Abandoned house outside Barre, Vermont:
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 4:26 PM [+]
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Friday, February 25, 2005 Abandoned house outside Barre, Vermont: Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 4:26 PM [+] |
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Thursday, February 24, 2005 B., my latest houseguest, arrived Sunday, early afternoon. What ensued: hours of conversation, a trip into Montpelier for a good movie (Almost Peaceful) and a good dinner at the town's only barbecue joint. B. had originally been thinking of returning home the following day, to Cape Ann, north of Boston. Instead, we woke up the next a.m. to find that snow had begun coming down during the night. It continued falling, the day became one of blabbing, eating, relaxing, driving back into Montpelier that evening for another good movie (Million Dollar Baby). B. has pointed out that odd things sometimes happen when we hang out together. For instance, April of 2002: during a weekend visit here by Himself and a handful of other weirdos, we were all awakened in the early hours by a small earthquake centered in upstate New York. November, 2004: Immediately after a 2-3 day rendezvous with B. north of Milano, another small quake rattled that area. This time: nothing quite as earthshaking. After returning from the day's jaunt into town, we got into a bit too much talk about some recent events that had gone a bit less wonderfully than desired. Within minutes, I picked up the phone to discover the line dead again. We cranked up a DVD, my stereo amplifier -- freshly back from repairs needed in the wake of the person who took care of this place from November through January (see entry of February 7) -- began misbehaving. Post-DVD, sitting at the dining room table discussing the phone/amplifier, B. mentioned that he's experienced moments when 'everything' (his word) in his living space went down at the same time. A moment or two later, the house carbon monoxide alarm goes off. After several hilarious minutes spent exploring the various possible sources of CO, finding no problem anywhere, the alarm quieted down, we called it a night, headed to our respective bedrooms. This impish universe of ours: it's got far too active a sense of humor, don't you think? Monday morning: after taking the needed time to get the stove going, eat and inhale enough caffeine to drag me somewhere near full consciousness, I pulled on heavy weather gear, got ready for the drive to a phone booth and the latest in the ongoing series of calls to Verizon's repair service. Just as I headed out, the neighbor whose phone I'd used two days before [see entry of February 20] materialized, letting me know that this time their phone was also out, as was my uphill neighbors'. He'd tried to call Verizon the night before, failing to locate a real person to speak with, leaving many long, stressed messages instead. I drove slowly -- through countryside sleeping beneath accumulating snow, wind blowing sheets of white powder across the sparsely-traveled two-lane -- to the nearest village. Called Verizon, managed to get a genuine human being who then put me on hold, disconnecting me. Called again, got another human being who did the same. The third managed to hang on to me, said they were aware of the outage, that it would be taken care of by that evening. And since it was a line problem, no one would need to get into anyone's house -- important, that, considering the goofiness of two or three days earlier. By 2:30, heavy snowfall had become flurries, phone service had been restored. Since then, everything technical has performed flawlessly -- me appreciating the bejesus out of it all, enjoying the adventures, feeling mighty taken care of in the middle of wacky happenings. Shortly after the dial tone reappeared, during meal prep. and continuing conversation, B. and I found ourselves getting into a heated exchange, seriously, intensely so, one that developed unexpectedly after him mentioning the suicide of Hunter S. Thompson. A kind of event I rarely experience, am rarely inclined to get into -- in this case, I felt the inclination and stayed with it, a measure of my trust and regard for B. The conversation moved forward, the air thick with energy and flying words, neither of us having what I would call a ball, but hanging in, listening to each other and to ourselves, gradually pulling out of it into a place of greater clarity, ease, relief. I haven't experienced much of that conflict-leading-to-positive-result thing in this little life of mine, and sure as hell didn't see it role-modeled in my family. Anger generally meant danger in the childhood home scene, of the physical variety in younger years (beatings, or poundings around the face and head, that sometimes seemed to explode out of nowhere), emotional violence at other times (from lack of training, lack of inner resource, not from lack of personal quality or good intent, both of which were abundant in our clan). So I