The Carnegie Music Hall. Ornate, velvet, gold-leafed, ambient jazz, quite a night out.
And words of wisdom from a writer whom I admire very, very much.
Fabuloso.
(and by the way, we successfully navigated our way there and back on the port)
Monday, October 4, 2010
Mary Karr at the Carnegie Music Hall
Having spent the entire day, except for a sleep-in and 3-mile rainy run, working on an 11 page paper that only had to be 5 pages, this is where I got to spend my evening:
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Conquering the Port Authority
So, in the past 3 days I've had two significant burgh firsts.
1. On a hayride Saturday, north of Pittsburgh, I heard my first indigenous "Yinz." It was monumental.
2. Yesterday, Monday, September 27, I conquered the burgh's Port Authority bus system. By conquered, I mean, I no longer have fear of it. By that, I mean, everything I was afraid of pretty much happened and therefore I have no longer have anything to fear regarding the local bus system. Here's how it broke down:
Duquesne to Shadyside:
I jaunted over to Duquesne in downtown via der jetta and Lucas' kindness, and promised him that I would find my way back on the Port so that he needn't wait around. The Authority does not believe in posting bus schedules at the actual bus stops, preferring only to deeply embed then in a tapestry of links on a website, and so I had made sure to find out what bus to take home before leaving the house. The stop for me was in front of Mercy. My fated bus: the 500 (Highland PK 62nd St Loop - Downtown - Oakland-Outbound). Simple enough, right? Except that when I got to the bottom of the (mountainous) Duq hill, Mercy was nowhere in sight. Did Mercy mean UPMC? Did Mercy mean the Duq teaching hospital? Why are there so many damn hospitals in this town? 61% of our population must be, at any given time, convalescing.
Because I didn't even know which way on Forbes to walk in order to get to the fabled Mercy, I chose one of two bus stops within sight. The one with people at it (this would later prove key to finding an effective bus stop). I waited, like a good metropolitan, with my earbuds in, an indifferent look on my face. After a few minutes, a bus came. One of the two people at the stop got on it. The second, a man I'd decided would lead me in the right direction, did not. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a suit, black dress shoes, a black umbrella, and a brown leather attache case with a colorful woven shoulder strap. He looked friendly. He looked like he knew what he was doing. In his resistance to step on any given bus, I found comfort. I decided to wait, too. More minutes waiting. Maybe up to 10, which seems like a long time standing by a busy street. I began to doubt my 500. Another bus came. The stranger hoisted his bag. I felt that I should follow him, even though it wasn't the 500, so I hoisted my bag too. Besides, the bus said "Negley via Oakland and Shadyside," so, since I recognized all three of those things, I thought I'd get reasonably close to my house.
I enter the bus. I don't show my student ID because I've learned in my research that when boarding a bus going away from downtown, one pays/shows bus pass when exiting the bus. When boarding a bus going toward towntown, one pays/shows ID upon entrance. I'm still working out the logic behind this, along with the question of what to do when one enters a bus one has no idea where it is going, or where it has been.
So, there I am, rejoicing in my triumph, settling into the plush seats like a real yinzer, me and the working people and the students of the burgh. I take one earbud out so I can listen to the conversations around me. We slide through Oakland where I figure out after a series of stops that in order to signal a stop, one pulls the coated wire strung over the windows. File it away. We take a street I've never been on toward Shadyside. Then, suddenly, we're in front of Market District. This is near my house. I decide, naturally, to stay on the bus, because a. there are way too many people at this bus stop and b. it can only get closer from here. Right? Wrong. Instead of veering right down Negley into Shadyside, my friend the 32 1/2J (or whatever) hangs a Louie and we're in East Liberty. Shortly thereafter another stop, and my briefcase bus-stop friend deplanes. I begin to get nervous. We pass a series of stops that I decide I am not comfortable stepping out to. Wet newspapers clinging to chain-link, etc. In fact I begin to feel overwhelmed by the comfortable-ness of the bus as compared to the unknown neighborhoods flying by the windows. Can I just ride it forever? What would happen? At last there are only two people on the bus, me and a man sitting directly behind me, a man who is talking though I'm not sure who it's to. I see a sign that says "entering Highland Park." I know where this is. I know two people who live here. I wait one stop and then pull the cord. I show my student id (like magic) and am spewed onto a residential sidewalk. Remembering that Highland Ave parallels Negley up in those parts (from map study), I successfully turn and walk in the right direction. I remember to call Lucas and tell him I'm alive, at which he's happy though puzzled as to why I'm near the North Side now.
On Highland, I find a bus stop. It says 500 (ah, fate). I've figured out a few things: be on the side of the street whose traffic is flowing in the direction you want to go. Look on the blue Bus Stop sign for little number stickers to tell what buses stop there. If you're supremely lucky, there will be longer stickers that even say the areas on the route (95 Bloomfield to South Side is much more helpful than an austere, mysterious 95). The one thing lacking, universally: what time that bus will arrive. So there I was, up in Highland Park on a drizzly Monday morning, standing all alone, memorizing the landscaping of the gorgeous old houses, watching the mailman across the street go up steps and down steps and up steps, from door to door. After a very long time and I am still the only person at this stop, I give up (again) on ye olde 500 and simply start walking down Highland toward my street. One person I know who lives up here swears he can walk to campus in 15-20 minutes. This is what I tell myself. He's also about 6 feet tall. With my beginner's luck, I am only a few blocks down, near enough another bus stop to sprint back to it when finally, finally, the maroon Behemoth 500 hisses down the street. I'm on! Five minutes and I'm a block away from my house! I did it! I swaggered down my street and entered my house like it was the winner's circle, punching the air. Lucas was not too impressed because it had been over an hour since I'd left downtown. But I had figured it out. Armed with my student ID, I could ride the Port all day, be anywhere I wanted to be. Still flying high, I decided to go to Target.
