beauty and then some

Academic peonage has its benefits as we are able to order piles of gorgeously colorful tomes and indulge every urge of our intellectual and creative ids.

I've loved stained glass as long as I could remember, but Harry Clarke took things to a whole other level. I really don't know how he languishes in such obscurity.





and the book illustrations! I wish I could draw with that kind of gorgeous detail.



In my late 20s, I've found that I've rediscovered things I loved in childhood that I didn't have access to after reading all the books in the library that looked interesting and not having access to things like OhioLink and the Internet.

My sister and I loved fairy tales as a kid, Perrault, Andersen, The Brothers Grimm, and Andrew Lang, and my grandparents had faded volumes with fraying cloth bindings and I loved the illustrations which had so much drama and detail and the more obscure tales, leading to reading lots of fantasy. I still have volumes of this stuff at home that I picked up at sundry booksales and such. I never realized that Russia had such amazing illustrators in the 19th century.

I wish there was an paint-by-number set, but I'm getting plates of these ones etched, even if the content seems a bit strange for hanging on the living room wall. That Art Nouveau sensibility while evoking illuminated manuscripts and folk art, it's just a beautiful thing.





Vasilisa the Beautiful is not just pretty, but she's smart too, and given that Halloween is three days from now, this feels somewhat appropriate.

I stumbled across Virginia Sterrett's work and it reminded me of that sense of wonder I had when I first started reading such things.





and of course, Dulac's take on Poe...





I also wanted to be a ballerina when I was seven, and jumped around my parents' living room to Tchaikovsky and roller-skated with my sister in the basement to those greatest hits classical records (Beethoven's Biggest Hits) slowly destroyed by a Fisher-Price turntable that my dad refused to let us put his records on. He's a smart man.

Vrubel's Swan Princess reminds me of the Trina Schart Hyman book of the folktale I got from the library when I was little, but more impressionistic...



And, as an arty kid with a religious bent, Victor Vasnetsov is a balm for my soul, an antidote for the Thomas Kinkades of the world.






Evelyn Paul's illustrations are lovely, understated and that medieval-evoking thing going on as well,





And Kay Nielsen, who died in poverty, leaving behind some incredible beauty as well.





And this, this is beautiful too.

minty

A cup of peppermint tea, and the apathetic revision of the Purgatorial Paper, glad that I cut class today to be outside in the October sun, that there was art making and art-walking. Looked at paintings so well-executed and generic. The conspicuous consumption innocuous status symbol, like cracker jazz but executed in oils and framed expensively instead of bloodless guitar and Kenny G saxophone. Still lifes of wineglasses and saxophones in luxurious settings, landscapes or seaside villages stripped of mystery and patina.

I find myself smirking at the artist descriptions, like oh you're so unique because you paint half naked women with a palette knife. Deep, man. I did that in my art major days. Everyone else is wearing suits except for me and my sister and her friend. They ignore us. He's snarking about "rich people" and itching to tag every street sign and lamppost before he moves away, she doesn't say much, because upstairs is the apartment of her friend who got murdered this summer. I try to pet the little foofoo dog and it shies away from me, afraid of my janitor keyring and leather jacket. We part ways.

And so I'm here in the corner, too brain-drained to write creatively, nothing to really say, because I've come home every night this week and gone to sleep. A birthday party for the bro-in-law tomorrow, Rival Schools on Sunday night. I haven't gone to a show every weekend since I was a grad student. I still don't know how to plan, but life seems to go on just fine.

I can't see you but I see what's in my way

Waiting for the bus, trying to navigate this whole insurance agent thing, driving through the rain to the east side sucking on cough drops, listening to Janelle Monae, zoned out, but still able to find my way, sitting in a room next to a dusty vending machine reading as the radio plays country music, coming home and turning on the radio to hear an Amber alert that breaks my heart as I drive down Harvard past boarded-up houses and steelyard bars and then coming down Denison to see the street blocked off and I find out that there was a shooting up there, and I just want to go home, so tired and wet.

