tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84949563788418318552024-03-29T03:15:26.780-06:00A Picture and a LineA Photo BlogBess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-63202478120337209762022-01-14T17:55:00.001-07:002022-01-14T17:55:46.959-07:00Basel SBB Train Station, Switzerland<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiITKHpi76FCSFcyCWtQE6Kay-QzfnyY821O3673_AxsE83GcWFHNzImof0lJK-hpPzP8wxXKh2lhEAS0LKgfQ-S8Sd1-1iPp7tneNa530XdQocjc6kJ-pUP84VlKqWdnMYmvOwbHjdDHRaHPl6aCrWbxPcdF__XOO8DPOB8ZBE7PbtE7BPfWwTFSYaqw" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiITKHpi76FCSFcyCWtQE6Kay-QzfnyY821O3673_AxsE83GcWFHNzImof0lJK-hpPzP8wxXKh2lhEAS0LKgfQ-S8Sd1-1iPp7tneNa530XdQocjc6kJ-pUP84VlKqWdnMYmvOwbHjdDHRaHPl6aCrWbxPcdF__XOO8DPOB8ZBE7PbtE7BPfWwTFSYaqw"/></a></div>We searched for Basel's train station on foot, a place I'd never been before but that was significant to me. There, where I thought the train station should be, I saw what looked like a 1970's-style office building. The sky was a patchy gray and the day cold, my cheeks red and wind-chapped. We walked around the building, and as we turned the corner, there was the train station I'd seen in pictures, a European-style train station with an arched, seafoam-green roof bordered by two broad columns. Wires from the tram tracks criss-crossed overhead. We walked inside and paused in the middle of the station. Fast-food restaurants lined the walls, and it smelled like French fries. The sounds of a busy train station reverberated off the high ceilings. Ahead was a steep escalator that led to a bridge over the train platforms. I was just looking today, but my excitement in finding and finally seeing the station matched the people walking quickly by me with small weekend bags in hand.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-23543084592961781722020-12-01T21:12:00.005-07:002022-05-24T14:42:48.382-06:00Volcano Masaya, Nicaragua<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaTW-93onv8j9YOs06nmTE7QO-auryUolD00YmPWTIllBSrpk3XGkXI9oC6lNG_QHsxBdh3__3ZeHt7t2Klf6gLYS0DH29kMmXJTCU0o5YlkT_I_hCJ29NSqAFE2XUCpvWt7wfFzEXKng/s0/IMG_3510.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaTW-93onv8j9YOs06nmTE7QO-auryUolD00YmPWTIllBSrpk3XGkXI9oC6lNG_QHsxBdh3__3ZeHt7t2Klf6gLYS0DH29kMmXJTCU0o5YlkT_I_hCJ29NSqAFE2XUCpvWt7wfFzEXKng/s0/IMG_3510.jpg" /></a></div>
A paved road leads all the way up to the crater, the one the Spanish baptized “La Boca del Infierno.” The landscape changes from lush and verdant to dry and rocky, only short, little patches of grass and a few stubby bushes managing to survive. When I get out of the van, the sulfur smell makes me recoil just as the volcano draws me in. I reach the crater quickly. When I peer over the rock wall that borders it, I feel awe-struck at the sight. Giddy and woozy and awe-struck. The crater descends quickly, rocky for several hundred feet, and then a huge, gaping hole with gases rising out of it in a thick, constant stream. The massive hole glows red at the bottom, where the lava seems to undulate like waves. My eyes sting, and I start to cough, and I realize I can’t stand inside the cloud of gases much longer.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-87094208763857195702020-06-18T20:49:00.003-06:002020-06-18T21:05:35.314-06:00Notre-Dame at Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZANrWcFKtsjPykrpVm2oqDABcuLjy7b0MWrrbCLYO6JUc6T5VdLftv5HV0ir1xVWZsQ_eCoSO0kylRy_32_OFI6rrP2BJ43eHb-9755VoyBS_4Woa6Os8CwaxUY4S0ymog2eFsR36n1W/s1600/IMG_4256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZANrWcFKtsjPykrpVm2oqDABcuLjy7b0MWrrbCLYO6JUc6T5VdLftv5HV0ir1xVWZsQ_eCoSO0kylRy_32_OFI6rrP2BJ43eHb-9755VoyBS_4Woa6Os8CwaxUY4S0ymog2eFsR36n1W/s640/IMG_4256.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We managed to see Notre-Dame on our last night in Paris. I had visited it years before as a college student, but that felt like a long time ago. We approached it by crossing a bridge from Île Saint-Louis, the custardy taste of mille-feuilles still in our mouths, and then passed by a long partition. This time around Notre-Dame was both an iconic attraction, an 850-year-old sacred site, and a construction zone. When we reached the front and crossed the street where suddenly the chatter of people and blare of traffic were louder, there she was lit up in nearly all her glory. It was simultaneously magical and heartbreaking because we got to see Our Lady, and I was able to see it again after all those years, but it was post-fire and the spire and roof were gone. Still, I stood in the crowd and soaked it all in because I knew I wouldn’t be back for a long, long time—also heartbreaking.