Fifth Ave to the Waterfront
I've got to make this part shorter. So, I look up the bus to take to Target at the waterfront. One must cross a river to get to a Target in this town, for some reason. So it's pretty far away. Again, lucky me, there's a bus that leaves from Fifth and goes straight there, no transfers. The number 64. And it's leaving in 14 minutes.
I missed it. I waited twelve minutes more. A few other buses passed me by but I remembered the steadfastness of my horn-rimmed friend and let them go. In a cruel twist of fate, another 64 did pass by, but I didn't realize it was a 64 until its exhaust was receding from me - the front electronic scrawler had been jumbled. I began then to hate the Port Authority just a little bit. Twenty more minutes passed by and another 64 came -- I couldn't figure out a pattern to the intervals and still am baffled by this. It got me to Target.
Waterfront to Shadyside
Spoiler alert: this route does not exist. I'd left my house for Target at 2:15. I'm going to lay this out there for you: I walked back in my door at 6:07. The bus ride to the Waterfront is about a half hour. So....As I'd stood on Fifth, waiting for my initial 64, I'd seen another 64 headed the other direction. Dropping people off on the opposite side of the Ave, which was exactly where I needed to end up. The number 64 was to be my savior for the day. So simple. So beatles-esque. Good thing I'd written it on my hand.
I came out of Target and went to the same stop at which I'd been dropped off, and waited for my friend 64. When it came, startlingly, the front scroller still said "Waterfront" - meaning it was not headed back into town, or at least that was my interpretation. I stepped back. Puzzling. I realized at that point I had no idea how to get back if it were not on the 64, so after waiting through a few more buses I fell back on one of my Truths of the morning, and walked to the end of the parking lot, crossed the road, and found a bus stop there where any traffic would be, by default, headed back toward the bridge. The stop said 64. I was the only one, again, standing at it. I joked with myself that I was like Julia in Julie and Julia when she explains the comfort she finds in the predictability of cooking: add this to that and it will yield a cake. I thought, even though I don't know where I am or when the next bus is coming, all I need to do is stand under a blue sign that says "64" and the number 64 bus will come. Sadly, this is where the fairy tale I'd constructed regarding public transportation came crashing down around me.
I took my shoes off and stood in the wet grass. I balanced on one foot, then the other. I changed songs on my pod. I shifted my reusable shopping bag to the other shoulder. In about 30 minutes, no bus came. Finally a bus came and slowed down, but it was a 71D or some such sordid thing, and not what I wanted, and the driver opened the door and looked at me, and as I stepped back away from the door he shook his head as though I was choosing my own downfall, and he closed the door and hissed on. His expression shook me, and so after another 30 minutes of waiting or so, I thought I'd try another Truth of the morning: start walking the direction you want to go, and the bus will come. I think you know where this is headed. After a bit of a bus-less hike, I saw a different bus stop, and decided to go stand under it. (when all else fails...). This sign said 64, too. I had begun to loathe the 64. I knew deep it my heart it wasn't coming. I knew it would never come. After 30 minutes alone at this stop, I swore I'd just get on whatever bus came next. At least it would take me away from this Bermuda Triangle of transportation. Anywhere but here, I pleaded with the Port Authority gods, as people pulled up to the stoplight in traffic lines and looked at me like I was a lost granny. Eventually three more people came to the stop. This, I knew, was a very good sign. Shortly after a bus headed labeled "Murray" stopped. I stomped on it. Murray, I knew. Squirrel Hill. I figured there would have to be a Squirrel Hill to Shadyside bus, or maybe multiple buses, that would finish out this wrecked adventure for me.
Squirrel Hill to Shadyside
I got off when someone pulled the cord at Murray and Beacon. This may surprise you, but I stood at the bus stop for about 10 minutes waiting for the bus that was supposed to come next...the 64. It surprises me to report this. What was I thinking? Sometimes we just want to believe so badly in something...Naturally, it didn't come. I walked to the next bus stop, looked back. Only cars, as far as the eye could see. I hoisted my shopping bag, my tote bag of half-edited poems, my crumpled pre-conceived notions of public transportation in Pittsburgh, and flat-footed it 2 1/2 miles to my apartment. Every bus stop I passed said number 64. No 64 passed. In fact, no bus passed at all until I was back around 5th. I had enough time to change shoes, re-pack bags, and walk back out the door to class. Remember, nothing left to fear. Triumph.
