PARKER, CO
"Do you know what espadrilles are?" she asks into the phone, and I can envision her beau standing amid the boxes and bins in a dark clammy storage unit trying to imagine what she's talking about. I listen as she tells him to hunt for the orange suitcase and then waits patiently while he sifts through the stacks to unearth the case. She goes on through her list, retrieving a formal outfit and accessories piece by piece from 1200 miles away. I think about how many times we've all played this game. While a few of my friends have settled into long-term homes, most are seasonal nomads, and even those with a permanent address often rent out their homes for months at a time, which mean that most of us have a storage unit somewhere, or a basement corner at a relative's house, and for me, the odds of me being in the same city as whatever required item always seems to be zero. And so many a phone call has started with, "Can you do me a favor?" and proceeds with "In the closet in the basement, there's a blue bin, and underneath that....."
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Please Exit the Aircraft
CHICAGO, IL
I stand patiently in the aisle of the aircraft. For me, this is the worst part of flying: the seemingly endless amount of time that passes between the moment the wheels touch down and the moment I step out onto the jet bridge. The taxiing, the parking, the positioning of the jet bridge, the unfurling of dozens of passengers from the sardine arrangement. I am absolutely one of those passengers who quietly unbuckles her seatbelt the second the plane stops moving, regardless of any illuminated fasten seatbelt sign. Finally the door opens and the plane is filled with the thick hot air of a Chicago night. A long pause, and then finally the line of passengers in the aisle clears. The front of the plane empties, but somewhere in the middle, a few struggling passengers hold the rest of us hostage. I watch as first a woman, and then the man in the row next to her, struggle to extricate their bags from under the seat and from the overhead compartment. The whole process is a little too awkward. She struggles with the weight of her bag over her head, and the shoulder strap of his bag seems to be stuck on an armrest. Their attempts to hurry are only making things worse, but finally they seem to have all of their belongings and make their way down the aisle, bags bumping into the seats. Others behind them complete the same awkward ballet of shimmying out of the tiny seat rows, yanking bags and purses and briefcases out from where they've been stowed. My insides sort of want to leap over the seats and gather all of their things and nudge them on their way, but only in the most helpful sort of way. But my outsides wear a polite but slightly tired smile and I stand with my backpack hanging from my shoulders, hands clasped in front of me. How many times have I done this? A hundred? A thousand? It IS an awkward process, wiggling out of the seat, and gently unweaving the web of straps in the overhead compartment to free one's bag, and then gently sliding the piece out of place and down into the 10" of available space without bumping into any of the passengers who stand so close as to feel your breath on their skin; to gather tote bags and pillows and children and purses and courier bags that have all been tucked into the tiny space behind the seats and who are tangled up in armrests and tray tables. It is one of a million rhythms that I have somehow ingrained in my muscle memory during a lifetime of travel. There is something so loathsome about airports and airplanes and the stale air and the overpriced food and the weather delays and the mechanical failures and yet somehow there is something so overwhelmingly familiar about all of it for me. Air travel wraps me in a weighty cloak that is uncomfortable and unpleasant but somehow bizarrely familiar and comfortable too. Finally I stumble into the fluorescent terminal, nearly deserted at this late hour, thanks to an interminable delay in Dallas. I fight back a yawn, and head towards the baggage claim and my waiting ride.