But I haven't been to the art center in awhile, didn't get much done, but hung out with a fellow creative, puzzled over sheets and shapes of copper, jars of colored powders and chunks of glass and plotted future projects, deferring work on Paper From Hell Number 1 another day.

I just want to take a half day off and listen to Neil Young and watch the rain, shake the sleepiness, the sore throat and ennui, the discontentedness so unnecessary, sift through the halfhearted wants and incoherent thoughts. There are so many.

refract and reflect

The drop in temperature is welcome, the rain picking up flecks of red light reflecting in puddles on the roof next door, the flickers of lightning, the thirsty garden watered.

I've been off-kilter the last couple days, a little more visibly cranky as opposed to the mercurial moodiness, brought on by the accumulation of small pet peeves and larger frustrations still minuscule in the great scheme of things. Tacky and catty women and pretentious wuss rockers are nothing compared to dealing with things that really suck, which is what the rest of the world has to deal with all the time.

But it's welcome to finally having a night of some degree of inspiration and time to execute after poring over piles of art books accumulating in the living room of gold covered icons and luminescent stained glass, illuminated manuscripts, architecture of Goa churches, and intricate jewelry from wilder parts of ancient Europe, not really sure why I've been inspired by the medieval and Arts and Crafts lately, maybe it's the abstraction and the richness in detail, the subject matter timeless, the intensity and translucence, the labors of love and sweat for patronage and devotion, great beauty made in dark and uncertain times.

Things have always been corrupt and lame and empires inevitably fall so I've checked out of the political debate, keeping up only enough to know what's going on but nothing more, because each side keeps blaming the other when both sides do the exact same thing especially when it comes to dealing with people on the other side of the world whose blood and lives are evidently considered less worthy than our own. My cousins are stocking up on silver and gold and I guess they have their reasons, but if the shit hits the fan, you can't eat it or wear it to stay warm or burn it for fuel. I don't know.

I've got three weeks left of enameling before the city moves that part of the arts center to the east side and the process of cleaning, scrubbing, filing off fire scale and sifting powders with names like 'flame' and 'wisteria' made of unknown quantities. After a few months of doing this, I can kind of figure out what I'm doing, but I don't do anything all that epic after the unsatisfying attempt at cloisonne, considering that beautiful and handmade Christmas gifts containing unknown amounts of lead and who knows what else may not be the best plan.

Theophilus in his 10th century text on the 'Divers Arts' describes the processes of metalworking, mixing paint, and constructing stained glass and enamelled pieces, and it was even more labor intensive, to keep the coals hot and the pieces melting at the right temperatures, making ones own bellows out of sheepskin and glue from the gooey bits of sturgeon and eel, pigments from mercury, sulphur, lead.

Being unvocationally trained and not affluent, I use canvases found in the closeout section of Marc's, Magic Markers to trace designs and fill in blank spaces. When mixed on gesso, spread by brush, they're forgiving and wonderful, especially when mixed with the wax of Prismacolor pencils. A late night tomorrow means finally getting to break out the acrylics. It's been too long.

sculpted

I wasn't happy with the results of some of my last projects, but this last kiln batch had three gorgeous drinking vessels in it, one dramatic with its red and blacks, one swirling with blues like the ocean, and one with the perfect drips of white and orange over dark blue. Reinspired to pound out clay and shape into more graceful forms, incising and rolling, immersed in the act of shaping. These were meant to give away but they're so pretty that I have them sitting on the dining room table as inspiration while I plot future projects and refires of the duds.

It was so beautiful out that after dinner we walked down to the carnival where the life-sized cardboard cutout of Pope Benedict stood watch over the revelers singing Italian standards, eating greasy food, and screaming on gloriously creaky carnival rides. Bad tattoos and cutoffs, hipsters and guidos. There were even quarter games for the kids, gambling for the grade school set, colorful ducks floating in an inflatable kiddie pool.