And finally, ending on a high note:
1. On a hayride Saturday, north of Pittsburgh, I heard my first indigenous "Yinz." It was monumental.
2. Yesterday, Monday, September 27, I conquered the burgh's Port Authority bus system. By conquered, I mean, I no longer have fear of it. By that, I mean, everything I was afraid of pretty much happened and therefore I have no longer have anything to fear regarding the local bus system. Here's how it broke down:
Duquesne to Shadyside:
I jaunted over to Duquesne in downtown via der jetta and Lucas' kindness, and promised him that I would find my way back on the Port so that he needn't wait around. The Authority does not believe in posting bus schedules at the actual bus stops, preferring only to deeply embed then in a tapestry of links on a website, and so I had made sure to find out what bus to take home before leaving the house. The stop for me was in front of Mercy. My fated bus: the 500 (Highland PK 62nd St Loop - Downtown - Oakland-Outbound). Simple enough, right? Except that when I got to the bottom of the (mountainous) Duq hill, Mercy was nowhere in sight. Did Mercy mean UPMC? Did Mercy mean the Duq teaching hospital? Why are there so many damn hospitals in this town? 61% of our population must be, at any given time, convalescing.
Because I didn't even know which way on Forbes to walk in order to get to the fabled Mercy, I chose one of two bus stops within sight. The one with people at it (this would later prove key to finding an effective bus stop). I waited, like a good metropolitan, with my earbuds in, an indifferent look on my face. After a few minutes, a bus came. One of the two people at the stop got on it. The second, a man I'd decided would lead me in the right direction, did not. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a suit, black dress shoes, a black umbrella, and a brown leather attache case with a colorful woven shoulder strap. He looked friendly. He looked like he knew what he was doing. In his resistance to step on any given bus, I found comfort. I decided to wait, too. More minutes waiting. Maybe up to 10, which seems like a long time standing by a busy street. I began to doubt my 500. Another bus came. The stranger hoisted his bag. I felt that I should follow him, even though it wasn't the 500, so I hoisted my bag too. Besides, the bus said "Negley via Oakland and Shadyside," so, since I recognized all three of those things, I thought I'd get reasonably close to my house.
I enter the bus. I don't show my student ID because I've learned in my research that when boarding a bus going away from downtown, one pays/shows bus pass when exiting the bus. When boarding a bus going toward towntown, one pays/shows ID upon entrance. I'm still working out the logic behind this, along with the question of what to do when one enters a bus one has no idea where it is going, or where it has been.
So, there I am, rejoicing in my triumph, settling into the plush seats like a real yinzer, me and the working people and the students of the burgh. I take one earbud out so I can listen to the conversations around me. We slide through Oakland where I figure out after a series of stops that in order to signal a stop, one pulls the coated wire strung over the windows. File it away. We take a street I've never been on toward Shadyside. Then, suddenly, we're in front of Market District. This is near my house. I decide, naturally, to stay on the bus, because a. there are way too many people at this bus stop and b. it can only get closer from here. Right? Wrong. Instead of veering right down Negley into Shadyside, my friend the 32 1/2J (or whatever) hangs a Louie and we're in East Liberty. Shortly thereafter another stop, and my briefcase bus-stop friend deplanes. I begin to get nervous. We pass a series of stops that I decide I am not comfortable stepping out to. Wet newspapers clinging to chain-link, etc. In fact I begin to feel overwhelmed by the comfortable-ness of the bus as compared to the unknown neighborhoods flying by the windows. Can I just ride it forever? What would happen? At last there are only two people on the bus, me and a man sitting directly behind me, a man who is talking though I'm not sure who it's to. I see a sign that says "entering Highland Park." I know where this is. I know two people who live here. I wait one stop and then pull the cord. I show my student id (like magic) and am spewed onto a residential sidewalk. Remembering that Highland Ave parallels Negley up in those parts (from map study), I successfully turn and walk in the right direction. I remember to call Lucas and tell him I'm alive, at which he's happy though puzzled as to why I'm near the North Side now.
On Highland, I find a bus stop. It says 500 (ah, fate). I've figured out a few things: be on the side of the street whose traffic is flowing in the direction you want to go. Look on the blue Bus Stop sign for little number stickers to tell what buses stop there. If you're supremely lucky, there will be longer stickers that even say the areas on the route (95 Bloomfield to South Side is much more helpful than an austere, mysterious 95). The one thing lacking, universally: what time that bus will arrive. So there I was, up in Highland Park on a drizzly Monday morning, standing all alone, memorizing the landscaping of the gorgeous old houses, watching the mailman across the street go up steps and down steps and up steps, from door to door. After a very long time and I am still the only person at this stop, I give up (again) on ye olde 500 and simply start walking down Highland toward my street. One person I know who lives up here swears he can walk to campus in 15-20 minutes. This is what I tell myself. He's also about 6 feet tall. With my beginner's luck, I am only a few blocks down, near enough another bus stop to sprint back to it when finally, finally, the maroon Behemoth 500 hisses down the street. I'm on! Five minutes and I'm a block away from my house! I did it! I swaggered down my street and entered my house like it was the winner's circle, punching the air. Lucas was not too impressed because it had been over an hour since I'd left downtown. But I had figured it out. Armed with my student ID, I could ride the Port all day, be anywhere I wanted to be. Still flying high, I decided to go to Target.
Fifth Ave to the Waterfront
I've got to make this part shorter. So, I look up the bus to take to Target at the waterfront. One must cross a river to get to a Target in this town, for some reason. So it's pretty far away. Again, lucky me, there's a bus that leaves from Fifth and goes straight there, no transfers. The number 64. And it's leaving in 14 minutes.
