The Grateful Dead and Parsnips

When Joe and I had a friend over for dinner the other night, we divided the duties—Joe was the D.J., and I was the chef.

A song came on with harmonies that sounded remarkably like the band Crosby, Stills & Nash, but when I asked who it was, Joe said, “The Grateful Dead.”

I was stopped dead in my tracks. No way could the folksy song on the stereo be the product of the Grateful Dead. They were a hippie band who played some kind of skreetchy electric guitar brand of hard rock. I had never actually heard them, of course, but with the word “dead” in their name and a skull in their logo, I knew their music would not be for me.

Apparently, I was wrong.

For dinner, we had smoked haddock, rice, and roasted parsnips.

While living in Belfast, Joe and I have received a weekly delivery of vegetables from a local farm called Helen's Bay Organic. The delivery includes the usual suspects like potatoes, carrots, and onions, but the farmer also surprises me with vegetables that I have never seen before or cooked. For example, one time I received a massive round root that was only slightly smaller than a volleyball and required both hands to lift. It turned out to be a giant turnip. Before that day, if you had asked me if I knew what a turnip was, I'd have answered with confidence, “Of course!” After all, I've know the word “turnip” since I was a kid. But had you laid out a turnip, a parsnip, and a rutabaga side-by-side and asked me to identify them, I probably would have failed the test.

After fighting to cut through the huge root, I managed to bake half of it into “scalloped turnip” and sauté the rest in butter. I was pleasantly surprised to see the white flesh turn orange when cooked, but the flavor wasn't nearly as appealing to me as the color.

Parsnips, on the other hand, have been a decidedly delightful discovery. Just as I had assumed I wouldn't like the Grateful Dead's music, for some reason, I expected parsnips to be bitter and yucky, but they’re not! It turns out they are sweet and delicious, especially tossed in olive oil, salt-and-pepper, and baked to a crisp.

Why didn't anyone ever tell me how wonderful parsnips are? Why isn't the entire world dreaming about parsnips, cultivating them in every spare inch of dirt, and writing songs to celebrate them?

I will be a pioneer and lead the way with this tribute:

To a Parsnip
Oh, white root,
Often overlooked,
Misunderstood, indeed,
Feel not sad, but splendid,
For you are sweet, no weed.

Okay, perhaps my poem won’t win any awards, but at least the poor parsnip has received some proper praise.

With the entire world so full of crises—war in Libya, earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear meltdowns in Japan—a part of me feels shallow writing about such frivolous things as the Grateful Dead and parsnips. What does it really matter that I discovered an old band or a new vegetable? Certainly, there must be more interesting and meaningful subjects to explore.

But when I look at it another way, what I'm really writing about is prejudice, which seems like a more serious and worthy topic. It reminds me of something a friend of mine says—live without expectations and assumptions. I see the wisdom: if I didn't have any expectations, I would never be disappointed, and if I didn't make assumptions, I would be open to a world of new ideas and experiences and would not be in error so often.

The trouble for me is that I'm full of both; expectations and assumptions are like a second skin. They are so much a part of me that I don't even notice them. If Joe hadn't played that song or Helen's Bay hadn't delivered parsnips to my door, it wouldn't have crossed my mind to try either one.

Of course, my life would have gone on quite happily without them, but discovering the Grateful Dead and parsnips brought me truly joyful moments. And I think in the face of all the global gloom, a dash of joy is just what a doctor would order.

But if challenging my expectations and assumptions = new discoveries = more joy, then I'm in a tricky position. How can I challenge what I don't see? How do I make myself aware of my expectations and assumptions?

Maybe it's as simple as paying attention. When I find myself saying, “No, I don't like...” (as in “I don't like the Grateful Dead”) or if my internal “Ick-o-meter” goes off (as in “Ick, I don't like parsnips”) then I should go on red alert (a nod to Star Trek). But instead of red alert, I'm going to call it PEA, for Prejudice-Expectation-Assumption alert.

PEA alert! PEA alert! PEA alert! It even sounds funny and makes me smile. Perfect!

If my PEA alert is successful, then I'm sure to discover many happy things like more good music and yummy vegetables. In the meantime, I think I’ll listen to the song Uncle John's Band by the Grateful Dead and eat sweet roasted parsnips.

Xavier: A Thief

Over this New Year’s, I met Xavier, a modern-day bank robber. That description conjures images of a masked man with a gun yelling, “Hand over your money!” But the reality is far more mundane—he simply takes out loans under a false name and then never pays them back.