I didn't have my camera or any cash, but one of my good friends from the suburbs to the east is coming over for a night of chillness that will probably consist of what most of my hanging out with anyone consists of... some combination of random discourse, loud music, food, and hanging out on the beach or wandering through the city. I'm easily entertained and like it when others are just as easily amused. It's the pleasure of the company after all, the destination is the afterthought.

I've set up a kitchen chair on the balcony, to pick up the neighbor's wireless signal, do some writing without being social and listen to Dead Can Dance while being the premature old lady watching the world go by. I've loved the sky these past couple nights, the way the moon ascends through a lace mantle of grey clouds tossed across the sky. I tried to take pictures off the balcony last night but they didn't come out so well, so I just try to remember, and think of samurai writing haiku about cherry blossoms in the twilight.

The inspiration has come from so many places, from stained glass and the myriad hues and shapes of leaves and flowers, wisps of sky and glimpses of sun, reading and listening and trying to soak in everything. There is only one true creator, and we made in that image have that impulse, but can only document the beauty of the light and what it reveals and rearrange the matter already in place, repurposing and recycling, taking ink and paint to paper, shaping the clay of the earth into things of use and beauty, painting with chemicals and flecks of glass and crystal, to catch a glimpse of vision and be able to hold its gaze for just a moment.

these are a few of my favorite things

The cure for the summer blues is the blue of the water, be it communing with the Divine in solitude beneath a willow tree or out adventuring down the stairs to the hidden beach. The proximity of waves and wind, the undulations on the sand and the sunsets, the way the most familiar is always new. I could watch the water for hours and if I was into the whole personal ad thing I could say in all honesty that I dig long walks on the beach, which is not a romantic thing at all, really, just something I enjoy.



When we had no money, we'd come down there, to run barefoot, to roll up our jeans and let the crushed zebra mussels chip away toenail polish, drinking sangria in the pavilion and orange crush on the beach, laying on the rocks under the setting sun, writing messages in the sand to be washed away. So close, and yet such an escape to be in the elements rather than shut in by walls of concrete. I come down here and feel alive again.



There are prettier beaches, and cleaner ones, and we have a lake, no ocean here. The
only ocean I've ever swam in was New Jersey ocean for what it's worth. Maybe I'm not spoiled because I've never seen water so blue and clear that you can see all the way down and I don't know what I'm missing. My connection here is emotional if anything.



I feel most at home when I'm near rust and water, old things that are familiar. I thought the desert was beautiful but I had a strange anxiety looking at the newness and artificiality imposed on a hostile land that blisters in the heat. "It's because rust runs through your veins, it's a part of you" says a friend of mine who knows me well.

The summer is when we come back to life, resurrected by long days and the sun that keeps us alive and eventually kills us. I made dinner the past few nights with the harvest of my garden, the front porch smells of lavender and citronella, the tangle of the seeds scattered has manifested itself.



The creativity has returned to the scarred walls, fresh paint and creative souls, vines growing through the concrete.







Despite all restlessness and grieving the messed-up-ness of the world, there is still joy here and beauty in the strangest places. I can never be bored even if I tried.

cathedral heat

Seeking change of scene and refuge from the rain. I remember being bored at mass, staring up at the stained glass windows, playing with the filigree cross on my grandma's rosary as she told me to sit still.

I can't remember not being enamored by the sun streaming through the colored glass, and it was one of the things I missed when we stopped being Catholic, as the protestants and evangelicals don't tend to be as into the aesthetic, and I guess from a pragmatic standpoint, to have a beautiful building at the expense of helping people would be a bad way to use one's resources, but I love the architecture in ways I can't explain. I know that the church is not the building, that it's the people of God, but to be able to come down here and sit and wander around... it does something for me.



The luminescent hues, the attention to detail, so many things that jumped out at me when I looked at my shots afterwards, shots that don't do this place justice.