I stand patiently in the aisle of the aircraft. For me, this is the worst part of flying: the seemingly endless amount of time that passes between the moment the wheels touch down and the moment I step out onto the jet bridge. The taxiing, the parking, the positioning of the jet bridge, the unfurling of dozens of passengers from the sardine arrangement. I am absolutely one of those passengers who quietly unbuckles her seatbelt the second the plane stops moving, regardless of any illuminated fasten seatbelt sign. Finally the door opens and the plane is filled with the thick hot air of a Chicago night. A long pause, and then finally the line of passengers in the aisle clears. The front of the plane empties, but somewhere in the middle, a few struggling passengers hold the rest of us hostage. I watch as first a woman, and then the man in the row next to her, struggle to extricate their bags from under the seat and from the overhead compartment. The whole process is a little too awkward. She struggles with the weight of her bag over her head, and the shoulder strap of his bag seems to be stuck on an armrest. Their attempts to hurry are only making things worse, but finally they seem to have all of their belongings and make their way down the aisle, bags bumping into the seats. Others behind them complete the same awkward ballet of shimmying out of the tiny seat rows, yanking bags and purses and briefcases out from where they've been stowed. My insides sort of want to leap over the seats and gather all of their things and nudge them on their way, but only in the most helpful sort of way. But my outsides wear a polite but slightly tired smile and I stand with my backpack hanging from my shoulders, hands clasped in front of me. How many times have I done this? A hundred? A thousand? It IS an awkward process, wiggling out of the seat, and gently unweaving the web of straps in the overhead compartment to free one's bag, and then gently sliding the piece out of place and down into the 10" of available space without bumping into any of the passengers who stand so close as to feel your breath on their skin; to gather tote bags and pillows and children and purses and courier bags that have all been tucked into the tiny space behind the seats and who are tangled up in armrests and tray tables. It is one of a million rhythms that I have somehow ingrained in my muscle memory during a lifetime of travel. There is something so loathsome about airports and airplanes and the stale air and the overpriced food and the weather delays and the mechanical failures and yet somehow there is something so overwhelmingly familiar about all of it for me. Air travel wraps me in a weighty cloak that is uncomfortable and unpleasant but somehow bizarrely familiar and comfortable too. Finally I stumble into the fluorescent terminal, nearly deserted at this late hour, thanks to an interminable delay in Dallas. I fight back a yawn, and head towards the baggage claim and my waiting ride.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Cotton Blizzard
SHERIDAN, CO
These days the garden looks vaguely like the scarred battlefield of a teddy bear massacre. The grass is coated in a thick layer of downy white, and tiny bits of fluff cling to the tomato leaves. The cottonwood tree that looms over the airstream is shedding its stuffing. On windy days, a blizzard of cotton balls fills the air.
The cottonwood has certainly developed a sound method of propagation. For inside each of these balls of fluff is a tiny white seed. It's been impossible to pull out every seed and bit of fluff from each of the containers, and when these tiny seeds land on the rich, well-watered soil that I'm providing for the tomatoes, cucumber, and broccoli, its only a matter of a day or two before two tiny leaves emerge from the soil that look suspiciously like a cottonwood seedling.
On some afternoons, when the tomatoes look like they've been draped in the artificial cobwebs that pop up on porches in October, I wonder whether I may end up with a cottonwood nursery.
These days the garden looks vaguely like the scarred battlefield of a teddy bear massacre. The grass is coated in a thick layer of downy white, and tiny bits of fluff cling to the tomato leaves. The cottonwood tree that looms over the airstream is shedding its stuffing. On windy days, a blizzard of cotton balls fills the air.
The cottonwood has certainly developed a sound method of propagation. For inside each of these balls of fluff is a tiny white seed. It's been impossible to pull out every seed and bit of fluff from each of the containers, and when these tiny seeds land on the rich, well-watered soil that I'm providing for the tomatoes, cucumber, and broccoli, its only a matter of a day or two before two tiny leaves emerge from the soil that look suspiciously like a cottonwood seedling.
On some afternoons, when the tomatoes look like they've been draped in the artificial cobwebs that pop up on porches in October, I wonder whether I may end up with a cottonwood nursery.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Putting Down Roots
SHERIDAN, CO
There is a constant internal debate, or sometimes flat-out war, between my live-out-of-a-backpack, somewhere-new-every-season, never-let-anything-become-routine self, and my plant-a-garden, have-an-address, sew and knit and book-bind self. The various factions win at various points in my life, though mostly I just thrive in that state of flux and indecision that keeps me from setting traditional career goals or having a remotely linear life.
Currently, I've opted to feed the put-down-roots side of me, though let me tell you- that nomadic streak hollers loud and hard when I look at friend's photos, or flip through a travel magazine. There's this little part of me that panics when I think of living in the same place for more than a few months, AND at the same address that's on my driver's license (been 9 years since that happened....).
Meanwhile, in the roots department, I have roughly 113 containers of seedlings and plants on a tiny patch of cracked concrete, and yesterday I started another 32 pots of seeds. On nearly every surface of the cramped airstream that I currently call home is a house plant of one variety or another. It would seem that the gardener side of me has been starved for far too long....
So while I continue to quell my gypsy heart, I am very much looking forward to having a place for a spell. A place with a garden, and a place to set up my sewing machine, and spread out my paper, and get to work.
