice cream.

Further down the road we hit Fredericksburg's historic downtown. It felt like everything had been frozen in time around 1925. The wide main street was teeming with people window shopping and eating chunks of fudge, enjoying the sunny weather. We gawked at the old limestone buildings and wrought iron ornaments, and wandered through a few courtyards before heading back to Austin for some dinner.

The South Congress Cafe delivered great food once again, with the tomato-roquefort soup and crab enchiladas the definite highlights of the meal. I love dining in Austin - everything is so pointedly hip, but you can always get away with wearing jeans and boots even in the trendiest of places. Full and happy, we drove back to my apartment and settled in for a night of dorking out on the computer and learning how to use my new 40G iPod.

And then, before I knew it, Monday arrived and it was all over. Time to go to the airport, time to kick off my last week of work, time to say goodbye. We stood on the curb outside the Southwest check-in area and looked at each other, not knowing exactly how to proceed.

Sometimes the most significant moments in life can be strangely anti-climactic, especially if they are planned out. You want everything to be seeped in meaning, profound and beautiful enough to last you a lifetime if necessary. The thing is, you can go through the motions but it takes time for those memories to really develop. You aren't hit with the flood of emotions until you are half a world away and several months have gone by. Then you realize how important that field of flowers was, how special the endless conversations about music were, and how you don't have any of it anymore except stored away in your mind.

"This has been a wonderful, wonderful weekend, Ali." My dad stepped forward and gave me the biggest hug his small frame could manage.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm glad you made it out here."

"Enjoy this hug," he said, "it's going to have to last us for quite a while." I squeezed him back tight and stared up at the thick, hazy clouds overhead. How do you hug hard enough when you are painfully aware it might be the last time?

The whole time my dad was in Austin, we never directly addressed that point. We talked about his nitrates, and the fact that he's now addicted to Altoids (cigarette substitute!), and how he has good cholesterol levels - but we never talked about the fact that he might die while I'm away having adventures in Africa! For me, it was a constant undercurrent to the trip, but I was afraid to really bring it up. I didn't want to seem morbid, or speak words that would take on a prophetic power and later fill me with guilt, like somehow by talking about my dad's mortality I would have indadvertently guaranteed his untimely passing. The problem is, by not acknowledging the all-too-real possibility that I might never see my dad again, things were left unsaid. So let me say them now...

I appreciate you, I forgive you, I admire you, and I love you.

Job Hazards Redefined

At approximately 10:30 this morning, the women's bathroom on the first floor of our office filled up with smoke. Nasty, acrid clouds filled the stalls and blurred the mirror, but nobody could find the source. Ms. Faye called the fire department and we all hung out in the parking lot waiting for the truck.

How's that for symbolism? It's my last day at work and the building is going to burn down.

We heard the sirens coming down Cesar Chavez, and not one but *two* fire trucks pulled up to the building. Guess not much was going on in East Austin this morning. The firefighters checked out the bathroom, but by this time most of the smoke had cleared out. It was just a blown circuit. Blame it on the shoddy 1970's wiring running through the bat-infested attic.

Yes, that's right, *bat* infested. Last week as I was walking down the hall to my office, I came face-to-face with a Mexican fruit bat that was hanging on the ceiling, wings all splayed out, beady little bat eyes staring back at me. I screamed, dropped my coffee, and nearly tumbled down the stairs. Mr. Roy, one of our senior volunteers and a no-nonsense kind of a guy, trapped the bat in a box and took it out by the dumpster. Turns out it was the third one inside the building that week. Someone from the City came by to collect the critter and test it for rabies, and took a look in our crawlspace to see if any more were roosting up there. There were. Ah, the perils of living in Austin, home to the largest urban bat colony in the world.

It's 4:22pm now and I'm getting ready to take down my prevention posters and load up the car. Goodbye, bats. Goodbye working in the barrio. Goodbye underpaid, overworked position.* It's been quite the experience.

*just for the record, I am getting ready to start an even more underpaid, overworked job next month. damn humanitarian, do-good-for-my-community, nonprofit world!!!

I love you, Prevention!

My staff threw me a surprise going away party today at work. I could tell something was up when people kept peeking in my door and inventing nonsense conversations to keep me at my desk. But I never imagined that everyone was waiting for me in the conference room with roses, South African wine, sushi, and a delicious cake.

I tried to capture nearly two years in a five minute speech. Working in HIV Prevention has been one of the most valuable experiences of my life, and I have met such wonderful people in the process. I think back to where we started with the program, how many obstacles were in place - both personal and professional - and am unbelievably proud that we somehow overcame everything and created not only a strong team, but beautiful friendships along the way.

I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out my office and shredding old files. Everything still seems so normal - my phone still rings, my inbox is still full, people still come down the hall to ask if I want catfish or enchiladas for lunch. It still hasn't really hit me that tomorrow is my last day at The Wright House.

Dad in a field of poppies outside Fredericksburg, Texas.