I don't know if these are old or new, hodgepodged pieces surrounding very medieval looking figures. I like the ancient green that reminds me of beach glass. I still throw my glass bottles in the lake in hopes that the surf will pound it into pebbles for the next generation to find.

the longest day

With the joyous light that sustains us and burns us out in time, I've been outside every chance I get, with the camera and the occasional companion on sundry small adventuring. I'm not entering the Downtown Cleveland Alliance photo contest unless I send in something absurd. Glamourous and boosterific is not my strong suit, hence my self-definition as Peonage.





Supersonic Weeds of Sweetness.

And it's beautiful this time of year, I'm in love with chlorophyll and the translucent green of leaves filtering the close star's light, the shade of trees hanging over sidewalks, humid nights infused with the scent of honeysuckle, moonflower, and climbing roses that grow over every chain link fence in the almost-hood, where freakishly perfect suburban-style lawns are refreshingly rare.



Even the sterility of UnhappyHipsters-esque architecture is enlivened by the carpet of wildflowers juxtaposed against the blue lake and the towers of downtown.





It feels too hot to cook, so I drink lemonade and sit beneath the ceiling fan, needing time to be introverted before resurfacing into the outside world. It's the longest day of the year, but the time in which it falls seems incredibly brief.

remedies

I played with different colors tonight, trying to replicate the scheme on my last project, only with more green, and then doing a smaller cup with bright blue and speckled orange, dripping layers of red over the top and listening to Michael Stanley play double-shots of Led Zeppelin and U2, realizing that I don't know any Scorpions songs besides 'Rock You Like a Hurricane.' The unknown factor of heat and chemicals means I really don't know what's totally going to happen, but the process is so soothing after being at a desk all day.

I gave up on trying to mow the lawn with the push mower and used the weedwhacker to tame the savannah height grass in the backyard and met up with my partner in art and spiritual existentialism for takeout and drinking tea on the back porch and watching the sun set. We haven't had girl time in awhile and it was much-needed even though it still gets dark too early to take any long walks. There are certain summer sounds when the night falls and the hum of traffic gives way to the faint pulse of music and snatches of conversation.

And I totally had this on repeat in the car today. The video is funny to me because it's got Scott-Weiland-level snakedancing in velvet pants and Chris Robinson is wearing earrings almost as ridiculously dangly as mine. But that chorus with the backup vocals, the mellotron, my Parmastani roots of Led Zeppelin and Creedence, I've got no shame in this.

indecision clouds my vision...

I drove from the east side to the west in the rain with earplugs in my ears, a roaring engine, a continual metallic grind that turned out to be my exhaust pipe dangling on the ground. It was so loud that when I got to the shop, the mechanic came outside to meet me because he could hear it all the way down the street and gave me a ride home so I didn't have to walk in the cold and wet.

I appreciated it, but ended up going back out, bundled up in layers like winter, to pay rent, circle around a block of streets I once frequented more often. I keep hoping I'll see my old Puerto Rican neighbors because I kind of disappeared last year, but it's still too cold. Kids were getting out of school and the old men were sitting on park benches like they always do.

Having a couple extra hours for hibernation has been good, spent in classic single chick style with the neighbor's kitties, episodes of Daria, tea and mango ice cream. Any attempt at creativity has eluded me for awhile now, and it seems I'm only good for snarky asides and I'm going to try and conjure up a painting for some friends getting married next week though I can't decide what I want to do with it besides some colors already laid out and some designs to work with. I hope the inspiration comes soon because it's just not there right now.

cool water and cool wind

The roads were like rivulets as I hoped I wouldn't get stuck or flood my engine with rainwater on the way to Lakewood, wondering where the omnipresent Linndale police are when someone broke down on 117th and could actually use some assistance. My landlord called to tell me I have a new neighbor, that she's very nice and has two and a half dogs, since a chihuahua doesn't count as a real canine in his book.

We drank coffee and went to the art museum, where people kept worrying about her walking up stairs and congratulating her and her husband. We checked out the really nice Asian art exhibit but spent most of the time in with the Byzantines, medieval relics, and Renaissance paintings, concluding that cherubs and satyrs are equally creepy.