I missed it. I waited twelve minutes more. A few other buses passed me by but I remembered the steadfastness of my horn-rimmed friend and let them go. In a cruel twist of fate, another 64 did pass by, but I didn't realize it was a 64 until its exhaust was receding from me - the front electronic scrawler had been jumbled. I began then to hate the Port Authority just a little bit. Twenty more minutes passed by and another 64 came -- I couldn't figure out a pattern to the intervals and still am baffled by this. It got me to Target.
Waterfront to Shadyside
Spoiler alert: this route does not exist. I'd left my house for Target at 2:15. I'm going to lay this out there for you: I walked back in my door at 6:07. The bus ride to the Waterfront is about a half hour. So....As I'd stood on Fifth, waiting for my initial 64, I'd seen another 64 headed the other direction. Dropping people off on the opposite side of the Ave, which was exactly where I needed to end up. The number 64 was to be my savior for the day. So simple. So beatles-esque. Good thing I'd written it on my hand.
I came out of Target and went to the same stop at which I'd been dropped off, and waited for my friend 64. When it came, startlingly, the front scroller still said "Waterfront" - meaning it was not headed back into town, or at least that was my interpretation. I stepped back. Puzzling. I realized at that point I had no idea how to get back if it were not on the 64, so after waiting through a few more buses I fell back on one of my Truths of the morning, and walked to the end of the parking lot, crossed the road, and found a bus stop there where any traffic would be, by default, headed back toward the bridge. The stop said 64. I was the only one, again, standing at it. I joked with myself that I was like Julia in Julie and Julia when she explains the comfort she finds in the predictability of cooking: add this to that and it will yield a cake. I thought, even though I don't know where I am or when the next bus is coming, all I need to do is stand under a blue sign that says "64" and the number 64 bus will come. Sadly, this is where the fairy tale I'd constructed regarding public transportation came crashing down around me.
I took my shoes off and stood in the wet grass. I balanced on one foot, then the other. I changed songs on my pod. I shifted my reusable shopping bag to the other shoulder. In about 30 minutes, no bus came. Finally a bus came and slowed down, but it was a 71D or some such sordid thing, and not what I wanted, and the driver opened the door and looked at me, and as I stepped back away from the door he shook his head as though I was choosing my own downfall, and he closed the door and hissed on. His expression shook me, and so after another 30 minutes of waiting or so, I thought I'd try another Truth of the morning: start walking the direction you want to go, and the bus will come. I think you know where this is headed. After a bit of a bus-less hike, I saw a different bus stop, and decided to go stand under it. (when all else fails...). This sign said 64, too. I had begun to loathe the 64. I knew deep it my heart it wasn't coming. I knew it would never come. After 30 minutes alone at this stop, I swore I'd just get on whatever bus came next. At least it would take me away from this Bermuda Triangle of transportation. Anywhere but here, I pleaded with the Port Authority gods, as people pulled up to the stoplight in traffic lines and looked at me like I was a lost granny. Eventually three more people came to the stop. This, I knew, was a very good sign. Shortly after a bus headed labeled "Murray" stopped. I stomped on it. Murray, I knew. Squirrel Hill. I figured there would have to be a Squirrel Hill to Shadyside bus, or maybe multiple buses, that would finish out this wrecked adventure for me.
Squirrel Hill to Shadyside
I got off when someone pulled the cord at Murray and Beacon. This may surprise you, but I stood at the bus stop for about 10 minutes waiting for the bus that was supposed to come next...the 64. It surprises me to report this. What was I thinking? Sometimes we just want to believe so badly in something...Naturally, it didn't come. I walked to the next bus stop, looked back. Only cars, as far as the eye could see. I hoisted my shopping bag, my tote bag of half-edited poems, my crumpled pre-conceived notions of public transportation in Pittsburgh, and flat-footed it 2 1/2 miles to my apartment. Every bus stop I passed said number 64. No 64 passed. In fact, no bus passed at all until I was back around 5th. I had enough time to change shoes, re-pack bags, and walk back out the door to class. Remember, nothing left to fear. Triumph.
And finally, ending on a high note:
Kai Soleil, 6 months old this week.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Carnegie Library
So, we decided to go to the Carnegie Library main branch today, in Oakland.
It's amazing, huh? When I looked up the address, I discovered it is housed right next to (in the same massive building with) the Carnegie Museum of Art. Which had a show I wanted to see. And, when we got there, we discovered the Carnegie Music Hall and Carnegie Museum of Natural History are also there. This is one of the entrances:
It's amazing, huh? When I looked up the address, I discovered it is housed right next to (in the same massive building with) the Carnegie Museum of Art. Which had a show I wanted to see. And, when we got there, we discovered the Carnegie Music Hall and Carnegie Museum of Natural History are also there. This is one of the entrances:
Worth the price of admission, I said, which at this point was zero. There was a sculpture of a tightrope walker above our heads. We shortly learned that to go much farther, it would cost each of us significantly. Plus, with so much art and history to see, we decided we'd be better off to slate a whole day for it. And by luck, there is a free day next Sunday - hooray! So, we went a door over to the library. It is enormous, marble steps, iron-and-glass floors, soaring arches.
