roots, rocks, relatives

When I last left this blog, I was on my out of Madison, WI, headed toward the highest concentration of relatives I would see before hitting Oakland. Just like staying with friends in Toronto had felt like a warm blanket after Montreal, the thought of bunking at relatives houses seemed like a swan dive into comfort and relaxation. Even better, I would get to experience many of them for the first-time as an adult, and alone. And the interactions did not disappoint. I had a friend define a friend once as someone who "knows where you're from," and when I turn that idea over in my head every once and a while I'm always struck with its truth. Sometimes, the person literally grew up near where you grew up, and that single commonality serves as a rocky notch from which a friendship grows. Sometimes, that "knowing where you're from" is as simple as empathizing with your experience, a gesture that springs a lifetime of connection.

But with relatives, the realization of friendship is even more satisfying, I've found. Of course they know where I am from (in most cases, they had the distinct pleasure of changing my diapers!), and from their vantage they are able to perceive my life as a whole arc, a detail in only the latest few chapters of their lives. They love me as only an aunt or uncle can, but more, they are bound to me by blood; I will always be compelled to seek them out, no matter the passage of time.

When I visited them during this trip, that connection, as sturdy as it is potentially meaningless (as in, "why should I make an effort when we will ALWAYS be relatives?"), seemed to age in a most pleasing way. All of sudden (measured in the intervals of years, at least), conversations ran smoother and deeper, with real effort toward meaning from both parties. Toasts with drinks were mostly intimate affairs, but felt weighty. Visiting with my grandmothers were so fun, but also like an important ritual. I came away feeling totally charged, tied in with these people in new and dramatic ways.

My family stretches like a constellation over the Twin Cities, with nodes settling here and there and the distance between summarizing the entire area for me. Staying with various representatives throughout my life has given me the impression that I know the place in a way that I really don't. But this visit felt much different in that I was able to take in parts of the cities that filled in some of those gaps in a true way; maybe because I'm older, maybe because I came alone (without my family), or maybe because of what we actually did.

Eating steaks with my uncle, and staying up late playing pool with my aunt; taking a long drive with my grandmother, and then my uncle; playing cards with my aunt, and eating pizza with my teenage cousings; watching live opera with my great-aunt, and then sharing beers with my other cousin (who is taller than me now?!--damnit!); each part felt like a new edge to a sculpture that I have known my whole life. It made my roots feel living and real.

And it made me realize what this trip is doing to me. Moments are apt to slip by, as invested as we all are in the business of passing time and getting ahead. It felt like a shiny, green skill that I was exploring to try to hold a moment for long enough that I might drink it and remember. Those close to me, and those places that build the mosaic of my childhood travels, are so rarely the locus of my attention, and often in my rearview mirror. The challenge of presence and peace, with anyone, but with relatives especially seems like good, holistic work.

Then, in the early dark of last Monday morning, I swept into the airport and picked up my brother. He had offered to fly out and make the end of the drive with me, and the idea seemed like a once-in-a-few-decades opportunity. We pointed northwest, and leapt for the coast.

nothing mid- about the mid-west

While everyone knows that Chicago is sort of an exception when it comes to the midwest (maybe even the exception, that proves the rule), I will just not get on board with the notion that the rest of this excellent region is not pulling its weight. From the food and art you find in the smaller cities, to the attitudes and traditions of the little specks on the map, Middle America does not deserve nearly the derisiveness that coastal humbugs like to dish out. Of course, here I am moving from one coast to the other, gracing the region with my presence for a mere week or so; I wouldn't listen to a hypocritical asshole, either. But wait! Let me make my case.

This century's dogged commitment to tech, which always invites disenfranchisement of the local voice, is like the Manifest Destiny of today. Just like that itch to move West transformed our country 200 years ago, the itch to innovate and share and be special is transforming America's cultural landscape. And while I certainly believe in the power of the "new" to lead us forward, there is not a shred of wisdom in trampling the things that have persevered so that we might glimpse, for a moment, the vanguard.

Here's what I mean. When things develop on the coasts, usually they are hot, exciting, and dramatic, with the muscle of industry titans and the audiences to match. The Met does opera like no where else, everyone is watching when Apple rolls out a new phone, the speed of life is so exciting, BLAH BLAH BLAH. And while the blast radius of innovation in those places is impressive, so is the burn-out effect. I know just as many people who leave the big cities as who move there.

There is nothing wrong with this. But I make the point to show that there is nothing wrong with working in smaller spheres, and living in less intrinsically exciting places, as your life's work. In fact, the greater focus it takes to remain consistent over many years might just make that work more valuable to those that you do touch.