We met at a loud and smoky New Year’s Eve party. It was a private affair in a small apartment on the outskirts of Paris, but there was nothing particularly Parisian about it. The small one-bedroom flat was packed with people drinking champagne and yelling to be heard over the music. It could easily have been a party in Singapore, Sydney, or Seattle, except that everyone was speaking French.

Michael Jackson was blaring over the speakers and I was about to take his advice and “Beat It” when I said, “Bonne Année” to a tall, good-looking man. He replied in a French accent, “Ah, are you Americaine?”

We launched into the usual topics—What city was I from (Seattle)? Had he been to the U.S. (Yes, New York and Miami)? And, of course, what did we each do for a living?

“That is complicated,” he said. I thought he was going to say he was a consultant of some kind, but instead, he paused and admitted, “I steal from banks.”

Now there’s something I don’t hear everyday! I asked for details and he told me the story of his first bank heist with the grins and chuckles of someone recounting a particularly clever practical joke.

“I applied for a loan and the stupid bank gave me €100,000. They did not even ask for collateral!” He used big Italian-like gestures as punctuation. “It is their own fault. The idiots!”

He explained that it used to be very easy to take out large loans, but the economic crisis has hit the defrauding-banks industry hard. His plunder has dwindled to €50–€70k per year, although he’s not complaining, “It is still better than a job.”

I asked him how he does it and received a short tutorial on bank fraud. He told me about the black market for fake I.D.s, how to break into mail boxes as part of establishing a false address, and how to prove a non-existent income.

He talked about bank robbing as if it were perfectly normal. In fact, he not only didn’t see anything wrong with what he was doing, he acted as if it was a civic responsibility.

“Don’t you feel bad about stealing or worry about getting caught?” I asked.

“No! No! No! It is NOT stealing,” his hands flew in big circles. “I take from BANKS! If anything, people should thank me!”

He may as well have been saying, “No! No! No! You don’t pee in a sink…you pee in a TOILET!”  He felt absolutely in the right and no one could argue the point.

“But even though it’s a bank, it’s still stealing,” I pressed on.
“No! It is not. Come oooonnn…it is a BANK!” he slapped his forehead with the butt of his hand. “Corporations! They steal millions from the poor everyday. It is my own money to take back.”

I argued that when banks lose money they increase rates and fees, so his theft actually hurt his fellow poor Parisians, but he was having none of it. In his view, if he did not steal, then that would simply leave more money for the evil bankers. Besides which, the banks have theft insurance, so they never really lose.

Our conversation was cut off as the clock struck midnight and the room exploded with noisemakers. Xavier and I kissed each other on both cheeks and wished each other a Happy New Year.

In the intervening weeks, I’ve thought a lot about my conversation with him. Certainly, I don’t meet successful bank robbers everyday...or do I? Maybe I’ve met a lot of criminals, but they just haven’t brought it up or been willing to talk about it.

Xavier’s candor impressed me and inspires me to admit that I, too, have been a thief. Unlike Xavier, though, I haven’t considered it a topic to whip out at parties. In fact, up until now, I’ve only told a handful of people. But there you have it...this column could be titled:

“Annie: A Thief”

My own first heist was much less lucrative than Xavier’s. I was eight-years-old and took a peppermint patty from Hodgin’s Drugstore. I was with my Mom and we didn’t get more than two blocks down the street before she spied it in my hot little hands. She marched me right back to the store to return it and apologize.

Sometime in my late teens, I started a more serious shoplifting habit. Stealing was never a goal and I would not leave the house with the intent of shoplifting. Rather, I’d be in a store and along with the item I was purchasing, another would go into my pocket or bag as a bonus.

I always asked myself why I stole, because I didn’t need the things that I took. Looking back, I think it was a mix of feeling entitled and enjoying getting away with it, but the other curious thing was that I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. I was raised Catholic and learned “thou shalt not steal” before learning to tie my shoes, so how come no guilt?

Thanks to Xavier, the obvious finally dawned on me—stealing from corporations feels like a victimless crime. He sees nothing wrong with stealing from a bank, because in his mind banks are evil. For me, stores weren’t evil, but they were faceless entities making big profits. In fact, I thought that since I was also buying stuff, anything I stole only reduced the store’s profit. At the very worst, I imagined that the store broke even, and what was so bad about that?