There is a constant internal debate, or sometimes flat-out war, between my live-out-of-a-backpack, somewhere-new-every-season, never-let-anything-become-routine self, and my plant-a-garden, have-an-address, sew and knit and book-bind self. The various factions win at various points in my life, though mostly I just thrive in that state of flux and indecision that keeps me from setting traditional career goals or having a remotely linear life.
Currently, I've opted to feed the put-down-roots side of me, though let me tell you- that nomadic streak hollers loud and hard when I look at friend's photos, or flip through a travel magazine. There's this little part of me that panics when I think of living in the same place for more than a few months, AND at the same address that's on my driver's license (been 9 years since that happened....).
Meanwhile, in the roots department, I have roughly 113 containers of seedlings and plants on a tiny patch of cracked concrete, and yesterday I started another 32 pots of seeds. On nearly every surface of the cramped airstream that I currently call home is a house plant of one variety or another. It would seem that the gardener side of me has been starved for far too long....
So while I continue to quell my gypsy heart, I am very much looking forward to having a place for a spell. A place with a garden, and a place to set up my sewing machine, and spread out my paper, and get to work.
Friday, May 24, 2013
A Steaming Bowl of Nostalgia
SHERIDAN, CO
In a suburban strip mall just south of Denver, a steaming bowl of rice noodles is set before me. What this little Vietnamese restaurant lacks in ambience (an episode of Full House blares from the corner television, just over the shoulder of a woman jabbering loudly on her cell phone), it makes up for in cuisine: the sweet, pungent taste of fish sauce, and the slightly uncommon combination of hot noodles and steamed vegetables over raw lettuce and cucumber. My first mouthful of noodles has me waxing nostalgic about my trip to Viet Nam two years ago. While visiting a friend in Thailand, I was determined to visit Viet Nam and convinced him to come along for a short two week tour of the northern portion of the country from Hanoi to Hoi An. We were smitten with Hanoi from the minute we stepped out of the airport- and practically into a rice paddy. Beneath the billboards advertising cheap airfare, workers stooped in the bright green fields in iconic conical hats.
We sat down to our first meal at a corner cafe that gave us a fantastic vantage point. We eyed the tea stand across the street with minuscule red plastic stools, and we watched business transactions happen on the back of bicycles. A steady stream of scooters passed by, each carrying one to five people, and any number of chickens. (There was one scooter with a pig, but I think that came later in the trip.) We wandered narrow lanes under iron balconies that gave hints of the country's French legacy. We dodged bicycles and scooters, and wandered through one market that looked it may have once been a bus or train station. We professed our love for Vietnamese coffee immediately, and did not always resist the temptation to lick the sweetened condensed milk out of the bottom of the cup. After an afternoon coffee and cake by the lake, we wandered over a bridge to the temple in the middle, where I was accosted by a tiny Vietnamese woman who thought it was HILARIOUS that I was at least a foot and a half taller than her. A few awkward photographs followed. After a brief pause at the hotel, we set off in search of dinner. Following the recommendations of a guide book, we set off through the labyrinth of tiny streets in search of a particular street kitchen. In a place where flattery leads to many, many shops and restaurants with exactly the same name, it was impossible to be sure that it was the exact place written about, but judging by the crowded tables, it seemed a good bet. Hardly having sat down, giant bowls of noodles were placed before us. Two bites later, I had declared my new favorite food: Bun (pronounced boon). Rice noodles and peanuts and the ubiquitous fish sauce piled on a foundation of mint and slightly bitter greens. There was a little voice in my head cautioning me about eating the raw greens in a place with questionable sanitation, but it was awfully hard to hear as I was slurping noodles and crunching the greens. Despite our short stay in Hanoi and the plethora of other fantastic restaurants and food stalls to choose from, we returned for Bun at the same place at least once more.
Two years later, the noodles before me don't quite compete with those bowls of Bun or all the noodles and rolls that followed, but they're close enough to stir up a bit of wistfulness for traveling in far flung places.