</span>Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-90679522864603174232019-09-25T12:39:00.001-06:002019-09-25T12:41:00.341-06:00More Doors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpYWkHAzCThobe_spO-Ccf1Z6SYWvQeyUeZ94GuFk_3XDTpq3YGUncspSgP6NewSv5USHnm1V-ZOKYMOc8UafVA2ZOUzmwSibfH8ykQLkXDMZM3mgqapa5wuNUIMcZLolleOzeCrkv5b7/s1600/IMG_3437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpYWkHAzCThobe_spO-Ccf1Z6SYWvQeyUeZ94GuFk_3XDTpq3YGUncspSgP6NewSv5USHnm1V-ZOKYMOc8UafVA2ZOUzmwSibfH8ykQLkXDMZM3mgqapa5wuNUIMcZLolleOzeCrkv5b7/s640/IMG_3437.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-66354666060114062502019-07-16T23:12:00.001-06:002019-07-18T09:44:08.352-06:00Blue Door, Red Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsDMgcwPhvPtBPFE4iHu3IDsxG2TR5yuzGkLDe27NBSIOmZbQBxqUPygfSwNxLGBTtym2x3iVUkfCDcx06oH2citnbzupIv3fWoInlzGZ7Eu1Ina9vwqgcRy1yLHNgqX7GgBqv9sxLkSHR/s1600/IMG_3434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsDMgcwPhvPtBPFE4iHu3IDsxG2TR5yuzGkLDe27NBSIOmZbQBxqUPygfSwNxLGBTtym2x3iVUkfCDcx06oH2citnbzupIv3fWoInlzGZ7Eu1Ina9vwqgcRy1yLHNgqX7GgBqv9sxLkSHR/s1600/IMG_3434.jpg" /></a></div>
Even under the cloud-covered morning sky, the force of the tropical heat pushes down on me, as oppressive as the heavy clouds. I walk on wet, shiny streets to Parque Central in Granada, Nicaragua, drawn to the majestic colonial architecture. On the steps outside the Centro Cultural Museos Convento San Francisco—with its own impressive Spanish colonial doors—the top of my head feels distinctly hot. I look up to see cloudless blue, the temperature and the aspect of the sky finally matching. Inside the museum and converted convent dozens of colorful wooden parrots hover between the teal blue ceiling and the ground. Folk art, all dots and waves and clear colors, is mounted on lime green walls. In one of the museum's courtyards, I stop in front of a fountain behind which hangs two colonial doors, a blue one and a red one, as part of an art installation. Which door to take? And where would it lead?Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-67284319574751576572018-09-29T11:58:00.001-06:002020-11-28T17:47:37.283-07:00A Mug for Every Emotion<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_KSIp0MK4nICDEOkGWuC0UiCwjunHOJ9cpVgiW9af_4d-W8QGoICGAgYxcjwP6EbxfKBlVm7JpATd8hqkdQuqKS6jFyLx-qNzUTw_KQyIl_S8_jylKKA_jw0q_z_C1ARoZq8vBKpIeQw/s0/IMG_6935.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_KSIp0MK4nICDEOkGWuC0UiCwjunHOJ9cpVgiW9af_4d-W8QGoICGAgYxcjwP6EbxfKBlVm7JpATd8hqkdQuqKS6jFyLx-qNzUTw_KQyIl_S8_jylKKA_jw0q_z_C1ARoZq8vBKpIeQw/s0/IMG_6935.jpg"/></a></div>
When I want to feel more like a writer, I have the Antioch University Los Angeles MFA mug I got at graduation; when I crave sunshine, my Matsumoto's mug from Hawaii. There's my British grandma's purple-flowered mug and my "Paris" mug, where they don't drink their café crèmes out of coffee mugs but, missing the feeling of a mug in my hands, I found one in a shop in the Marais—both now graced with hairline cracks. And when my throat is scratchy and my nose is running, like today, a good, solid mug with sweet, minty peppermint tea in it.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-38559385623860635242018-05-09T12:16:00.000-06:002019-07-16T23:05:19.328-06:00Spring Trees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YYl7Gs8JrlaDenP5RIfIY4bvCm-bbZQfKLcNaa7b81GRBpWy5_wm22QEhUhVVWlDSqPzRWVwZ2mM4Q0fBzezyAiXiVzeDOvwCwxrEpCjUWoDqNFXx1BoTUYTZDCm25SIQdrnQzEgV9sA/s1600/Trees_PAL1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YYl7Gs8JrlaDenP5RIfIY4bvCm-bbZQfKLcNaa7b81GRBpWy5_wm22QEhUhVVWlDSqPzRWVwZ2mM4Q0fBzezyAiXiVzeDOvwCwxrEpCjUWoDqNFXx1BoTUYTZDCm25SIQdrnQzEgV9sA/s1600/Trees_PAL1.jpg" /></a></div>