appreciate that my inner radar has sharpened to the point of being able to indicate who might be capable of working things through in healthier ways, and I appreciate attracting relationships into my life that can weather passages like that and come out of them intact, maybe stronger. A great person, B. -- a fine individual to spend some time with. He hit the road Tuesday morning, real life has since taken hold here with plenty to be done. Next Tuesday brings the return trip to Madrid, I'm well into the speeding up of time that customarily takes place in the days before one of these transatlantic shifts -- the days packed with things to be done, details to keep track of, the passing hours gradually accelerating as the calendar slouches closer and closer to the departure date. This life of ours: it's one big kick in the pants. ************ Thank you, Hunter S. Thompson, for producing some groundbreaking, deeply influential writing. There are professional scribblers who would kill to have come up with just one installment of your early publishing trifecta. Anyone looking for a good read could do worse than to seek out 'Hell's Angels,' 'Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas' (still one of the funniest, most outrageous books I've ever read), and 'Fear and Loathing On The Campaign Trail.' Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:25 AM [+] |
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Wednesday, February 23, 2005 Snowshadows  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 9:32 AM [+] |
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Sunday, February 20, 2005 Am back online after three days without phone service. The following was written Thursday: "Phone service went out here this morning, making it impossible to do the ongoing work on this journal's older entries (updating links, edits/rewrites, moving photos from pbase to this domain, altering HTML to reflect the difference). Providing an unexpected block of time to simply sit and run off at the mouth. "This is the first day of full-bore sunshine this little corner of the world has seen in a while. The last week mostly brought gray, cold, rainy/snowy conditions, after which this morning's blue skies felt pretty stinkin' good. A good time for the phone lines to act up, my mood/attitude being pretty much unsinkable. "I have dial-up service here, with a fair amount of background noise on the line, which can, at times, slow down the loading of pages/data to a crippled, drunken crawl. This morning, that crawl outdid itself, becoming slower and slower (repeatedly kicking me offline), finally going belly up, the dial tone disappearing altogether. Picking up the phone confirmed the dead line, I checked other jacks in the house with a second phone -- same thing. "Finished some things here, pulled on a coat, drove down the hill to Mo's place. His phone service continued without problem, I put through a call to Verizon repair service, suffering through five minutes of automated voices making me wait, jump through hoops, sit up and beg, apparently providing Mo and Barbara with some fine entertainment. An extremely nice woman finally spoke with me, instructing me to go back up to the house and plug a phone into the house junction box to make sure the problem was in external lines. "While I did that (confirming that the trouble was outside the house), I heard a truck rumble by, disappearing uphill. On returning to Mo's to follow up with repair service, he told me that the truck had been a Verizon vehicle, possibly responding to a call from a neighbor further up the hill, maybe on the way to check out our hilltop junction box, where the trouble might be originating. While we discussed that, the truck passed, heading back downhill. Mo theorized that the problem might have been fixed, I scooted home to recheck the lines. Service had indeed been restored, I dialed repairs to let them know all was well. And as I waited for their number to ring, the line went dead again. "Trudged downstairs, checked the house junction box -- dead. Pulled on coat, drove back to Mo's, called repair service, eventually got through to a guy who sounded terminally bored, flatly disinterested. We went through the motions of a repair call, he eventually told me service would be restored by tomorrow at the latest, my jaw dropping in response as the word tomorrow reverberated in my teeny little brain. 'Tomorrow?' I finally managed to get out. 'That's right,' he answered, his tone of voice communicating something along the lines of 'Big deal, who cares, go away, let me sleep....' I said nothing, mouth open, brain still processing the unexpected word 'tomorrow,' still marveling at the loss of phone service on a day of such beautiful weather -- no trees going down, no ice or heavy snow causing headaches. Sunlight, temperature heading steadily upward. 'Sorry,' I finally said, 'I'm speechless.' Nothing from the other end of the line, the guy not feeling inclined to give me anything more than bad news, perhaps slowly expiring from ennui, lacking the energy or will to drum up any kind of bedside manner. 