I actually linger in front of my favorite works and analyze the color choices, pigments, brushstrokes, get inspired by the intricacies of cloisonne and champlevee enamel work, but the snark also comes out in full force too. "It's because of all those times we went to the art museum with Dad." My dad's not really artsy so nothing's terribly sacred as far as culture goes and we find everything funny.

But in all seriouness, these two muses by Meynier out of series of five are my favorites because of the drama, the epic size, and they just look so badass with all the falling comets and everything. If I had a palatial estate, I'd want these in my dining room.





Spicy Indian food makes me sleepy and because we're so cool we went to the Lakewood Library where I loaded up on history books about Somaliland, Vikings, old Paris, the Black Sea, and Eritrea and a huge stack of CDs. Lots of other people spend Saturday night at the library even if it's just for the fantastic movie selection. Tea and reading and cats who love doomy power chords seems like way more fun right now. And sleep. Sleep is good.

interlude

Instead of clay, I ended up eating dinner with the parents, as we wait for Baby and I'm thankful that my dad's doing better than he was, and I came back trying to figure out what to do with the rest of a cool night, not wanting to stay inside, not wanting to go see anybody's band, not wanting to do anything too epic.

So I drove down to the art walk in Tremont to wander and explore, because it's easier to walk alone in the dark when there's a lot of other people around, and I'm always up for gazing at beautiful things, but after being in awe of gorgeous illustrations, generic Cleveland skyline photos and overpriced jewelry just wasn't all that exciting, and the people-watching seems to get less and less arty and more, well, swanky, all the time. It was definitely date night or girls night out and there were hipster parents with little kids holding stuffed monkey animals and yuppie parents with kindergarteners in button-up shirts and ties eating at upscale bistros.

But one can't have an art district without affluent self-styled connoisseurs who can afford to eat at those restaurants and buy boutique clothes and paintings by local artists so they don't totally deserve the wrath of a younger self yelling "DIE YUPPIE SCUM" out my car window on one of my late night drives when they dashed out in front of my car and I freaked out. At least there's not enough of them to drive the rent up as the population of My Fair City plummets to new lows. I'm still not crazy about that whole culture at all, but as far as necessary evils go, they're not quite so bad.

The music was louder coming from all the bars and as I walked up the street I noticed a lot of people standing around by the ice cream shop and then saw a young guy playing the cello. As I got closer, even though I'm not classically trained, I could tell that he was really, really good.

There was a girl with him playing violin and they sounded incredible, as they worked through their repertoire. I wish I knew my composers better because I definitely heard Vivaldi and Bach but there were other things I recognized and couldn't remember who they were by.

I really didn't care about seeing everything else so I sat on the park bench feeling like I had my own private concert, watching the passerby either walk on to the next thrill or stop and listen in wonder, and dropped three dollars in the hat by his feet because it was the least I could do.



I suck at writing about music even though I do it a lot but it was just so perfect, with the cool night smelling of flowers, the beauty of the instruments meshing together perfectly and watching people play who truly enjoy what they're playing and are better than I could ever try to be and just everything about it was so perfect in part because I didn't expect it and it was something more than I could have ever hoped for.

so much wrong here.

As a chick and musician, I find the below Craigslist ad totally hilarious due to the misogyny and general rock star egotism especially endemic to the untalented. I'm going to assume here that being a "kick ass hot female" is probably more important than actually knowing how to play, but I could be wrong.

Also, I highly doubt from the band photos that said singer/guitarist looks like Dave Navarro. To just assume that all chicks are into you seems just a bit narcissistic. And "Grunge Lust" just sounds corny. I was really hoping they'd have a Myspace page or something, but no such luck. Still, it is slightly less demanding than the ad a few years back looking for Elton John and Tom Araya combined into one person.