Let me give you an example. My hosts in Madison are a couple who my family met about 15 years ago, when we lived here for a sabbatical. They have kids similar ages to my family, and values that match well with my family's. We all hit it off, and have been the type of friends ever since that I felt more than comfortable staying with them as a 24-year old, who hadn't been to their house in over a decade, as I did when I used to come over as a 6-year old.

These are two people who get stopped on the street downtown by a network of neighbors and colleagues, glowing with the satisfaction of mutual friendship; these are people who wake at 5a every morning so that they might share coffee before work together, after having been married for 35 years; these are people who are as interested in the minutiae of their daily work lives as they are in the principles that have shaped their careers. And these are people who have tasted the coasts and travelled their share, but have chosen to live and thrive in the region where they grew up.

Life is a series of choices, and their's have led them to this totally livable town (Madison), in a totally exciting field (education), with two totally ass-kicking children (who have moved far and wide). Man, what wealth!

Needless to say, I was excited for my own explorations of their -ville. My first day in the city began with breakfast at a true Wisconsin institution--Mickey's Dairy Bar. The food was good, but the prices, and the service/ambience were excellent. And how often can you say you have eaten pancakes, eggs, and a chocolate malt before 7a? Rockin.

Hopping on my bike for 5 minutes at a time, I toured the Capitol building and read underneath the shade of its cupola, saw some modern art, took in a Frank Lloyd Wright public space overlooking one of Madison's beloved lakes, dunked in the other of said lakes, and even visited one my host's fourth-grade classroom. I perused its local businesses, and bathed in the soft glory that is a true Wisconsin accent. And then, when it got too hot (96!), I took respite in my hosts' beautiful air conditioned home, that has lovingly and organically evolved over the years.

And while all of this would've been striking to a new visitor ("Man, what a bitchin city!"), my experience was extra heady because of the incredible tendrils of memory that I felt more than truly remembered. Riding by old grocery stores, and soccer fields where I first played, and the homes of childhood friends, was fantastic, and seemed to only underscore the marriage of old with new that makes this place so great. It was like a natural fermentation, at the proper pace of progress, that changed this town. While there are cranes every where you look, there will always be the thirty people who show up, in a snowstorm, to protest a minor neighborhood development project that doesn't feel quite right.

There was so much more, too: impromptu community sing-alongs by the Capitol, lush lake-side parks where wind whispered along with my kettlebell-ing, free bike repair at the local shop, the best cup of coffee since Render Cafe in South Boston. It makes me think of a Jonathan Swift quote I just saw: "May you live every day of your life. Fuck the naysayers who think the midwest is like America's heart attack." I added to his quote, slightly.

But again, the schedule shot me out on the road on September 11th.

the gravity of other people, part 2

When I left you last Toronto had just lodged itself in my heart, but when the day came to leave the road felt right again. Climbing into my little four-wheeled home, I packed at dawn and found a spot on Lake Ontario for my cup of coffee. Flapping gulls and vivacious septuagenarians were my only companions, but none of us felt like breaking the seal of that early morning. I drank and drank and drank that sunrise. Somehow, these feel like things I must do. Sunrises, and lake dunks, and beautiful shady spots; all feel weighty in a way that I usually miss in my day-to-day. I'm not going to write about how each of us should take time every day to find moments like that, because I'm not sure that's all it is. There is something about cultivating the voice that encourages you to attack those weighty moments that is worth paying attention to. But then we just hold on for the ride, or at least that how it feels for me.

This was to be my first big day of driving. 274 miles to Ann Arbor for lunch with an old friend, and then 259 more to Evanston, just outside of Chicago, to stay with my relatives. Crossing the border was trippy, like any of these moments of sudden intimacy with a humungous governmental machine. At first, I am always a little peeved with their rehearsed, slightly-suspicious attitude, but driving away from his kiosk I was struck more by the little parts of his delivery that required personality and warmth. Over an 8 hour day, that's a lot of warmth; good on him.

Lunch was excellent, Indian, a "cross between curry and stir-fry," said their menu. Anything festooned with shreds of raw ginger automatically gets a VIP pass into my stomach (and out of it, apparently). And seeing my friend, a violinist at U of M, was inspiring. Without ever wavering, her commitment to getting elbow-deep in music has been like a lantern for the rest of us to follow since I first played with her in 9th grade youth orchestra. Being at the university has allowed her to take classes that seems scrumptiously poignant ('Music School of the Future'), while her own innate hunger for good, new stuff has led her to all sorts of tasty premieres (playing with the composer), chamber groups and teaching experiences (teaching graphic notation, with balls of yarn, to 5 year olds? yes, please). There are people like this all over the country, folks, so PLEASE GO SEE NEW MUSIC. Ahem.