'Well,' I eventually enunciated, 'do what you have to do,' hanging up without waiting for a final terse, disinterested two or three words from the other end of the line. "Went out into a beautiful day, realized my mood remained unshakeable, me feeling pretty good. And this is where my normal charmed life kicked in. "Went to a dental appointment in a neighboring town, decided I'd call back repair service afterward and express some appreciation for the woman I'd initially spoken with, give her a commendation. Post-appointment (mouth happy, teeth sparkling), I asked the receptionist where the nearest pay phone might be. Right nearby, she said -- in the parking lot, it turned out of a small, square, windowless brick Verizon building, a combo switching/relay depot and technician hangout. I'm at the pay phone, a guy walks out of the building, I ask him if he and his compatriots were aware that we'd lost phone service on our hill. They weren't, he asked for details, went back inside to make a phone call. I finished up with the commendation, walked over to the brick building, knocked on the door. The guy lets me in, I find myself in the local linemen's hangout, ambience strictly industrial, the guy quizzing me for details about the outage, passing the information along to people on the other end of the line. Ten minutes later, the local servicing network is alerted, the guy tells me he'll be driving up himself to see what's going on. I thank him, we shake, I return home feeling just fine. "And here I am, sunlight pouring in the windows, house quiet, birds coming and going at the feeder outside the nearby window. Service is still out, but that'll pass. In the meantime, I get to hang out for a while -- write, eat some lunch, stare out at the Vermont countryside stretching away up the valley. All of that leaving me feeling obnoxiously content." That was Thursday. Obnoxiously content. And I was. After all, we're only talking about the phone line being out, not a dread disease, not a home invasion, not catastrophic weather. Me, in a warm, comfy house on top of a hill in the middle of beautiful country. With running water, food to eat, things to read, music to listen to. All that and more. Now and then, as that afternoon and evening rolled by, I'd pick up the phone to see if the line had been resuscitated. Nothing doing. Next day: called repair service around noontime from a pay phone in Montpelier, spoke with a nice woman. My situation was second on the technician's to-do list for that day, she said. When he got finished with the first one he'd come out and do the work. Went home, worked, hung out, now and then picked up the phone. The line remained dead. Saturday morning: line still out. Just before the 48-hour mark, went down the hill to Mo's, used their phone to call repairs. "Well," said the woman who answered, "a technician came out yesterday and you weren't home." "Huh?" says I. "They need to get to your house's junction box, it's apparently inside." "Yeah," I agreed, "in the garage." "You weren't home, he couldn't get in." "I was home. I didn't hear anything. I wasn't listening for anything because this is the first time anyone's told me I needed to be home." Me assuming all along that -- the problem being in the lines outside the house, no one mentioning that I'd need to let anyone inside -- work would be done outside somewhere, at some point the dial tone would miraculously reappear. Never occurred to me that I'd need to be in the house, much less on the alert for a hard-hatted, toolbelted visitor. Maybe it should have. Or not. Got me. The upshot of the call -- it was a long weekend, no one would be able to come out to take care of the line until next week. Leaving me, once again, openmouthed. Got off the phone, not happy. Decided to take a drive and see if my neighbors at the end of the road had a working phone, just to get a picture of how widespread the problem might be. Went, found no one home. On the way back, came across another neighbor out taking a stroll in the 0° weather (temperature at 8 a.m.: -9°) with his two dogs (golden retrievers, happily cavorting, oblivious to the polar conditions). His phone was working, he offered me use of it. I decided to call repair service again, draw them a clear picture of me not having been given important information, try for a different outcome. I called, the person I dealt with heard me, made arrangements, told me a technician would show up either later in the day or first thing Sunday a.m. No one showed Saturday, the line remained dead. This morning, 9:15: a truck pulled into the driveway, I went outside (temperature: -1°) to meet the technician. He pulled on vest, jacket, gloves, hardhat, toolbelt. He checked the junction box, confirming the line was blinkered. (Duh.) Went outside, grabbed the extension ladder from his truck, trudged through knee-high snow, climbed up the utility pole over near the barn. Half an hour later, the phone came back to life, me practically doing cartwheels in response. He left, I called Verizon to give the guy a commendation, then cranked up the computer. I've been online ever since. But here's the thing: apart from the moments of phone conversations with Verizon folk, being phoneless had limited impact on my life. It made the day quieter, gave me more time to do other things -- read, clean, work around the house, think. Watch a bit more video than I otherwise might. Listen to a bit more music. Life went nicely on. As it does now. An overnight guest arrives this afternoon (B., of last November's adventures in northern Italy.) Time to get social. **************** This morning, first light:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 10:15 AM [+] |