What I did was petty crime, but the mental gymnastics I used to justify stealing a pair of earrings was similar to Xavier’s rationalizations for robbing banks. Both of us used the idea of “the corporation” to fool ourselves into thinking we weren’t really stealing. No face, no victim. No victim, no crime.

On the other side of the coin, it’s just as easy to vilify criminals as it is for criminals to depersonalize their victims. I think most people would agree that bank robbers are bad people, the Enron traders were immoral assholes, and the mortgage brokers and traders who collapsed the world economy were greedy bastards. But when you meet one at a party (or have one in the family, or are one yourself), suddenly it’s not so black and white.

I was never caught and there was no “incident” that made me stop. I simply quit. The same opportunities to steal present themselves all the time, but now I just don’t do it. Was I a “bad” person when I shoplifted and am I a “good” person now that I don’t? In both cases, I doubt it. 

Are bank robbers bad? Of course. But is Xavier “bad,” because he robs banks? I don’t know. I found him to be charming, engaging, and open, and I expect that he does nice things for his family and friends who love him and don’t see him as a villain.

The thing I know for sure is that I liked his honesty. He says, "‘I’m a thief. Take me or leave me. Like it or not, that is part of who I am.’"

For the most part, I had locked away the thief inside of me and pretended she never existed. But I did steal and I have the capacity to steal again. Take me or leave me. Like it or not that is part of who I am.

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Travelogue—Iceland: A Great Place to Sweat

On Sunday, November 7, I climbed aboard a Boeing 757 in Seattle bound for Iceland. My ultimate destination was Paris, but I had a four-day layover, which gave me plenty of time to enjoy the sites and sounds of Reykjavik and the surrounding area. This is the story of those four days.

The seven-hour flight from Seattle to Keflavik International Airport was uneventful. I sandwiched myself between, Joe (my boyfriend) and a hip twenty-something guy from Canada named Jordon, who, to my great delight, was thin and did not spill over into my middle-seat space.

Day 1 – First Impressions

After the plane landed, we passed through immigration and customs, met the driver from our hotel, and walked outside to load our bags into the van. Unremarkable events, except for the moment that I went from walking through the toasty warm terminal to stepping outside and being flash frozen like a freshly caught tuna. The wind didn't so much hit me as it seemed to pass right through me. I was wearing long underwear and a wool coat, but it may as well have been a cotton summer dress for all the good it seemed to do. Welcome to Iceland!

In addition to the cold, it was still pitch black at 7:30 a.m. In Seattle, the sun would have already been up for at least a half hour. Complete darkness so late in the morning in early November was a surprise, but, with virtually no light pollution and no clouds, it made for a dazzling star display.

After 20 minutes, the driver exited off of the highway and then turned onto a gravel road, which led down to an L-shaped, single-level structure. It was the Northern Light Inn, a hotel that we had settled for because our desired destination, the nearby “Blue Lagoon Spa,” was booked solid that day.

Check-in was informal with no papers to sign. To reach our room, we walked past a small dining room, two sitting rooms, and a vending machine. Everything was modern and clean, and somehow reminded me more of a religious retreat center than a hotel. The view out our window looked like a bunch of rocks, but it was hard to tell through the darkness.

“We've landed on the moon,” I said to Joe, then closed the shades.

By sunrise (at 9:30 a.m.!), we were long asleep, and by four in the afternoon, we were awake again and ready to take full advantage of the one hour of sunlight left in the day. I opened the window shades to discover a lava field as far as the eye could see. And not too far off in the distance, I saw a factory spewing giant plumes of steam, which turned out to be a geothermal power plant. The view certainly wasn't your typical holiday panorama of ocean and palm trees, but who wants the “same old, same old” boring tropical beauty when you can have lava and a power plant!

Joe and I decided to go outside and explore, so I bundled up with so many layers that I popped the zipper on my coat. Wardrobe malfunctions aside, my outfit did the trick. The wind whipped and I could feel the cold on my cheeks and nose, but the rest of me stayed warm.

We were on the dirt road on our way to nowhere in particular when the hotel mini-van drove by and offered us a ride to the Blue Lagoon. We hopped in and found out that the driver was actually the hotel's chef. She raved about the fresh lobster and highly encouraged us to order it that night for dinner in the hotel's restaurant. I'm not a big lobster fan, but she explained that Icelandic lobster is special—smaller, more flavorful, and simply better than any other lobster in the world.