Looking for Sean Yseult (Battery Park/Ohio City)

The name of our band is Gypsy Prince. If you know who Sean Yseult is, then you are on the same page as us. Our music is "Grunge Lust" and needs a kick ass hot female bassist. We're already booking shows, so hurry up. All though the drummer and myself are incredibly beautiful people, it is important to remember we are trying to get something done here, and we can't have you falling in love with us. We already have a sweet bass rig so all that you need is a sexy swagger and the chops to back it up.

I've got lust in my heart
My eyes set wide apart
I'm a Gypsy Prince
From far distances

Son of a far land
Traveling
With the wind at my back
Into the west
Into the sunset
Pulled by invisible forces
You wake up
I'm gone with
Your wallet
Your jewelry
and your heart

* Location: Battery Park/Ohio City
* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

As a side note Sean Yseult is doing graphic design and general awesome arty things now. Go her.

in the eye of the beholder

Boomerific ramblings about revolutionaires and royals across the pond be damned, there is much more to life, though one might say that my life is nothing thrilling, as there are no fabulous wardrobes, love life drama, or exploding sports cars. My days of ridiculous adventuring seem to be behind me now, and will be saved for future Not-So-Great-American-Novel fodder and stories for the next generation of nieces and nephews.

But I don't need much to keep me entertained and inspired, just a cup of tea and some people-watching, some clay or paint or ink at my disposal, going down to the West Side Market or the lake, driving around with good music though I try to conserve that precious gasoline.

While I was mediocre with effort as an undergrad attempted art student, I feel like I've figured out my aesthetic sense since then, hovering between the starkness and grit of monochrome and the brilliant splashes of color that characterize the paintings piled up in my front room.







It can't be all melancholia, because the seasons have slowly shifted into budding and brilliant hues and we were lucky to escape the concrete and steel for the oasis under glass and the accompanying statuary and tulip bulbs. Some more crackerific types avoid this lovely place because it's in the hood. It's their loss because not only is this fine establishment free, they sometimes hook you up with hothouse fruits.









And in other news, while I don't really know much about jazz, I know what I do like and I love Regina Carter and her violin very much. Especially when she covers Amadou & Mariam and her current project includes a kora player. I don't know anyone else anymore who likes this kind of thing so I'll probably go by myself.

wild is the wind

I ran to catch the early train, got over to the art center where I pounded the air bubbles out of a block of clay, rolled and twisted, the texture was just so perfect, or maybe I'm just getting better at thinking and executing in three dimensions, as we all hope that the city doesn't close this place down with all their service cuts.

It bothers me that for all the lip service given to supporting "the arts" that supposedly will save us all, we give out these $20,000 grants and fellowships to people, but an institution that actually serves the people of the city and its surroundings and gives them the chance to create is on the potential chopping block.

It's not as glamorous maybe, but it's a haven for a lot of us, especially inner city kids, single moms, retired seniors, people with disabilities with dreams of starting their own businesses, Nepali (via Bhutan) refugees rediscovering lost traditions, and of course those in the cracker young people demographic like yours truly that the city panders to because we don't have to worry about schools to send our children to right now and we have a little extra spending money sometimes.

None of us would probably ever cross paths in our daily lives but we all come here to work on sculptures and dishware and whatever we feel like doing, be as social or as introverted as we please in a place that is . Most of us can't afford to take classes at CIA or Tri-C or the suburban art studios, but this gives us a chance to create even without the social privileges of the upper echelons.

So I came home last night, read and drank tea, am falling in love with my balcony with the missing rails because I'm in the middle of the city and there are stars to be seen and the view is much prettier at night.

I don't know what time it was when I woke up to the howling over the lake, heard the clatter of vinyl siding being ripped off the house next door, the shaking of the foundations, continual trembling, wondering if it's better to be on the top of a house or the bottom if said dwelling collapses into a pile of matchstick.