Driving away I felt buzzed to try new things, but in a way different from when I was younger. Without just trying a skill or a technique or an area on for size, I love the idea of sending little tendrils of growth out from my established and cultivated garden of experience. What I mean, I guess, is that the new that comes out of the old is of worth in a way that make them definitively not fads. Stay tuned for such new things.

But the buzz didn't last, and pretty soon I was blinking my eyes open, never a good sign when behind the wheel. Pulling over, I threw down one of my better KB workouts thus far, right there on the grass by the semi-trucks. Woke me right up.

The rest of the drive stretched long, but time zones were on my side in a surprising (to me) way. For the record, 25 hour days really are an amazing thing. At one point, though, I stopped in Gary, Indiana for gas. While it recalled my one and only musical theater experience (Music Man--I was 5, so no I won't sing any tunes from it), things have changed from how they were presented to me. I have never seen a more desolate town. Buildings were bombed, out with deep gapping holes where windows should've been, chewing on the tired town's overheated and underpopulated sidewalks. The only activity was at the town's 2 gas stations, where a full-bore competition for my car-wash business was in effect. While I didn't stop for the wash, the scene was poignant. The dark house where the washing apparently took place stood empty, with 15 or so men getting old right there. I wondered what our conversation might be like, but my schedule (or my fear?) pushed me onward.

And then, after a quick skirmish through Chicago with the most tense traffic this side of Istanbul, I got to Evanston at sundown. In case you didn't know, Evanston is the nicest suberb in America. Okay, maybe not, but heysoos kristo, the wide avenues! the beautiful, gigantic houses! the lawns! the perfect dance of classic with modern! I felt a little trashy for liking it so much.

And of course, my relatives have, since my last visit, moved into an incredible Art Deco house, one of the last in the area apparently. A big, white brick affair, the house is edged with classy, square ornaments. Warm wood and careful craftsmen accents fill each corner. Amazingly, such a beautiful home felt lived in, too, what with my cousins and their awesome bebes (aged 7 years and 20 months, respectively) staying there for a month or so. Somehow I scored a visit with three distinct pieces of that clan in the same pass-through. Mega efficient.

And then I had one day to see Chicago. Somewhat dreading the 17-mile trek to downtown, I got a late start (having to attend to some serious cousin play-time at the park followed by Breakfast, capital B). But once i got going, all the pieces fell together.

The Lakeshore bike path was coursing with Sunday recreaters (right? recreation-ers?), and I was more than happy to slow down around them. Lake Michigan was righteously frothing with wind, charged with the hot air in that special Midwestern way, and I dipped my toes for a bit. Riding on, I found the Art Institute and dipped my toes in there, too (my uncle's yearly pass getting me fo' free!). It felt like a buffet at La Bernadin, like karaoke at the Berlin Phil--like any type of fine art I could want was there, and all the very best.

One exhibiting artist, Zarina, had an exhibit almost entirely done in paper, exploring texture and shadow and reptition--some of my favorite stuff. But one aspect called to me, being on this trip and all: her extensive travel has taken her all over the world, and obviously informed her work. But through it all, she says in one quote, the idea of home has been her guiding vision. Whether that home was the crappy rental apartments in '70s New York, or her car during long drives through Eastern Europe, or anywhere else, the idea of four walls and a ceiling, filled with herself and her art, kept her warm. This is important for all of us, I think.

And somehow, I realized at this point, that all the time with my people helped to refine my inner rudder. How different this town felt than Montreal, and not just for the obvious reasons; by being in orbit with people I knew for just a little while, the gravity of myself felt firmer and more ready to negotiate all the excellent pieces of Chicago that I found.

After a quick jaunt through Millenium Park, and some pictures of Gehry's incredible pavilion, I took off. Navigating Chicago by bike was a real trip. Such a huge city seemed cut down to size as soon as I stood up on the pedals and grabbed a lane. Weaving through skyscrappers and under the columns of the L train tracks, I wound through Lincoln Park to see another friend, and got back to Evanston just in time for the end of dinner.

The next morning, with all the kiddos gone, I got to practice in that big, beautiful house, with a big, beautiful Steinway B, no less. My trumpet loved dancing with the acoustic of the room, and while my fingers were stiff on the piano keys, playing my stilted Bach felt very, very right. Buzzed, I left for Madison.