She had just piqued my interest in the crustacean dinner when we arrived at the Blue Lagoon's parking lot, which was large and nearly empty. I'm guessing that a freezing cold Monday evening in November doesn't exactly rate as the Blue Lagoon's high season...but that's just a guess.

The spa itself was not visible from the parking lot, but signs indicated to follow a beautiful path that was carved through 12-foot high lava. The path inclined and near the top, I caught my first glimpse of the modern building.

The architecture reminded me of Frank Lloyd Wright's “Falling Water” house, which is tightly integrated with the trees, boulders, and river of a western Pennsylvania forest. The Blue Lagoon's structure is set directly in and contoured around lava formations and water pools. The building melds seamlessly with the environment and looks almost as if it sprung up spontaneously out of the lava flows and geothermal geysers.

Once inside, the spa's check-in desk is to the left and a chic store selling Blue Lagoon skincare products, clothing, and tourist knick-knacks is to the right. Beyond the check-in desk and store is a high-ceilinged, cavernous space used primarily as a cafe and open seating area. Down another hallway is the “Lava Restaurant,” a fine dining establishment that turned out to be not so fine, as we discovered the next day over a disappointing dinner.

We explored a little further and found a large rooftop deck overlooking the lagoon. After taking pictures of the half-moon bridges and steaming waters, we set out on the 10-minute walk back to the hotel.

It was already dusk and getting darker by the minute, but we knew that there was no way to get lost. We could see our hotel off in the distance and the road between the Blue Lagoon and the highway only had two turns—the first leading to the power plant and the second leading to the Northern Light Inn.

About 20-minutes into our walk, we started feeling lost. We should have at least made the turn by then, if not already been back at the hotel. We debated whether to press on or head back and opted for the latter. The cold was seeping into my layers, and I felt a sense of relief when we hit the dirt road that marked the way home. We had missed the turn earlier, because of our interest in a pipeline on the opposite side of the road. So much for not getting lost!

Forty-five minutes after leaving the Blue Lagoon, we were back at our hotel. I was cold, hungry, and ready for lobster!

We ordered the tomato bisque, which was chock full of lobster meat swimming in a smooth bowl of creamy yumminess. The main course of lobster tails were as flavorful and succulent as the chef had promised. We also ordered the “catch of the day,” which was a tender white fish, also served with a lobster sauce. We chased it all with “beer brewed with glacial water in an Icelandic hamlet.” One of the best meals of my life...in a small, nondescript hotel restaurant in the middle of a lava field. I never would have guessed.

Day 2 – The Blue Lagoon

The next day, we moved from the Northern Light Inn to the Blue Lagoon. In addition to the the spa that is open to the public, the Blue Lagoon also has a separate medical clinic to treat people suffering from psoriasis. The clinic is a five-minute walk away from the Blue Lagoon Spa and has 15 hotel rooms. Luckily, we didn't need to have psoriasis to book one!

After checking into our room, we walked straight over to the spa where we planned to spend most of the day. The worst moment was standing in the cold just before entering the lagoon for the first time. Showers are required, which is great for hygiene, but not so great for keeping warm in freezing cold air. After stepping onto the deck, it took me all of 15 seconds to hang my towel and get into the pool, but it was a loooong 15 seconds. The freezing air, however, heightened the magical feeling of melting into the warm water.

The lagoon is about the size of a large resort swimming pool. It's shape is irregular with many nooks to swim in and around, and the water is sourced from a naturally occurring geothermal seawater hot spring with temperatures hovering around 100°F. However, we found a few spots with temperature spikes that were too hot to touch.

One of the hot spots was near a geyser-like spout that looks like a small exploding volcano. The volcano is the lagoon's primary water source and replenishes the lagoon's entire six million liters of water every 40 hours. There is no need for chlorination or other chemicals due to the naturally occurring heat, minerals, and algae, along with the quick turnover of the water supply.

We were curious as to how close you could get to the water volcano, and while I stopped at two arms lengths, Joe reached in and touched its rocky base. With an “Ouch!” he quickly pulled back. The base didn't burn him. Instead, water from the geyser splashed on his hand and scalded him in a few spots, including the webbing between two fingers, which was particularly painful.

In the U.S., someone would probably have sued for millions of dollars and won. They would argue that the proprietors failed to save them from their own stupidity and should have put up a sign saying, “Hey stupid. See the steam? Feel the heat? Stay away for your own safety!” After years in court, they would get a big payout and the geyser-like spout would be barricaded off limits, or perhaps the entire spa would be closed.

