at this very moment, i am experiencing my first visit to my new library. a university library. upon entering, my sense of smellmemory overtook me. smells just like the newer library at my undergrad alma mater (unfortunately, nothing can compare or come close to the olfactory overload one experiences in the hundred year old library at lehigh). i've yet to wander through the stacks here, but my visit with fishfry yesterday has me psyched. soon, i too will be able to check out a fat pile of books just like hers upon her return from the first day of school.
i did wander through the basement of the campus bookstore right now. many of the shelves are still empty, with only little orange placeholders to announce the impending paper chase. but by the divine/libraryine intervention, just the right ones were there. and so my recent freakout of not finding any graduate classes interesting in the course catalog is now solved - all it took was a stroll through the aisles, and some books sang out to me: Living with the Earth; City Builders: Property, Politics and Planning; Great Thirst: Californians and Water, A History. Each of these books for a different class - epidemology, sociology, and that subject i apparently cannot escape, civil engineering. so the solution arrives in book form, huzzah.
in my present location, and after reading with reckless abandon this summer, and the second to last book i finished being focused on books (the name of the rose), i am now wondering in a psuedo academic, pre-re-entry into school sort of way, about how i am bound to books. the books themselves, not just their contents. sure, there's the smells and the touch of an embossed cover and that joyous greedy hoarding feeling, but there's more. for it's not only the answer of what classes to take that they offer me. but they provide also, i am discovering, an amorous keystone. and, as i have known since childhood, a natural laxative. ahh, if u.c. were not about to overtake c.u., this would be a study for the fall semester of my own personal curriculum, indeed.
8.26.2004
8.09.2004
not a bedtime story. well maybe.
i miss my blog. traveler companionship has whisked me away. we are at the beach. in a resort town, even though we thought that taking a ferry across the river would get us away from a resort town, we just landed in a smaller, cooler one. it is the most like my old family vacations to that grand east coast summer destination, ocean city maryland. i mean, not in location and surroundings, but in activity. lying on the beach, trying to read by holding the book above my head but always falling asleep with it on my face, vainly wondering if i am getting tan, checking out others´asses. a sunset cocktail, a drowsy walk home, an evening nap. big nighttime event to choose where to eat dinner. yesterday the friendly brazillian man, former club med employee who graciously showed us around, happening upon us on our way to the beach, boldly greeting us, ´ah, my friends, you look like tourists.´ we laughed in our straw hats, but it echoes in my head and i don´t like the way i feel like my parents.
but last night there was a shining moment of grace. the guidbook says this town attracts a ´younger´ crowd, and over dinner i was trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. why the quotes? but afterwards, we crossed the street to see the live band and the people dancing. and there, in this little square, were a bunch of teenagers. beautiful kids, young, girls with exposed bellies and boys with requisite shaggy beach hair. but they were dancing impeccably, gorgeously. so sexy (oh, this is the area in which the lambada was born). it was like a high school dance, but what i imagined before i actually went to one. all couple dancing, really intricate steps with twirls and hips shaking and the boy spins the girl to the right and then the left with a light hand on the back of her bare waist. the boys look like stoner beach kids but they are perfect in their moves. partners are changed inbetween songs. this would never happen in the united states. never - simply not mature enough, and parents would freak at the way his leg is always in her crotch, but i can see that it is so much better and healthier than keggers at the river. the band is a bunch of teenagers too, my favorite is the one playing the huge triangle (like the size of a hanger). oh, this is the sweetest thing i have ever seen.
i can write today because it´s raining, but now i have to take leave. because a rainy day at the beach, as my parents would declare, is meant for shopping.