I had to tell myself not to look around too much or I'd end up checking out an armload of books. I'd gone to get two books (Push by Sapphire and Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn), which is about my limit in addition to the hundreds of pages I'm supposed to be reading weekly...not to mention the hundreds of pages I'm supposed to be writing. So it was kind of like going into Target on a Friday that's not payday. Just steer clear of the clearance racks, or bad things will happen. (So, this was earlier today, and as I write this, I'm almost done with Push and it is amazing, and I need to tell you if you are reading this you should shut the computer and go get that instead and read it.) The DVD/multimedia section alone was an entire room.
One of the most captivating things about the library was its architecture. So much of the architecture here is fascinating, it makes me wish I knew more about it. Maybe I'll check a book out of the library... Anyway, here is what the floors looked like in the stacks:
The panes are some kind of composite, very thick glass. And the library is three floors and a basement. It took me two floors before I discovered this:
Not only is the glass semi- translucent (meaning you can see light and shadows from above and make out shapes below your feet)...if you look down by the bookshelves, you can see ALL THE WAY DOWN! In this picture you're looking down through the floor to two more floors' bookshelves. I can only imagine that this is some kind of showcase of the mastery of metal in Steel City. At any rate, for four floors to be constructed this way amazes me. While we walked aisle after aisle looking up and then down, we also discovered this:
That's right, a --free-- view of some dinosaur bones. Lucas was pretty proud we did not have to drop any Lincolns for this. Definitely looking forward to going back for a museum day and walking through there...though I must say, we had a rare view of the tiny bones at the brontosaurus' tail-tip, and how they were suspended from the wall. Also, the tree is fake.
Time for a parting shot of some real trees, outside the main entrance of the library:
Oh, for a picnic! Bellissimo! Wish you were here!
Oh What a Joyous Day
when the peanut butter jar goes empty:
...and a dedicated dog is needed to lick it clean before it can go to the recycling bin.
...and a dedicated dog is needed to lick it clean before it can go to the recycling bin.
the sleep of the contented
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Ode to the Pittsburgh Left:
A quartet of Haiku.
the light is changing
your laws do not apply here
I turn before you
audi, shuttle, bike
a port authority bus
we all pittsburgh left
the first one to go
it not who you would expect
when the light turns green
red light gridlock cars
engines revving glances shared
will he do it -- yes
the light is changing
your laws do not apply here
I turn before you
audi, shuttle, bike
a port authority bus
we all pittsburgh left
the first one to go
it not who you would expect
when the light turns green
red light gridlock cars
engines revving glances shared
will he do it -- yes
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Frick Park
I'd like to paint a picture for you. You are in the OLEA (Off Leash Exercise Area) at Frick Park in the East Burgh enjoying/sweating through a balmy Saturday and exercising your canine companion. His fur ripples in happy wind as he cavorts around the hilltop park, this fenced-in doggie haven. Maybe ten other dogs are running around, switching companions, smelling noses-then-butts. Joyful barking echoes over the trees. You're on the shaded end of the dog park, which in total is about the size of a pewee football field. It is completely fenced in with 10-foot high chain-link fencing, and there are some trees and undergrowth lining it on the inside, while just on the other side of the fence the Frick Forest takes over, with thick briars and copious trees beyond which you can barely see the far away river valley (think Fangorn). See, the OLEA is at the summit of Frick Park - supposedly to help the dog lungs grow strong as they run about in the thin air. It is rumored that the wind chill there at night reaches -50F. Anyway, back to you. You're watching your dog tumble and curl about in the grass (which really should be all lichen at this elevation) when all of a sudden there is a disturbance on the far side of the fence. It sounds like an arthritic bear is bashing its way up the hill, which is so steep and overgrown you can't see anything but the foliage right up against the chain-link. The dogs' gaits miss a beat. Other people turn. The crashing and threshing continue. All of a sudden - my god - it's a dog, bounding to the top covered in microscopic burrs and excited to see fellow beasts except to discover she is on the -whine- wrong side of the fence. You've just had the thought arise "I bet that dog would be soft, perhaps the softest dog in Shadyside, if she were not covered in microscopic burrs and foaming at the mouth," when all of a sudden two more figures emerge at the top of the hill, parting the jungle of plants behind the dog. You know the geography of the park. That informs your knowledge that these pair have inexplicably just climbed hand over foot up a precipice, through the brush, to an impenetrable fenced area when a path just about 50 yards to the left would have led them to the door of the dog park, sans burrs. The man stops instantly (he has no choice, hello, chain link) and the girl, who is further-ly inexplicably on a cell phone, looks at him in frustration. They both peer past the hot metal fence into the dog park, visibly registering their error, then throw their hands up at each other, turn around, and disappear back down over the precipice, calling their mangy beast after them.
Dogs have a short attention span. So do you - after all, it is the facebook era. They return to cavorting and slobbering. You think, huh, I wonder if Frick has started a mountain climbing club for challenged people, and flip the lid off of your tepid water bottle.
Yes, friend, if you figured out who the intrepid climbers were, you guessed right. Suffice it to say that on our first trip to Frick Park, not only did we find the OLEA, but we got the "unofficial" trail tour as well, including that climb, which was short compared to the one we took right before that which was exactly vertical necessitating us to pull ourselves up by roots, which was shortly after Olive wallowed in a mud pit that must have been a river at some point, before she found the burr-patch, and about 20 minutes after we were all nearly flattened by a mountain biker speeding around a corner through the wilderness we'd thought were foot paths...which was almost immediately before said "foot path" vanished. This because we wanted to get off the gravel path, proud to use the inner compass we've both developed so well since arriving in this topsy turvy city.