Luckily though, we were in Iceland and the spa and all of it's many features were open and available to explore at our own risk, including:

• A “massage” waterfall that felt good on my upper back, but was too hard for my head.   
• Sauna and steam rooms, devoid of people, probably because they were so hot that I didn't manage even 60 seconds in either one.   
• A juice bar that we waded up to and ordered very healthy tasting energy drinks. (We were in swim suits. The barista wore a parka.)
• A door in the lagoon itself leading from the outdoor pool to a small indoor pool. If I had known it was there earlier, I could have avoided freezing outside before first entering the lagoon.
• And, finally, caches of silica mud...

Slathering silica mud on yourself is marketed as one of the highlights of the spa experience. The mud is a thick, light gray goo available in wooden crates placed around the lagoon.

The crates are made of wood slats set about two inches apart, so you can peek inside, but you can't reach in with your hand. To get the mud out, you grab what looks like a short-handled golf putter with the sides of the base flipped up to make a cup. You scoop, navigate the putter through the opening between the slats, grab a glob of goo, and apply.

Since the silica mud sits out in the cold air, it goes on cool, but soon starts to dry. The Blue Lagoon's marketing materials show people with nicely sculpted mud masks, but in reality, most people look like a five-year old's finger painting. I have to admit that I didn't notice much difference to my skin, but in retrospect, I wish I'd thought about my hair and worn a swim cap. After hours of soaking in silica water, my hair was like tangled hay.

While the water is the Blue Lagoon's main attraction, the location and scenery win awards for their supporting roles. If I placed the Blue Lagoon in the middle of a city, it would lose a key element...remoteness. The feeling of being out in the middle of nowhere, in an otherwise unnavigable lava field, with nothing but steam and quiet (and a geothermal plant) for company, is amazing and well worth the visit.

Day 3 – Reykjavik

Once again, we packed our bags and this time took a bus from the Blue Lagoon into Reykjavik, which is the largest city in Iceland, the capital of Iceland, and also the world's northernmost capital of a sovereign state. The land was still mostly flat, but the lava fields slowly gave way to grasslands. About 10 minutes into the 40-minute trip, we saw the ocean to our left and it stayed there as the road hugged the coastline.

As we hit the suburbs, the buildings were all new. Later, I learned that Iceland in the 1940's had the lowest standard of living of any European country. But as commercial fishing technologies were developed, Iceland became rich and by the 1980's was considered to have the highest standard of living in Europe—an amazing turnaround that included a lot of new construction.

The bus dropped us off at the vacation-rental apartment that would be our home for the next two days. It was conveniently located just two blocks away from one of the main downtown shopping areas, so we dressed up against the cold and ventured out to explore the city.

After a solid eight minutes of walking, I was freezing and we stopped in the nearest store, which happened to be one specializing in local culture, also commonly referred to as a souvenir shop. In Paris you find Eiffel Tower keychains, in Sydney it's stuffed Koala bears, and in Reykjavik...Viking helmets, puffins, and a large selection of real fur pelts (fox, seal, and reindeer). A little farther up the street, we saw a real stuffed puffin along with his friend the stuffed raven inside a little-less-touristy, and perhaps a little-too-authentic souvenir store.

As we meandered through the city, I found it to be clean, modern, and leaning toward utilitarian rather than quaint. It’s not a “destination” city like Paris or New York with lots of landmarks and high-end shopping, but the city is thriving with all of the normal shops and amenities, and plenty of restaurants and pubs. I was told that on weekends, the city has a booming music scene and people stay up until all hours of the morning drinking and partying. In the few hours I had to explore the city, Reykjavik struck me as a very normal and nice place to live, albeit a bit cold.

Neither our dinner that night nor the next was particularly good nor bad, but like all our meals in Iceland, they were outrageously expensive. At an Indian restaurant, we ordered an appetizer and two vegetarian entrees (no drinks) that cost a whopping $100. In Seattle, the same meal would cost $45, tops.

Because Iceland is an island with virtually no resources outside of fish and hot water, everything must be imported. Their import tax is 400% and their VAT (sales tax) is nearly 25% on everything, including food. That means you can pay $3 just for a banana!

Energy and heat on the other hand are plentiful and cheap thanks to their naturally occurring geothermal energy. Water out of the tap is instantly hot (sometimes too hot), and every building is kept warm enough that you can walk around inside in only a t-shirt. I spent a lot of time bundling up to brave the cold outside, then stripping down to avoid sweating to death inside.