As I drive to the Museum of Nature and Science, trees that were once bare and brown are newly green, and not just green but blush, fuchsia, and ivory. When I leave the museum, leafing, flowering trees fill the landscape, letting off the powdery sweet smell of spring flowers. Every winter I forget what the city looks like in full leaf—and every year spring foliage comes as a surprise. Crab apple trees, hawthorns, and redbuds, cherry blossom and ornamental pear trees. And the same elfin spirit that tells them it’s time to bud—or maybe because of the trees, and the bulbs, sunshine, and chirping birds—gets under my skin, and makes me want to bud, too.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-69896004640832281202017-11-14T22:13:00.000-07:002019-07-16T23:04:50.046-06:00Parque Central, Granada<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbzoeotQcGXHOZ_wsROqT_h4nsBjzaibhMC-one2qiA-0e_T0jRkGVeHVcxEiWfXK2JpnZ-NxYPh1spW8e2V2SLO4kOK9Ref2waHW_yq4mnvB3rNRnsQc-1rgFf2kzgNY18VvzOM8VJB0/s1600/IMG_1923.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; "><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbzoeotQcGXHOZ_wsROqT_h4nsBjzaibhMC-one2qiA-0e_T0jRkGVeHVcxEiWfXK2JpnZ-NxYPh1spW8e2V2SLO4kOK9Ref2waHW_yq4mnvB3rNRnsQc-1rgFf2kzgNY18VvzOM8VJB0/s1600/IMG_1923.jpg" /></a></div>
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Granada's Parque Central is flanked by two-story, columned buildings in Easter-candy colors. It would look like a Disney attraction or the set of a movie except for the weathering—wet, dark tracks that begin at the ground and creep upwards. The first time I saw it, when Calle La Libertad ended and opened into the park, I reeled. I'd seen this square before but only in pictures, lots and lots of pictures, and seeing it in real life was uncanny. I looked over my shoulder for cars or motorcycles and crossed the street, immediately recognizing the squat trees with waxy leaves manicured into blunt rectangles, the fenced-in fountain with its lemon yellow trim and pale turquoise water, and the coral gazebo that sits in the middle of the park like the pendant on a cameo necklace. But the weathering, that was more prominent than in pictures; in fact the heat, which my light coat trapped against my skin, and the rain, and the weathering they created, were all more noticeable than I had imagined. But they made Granada more real, more wholly itself—not something I could have ever imagined from pictures or travelogues. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-51200305744736868322017-07-31T22:48:00.000-06:002017-07-31T22:48:07.870-06:00Shades of Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NlwzMXb5uVXV6ygu2o9tCad6VdssFiUTHeHdLmD5c7_RbSx3igl7Jodm55syjonkTXeD-bXX8HBtPzahawUot8AR2KtqBRnaH9E1krwguP8saL3UAhU57v95040-faCeduyYjFJtm2-x/s1600/IMG_2841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0NlwzMXb5uVXV6ygu2o9tCad6VdssFiUTHeHdLmD5c7_RbSx3igl7Jodm55syjonkTXeD-bXX8HBtPzahawUot8AR2KtqBRnaH9E1krwguP8saL3UAhU57v95040-faCeduyYjFJtm2-x/s640/IMG_2841.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
We abandon the cold tiled floors and narrow balcony of our twelfth-floor hotel room, pass the pool, and go down the sand-covered stairs that lead to the beach. The grains of sand slide and crunch under my flip-flops. My almost-two year old is tucked between the crook of my arm and my chest, one pudgy little arm wrapped around my shoulder. The sky is azure and the ocean is undulating layers of marine blue, turquoise, and teal, capped by frothy white waves.<br />