In a suburban strip mall just south of Denver, a steaming bowl of rice noodles is set before me. What this little Vietnamese restaurant lacks in ambience (an episode of Full House blares from the corner television, just over the shoulder of a woman jabbering loudly on her cell phone), it makes up for in cuisine: the sweet, pungent taste of fish sauce, and the slightly uncommon combination of hot noodles and steamed vegetables over raw lettuce and cucumber. My first mouthful of noodles has me waxing nostalgic about my trip to Viet Nam two years ago. While visiting a friend in Thailand, I was determined to visit Viet Nam and convinced him to come along for a short two week tour of the northern portion of the country from Hanoi to Hoi An. We were smitten with Hanoi from the minute we stepped out of the airport- and practically into a rice paddy. Beneath the billboards advertising cheap airfare, workers stooped in the bright green fields in iconic conical hats.
We sat down to our first meal at a corner cafe that gave us a fantastic vantage point. We eyed the tea stand across the street with minuscule red plastic stools, and we watched business transactions happen on the back of bicycles. A steady stream of scooters passed by, each carrying one to five people, and any number of chickens. (There was one scooter with a pig, but I think that came later in the trip.) We wandered narrow lanes under iron balconies that gave hints of the country's French legacy. We dodged bicycles and scooters, and wandered through one market that looked it may have once been a bus or train station. We professed our love for Vietnamese coffee immediately, and did not always resist the temptation to lick the sweetened condensed milk out of the bottom of the cup. After an afternoon coffee and cake by the lake, we wandered over a bridge to the temple in the middle, where I was accosted by a tiny Vietnamese woman who thought it was HILARIOUS that I was at least a foot and a half taller than her. A few awkward photographs followed. After a brief pause at the hotel, we set off in search of dinner. Following the recommendations of a guide book, we set off through the labyrinth of tiny streets in search of a particular street kitchen. In a place where flattery leads to many, many shops and restaurants with exactly the same name, it was impossible to be sure that it was the exact place written about, but judging by the crowded tables, it seemed a good bet. Hardly having sat down, giant bowls of noodles were placed before us. Two bites later, I had declared my new favorite food: Bun (pronounced boon). Rice noodles and peanuts and the ubiquitous fish sauce piled on a foundation of mint and slightly bitter greens. There was a little voice in my head cautioning me about eating the raw greens in a place with questionable sanitation, but it was awfully hard to hear as I was slurping noodles and crunching the greens. Despite our short stay in Hanoi and the plethora of other fantastic restaurants and food stalls to choose from, we returned for Bun at the same place at least once more.
Two years later, the noodles before me don't quite compete with those bowls of Bun or all the noodles and rolls that followed, but they're close enough to stir up a bit of wistfulness for traveling in far flung places.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Leaving the Ice
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
Just before touching down in Christchurch, a moth emerges from some unknown hiding place and flits about about the passengers. I step off the plane into the welcome humidity and I grin a little as I stand under the dusky skies, waiting to get on the bus that will deliver us to the airport terminal. By the time I make it through immigration and customs, the sun has set and the sky gone dark. The airport parking lot is lit up like a small city and so prohibits even the faintest glimpse of a star. For now, the damp air on my bare arms and the lush hedgerows lining my path are enough stimulation. By the time I've wrestled my two 70# duffle bags in and out of the shuttle, checked in at my elevator-free hotel, and manhandled the bags up a flight of steps, I am glistening with sweat. I trade my wool socks and shoes for sandals and set off down the block with a friend in search of food. It is no easy feat at this late hour, but the manager of a nearby Thai restaurant agrees to keep the kitchen open a little late to feed us. After months of deprivation, I could not be more grateful for the bowl of steaming red curry that he sets before me, teeming with lightly steamed, still crisp zucchini, peppers, and broccoli. I enjoy this first perfect meal in a tiny courtyard filled with oversized potted plants, and in the good company of friends who have arrived with me from the frozen continent. For all the failures on the U.S. Antarctic Program, good company has never been one of them.
A shower, a bed, a 3:45 am wakeup call, and another round of bag wrestling, and I find myself right back at the airport. A fresh mango smoothie is small consolation for the early hour of the day, and the exhaustion I feel already at the start of a long journey.