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Thursday, February 17, 2005 Underground house, post-snowfall -- Montpelier, Vermont:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 8:02 AM [+] |
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Sunday, February 13, 2005 This morning (far too early), looking across the valley:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 7:34 AM [+] |
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Sunday, February 06, 2005 Shop window sunset -- Montpelier, Vermont: 
Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 6:40 PM [+] |
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Friday, February 04, 2005 In her pushy, eccentric way, this woman -- hair bobbed, pudgy bod stuffed into tight-fitting clothes, round face, big, owlish round-framed glasses -- was kind of sweet. Or at least well-intentioned. And why do I use the word 'pushy'? Because she took to doing things for me without asking if I wanted them done. Helpful things, she thought. Moving things she figured were in my way -- armrest, tray holder. Things I was using, didn't want moved, hadn't asked to have moved. Now that I think about it, this is something that's happened quite a bit in recent weeks -- people offering advice or doing things for me without first asking if they're wanted. With the best of intentions, for the most part, at times not happy if I don't especially want to hear advice, follow advice or have something done for me I don't need/want to have done. I've become less politic in recent years as I've become clearer about who I am. I tend not to listen much to things I don't want to hear, and make no apology for it. I trust my feelings, my instincts, what I call the guidance that rises from within, and during the last decade, that has transformed my little life in spectacular ways. Not that I have all the answers -- I'm a work in progress, like everyone else, learning as I go. But I get to choose, I get to make my decisions, and those who think they know better than me may not find me terribly compliant. When I had to, I gently fended off the German woman's attempts to do things I didn't want done. At other moments, I'd listen to her free-form commentary, smile, maybe reply with something appropriate. Other times I continued reading, snoozing, listening to music. The long hours passed. And suddenly we were on the ground in Boston, the local world white with snow. A crabby, tightly-wound cabby drove me to the bus station, his attitude easing up when I handed over some cash. A handful of passengers boarded the bus with me, mostly young. Including one 20-something with five or six huge bags, a pile of luggage that looked far beyond what one person could manage. Until he stood up in the waiting area when boarding time arrived, picking up each bag, arranging its strap around some part of this body, everything fitting together in a way that defied logic in M.C. Escher fashion, confounding the intellect, though undeniably happening. Like a freakish kind of luggage contortionist. Eight or nine people got on board. Some went to sleep. Some stared at the passing scenery. One sat leaning against the window, an arm angled up toward the ceiling, swinging slowly downward then upward, downward then upward, over and over like that for a long, long time. No talk, the only sounds those of wheels on highway, the sounds of objects rattling now and then in response to the vibration of the vehicle's motion. As we moved away from Boston into southern Hampshire and then the interstate that extends northwest from Concord toward Vermont and Canada, trees and mountains replaced sprawling 'burbs, the light of the lowering sun turned golden. The temperature had risen enough that moisture hung in the air from all the melting snow, a haze that combined with late afternoon sunlight to produce shafts of dense light. Two or three times, I saw thick clouds of it hanging out over the road, radiant sunrays projecting out from between trees into open air, appearing strangely independent, almost alive. A 35-minute rest stop in White River Junction, New Hampshire for food, stretching, attention to bodily functions, then out on the road again, just as the sun neared the horizon. As the bus followed the highway north, we had a spectacular view of the day's wind-up, the