I stumbled into the kitchen where the door had been blown open, boxes of tea and anything attached by magnet to the fridge were on the floor, the gutters are laying on the roof, and I doubt that balcony gardening is going to work when one lives too close to the lake because only the mint seems to survive the frequent onslaughts.

art barbies, certain ethnics, and the enduring chill

It's Dyngus Day or something, which I didn't know about being a half-caste Polack, but I wonder how many people in the almost-hood are going to bust out their accordions in the rain tonight, though I'm sure lots of revelry might commence, though I'm going to skip all that to do art since it's been about two weeks since I've enameled anything.



Being that I was a weird child, I never really got into horses and Barbies. Nancy Drew novels and dress-up yes, but I wanted to be Boadicea because I read about her in a Highlights magazine and also a lot of Rosemary Sutcliffe novels that kind of glossed over the whole torturing prisoners/getting killed by the Romans bit.



My friend up the street was also a weird kid and we spent our summers taming the mass of flowering bushes, trellises and lilacs into our own play area/domain between having her dad take us to cemeteries and museums and Little Italy for gelato. When her other friend would come over, sometimes we'd play with her dolls but I never liked blonde and usually claimed her Princess Jasmine one instead, when we weren't having super-soaker fights with the boys around the corner.

I'm all for getting kids into art because art is awesome, and since these aren't as bimbotastic as other Barbies, I can't hate on it too badly except that it's just kind of corny and doesn't look that good.



Then again, it's also not as terrible as this. I've got my love of kitsch as much as anyone, but history's finest mementos that aren't Church In A Box don't really do anything for me.

rare vacationing

I left the beloved hometown on Sunday afternoon, driving to Akron-Canton to take the Airtran and be amused at the massive amount of Rush fans populating the terminal and the Ohioana for sale mostly having to do with tractors and Amish people, whose cookbook included recipes for "Jimmy Carter Pudding." There was also a piece of artwork on display in the lobby with this title:



I'm always jittery about flying, though fascinated by being on top of clouds, looking over the Atlantic Ocean and the waves breaking on a seashore a few miles below, knowing that people fly every day but wondering if my last moments of this life will consist of reading "Midnight's Children" and plunging into the salty brine of Davy Jones' Locker.

I have no TSA horror stories, being an unassuming fair-complexioned Caucasian female, and somehow avoided the naked scan though my traveling companion was subjected to it. It does creep me out to see men in blue shirts walking around with big guns in the airport like they're overcompensating a whole lot and hope there's somebody to shoot but anyone who knows me knows I've got a somewhat irrational dislike of men with guns.



Public transit was super easy and we got from the airport to the station easily though we were squished in among a sea of Celtics fans and one guy said I should be taking pictures of "The Gahden" instead of the graffiti on the building across the way.



We started walking in search of food and ended up in the Beacon Hill neighborhood with its gorgeous apartment buildings and narrow streets that are nothing like what I see around where I'm from.





We walked back to watch the sun set over the bridge and the lights of the city come on and caught the train to Acton where we went the wrong direction down Main Street in total darkness past lots of old homes and woods that should scare me since I'm in a small New England town of the kind where nearly all horror fiction seems to take place and bad things happen to clueless young women, but it was such a beautiful night and I was euphoric to be out of the airplane and figuring my way out through unfamiliar surroundings.

We never did meet the lady whose house we stayed in, but the keys were taped to the door and we woke up early to find coffee and bagels before heading out to meet my traveling companion's aunt at the marathon. The Green Line was packed with people and we ended up in some swanky suburb with huge houses where people had grills and space heaters going in the front yard and their kids jumped around in those inflatable play palaces. Every single dog we saw was purebred.

It was like 4th of July or something. People were friendly to us out of towners and invited us to hang out on porches and such, but we ended up walking from Mile 20 to Mile 17 past people in lawn chairs, Japanese girls waving banners, hippies banging drums, Ethiopians waving flags, bros getting drunk, vendors selling fried dough and hot dogs because nothing says spectator sport like watching people do athletic things while you get fat, as the first runners came down the street.