The flight from Christchurch to Sydney was gloriously uneventful, and I slept for most of the flight in spite of the cramped seats. Sydney presented the usual round of double security checkpoints, an hour long wait in a line at a transfer desk, and an angry group of Chinese tourists who did nothing to improve anyone's morning. Finally sliding my passport across the desk to the ticket agent, past the leader of the group still angrily shouting at the agent that he and his sixteen travelling companions WOULD NOT get in the queue, I politely gave my destination only to learn that I would need to return three hours hence for my boarding pass. After a brief foray in the heart of the shopping mall that the international terminal mimics, I've settled into a much quieter area in a narrow wing. I watched as the clouds rolled in, and as it started to rain on one side of the building before the other. The rain has now crossed over so that the sky is equally gray in every direction, with a steady rain falling into giant puddles on the tarmac. In spite of the sealed building, I can smell the wet concrete, and secretly wish I could slip outside for a moment and stand in the rain. The only water that has fallen from my skies in the last six months has been the frozen variety.
Just four more hours here before I will board a 15+ hour transoceanic flight that will deliver me first to Dallas, and then on to Cincinnati. I am blissfully bypassing LAX this year, and that is the best thing I can say about this 48 hour commute.
Just before touching down in Christchurch, a moth emerges from some unknown hiding place and flits about about the passengers. I step off the plane into the welcome humidity and I grin a little as I stand under the dusky skies, waiting to get on the bus that will deliver us to the airport terminal. By the time I make it through immigration and customs, the sun has set and the sky gone dark. The airport parking lot is lit up like a small city and so prohibits even the faintest glimpse of a star. For now, the damp air on my bare arms and the lush hedgerows lining my path are enough stimulation. By the time I've wrestled my two 70# duffle bags in and out of the shuttle, checked in at my elevator-free hotel, and manhandled the bags up a flight of steps, I am glistening with sweat. I trade my wool socks and shoes for sandals and set off down the block with a friend in search of food. It is no easy feat at this late hour, but the manager of a nearby Thai restaurant agrees to keep the kitchen open a little late to feed us. After months of deprivation, I could not be more grateful for the bowl of steaming red curry that he sets before me, teeming with lightly steamed, still crisp zucchini, peppers, and broccoli. I enjoy this first perfect meal in a tiny courtyard filled with oversized potted plants, and in the good company of friends who have arrived with me from the frozen continent. For all the failures on the U.S. Antarctic Program, good company has never been one of them.
A shower, a bed, a 3:45 am wakeup call, and another round of bag wrestling, and I find myself right back at the airport. A fresh mango smoothie is small consolation for the early hour of the day, and the exhaustion I feel already at the start of a long journey.
The flight from Christchurch to Sydney was gloriously uneventful, and I slept for most of the flight in spite of the cramped seats. Sydney presented the usual round of double security checkpoints, an hour long wait in a line at a transfer desk, and an angry group of Chinese tourists who did nothing to improve anyone's morning. Finally sliding my passport across the desk to the ticket agent, past the leader of the group still angrily shouting at the agent that he and his sixteen travelling companions WOULD NOT get in the queue, I politely gave my destination only to learn that I would need to return three hours hence for my boarding pass. After a brief foray in the heart of the shopping mall that the international terminal mimics, I've settled into a much quieter area in a narrow wing. I watched as the clouds rolled in, and as it started to rain on one side of the building before the other. The rain has now crossed over so that the sky is equally gray in every direction, with a steady rain falling into giant puddles on the tarmac. In spite of the sealed building, I can smell the wet concrete, and secretly wish I could slip outside for a moment and stand in the rain. The only water that has fallen from my skies in the last six months has been the frozen variety.
Just four more hours here before I will board a 15+ hour transoceanic flight that will deliver me first to Dallas, and then on to Cincinnati. I am blissfully bypassing LAX this year, and that is the best thing I can say about this 48 hour commute.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Snow Day!
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
This past weekend brought a rare snowstorm. On Saturday as I walked home from work, the snow fell rapidly in big flakes. It didn't take long for the roads and rooftops to bear a thick coat of snow. I pulled out the mukklukks that I had put away weeks ago, and set out for a walk to the point.
The howling wind and blowing snow drowned out the sound of the power plant, and the snowy roads and the late hour on a Saturday kept the vehicles at bay. I lingered only a moment before the wind nipping at my cheeks chased me away. I walked home plunging knee deep into the snow drifts forming off the ends of building, having gained several inches since I had come that way just half an hour earlier.
The snow fell through the evening and into the night. I longed for a fireplace and vast bay window overlooking the sound, but I settled for snuggling up on the couch under a blanket, looking over my shoulder out the dirty window every few minutes to watch the snow fall. Sustained snowfall is such a rare treat!