sun edging gradually out of view between green mountains, the afterglow lingering a surprisingly long time before dimming, the cloudless sky slowly turning dark. A lengthy, strangely meditative process, more than one person on the bus watching, everyone quiet, the space dark until the driver finally switched on a couple of internal lights. Montpelier: cold for someone just getting in from Madrid, mild for here. Meaning temperature in the 20s, snow everywhere. A friend working at the local public library was to drive me out to the house when she got off work -- I dragged my bags across town from the station to the library, said hello, stashed my stuff, went out for a walk. Bought groceries, stopped in at a talk being given at Bear Pond Books, found myself in a book-lined room packed with Vermonters ready to hear a local author talk about Reef Madness. My seat: a butt-numbing instrument of torture posing as a folding chair (my adorable butt already partially senseless after far too many hours spent in far too many seats in far too many vehicles). I spent 45 minutes shifting about in futile attempts to get comfortable. Finally gave up, grabbed my groceries, crept out into the crisp night air. Reached home shortly after. Back out in the Vermont country, hundreds of stars shining above, the Milky Way stretched across the middle of the sky, glowing faintly. Further details will follow. At some point. *********** This morning (far too early) in chilly northern Vermont:  Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 8:14 AM [+] |
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Thursday, February 03, 2005 I approached the main drag just as a taxi passed, the driver spotted my flailing arm and stopped, another couple of vehicles coming to a stop behind him (having no option in a neighborhood of narrow streets). He popped the trunk, I hurriedly began stuffing the body bag into the storage space, conscious of waiting motorists. The cabbie smilingly advised me to take it easy, saying no one was in a rush. I glanced at the other cars, that seemed to be the case, everyone appearing tranquil, patient, though they might all simply have been half-asleep. The driver: friendly, chatty. We talked about working graveyard shift (he liked it -- upside: passengers mellower; downside: being awake for sunrise). We talked about winter in Madrid and other places, about snow, something I would be seeing soon. And then we were at the airport, the fastest, least expensive version of that ride I've ever experienced. Inside the terminal: 5:30 a.m., few people about. Quiet. Shops not open yet, few airline desks in operation. The woman at Lufthansa check-in asked me if I wanted a window or aisle seat. My answer: window. The seat she gave me: aisle. (Discovered after boarding, when it was too late -- #^@%*!!) Hung around the entrance to a news shop until the 6 a.m. opening bell, grabbed a paper and the book of the day. (An interesting Spanish phenomenon -- the two main newspapers, El Pais and El Mundo, offer books, CDs, DVDs at drastically low prices, the idea being that a copy of the paper must be bought to get the coupon for the product. I've picked up a pile of good reading -- in Castellano, natch -- at one euro a pop.) Found myself stuffed into a long metal tube with a bunch of other humans, heading for Frankfurt, me drifting in and out of light sleep, now and then reading, watching my fellow stuffees, staring into space blinking hazily. Flight transfer in Frankfurt: serious security getting to flights destined for the States. Everyone must stumble through the magic metal-detecting doorway, everyone gets a going-over with the magic wand. And then I was on the long, long flight to the States. Long, long, long. A 70ish German woman -- my rowmate, an empty between us, her by the window (once again the Lufthansa woman in Madrid had given me an aisle seat -- #^@%*!!!) -- spent the first 25 minutes reading and re-reading a newspaper looking to be the German equivalent of England's The Sun -- trashy, big on celebrity stuff and the occasional naked babe. Rustling of pages, then a little silence. More rustling of pages, more silence. Further rustling of pages, a bit more silence. When she'd finished with that, she had nothing more to entertain herself with, began talking to me. Comments out of the blue, apparently not caring completely whether I listened or not. By that time, my body had decided it wanted to go relax, go back to sleep, I began drifting in and out, did that for much of the flight, happy to be making up for a night of little shuteye. When it became clear I would not be the perfect audience, she seemed disappointed. Then she adjusted and talked anyway, whether I listened or not. [continued in next entry] ************** Temperature outside the dining room window this morning, 7:30 a.m.: -5 fahrenheit. Temperatures during the day yesterday and today rose into the 30s, maybe even the 40s. Mild for February in these parts. Not that I'm complaining. Madrid, te echo de menos. rws 8:36 AM [+] |