Came across some good views, though:
Dogs have a short attention span. So do you - after all, it is the facebook era. They return to cavorting and slobbering. You think, huh, I wonder if Frick has started a mountain climbing club for challenged people, and flip the lid off of your tepid water bottle.
Yes, friend, if you figured out who the intrepid climbers were, you guessed right. Suffice it to say that on our first trip to Frick Park, not only did we find the OLEA, but we got the "unofficial" trail tour as well, including that climb, which was short compared to the one we took right before that which was exactly vertical necessitating us to pull ourselves up by roots, which was shortly after Olive wallowed in a mud pit that must have been a river at some point, before she found the burr-patch, and about 20 minutes after we were all nearly flattened by a mountain biker speeding around a corner through the wilderness we'd thought were foot paths...which was almost immediately before said "foot path" vanished. This because we wanted to get off the gravel path, proud to use the inner compass we've both developed so well since arriving in this topsy turvy city.
Came across some good views, though:
It Has Begun
Finally, the moment we have all been waiting for: classes started on Monday. Orientation was Sunday. I'm noticing that I'm more reticent to go near my computer, because I feel guilt that when I do, it should be to write one of my four essays due next week. Tonight I made a list just so all of the assignments would stop rattling around in my brain:
Booyah. So that question of what am I going to do with no job and only the commitment of the fellowship, and three night classes? Answered.
I have to say, for all of this: it is a pretty cool thing that what I have to do 8-10 hours a day is read, and write. Copiously.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Why I Do Not Drive in Pittsburgh
A photo essay:
heading into pgh via the tunnel
(that one's for you, Bre Theiss)
bridge leading into fort pitt tunnel (out of pgh)
we're headed out of the tunnel (out of pgh). the traffic stopped facing the other way is headed in.
'nuff said.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sofa Triumphant
Finally, our living room is complete: a piece of upholstery that can house our entire menagerie and still have room for humans to stretch out. It's a beautiful thing. I came to the decision that the couch needed to happen immediately on Tuesday night as I tried to straighten out the u-shape of my neck from squashing lengthwise in the chair for an hour or so: what was I waiting for? an income? ha, ha. I looked online for a while dreaming about the idea of just ordering a couch off of the internet and having it arrive (surprise, Lucas!) happily at my door. But I could not decide. So, I retired, resolving that before the sun set again our living room would be sofa triumphant. Little did I know the quest that awaited us.
Wednesday morning dawned cool and grey. I had a fabulous hour with my new financial advisor over in Regent Square while Luke and Olive explored the neighborhood and narrowly, just barely escaped a(nother) parking ticket. I was exhilarated with the possibility of managing my finances and we talked excitedly about this and the visit from the second-and-fourth-wednesday-street-sweeping-parking-officer as we dropped off the dog and zoomed toward mecca. I mean, Ikea.
Little did I know, Pittsburgh traffic and the laws of physics had something completely different in mind for my afternoon.
We picked out the couch in a relatively short amount of time. Note that is actually impossible to enter Ikea and go straight to the area in which you are interested. Nay, you must wind your way throughout modern, clever room displays, brilliant advertising with large print slogans written just for your frontal lobe. But once we compared a few couches and Lucas assured me that even my acute *awareness* would not get a 94" couch to fit in our 84" alcove we decided on a happy little fellow in oatmeal color called Karlstad. Can I please have the job where I come up with strange tongue-twisting ironic names for every single item that could possibly be found in a household? Komputre. Just spell with a K! Add some dots!
In mind-blowing Ikea fashion, this couch actually comes ready to assemble in flat-pack cardboard boxes. This is the job Lucas wants. Take an article of furniture. Exactly measure how it might be disassembled into straight, slim components and from there determine a method of attaching everything with screws, widgets, and allen wrenches that will delight the consumer for hours after they've unwrapped it from its deceptively small cardboard box. And, he's pretty well qualified since the better part of our week and a half here he has spent putting together ikea furniture.
I am not good with proportions. Thoroughly convinced that this compressed couch package would fit into our jetta (well, after a mattress and a bed and a bookshelf - at the same time - one gets kind of self-confident) and so my very tolerant partner headed off to measure his trunk as I stood in line at the checkout. Having relieved myself of a load of cash I met him with my wheeled cart and large box at the door where he assured me that it would not fit in. Nevertheless, as we stood waiting to talk to a nonexistent peon about home delivery, we convinced one another that we would give it a try. At this point it's about 2pm and I'm still thinking we'll be home by 3:30 so I can make a 4:00 power yoga class. A soft breeze was blowing as we wheeled it out across the parking lot where I'm sure passers-by assumed we headed toward a (gas-guzzling, totally unnecessary) Sport Utility Vehicle of some capacity large enough to fit the couch-shaped box. Mais non. When we stopped in front of Der Jetta and Lucas opened the trunk and began putting seats down, one woman wheeling a cart past us looked at me as though she was going to say something and then thought better of it, and continued wheeling on to her SUV. Even when the trunk was opened, even when the seats were down and the box was wheeled in line with the opening: even then despite the obvious discrepancy between tab A and slot B, I refused to believe it would not fit. Awareness works for a lot. Just ask my old couch (RIP).