I woke on Sunday morning expecting the sun to have melted the snow, but instead found the thick blanket of snow sparkling in the morning sun. Giant icicles hung from Building 155, the central building that houses the galley among other things. The icicles swayed in long continuous curves, the result of the relentless wind while they formed. Several folks were out snapping photos, and a few generous workers were shoveling out the snow drifts around the doorways.
After brunch, I went home to exchange a skirt for some long johns and grabbed a few extra layers. I haven't been sledding in years, for lack of good snow and a good sledding hill, I suppose. But across town, I found B. trudging up hill dragging a tiny red sled behind her, the red of the sled considerably more faded than oversized puffy red snowsuit that pooled around her ankles. I went inside and pulled out another snowsuit from the depths of the ECW (Extreme Cold Weather gear) closet. The one-piece bunny suit left me feeling like a toddler bundled up for playing in the snow.
Folding my long legs onto the tiny plastic sled, I pushed off down the steep slope. On the first run, I made it less than 100 feet down the hill before toppling into the snow, but managed to keep hold of the rope on the sled. My subsequent attempts were much more successful, ending at the bottom of the hill just before a bare patch of rock. When the sledding grew tiresome- or rather the walk back up the hill- I sat in the snow and watched others head down the hill, and eventually a half-hearted snowball fight ensued, for which no one bothered standing up.
As the cold started to seep in, I followed a few friends inside. I kicked off my wet boots and peeled off the bunny suit and headed upstairs to the kitchen. I set a pot of water on to boil and pulled out several mugs. The others soon joined, padding across the wooden floor in their socks. I settled into a spot on the couch, nestled between friends, and sipped on a hot toddy. Certainly the post-sledding hot drink has improved since the wintery days of my childhood.
This past weekend brought a rare snowstorm. On Saturday as I walked home from work, the snow fell rapidly in big flakes. It didn't take long for the roads and rooftops to bear a thick coat of snow. I pulled out the mukklukks that I had put away weeks ago, and set out for a walk to the point.
 |
| Discovery Hut, built 1902 |
 |
| Snow flakes cling to Discovery Hut |
 |
| Hut Point |
The howling wind and blowing snow drowned out the sound of the power plant, and the snowy roads and the late hour on a Saturday kept the vehicles at bay. I lingered only a moment before the wind nipping at my cheeks chased me away. I walked home plunging knee deep into the snow drifts forming off the ends of building, having gained several inches since I had come that way just half an hour earlier.
The snow fell through the evening and into the night. I longed for a fireplace and vast bay window overlooking the sound, but I settled for snuggling up on the couch under a blanket, looking over my shoulder out the dirty window every few minutes to watch the snow fall. Sustained snowfall is such a rare treat!
I woke on Sunday morning expecting the sun to have melted the snow, but instead found the thick blanket of snow sparkling in the morning sun. Giant icicles hung from Building 155, the central building that houses the galley among other things. The icicles swayed in long continuous curves, the result of the relentless wind while they formed. Several folks were out snapping photos, and a few generous workers were shoveling out the snow drifts around the doorways.
After brunch, I went home to exchange a skirt for some long johns and grabbed a few extra layers. I haven't been sledding in years, for lack of good snow and a good sledding hill, I suppose. But across town, I found B. trudging up hill dragging a tiny red sled behind her, the red of the sled considerably more faded than oversized puffy red snowsuit that pooled around her ankles. I went inside and pulled out another snowsuit from the depths of the ECW (Extreme Cold Weather gear) closet. The one-piece bunny suit left me feeling like a toddler bundled up for playing in the snow.
Folding my long legs onto the tiny plastic sled, I pushed off down the steep slope. On the first run, I made it less than 100 feet down the hill before toppling into the snow, but managed to keep hold of the rope on the sled. My subsequent attempts were much more successful, ending at the bottom of the hill just before a bare patch of rock. When the sledding grew tiresome- or rather the walk back up the hill- I sat in the snow and watched others head down the hill, and eventually a half-hearted snowball fight ensued, for which no one bothered standing up.