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Yet clumps of wiry, brick-colored seaweed litter the sandy beach, and waves crash roughly against the shore, causing my chest to tighten each time my toddler nears the water. My critical eye, my worrying mind, pull me out of the moment. But maybe it's a myth that beauty and ugliness are opposites, that presence and absence are contrary to each other—a myth that we have to abandon one to achieve the other.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-47455511887603170352017-03-14T10:28:00.000-06:002020-06-17T22:52:21.397-06:00Pink Petals, Spring Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dGFbcIXaKSmlj-tWbIUso5kaUbv729gUDPxUTCYXjkCtvtFVv7DMO4HFM6kC8kXNVt_BeUNoiZlU47LOLuUeEUQpjdyq7Wh-I3Dm8mkWImRLw2giYpu1vSatYareo5gkRWIIcCRKbr9g/s1600/Pink+Petals.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dGFbcIXaKSmlj-tWbIUso5kaUbv729gUDPxUTCYXjkCtvtFVv7DMO4HFM6kC8kXNVt_BeUNoiZlU47LOLuUeEUQpjdyq7Wh-I3Dm8mkWImRLw2giYpu1vSatYareo5gkRWIIcCRKbr9g/s1600/Pink+Petals.jpg" /></a>
I'm leaving the doctor's office—a routine appointment. As I walk down the sidewalk avoiding the slush, I hear the drone of cars passing behind me. Spring had come early, the cherry blossoms blooming in March. But winter hadn't left yet either. The heavy snow that fell the day before shrouded city streets, newly green lawns, burgeoning tulips and lilies, and trees in blossom. As I pass under a young tree, I look down and see its pink petals—which the heavy, wet snow had pulled loose—mixed with snow and landscaping rocks. The sun is already shining again, and I smile at the impermanence and incongruity.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-30945070555830233002016-11-06T20:28:00.001-07:002017-07-14T14:49:26.806-06:00Crunchy Leaves, Hazy Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyPBg4VoIgIoaEZaAchFFZlxDJK9VmegtgcfTcC8Ln2xaT6plh6sslj1IaxbdLP9hiNu4V35m_P23FfddxsWd0rVVtluo7Izk5VzoUcDKuJBmR9_WeXqhxqYF1Y3oWjceVWcwpTdLPk7M/s1600/Crunchy+Leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfyPBg4VoIgIoaEZaAchFFZlxDJK9VmegtgcfTcC8Ln2xaT6plh6sslj1IaxbdLP9hiNu4V35m_P23FfddxsWd0rVVtluo7Izk5VzoUcDKuJBmR9_WeXqhxqYF1Y3oWjceVWcwpTdLPk7M/s640/Crunchy+Leaves.jpg" width="480" height="640" data-original-width="768" data-original-height="1024" /></a></div>
It's fall, a few days into October. I'm hiking Bacherlor Gulch in Beaver Creek, Colorado. To the right is a small upslope, and to the left is a slightly steeper drop to a small creek. The sun is shining but clouds build to the west. Soon it'll be cold enough for a warm jacket, but for now the bright light is hazy through the canopy of trees. Yellow and brown leaves cover the path, and they crunch under my shoes as I walk. The creek bubbles beside me. Up ahead I see my family through the guazy light, and it's all so beautiful that for a moment time slows, almost stops.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-30367864043162529292016-08-02T10:48:00.001-06:002017-07-14T14:48:40.509-06:00Summer String Lights<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WfJ6aPn2sqk2yZ6WU-Mc_ody1kiJPIvAR0hqlMO_obVPfR1WtnwUkFIvKxUmVTTxpSMSohihM8uMqCXkKtJXvff3ZwI6jzlF_rZFgYxZP6Q_bQQbwelQYhevPJRFeIJsyVeaEyMAZe72/s1600/Summer+String+Lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WfJ6aPn2sqk2yZ6WU-Mc_ody1kiJPIvAR0hqlMO_obVPfR1WtnwUkFIvKxUmVTTxpSMSohihM8uMqCXkKtJXvff3ZwI6jzlF_rZFgYxZP6Q_bQQbwelQYhevPJRFeIJsyVeaEyMAZe72/s1600/Summer+String+Lights.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>The news was bad today, with seventy-seven dead in a terrorist attack in Nice. It's hard to process, especially when you have two young kids at home—and when it seems to happen every week. I hear my dog scratch at the back door and let her in, leaving my three year old on the potty and my one year old on the other side of the baby gate. It's after eight pm, and the night air—not cool, not warm—envelopes me. The string lights hanging from the porch ceiling catch my eye. I feel the urge to return and make sure my kids are safe, but I also feel compelled to plug in the lights, let their soft orange glow brighten up my little corner of the night, and have one moment of quiet beauty.