but last night there was a shining moment of grace. the guidbook says this town attracts a ´younger´ crowd, and over dinner i was trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. why the quotes? but afterwards, we crossed the street to see the live band and the people dancing. and there, in this little square, were a bunch of teenagers. beautiful kids, young, girls with exposed bellies and boys with requisite shaggy beach hair. but they were dancing impeccably, gorgeously. so sexy (oh, this is the area in which the lambada was born). it was like a high school dance, but what i imagined before i actually went to one. all couple dancing, really intricate steps with twirls and hips shaking and the boy spins the girl to the right and then the left with a light hand on the back of her bare waist. the boys look like stoner beach kids but they are perfect in their moves. partners are changed inbetween songs. this would never happen in the united states. never - simply not mature enough, and parents would freak at the way his leg is always in her crotch, but i can see that it is so much better and healthier than keggers at the river. the band is a bunch of teenagers too, my favorite is the one playing the huge triangle (like the size of a hanger). oh, this is the sweetest thing i have ever seen.
i can write today because it´s raining, but now i have to take leave. because a rainy day at the beach, as my parents would declare, is meant for shopping.
8.02.2004
logunede
saturday night we went to a candomble ritual. arranged by our little hotel, we got into one of the white mercedes vans seen everywhere but whose functions elude me. picked up 10 other tourists and drove drove drove through the slick darkness, past local eateries, into the heart of the city. not the center city, not the historical part where everyone visits. the part where everyone lives, where cars are parked half on the road, half on the sidewalk, and everyone´s hanging out on the streets. we pulled into what i believe usually functions as a used car lot. but on special occasions, such as this night, the big building in the back next to the house is transformed into a candomble temple. it´s surrounded by smaller white buildings each dedicated to a god or goddess, i think where the animmal sacrifices take place. a man hops into the bus and tells us that it´s already started - tonight is very special, a woman is being initiated into the cult. she has been isolated for the past two weeks with black and white spots like a chicken painted on her body. tonight we will see her go into a trance via rythmic dancing, and her patron goddess with inhabit her.
men to the left, women to the right. there are more females than males, many more. the gringas crowding in with the women and girls of the neighborhood. call and response, the priest singing out over the drummers, the audience knows the words to countless songs. and in the middle, the women, dancing. wearing all white - cotton lacy headwraps, blouses with what seem like hoop skirts and pantaloons underneath. and a further lace wrap around the chest, like you would wear a bathtowel. the dance movements are simple and repetitive. and endless. some songs last only a few minutes. but they all sound pretty much the same to me and all blend into one long repition of noise. it is a complete circus. the two leading women, one in her 30s, one stately and old but with the most vitality, directing the dancing, talking to the priest (no, not that dance, she shakes her finger at him, we´re not doing that one tonight). women in white constantly coming and going from the temple to the house and back (do they need a rest, a pee break, a toke?), always having to press their way through the throng of onlookers blocking the doorway. and on the sidelines, the young girls, the most enthusiastic singers, passing around a baby, mouthing off to older sisters across the way. someday they will be the ones dancing.
going to a candomble ritual is one of the things to do in salvador. but it´s a sketchy undertaking because the tourist needs to discern which guide is actually going to take her to something authentic, yet having no idea what authentic looks like, and being unable to go solo. (in general i completely shy away from any guided activities, to the point of completely disregarding experiences that require guides. ahh, but i am not traveling alone anymore and my dictatorship has become a democracy). the travel book says ´ask someone local if you want to go to a ritual.´so the hotel man behind the counter helped us out. and although he has been very helpful all along, i was filled to the brim with skeptism. even once i arrived and saw that there was quite a large group of people participating, and even larger number of neighbors in the stands who obviously knew when to clap, i wondered. maybe the leaders convince everyone to participate by promising all the locals who come a big chicken dinner with the profits from the tourists (it was 15 usd a piece, and we guessed that it probably cost more for the folks from the posh hotels - that´s a lot of chicken). but during the break, when the women in white change into their elaborate costumes to reflect the gods and goddesses, i looked out into the lot where everyone was loitering, waiting i saw little kids running around and old people smoking cigarettes, men smiling and shaking hands women gossiping. remaining even when it began to rain again. no, this was the real deal. this was 10:30 on saturday night, and a whole community was gathered to sing and dance and revere the mysteries.