As the cold started to seep in, I followed a few friends inside. I kicked off my wet boots and peeled off the bunny suit and headed upstairs to the kitchen. I set a pot of water on to boil and pulled out several mugs. The others soon joined, padding across the wooden floor in their socks. I settled into a spot on the couch, nestled between friends, and sipped on a hot toddy. Certainly the post-sledding hot drink has improved since the wintery days of my childhood.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Waiting for Mail
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
There is a steady stream of parka clad workers popping into the mailroom first thing in the morning, checking for letters and packages from home on their way to work. I take advantage of a short lull to slip into the mailroom and sort through the basket of mail for the field camps. While I linger over the stacks of envelopes and packages, I listen as the mailroom clerk asks for the name of each person who comes up to her counter. Each answers expectantly with the slight rise of hope at the end of the sentence. Some customers quietly accept the envelopes handed over and head on to work, others comment on the mail they hope for, and the mail they receive. "Still no letters? She doesn't love me," bemoans one empty handed customer. "Oh that's not true. She loves you," consoles the clerk. I can hear the swell in another pair's conversation as they are each handed the oversized red envelopes of belated Christmas cards. "Ugh. A bill?!?!" another groans, disappointed that the rest of the world has caught up with him here on our remote island. As I listen to the reactions, I think what an interesting snippet of life this is- all the hope and anticipation tied up in tiny packages, the disappointment of the empty-handed ones falling in heaps on the mailroom floor.
The mailroom is rather sparse these days. These days there is more disappointment than pleasure in the world of mail. It's been weeks now since we received the last C-17, the large wheeled cargo planes that bring luxuries like mail and fresh produce. The smaller LC-130's bring only the necessary cargo and passengers. It will be some weeks yet until we see the return of the C-17, when hopefully the runway will be able to support the heavier wheeled aircraft again.
There is a steady stream of parka clad workers popping into the mailroom first thing in the morning, checking for letters and packages from home on their way to work. I take advantage of a short lull to slip into the mailroom and sort through the basket of mail for the field camps. While I linger over the stacks of envelopes and packages, I listen as the mailroom clerk asks for the name of each person who comes up to her counter. Each answers expectantly with the slight rise of hope at the end of the sentence. Some customers quietly accept the envelopes handed over and head on to work, others comment on the mail they hope for, and the mail they receive. "Still no letters? She doesn't love me," bemoans one empty handed customer. "Oh that's not true. She loves you," consoles the clerk. I can hear the swell in another pair's conversation as they are each handed the oversized red envelopes of belated Christmas cards. "Ugh. A bill?!?!" another groans, disappointed that the rest of the world has caught up with him here on our remote island. As I listen to the reactions, I think what an interesting snippet of life this is- all the hope and anticipation tied up in tiny packages, the disappointment of the empty-handed ones falling in heaps on the mailroom floor.
The mailroom is rather sparse these days. These days there is more disappointment than pleasure in the world of mail. It's been weeks now since we received the last C-17, the large wheeled cargo planes that bring luxuries like mail and fresh produce. The smaller LC-130's bring only the necessary cargo and passengers. It will be some weeks yet until we see the return of the C-17, when hopefully the runway will be able to support the heavier wheeled aircraft again.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
In Need of a Runway
McMURDO STATION, ANTARCTICA
I stepped out this morning into a dreary gray day. The cloudy skies and cool breeze are a welcome change from the previous two days' clear blue skies and warm temps. Oh certainly the summer days of light jackets were a pleasant reprieve, but the intense sun and rising temperatures have turned our airfield into a swamp. Drivers transporting passengers and cargo have been slogging through the slushy mess that used to be a road, one section having been deemed "the bog." The drive takes about twice as long as it once did, and the week has been a long battle of getting any plane to make it off the ground.
We are decidedly short an effective skiway, and I'm afraid the situation is only getting worse. Now on day four of cancelled flights, I wonder what is the contingency plan if the planes can't take off. April?
I stepped out this morning into a dreary gray day. The cloudy skies and cool breeze are a welcome change from the previous two days' clear blue skies and warm temps. Oh certainly the summer days of light jackets were a pleasant reprieve, but the intense sun and rising temperatures have turned our airfield into a swamp. Drivers transporting passengers and cargo have been slogging through the slushy mess that used to be a road, one section having been deemed "the bog." The drive takes about twice as long as it once did, and the week has been a long battle of getting any plane to make it off the ground.
We are decidedly short an effective skiway, and I'm afraid the situation is only getting worse. Now on day four of cancelled flights, I wonder what is the contingency plan if the planes can't take off. April?
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