We lifted it up and it would not even go into the first trunk opening (let alone the enclave between trunk and collapsed back seat). As in, absolutely not at all. I had to give in. We loaded it back on the cart and wheeled back across the Norwegian parking lot to our friend, the Home Delivery desk. Standing among a litter of carts and flat-pack boxes marked "Thursday" (this is Wednesday, mind you, and hours counting down to sunset) we decided we did not want to do home delivery, spending $70 to have two strangers bring this to our zone 1 address not today but tomorrow. Forget that. We agreed to spend 19.95 (for the first hour) renting an Ikea van to drive our baby back ourselves, having it today and saving a wise $50.00. Lucas made the deal, we did the walkaround, we threw it in the back of the van, strapped in, and headed off on 376E, back toward the Burgh. It was 2:40. We had an hour to get back to Start, plus a 15-minute buffer. Unflappably optimistic, I pointed out that Ikea is only like 12 or 14 miles from our home in the East Side, and for sure we could make this happen. We zoomed onto the interstate, over a hill, and found ourselves in dead. stopped. traffic. Now, as you will see soon when I write an entry on Pittsburgh traffic, it is quite common to slow to a crawl near the tunnel, a phenomenon worth exploring in itself. We were at least 6 miles from the tunnel. A car in front of us peeled off and desperately drove up a gravel slope to a nearby exit. We idled. A man next to us rolled up and yelled what was going on. Lucas swore. I pulled out my ikea catalogue and began sketching on its cover as we had left my notebook along with our map and, wisely, our gps in the jetta. After he had given in to reality and found a good radio station to groove on and I had covered three pages in ideas for mfa poetry readings and environmentalism, we began to move again. We zipped along for about a mile and became gridlocked again. This should give you a good enough idea, coupled with the information that it took us 50 minutes to get home, of what that drive back was like. 4:00 yoga, not to mention spreadsheets and neat budgets, began to fade from my future. Irene, our kindly neighbor, watched us struggle the couch sized package up the stairs where we dumped it in the house and decided to risk 2 minutes for a bathroom break, and sprint back out to good ol' panelvan. By this point it is 3:45. Rush hour had begun. The notable thing about afternoon rush hour is that all of those people who work in the burgh are trying to get out of the burgh back to the burbs for their evening. Mass exodus. And we were in the same line. The bridge toward Fort Pitt Tunnel looked like a cross between bumper cars and Independence Day where the bombs have started to hit, sparking mayhem, and everyone is exiting the city at once. The tunnel is two lane traffic. The bridge is four. I have photos. It occurs to me now that my whole day could be considered a lesson in trying to make things fit.
At about 4:30, stopped in traffic one impossible lane over from our exit, Lucas observed that he would be happy if we simply made it back within two hours and were not charged for a third. We beat this goal by about 6 minutes, I mailed some letters at the post office, we picked up the cover for our couch at the ikea warehouse (oddly, they did not have room to fit the 2"x3' box in the store), made a pit stop at a nearby target for a toaster and a watch (since one has to cross a bridge also to get to a target and we had had our fill of leaving the city) where Lucas got stuck in an unmoving checkout lane that really, must have been the icing on the cake, and then we hopped in our car and headed home. We finally walked in the door about 6:15.
Time to assemble our couch. I started ripping packages open like a crazy person and hissing at Lucas to just begin putting covers on the cushions while we waded through a sea of corrugated cardboard and plastic wrap. He insisted on reading the directions at which point I threw down my cushion and headed into the other room to get ready for the late yoga class. I spent the next 90 minutes sweating in a yoga studio/sauna trying to balance on one foot whose toes were too sweaty to grip the mat, while Lucas aligned velcro and sofa cover, lugnut and couchfoot, and walked Olive down in the drizzle to meet me.
When we got back home at 8:30pm we still had to rearrange the rest of the furniture, shower, make dinner, and for fun rearrange the bedroom to where some former living room furniture was exiled.
All in all it was about 11:30 by the time we were done. I stretched out on the couch for about 15 minutes, on principle, struggling to stay awake, before I went to bed and fell asleep before I could make my goal list about what to accomplish before the next sunset.
This morning, in all its glory.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Instructions
So the thing about a blog is that it puts the most recently written "post" at the top. That means that the first posts I wrote are at the bottom. Had I thought about this before I would have written it all backward...but what I'd suggest is start at the bottom post (1 Week in Pittsburgh) and read posts up from there. End with skateboard baby and you're off to have a fabulous day.
Coming soon (maybe) (here's hoping): photos of around town
Coming soon (maybe) (here's hoping): photos of around town
SkateBoard Baby!
And these I just had to share. Here is how we tried to break Olive of her gripping phobia of skateboards while we were still in Yellow Springs:
This did help a bit since the baby was not afraid of the skateboard. As you can see, Buda was protective/ made crazy by this experiment. Olive did make the journey a little bit from panicked to curious, but I am not sure that it stuck. However, here in the Bergh we have discovered a new fear to trump skateboards: people pushing shopping carts down the street.
Anyway since we're on the subject of my best niece ever, here are a few more pics of Kai Soleil:
On the blanket her gramma made her, daily crawling practice.
And grooving on her toes. We all miss the skateboarding funny noisemaking little squishy!