when things started up again, and the newly initiated woman entered in her shiny blue costume with a headress of beads covering her eyes, revealing the goddess of the sea, i could feel her triumph. and later, when my favorite, the young woman who i´d been watching all night, began her dance, now dressed all in yellow and green with a golden bow and arrow, the priests and men up front pointed at her, nodding, look out. she had not opened her eyes for the whole second half while she waited in trance to be called. on and on she went, simple steps around the room with elbows back and forth, stopping to bend her knees and scream. song after song, and the priest looked questioningly at the other men, but her spirit was still strong and she had not yet lain down her will and so they had to keep going. and when the tourists were gathered up and shuttled back into the white vans, the singing was growing louder and she continued. i did not want to leave. there was so much more, things were heating up. i was exhausted from the day and hungry, but i would have stayed all night.
men to the left, women to the right. there are more females than males, many more. the gringas crowding in with the women and girls of the neighborhood. call and response, the priest singing out over the drummers, the audience knows the words to countless songs. and in the middle, the women, dancing. wearing all white - cotton lacy headwraps, blouses with what seem like hoop skirts and pantaloons underneath. and a further lace wrap around the chest, like you would wear a bathtowel. the dance movements are simple and repetitive. and endless. some songs last only a few minutes. but they all sound pretty much the same to me and all blend into one long repition of noise. it is a complete circus. the two leading women, one in her 30s, one stately and old but with the most vitality, directing the dancing, talking to the priest (no, not that dance, she shakes her finger at him, we´re not doing that one tonight). women in white constantly coming and going from the temple to the house and back (do they need a rest, a pee break, a toke?), always having to press their way through the throng of onlookers blocking the doorway. and on the sidelines, the young girls, the most enthusiastic singers, passing around a baby, mouthing off to older sisters across the way. someday they will be the ones dancing.
going to a candomble ritual is one of the things to do in salvador. but it´s a sketchy undertaking because the tourist needs to discern which guide is actually going to take her to something authentic, yet having no idea what authentic looks like, and being unable to go solo. (in general i completely shy away from any guided activities, to the point of completely disregarding experiences that require guides. ahh, but i am not traveling alone anymore and my dictatorship has become a democracy). the travel book says ´ask someone local if you want to go to a ritual.´so the hotel man behind the counter helped us out. and although he has been very helpful all along, i was filled to the brim with skeptism. even once i arrived and saw that there was quite a large group of people participating, and even larger number of neighbors in the stands who obviously knew when to clap, i wondered. maybe the leaders convince everyone to participate by promising all the locals who come a big chicken dinner with the profits from the tourists (it was 15 usd a piece, and we guessed that it probably cost more for the folks from the posh hotels - that´s a lot of chicken). but during the break, when the women in white change into their elaborate costumes to reflect the gods and goddesses, i looked out into the lot where everyone was loitering, waiting i saw little kids running around and old people smoking cigarettes, men smiling and shaking hands women gossiping. remaining even when it began to rain again. no, this was the real deal. this was 10:30 on saturday night, and a whole community was gathered to sing and dance and revere the mysteries.
when things started up again, and the newly initiated woman entered in her shiny blue costume with a headress of beads covering her eyes, revealing the goddess of the sea, i could feel her triumph. and later, when my favorite, the young woman who i´d been watching all night, began her dance, now dressed all in yellow and green with a golden bow and arrow, the priests and men up front pointed at her, nodding, look out. she had not opened her eyes for the whole second half while she waited in trance to be called. on and on she went, simple steps around the room with elbows back and forth, stopping to bend her knees and scream. song after song, and the priest looked questioningly at the other men, but her spirit was still strong and she had not yet lain down her will and so they had to keep going. and when the tourists were gathered up and shuttled back into the white vans, the singing was growing louder and she continued. i did not want to leave. there was so much more, things were heating up. i was exhausted from the day and hungry, but i would have stayed all night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)