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-53936389128453528922016-02-16T14:17:00.001-07:002017-07-14T14:47:21.966-06:00Paper Lanterns, Little Tokyo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMREJcHLWCoTH9tNcrU1FUsJwwr1kOwXzup8S9jimlKw6GURGkqK6c0E0hmg63RyX3hoC2LEUWkEGFWYTl0g1hDBaGNhCZ1MEBqmJCpFcxrlSf7NAR65usM4IpV_ttg5sT4To8q2OT5agd/s1600/Little+Tokyo.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMREJcHLWCoTH9tNcrU1FUsJwwr1kOwXzup8S9jimlKw6GURGkqK6c0E0hmg63RyX3hoC2LEUWkEGFWYTl0g1hDBaGNhCZ1MEBqmJCpFcxrlSf7NAR65usM4IpV_ttg5sT4To8q2OT5agd/s1600/Little+Tokyo.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>I'm in downtown LA, but I almost feel like I'm in Japan. Sushi and ramen. Candy shops. Wooden structures with curved roofs. Paper lanterns. We're not sure which restaurants are good here. We step inside one. Leave. Pass another and then circle back to it. There, we wait for a table, and after we're seated and served, we feed our toddler with chopsticks. Diners at nearby tables laugh at his wide, ready mouth, and we laugh, too. On the walk back to the car, the night is warm. People talk and laugh. A man sings karaoke in the plaza. It's well past bedtime, but we're on vacation, and so I stop under the paper lanterns, point them out to my son, and in pointing them out to him really see them myself, white and red and filled with glowing light against the starless blue sky. <br />
<br />Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-19422221966338502832015-11-10T10:36:00.000-07:002017-07-14T14:46:10.044-06:00White Bunny, Red Leaves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJp-238dPjJa1zd4xC-VNnvwAXXBlwlPNlv6RiJx7fbyEgxilzedr2PSOEr2hYp8xm6f-J19ajOZZT0l0Szi5qvAUdKNAMgIzvdw-aNE-zLauEZ4pQ3nunC9ZKqNDYcOohr2D6QeGwRmh/s1600/Red+Bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJp-238dPjJa1zd4xC-VNnvwAXXBlwlPNlv6RiJx7fbyEgxilzedr2PSOEr2hYp8xm6f-J19ajOZZT0l0Szi5qvAUdKNAMgIzvdw-aNE-zLauEZ4pQ3nunC9ZKqNDYcOohr2D6QeGwRmh/s640/Red+Bunny.jpg" width="480" height="640" data-original-width="580" data-original-height="774" /></a></div>
Sitting on my back porch on a fall day, a ceramic lawn ornament framed by red leaves catches my eye. The pale gray rabbit, which I've have for years without paying it much attention, seems to have a spirit that its ceramic exterior can't contain. Maybe it's the childhood references: Peter Rabbit, the Velveteen Rabbit, and Alice and Wonderland. Or maybe it's the magic of the moment: a wet fall day, leaves turning gala apple red and yellow, the sun dropping into the mountains, a light, quick rain, and a double rainbow. And in the middle of all that, the small, still rabbit.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-80784877145508910822015-09-30T22:00:00.000-06:002017-07-14T14:44:40.067-06:00Ruins of Tulum <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PHQTUo9KanTnr0PrSHwr3axFlf9-RD58Jr3o2rKe2Eol6fFVWGStaJM7PiDqaNhwigoYswF32Zop8UtsKQc0madLb39R5tqweejF8VwfktqDKyZXtadIQgydAuGgUP7_o_z7ji7aZRiT/s1600/Ruins+of+Tulum.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PHQTUo9KanTnr0PrSHwr3axFlf9-RD58Jr3o2rKe2Eol6fFVWGStaJM7PiDqaNhwigoYswF32Zop8UtsKQc0madLb39R5tqweejF8VwfktqDKyZXtadIQgydAuGgUP7_o_z7ji7aZRiT/s1600/Ruins+of+Tulum.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>We arrived by bus. The heat and humidity immediately oppressed us. After visiting the expansive, air-conditioned gift shop, where we had a short break, we boarded a trailer to the Tulum ruins, which we entered through a doorway within the wall that surrounds them. First the bumpy trailer ride, then the narrow doorway, gave me the feeling of entering a place apart. As sweat formed on my forehead and ran down my face, I followed the guide from crumbling structure to crumbling structure along winding dirt paths lining cliffs. Our guide talked of frescoes, carvings, gods, and goddesses, of rituals and riches, of an observatory to track the movement of the stars and a window meticulously built to frame the sun at equinox.