My friend wanted to go to the finish line and watch everyone come in but it was just too many people for me so we split up and I used my transit pass to explore, hitting up bookstores, wandering through old cemeteries, going to the People's Republic of Cambridge to dig through bins at record stores, take pictures of graffiti in alleys, wander around while eating takeout Indian food and people-watching.







From there, I went to Harvard Square to explore some more, take pictures of old buildings, cutting through the campus and its surroundings, down side streets and alleys, observing a world so different from my own. Thanks to some National Merit recognition and a very good ACT score, Harvard actually sent me an application when I was in high school but decided that I really wouldn't fit in there, opting for the less illustrious option of the state school known to most as a place that Neil Young wrote a song about.

I didn't mind looking completely out of place, scruffy in an old Rites of Spring t-shirt and black hoodie, because I'm a stranger here, a tourist in a world that feels like a living J. Crew catalog with the collegiate/preppy/old money atmosphere complete with shops for all your lacrosse/squash needs, walking past a seemingly endless procession of Bright Young Things and people in suits. There was also a man playing a hurdy-gurdy on the corner. That was awesome, but I forgot to take a picture of him.



I go into culture shock every time I'm surrounded by all white people, which is ironic since I grew up in Parma but I must not have been in other parts of the city or on the wrong train lines because everyone around me seemed to be affluent and Caucasian, the only exception being Chinatown and the surrounding area. While I venture into sundry sketchy neighborhoods on a regular basis in Thieveland, I figured I wouldn't test my luck alone in a big strange city.

By this time, the sun began to set, and I went back to North Station to wait for the next train, watched the Celtics and the Bruins on a small TV in the waiting area, and made my way back to the house.

We did the Freedom Trail the next morning with a suitably snarky tour guide who gave us a hard time about our losing sports team and traded historical re-enactment anecdotes with my fellow traveler who does Underground Railroad and Voyageurs experiences for inner-city schoolkids. I think I spent most of my sputnik turista time here hanging out in cemeteries and taking pictures of gravestones replete with skulls and creepy angels.









It was rainy and cold so we split up again, because days like this are perfect for museums and I wanted to see the MFA and the Gardner, which was the most amazing place I've ever been. I felt like I was somewhere in Europe when I walked inside the Venetian-style palazzo into a world of tiled walls, a lush courtyard, dark rooms full of candelabra and tapestries, and three floors of art from marble sarcophagi to parts of altarpieces, paintings of angels, works by Degas, Raphael, and Botticelli.



Photography being verboten, I took a few pictures sans flash when out of view of the security, but thankfully there are better views courtesy of the Internet. I wish this place was next door to me because I'd be there all the time.





From there, I went around the corner to the absolutely huge Museum of Fine Arts where I got to see the Chihuly exhibit,











feel small next to chunks of Egyptian temples



and get up close to mummies, Japanese prints, paintings by El Greco and Monet.





Our last day, we slept in, went hiking in the woods down the street,



ended up at the science museum with the dinosaur out front, and killed time downtown where I was amused by stoners making a statement about weed legalization in front of the Civil Rights Monument, took pictures of the gigantic Masonic lodge, was amused bypigeons in front of cherry blossom trees,
bought cheap and gorgeous art books (there were so many amazing bookstores),



and ended up in Chinatown before catching the train back to the airport where she bought various Sanrio products as I took pictures of buildings with pagoda facades and ate purple and green biscuits that were theoretically flavored with taro and green tea.







They offered to re-route me to Atlanta and give me round trip tickets, but I was tired and ready to go home so I declined, felt jittery as we went through turbulence after hearing all about "horizontal tornadoes" flipping airplanes on CNN, but I got home safely and buzzed on bad coffee as the man next to me talked about his wife and drank lots of Jack Daniels.

Drove home up I-77 listening to the entirety of "Welcome to Sky Valley," to my now-much-smaller-looking city, finding comfort in the familiarity of empty streets, all-night diners, and my couch. I felt so refreshed even in being exhausted, so glad to be gone from Ohio for a few days, yet so happy to be home.