Saving the Cork Tree in Portugal

I remember standing barefoot in an 1800's kitchen with a warm copper-brown floor, in front of an old gas stove, making some tea for Rhiannon and I to help alleviate our existential crisis.

"This is the thing," said she. "I could stay here forever, or go back to London, or go live in a flat in France somewhere, or go farming in Spain. Either way, I think I'd be happy."

And since that crisis in Italy almost three years ago, to my crisis now, I think the same thing.

Then I said:
I could go work for this organization that's trying to save and reclaim cork tree habitat in Portugal and Southern Spain. Or I could live in Barcelona. Or I could move back to our Russian apartment and get an internship with a nonprofit downtown.

Now I'm saying:
I can go back to the University of Chicago to study labor relations and political thought. I can work for the most powerful union in the country, and bring Marx back. I can go to Bangladesh and Cuba, and Portugal and México D.F. and resume the life that's been on pause since August started.

And when I think about the future, I'm thinking:
I could have dinner with my children and their grandparents in Utah. Or I could be going to plays with my partner in Chicago. Or I could be gardening like a madwoman on a small дача outside of St. Petersburg.

I've been reading this book lately, Stumbling upon Happiness that explains why we're so damn bad at predicting what will make us happy. It's simple, of course. We make decisions for the future with information we only have in the present. (Ie, the idea of having kids makes me happy. I liked Lisbon when I visited last year, so of course, I would like to live and work in Portugal three years from now.)

We have no idea, however, how that new, changed, Ksenia-in-28-hours, or Ksenia-in-28-years will think, feel, and react. Much less what she will like or desire. And that's how we make mistakes. And a lot of them.

But I do believe that's what much of life is--circling in on that happiness, approximating it, getting it wrong, and trying again.

Here's to getting closer every time, (and a little closer to Portugal!)

Glad you Came.

 "I said I wish it didn't have to be like this
I'm thinkin he might miss her if she be my miss
She said don't be foolish, you gotta do this
Let the whole city know what the truth is
Said boy you got stuff to do
Said girl I woulda gave it all up for you
I feel invincible when I'm holdin you
But as far as love goes I'm 0-for-2"

Niamh says:

"I don't want to go to Russia unless I can go to Russia with you."

I Think you Lost me when you Pushed me on the Labor Thing, Darling.

About a year ago:

All I ever want to do is environmental work.

About six months ago:

All I ever want to do is love you.

Now:

All I want to do is unionize, unionize, unionize! 

Please Remember that I always Lied

Oh, Chicago. How many times now I have washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan, asking to take the bridge. And how many times I've ridden your electric L lines, and made love to your straight curves.

You remind me of her, Chicago, and by her, this time I mean me. 

Because there are girls that you write love letters to, and because there are girls that you write love letters in cyrillic to. 

Enchiladas durangeñas

I love Mexican food, but there is one item in particular that I think about at least once a day: enchiladas durangeñas.

My host mother, originally from Durango, introduced me to these. They’re simply a fried (not quite deep fried, but definitely fried over very hot heat in a pan with lots of oil) tortilla, doubled over, with cheese in the middle. The secret ingredient, however, is in the smoky chili that goes both inside and outside the tortilla.

I usually have these for breakfast, although once, I was fortunate enough to have them for lunch as well. They’re the perfect breakfast food, and although in other times, a greasy, spicy, cheesy snack seems inappropriate, it’s a wonderful way to wake up. Actually, it’s probably always a good idea, at all times of the day. 

*Before I came to México, I always thought enchiladas were mini-burritos, or taco roll-ups, drenched in sauce and topped with cheese and sour cream. Not so. They are almost always a thin folded over tortilla, with meat, cheese, and sauce in the middle. 

Conclusion of the day

Minnesota is righteous, in the best possible way. 

I Wore His Plaid

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xjdkc14-zwQ

(The banjo player's. Really.)

I could never pretend that I don't love you.
You could never pretend that I'm your man.
And you know that I'm doomed to repeat this,
with all the bad habits that I've learned.


***
Going on a date tomorrow, because love is never overrated. 

From Chicago, with Love

Some say that you can never leave Chicago; that one of the world's strongest magnetic pulls resides in the heart of the Loop; that people come, and always subconsciously stay. 

I've met three of the most beautiful women in the world here--

One, in Jimmy's, a dark bar with multiple rooms that professors frequent before noon. Her intricate tattoos, smoking, and grey sweater didn't dare hide the voluptuous, begging, exotic beauty of her rare face. 

One, on the train, on my way home from a sweaty, jumpy, once-in-a-lifetime Russian concert. My hair was drenched, and my cheeks were rosy, and I was in such a stupor at such great music and such great life that I couldn't help but stare at this cloaked woman, wrapped up in her dark winter coat, with the biggest saddest eyes, and the loveliest, most wavy hair. She was going through pure heartbreak, absorbed in her own romantic problems, ignorant of her own remarkable presence. 

One, downtown, at a brand new vegan restaurant. This woman, with her relaxed stature, easy smile, and zany hair, said "cubano" in the most tempting, Latin way, that made you want to scream, "alta! I'm sold! Cásate conmigo!" You've been waiting for someone that knows what good chai is for so long. 

I've fallen in love three times here. Those experiences are much too intense, and still much too vivid to do justice to in brief words. But I will say this, about each one of them--

I'll always smile, with tears at my eyes, at the red chestnut tree in front of Gates-Blake 211, the room I always return to every campus visit, to leave you a love note on the board. 

I doubt I will ever make key-lime pie again, as scrumptious as it was, in honor of those truly special people you just have to lose. 

Every time I walk into a library, I half-expect to run into that person in a fedora and multi-colored everything; I laugh now, reading about her farming and biking adventures, thinking I could have ever made her blueberry muffins on a Sunday afternoon. 

I've committed the most dramatic, romantic acts of love here--

Coming back on a chilly winter night, I decided to spill Mexican hot chocolate in the shape of "Te Amo" in the snow outside of your apartment, and sign it in an almost decipherable penmanship. 

I ran about half a mile through windy, stormy weather, to tell you something really, really neat about Borges, and Neruda, and you weren't there, so I sat on your stoop for three hours, and then I went home. 

I wrote three poems for you, by the lake, in the bathtub, on a bench, and sent you one line at a time, so you would never forget, and so I would never leave. 

This is Chicago, my friends. It is good, and it is bad, but mostly it is big. Big enough for all of the love you'll find, and all of the love you'll lose, big enough for so, so much love. Big enough to house a delicious life, big enough to provide you with the most genuine, sincere friendships, and big enough to make you always want to return and explore its other pockets, turns, and gifts. 

Return to the Nuclear Abyss

Thus in silence in dreams' projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all dark night - some are so young;
Some suffer so much - I recall the experience sweet and sad...

Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass, 1876


*Socializing with the DC gay art elite, on the streets of tense hearts and unripe watermelons.