Nostalgia can trick us into thinking the past was somehow more special than the present, and it wasn't. The past was just different. But that difference hangs around the stone structures like an aura. It reaches out and brushes against you as you navigate the ruins, as real as the stone, as visceral as the heat. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-43826644527922020692015-06-23T13:22:00.001-06:002017-07-14T14:42:56.310-06:00Nights with Sebastian<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgmTTlrOj2d7hJ1tZ-AqjcuowfHowY3HKly9g66_NAuDS9x0mrkp3GZOb794qQ5FkW6X1pgkllxKOjnwiUr5iURJd95VOk8ih4GBhck5xBYI4SNvKfJ-qinhyCqHx5FT7WwBmd3UZA5xK/s1600/Nights+with+Sebastian.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgmTTlrOj2d7hJ1tZ-AqjcuowfHowY3HKly9g66_NAuDS9x0mrkp3GZOb794qQ5FkW6X1pgkllxKOjnwiUr5iURJd95VOk8ih4GBhck5xBYI4SNvKfJ-qinhyCqHx5FT7WwBmd3UZA5xK/s1600/Nights+with+Sebastian.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>In his brand new, tufted and skirted bassinet, all creme, taupe, and beige, my two-week-old sleeps next to me—fed, changed, and tightly swaddled. His eyes are shut, his body is still. If I kissed the top of his head, it would feel like a peach and smell like fresh laundry. He's so close to me but separate, too. At least for now, he doesn't need me to hold, feed, burp, or carry him. He could wake up in an hour, or even ten minutes, and every hour after that. But for now, everything is exactly how I imagined it would be; everything is perfect.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-9626094746416887642015-05-22T08:03:00.000-06:002017-07-14T14:41:40.961-06:00Boat on Water<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1ASgrcotzfCfqpXT5vKJbC8BAxb64gaLbFx3EskcfymImGrv5yAt36onTQdIQt1tNE1KXrNwMGygv_sBv8Px_IsHn271Y8kVoX5WJWhBUW4ftk4zSA7WUiWaIMBjRdH1FfL_vxk2CRjU/s1600/The+Tortuga.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN1ASgrcotzfCfqpXT5vKJbC8BAxb64gaLbFx3EskcfymImGrv5yAt36onTQdIQt1tNE1KXrNwMGygv_sBv8Px_IsHn271Y8kVoX5WJWhBUW4ftk4zSA7WUiWaIMBjRdH1FfL_vxk2CRjU/s1600/The+Tortuga.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="765" /></a>
At Fisherman's Village in Marina del Rey we ate calamari and drank cold white wine, bittersweet like grapefruit, and then walked along the stone pathway adjacent to the dock. The Village is years past its prime and in need of repairs, but its neglected look inspires nostalgia. To my right were a defunct lighthouse and quaint buildings painted burgundy, sky blue, and pale yellow, which housed a hodgepodge mix of restaurants and tourist shops. To my left were docked boats big and small and a collection of seabirds, like pelicans and seagulls, and the marina, where the sun glinted off the lapping waves. <br />
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-81341427609859598912015-04-22T19:06:00.000-06:002017-07-14T14:40:29.291-06:00Pointe du Raz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pt4vR9vVQwNG7e6jfD2NVkZfyjyJuZLiw15CPHUopAl8XJBBkXzjBc8GT8-VMwhMOgpJrcgQnSSE6ath4vU8gTb88KPQOBvexPFNbAz03Fx6asZQ-_zEZLya8ywZdo_sEtzDQNaEigdC/s1600/Pointe+du+Raz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pt4vR9vVQwNG7e6jfD2NVkZfyjyJuZLiw15CPHUopAl8XJBBkXzjBc8GT8-VMwhMOgpJrcgQnSSE6ath4vU8gTb88KPQOBvexPFNbAz03Fx6asZQ-_zEZLya8ywZdo_sEtzDQNaEigdC/s640/Pointe+du+Raz.jpg" width="426" height="640" data-original-width="519" data-original-height="780" /></a></div>
After a long bus ride, I stand at the apex of Pointe du Raz, one of the westernmost points in France. The strong winds blow in the crisp, salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean and whip against my hair, face, and clothes and the rocky cliffs. Waves thrash below. The Bretons borrowed the word "raz" from Norman, meaning, "strong current of water," and when you stand at the height of Pointe du Raz, the name feels both obvious and ominous. Before and below me are rock outcrops leading to Le Vieille lighthouse and, beyond that, the Atlantic. Looking in that direction, you sense the isolation that make this region feel like the end of the earth.Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-41292076486353968582015-04-08T21:22:00.002-06:002017-07-14T14:38:47.244-06:00Duck on Water<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiecjK-nRuldrNmr9e0dQ_VrtzpMJnZjGVWMnGtik79bpc5wD4IEZVfCx5ZmtRbT5ei5X_mBPUsIlpOVgA4aDKfEsw8-1ycIZeb2CHYDzI8PL7mtJILY54PGaqtmo0BNa3t0wEAm8DEMmen/s1600/Duck+on+Water.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiecjK-nRuldrNmr9e0dQ_VrtzpMJnZjGVWMnGtik79bpc5wD4IEZVfCx5ZmtRbT5ei5X_mBPUsIlpOVgA4aDKfEsw8-1ycIZeb2CHYDzI8PL7mtJILY54PGaqtmo0BNa3t0wEAm8DEMmen/s1600/Duck+on+Water.jpg" /></a>On one of the first truly warm days of spring, I took my infant son for a walk around the neighborhood lake. We passed what I thought was a flock of common ducks. But on another look, my eye was drawn to the ducks' fanned hoods, black-and-white markings, and chestnut flanks. I approached them for a closer look, smelling the muddy ripeness of the water's edge. Soon the pair of Hooded Merganser and other ducks joined a flock of geese onshore, where we watched them until they waddled back into the water and swam away.
Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-87967906337310960772015-03-19T16:34:00.000-06:002017-07-14T14:37:35.309-06:00Chihuly in Wonderland<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDIwBKUV96rCgQBRED5UgYX1w98EkdGgQpftMSfySmoJ_c1kYvKNJT6wWlhjpqtq50INd7YFOz5iP8pNq77cigfcyaGBjahczCPq0JuyYjKG1crNMyvBqjY6EjgrmfgrQ9wR7ULpmRAhB/s1600/Chihuly+in+Wonderland.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDIwBKUV96rCgQBRED5UgYX1w98EkdGgQpftMSfySmoJ_c1kYvKNJT6wWlhjpqtq50INd7YFOz5iP8pNq77cigfcyaGBjahczCPq0JuyYjKG1crNMyvBqjY6EjgrmfgrQ9wR7ULpmRAhB/s1600/Chihuly+in+Wonderland.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>At the Dale Chihuly exhibition at the Denver Botanic Gardens, I walked from the Perennial Walk to the Monet Pool to the Japanese, Montane, Licac, and Rose gardens. In each, blown glass sculptures intermingled with the landscaping. Vermilion prongs rose up from a bed of basket-of-gold and lilies. Mauve prongs rose out of a lake. Spidery, succulent-like glass of every color grew out of water or among ferns or sage bushes. Royal blue spheres floated down a river and ones of bright yellow, orange, and blue piled into an abandoned boat. A Willy-Wonka, Alice-in-Wonderland fantasy world of nature and art. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-78858629878635304252015-03-07T16:54:00.001-07:002017-07-14T14:36:16.212-06:00Malibu, California<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHn4x34SUcMJTbI6chBeNzWfVyW7izjQhWe8oq_escWRWs_lCvkUiJ8Af5DO7ceLGf-RffxxNgahbWGE645Jv64PRW9kgg7UmL3OKGUXt-QCsMtaFb0Db5w-RabopB6l1waAXhchYwrKd/s1600/Malibu+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHn4x34SUcMJTbI6chBeNzWfVyW7izjQhWe8oq_escWRWs_lCvkUiJ8Af5DO7ceLGf-RffxxNgahbWGE645Jv64PRW9kgg7UmL3OKGUXt-QCsMtaFb0Db5w-RabopB6l1waAXhchYwrKd/s1600/Malibu+Beach.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>We'd just eaten a lunch of fried cod and lemonade at Malibu Seafood and were driving back to Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway. We wanted to get closer to the ocean, so we found a place to pull over and parked. The beach there was all rocks and old cement blocks. We tottered over them while taking in the view. The cars roared and the waves crashed. The air smelled like salt and, just a little, rotting vegetation. Everywhere I looked I saw lines: the coastline, the ocean abutting it, the highway, and a line of wooden posts, water- and wind-worn, holding up the ghost of an old pier. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-76969805305060651092015-02-17T16:43:00.001-07:002017-07-14T14:34:59.538-06:00Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception<center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSXeGqzgSvMQH7-iD5gbQFGFym9WoBrHoQ3kO_NGyF5UIiGYGLAiLxt4iYosfMK1rXFBY4T9u6oXvgSDiKVkPWjZqNmpL7hbn8UDooezykpGD59zOBczZT6jp_Jgf8Xe0UZ7RBPJgBoAL/s1600/Cathedral+Basilica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSXeGqzgSvMQH7-iD5gbQFGFym9WoBrHoQ3kO_NGyF5UIiGYGLAiLxt4iYosfMK1rXFBY4T9u6oXvgSDiKVkPWjZqNmpL7hbn8UDooezykpGD59zOBczZT6jp_Jgf8Xe0UZ7RBPJgBoAL/s640/Cathedral+Basilica.jpg" width="480" height="640" data-original-width="581" data-original-height="774" /></a></div></center>