The Three Amigos
That closet door holds Olive's treats. If you are near the door, Olive is near you. Sometimes, it pays off.
She really comes alive when we take her on her daily walks. It's hard I'm sure since she had the fenced in yard for the last several weeks in YS to just run and jump around - and take her victory laps - and now she has to be on a leash all the time outside. Since just getting the internet yesterday (and hallelujah for that in a strange city!) we have looked up local dog parks and plan to start trying them out. Each time someone heads toward the outside door she gets very hopeful. She is loving all of the smells. We've also decided since the areas of grass are much more concentrated (like, little strips along the sidewalk), the smells are probably a lot more concentrated as well. At any rate she is heading for the status of bloodhound. We've also noticed that people tend to turn the corner or cross the street when they are walking a dog and we are walking her. This is opposite from Yellow Springs where people bring their dogs up to meet your dog, and so we're trying to figure this out. Lucas attributes it to her hyena resemblance and intimidating persona. I'm going with they can't handle her cuteness.
Nester has commandeered this corner as his new spot. I think it's because he is close enough to jump in my lap every time I sit down. That's right - Nester has taken up cuddling. Very strange.
Kaya is happier than she has been in months (sorry, Buda)...no more hiding in closets or shedding her fur. Well, she still does a little bit of both of those things...Lucas went to put a pair of jeans in his hanging closet organizer the other day and discovered her hiding at the back of that particular shelf section. This is the kind of thing that is fabric and hangs down with shelves from the closet rod...so it's still a puzzler how she found her way up in there. Sometimes she spends a whole day lounging about, like she's in a spa. Suppose to her maybe it is. Maybe to me a little bit, too.
And here are two photos from right before the move, just for fun...
What good friends. Olive to Buda: Not nearly as many squirrels in the Burgh as in the Springs. Hope you are well in CO. Can't wait till Christmas.
Olive's Room
This is my girl, taking solace in her peanut butter bone which makes her happier than about anything on earth. She is very skittish/depressed since the move (and losing her best pal Buda) and divides her time between wishing there were peanut butter in her bone, licking the peanut butter out of her bone, and napping on the bed. Let's just say the vast majority of her time is spent on the latter.
This is her spot. Although you'll notice Kaya is occupying it in this photo. New trend: sometimes a cat and a dog share this coveted space. I'm going to attribute it to 1. stress and 2. loss of the beloved couch. So I thought I was going to hate the white walls but I don't at all - I actually kind of love it, especially in this room. I think it helps that the one wall is white brick. Thanks to SJ for pointing out to me that it used to be a chimney and that's why it's brick and protrudes. Anyway the three windows look out onto the street so we keep the curtains pulled all the time...and soon hopefully we will have three *matching* white curtains. I love this room because it feels so light and airy...it is absolutely fabulous for napping, and I know three furry creatures who agree with me.
Caption contest, anyone?
A few things that make me happy about this room...I love the grapevine wreath on that brick wall. I think that was the one thing I was most excited about putting up.
You, too, can decorate with sticks
I was not sure how many photos I could put into one post, so I decided to start a new one. But really, start reading from the bottom posts up. That can be the frustrating thing about blogs.
So, continuing on with the tour:
This is looking back from the kitchen area to the door entrance. The door on the right is the closet. It is crazy organized, let me tell you. It is a relief to have some closets again. Because we are in the Big City here doing the Urban thing for a few years, I had to make sure not to forget the world of non-concrete. Therefore I have put branches all over the apartment, and I like it quite a lot. I had all of them in the YS house, too, but in there it was almost like being in the jungle because the house itself was very wabi-sabi. Here, however, everything is clean and straight and so the branches function perfectly as pieces of art and happy reminders of different natural places. And thanks to everyone who so lovingly transported all of these "sticks."
Just look at that sink. No need to bleach! Lucas put up the shelves for my collection of Teapots from Around the World. That would be 2: one from Japan, one from Spain.
So, continuing on with the tour:
This is looking back from the kitchen area to the door entrance. The door on the right is the closet. It is crazy organized, let me tell you. It is a relief to have some closets again. Because we are in the Big City here doing the Urban thing for a few years, I had to make sure not to forget the world of non-concrete. Therefore I have put branches all over the apartment, and I like it quite a lot. I had all of them in the YS house, too, but in there it was almost like being in the jungle because the house itself was very wabi-sabi. Here, however, everything is clean and straight and so the branches function perfectly as pieces of art and happy reminders of different natural places. And thanks to everyone who so lovingly transported all of these "sticks."
And this is standing further back in the kitchen still looking the same direction. There's my new friend the dishwasher. And isn't that a fabulous countertop? Here's our little dining nook...
It's very cozy. Although my dinner-party days may be suspended for a bit.
Here's the rest of the kitchen. That third shelf down in the middle is full of moosewood cookbooks, btw. Lucas' grandpa made the glass-door cabinet. My dad made the shelves that are holding our pottery and plates.
Just look at that sink. No need to bleach! Lucas put up the shelves for my collection of Teapots from Around the World. That would be 2: one from Japan, one from Spain.
And this is the stove: glass top, which is a great adventure. Luckily there is a window right next to it as it heats very differently and right now we make toast on the stove and...let's just say we're learning. It felt more like home after we put up the spice rack and the bread and puppet posters.
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