With Lent coming up, I've been thinking about habits I rely on too much or ones that aren't useful to me anymore. What would it be like to give them up for forty days? People have used this time to try to make positive changes in their lives, do something that's hard for them, care more, give more, or pray more. I read a post on someone's Facebook page about turning problems into opportunities, and that resonated with me. I lean too much on the idea that I'm stuck in one situation or another, so during Lent, I want to rethink that idea. How am I <em>not</em> stuck? How could I get unstuck? How can I get excited about my life, not just for something that may happen in the future, but for something that's happening right now? Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-7729612366445049832015-02-04T13:11:00.002-07:002017-07-07T13:48:48.537-06:00Frost on Tree II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9D7s805e6HdJWhZMCF8Ccrn5vMrTeleShZ-Y6lTfYZr7BV82WvsBQwuVHiK-ZcBo-UhpCIu1qj4dgwNJOzw_Lh4XqJpw5-UdbClJpZd9vIft3sM_WVI9Zw3SnS0cZ8z4_k-OT73tXwU0C/s1600/Frost+on+Tree+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9D7s805e6HdJWhZMCF8Ccrn5vMrTeleShZ-Y6lTfYZr7BV82WvsBQwuVHiK-ZcBo-UhpCIu1qj4dgwNJOzw_Lh4XqJpw5-UdbClJpZd9vIft3sM_WVI9Zw3SnS0cZ8z4_k-OT73tXwU0C/s1600/Frost+on+Tree+II.jpg" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a>
More frost, crystals, fractals, and magical ice castlesBess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-36550419472773793242015-01-23T12:27:00.002-07:002017-07-07T13:47:39.175-06:00Frost on Tree<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizer2QIoZocZAKFzjBnOn6uoyJgyC7N3PalcTCXKUATwoiloS1Ng9EqTJ0l-WwGmw-PCxtKd9xtT12B1YKsm-pVF7v6vrtHs2vurRDNilu_1_XDNW-HDE__bCnvNWyIHOnsML-GaD-5TpI/s1600/Frost+on+Tree+I.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizer2QIoZocZAKFzjBnOn6uoyJgyC7N3PalcTCXKUATwoiloS1Ng9EqTJ0l-WwGmw-PCxtKd9xtT12B1YKsm-pVF7v6vrtHs2vurRDNilu_1_XDNW-HDE__bCnvNWyIHOnsML-GaD-5TpI/s1600/Frost+on+Tree+I.jpg" /></a>
On a freezing January morning, a thick frost covered the trees—tiny, sharp crystals; delicate white branches; fractals. This kind of frost is called "hoar frost," from an Old English adjective meaning "to show signs of age." Knobby, hunchbacked trees with white hair and beards. But frost also gives the impression of stopping time. Maybe that's what makes it seem magical, bringing to mind ice castles, white witches, and snow queens—places and people outside the rules of time, always beautiful but never changing. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8494956378841831855.post-41351297410788091862015-01-09T13:13:00.004-07:002022-01-14T20:44:14.560-07:00Getty Museum<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicHrB28svKlJ8ZkHVPsVoYtfAtSXHKRYjzt8QM6feFr5Fmj-jjrKjlzNa7NhF2oPUczTE9jOu3cqjGDec314-NYuHAdtaja_eni7MFT9EHrVyiEqSlU78QpeijFBgqfS1IIfBzYYwCk17dZgn0-x9Xl7u9SC8BG7aOd36L19LmqPQwSOFHys1AafYPNg=s3264" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="600" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicHrB28svKlJ8ZkHVPsVoYtfAtSXHKRYjzt8QM6feFr5Fmj-jjrKjlzNa7NhF2oPUczTE9jOu3cqjGDec314-NYuHAdtaja_eni7MFT9EHrVyiEqSlU78QpeijFBgqfS1IIfBzYYwCk17dZgn0-x9Xl7u9SC8BG7aOd36L19LmqPQwSOFHys1AafYPNg=s600"/></a></div>
I exited the rear of the Getty, expecting to find a modest patio. Instead, I looked out over an impossibly tall, boot-shaped cactus garden and, beyond that, Los Angeles. I skirted the patio to find the museum's massive central gardens, where I followed a narrow, tree-lined path and crossed a stream that traversed, at turns, aquatic plants, massive chunks of stone, and manicured pebbles. Near the bottom of the path, bougainvillea arbors jutted out of the plaza, as delightfully over-dressed as ladies in waiting. Bess V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00074684875584306845noreply@blogger.com0