Day 4 – The Golden Circle

Friends had recommended “The Golden Circle” tour, which is advertised to include geysers, a big waterfall, and the meeting point between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. What the tour really included was freezing temperatures (at the geysers), a freezing wind tunnel (at the waterfall), and a freezing Annie (at the tectonic divide). But aside from the cold, here's how the day went:

The Geysers

After short stops at a geothermal power plant and a very large crater, we arrived at the “Geysir” geothermal area.
“Geysir” is the only Icelandic word used in common English. But while “geyser” in English refers to all geysers, the name “Geysir” in Icelandic refers to a specific geyser that used to be the star of this geothermal area. It used to shoot steaming water up to 200 feet into the sky on a regular basis, but in recent years, it has gone mostly into retirement.

From the road, the geyser area looked like a slightly inclined and mostly barren hill. Patches of steam indicated where the hot water pools were located. David, our tour driver, dropped us off and pointed to a path that first wound through the geysers and then led back to a visitor center where we were to meet up with him again.

Typical of this visit to Iceland, the geyser area was a contrast in temperatures. While the air was well below freezing, the hot pools were over 200°F and boiling. One pool opened up into a small stream, and the hot water cut a channel through the ice on the ground. In another place, a sign warning that the water was 80-100°C was caked in ice from steam hitting the sign and instantly freezing.

The geyser area featured a dozen large and medium-sized pools with smaller ones dotted across the landscape. The pools were tiered on the hillside, so you had to walk up to see some and down to see others. Since ground water would usually be at the same level, we guessed that each pool was an unconnected channel down deep into the rock.

Most of the pools were fairly still with copious amounts of steam being the main attraction. However, one of the larger pools called “Strokkur” (meaning: “the churn”) erupted every five to ten minutes. In between blasts, we watched the water swirl and belch, then suddenly it would shoot up 60-100 feet into the sky. Some blasts were definitely bigger than others, and I'm glad we endured the cold to see it a handful of times. My other favorite pool was a small one near the visitor center called “Litli Geysir,” which looked like a bubbling witches cauldron.

Gulfoss

From the geyser area, we left for “Gulfoss” or “Golden Falls.” The landscape was roughly flat, so I was surprised when David said the waterfall was only a 10-minute drive from the geysers. I couldn't imagine where the water would be falling from.

Instead of leaving the highway in search of higher ground where a waterfall could spill over a mountain edge, we turned down a road that revealed a ravine. We rounded a corner and out the front window I saw a wide and impressive river and falls.

The very next thing I noticed were two people outside of a van parked next to ours. They were standing at an angle as if they were leaning against a wall, only there was no wall...only wind. The man was trying with great difficulty to put on a scarf, but he couldn't seem to keep hold of it as the scarf whipped and snapped uncontrollably.

I took note and bundled up before leaving the van, but it didn't help much. When I stepped outside, I was hit with a cold, hard blast of air and had my first true taste of what a hurricane must be like.

“Have you ever felt anything like this?” I practically screamed into Joe's ear to to be heard over the wind. At first, he yelled back that he had never experienced anything like it, but then he corrected himself: “Wait, yes, I have felt this before...jumping out of an airplane!”

Between the sand blowing in our faces and the subzero temperatures, neither of us cared much about the waterfall. We took a couple of quick pictures and hightailed it as fast as we could up some stairs and across a boardwalk to reach the shelter of a nearby restaurant. We each ordered a $15 bowl of hot and watery tomato-vegetable soup. I rationalized the price as $5 for the soup and $10 for it being “hot” soup.

Thingvellir National Park

I fell asleep on the drive from Gulfoss to Thingvellir National Park, which is where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet. I woke up in time to see that the forces of nature had created an expansive valley with rock outcroppings, low shrubs, and grass. The valley is bordered by mountains, features Iceland's largest lake, and is the original site of the oldest existing parliament in the world. David said that the valley is at its best in the spring when it's blanketed in wildflowers.

Perhaps if it had been spring or summer, I would have seen more, but as it was, I went outside for all of five minutes and spent the rest of the time in the van asking David questions about Iceland and trying to stay warm.

I learned a number of interesting things from him:

• Naming System: In order to preserve the traditional Viking and Icelandic baby names, Icelandic parents must choose names from a government-approved list. All of the usual Christian names like John and Mary are included, but you will also find names like Auðbjörg and Friðþjófur. Also, there are no family names like Smith or Jones. Instead , the last name is made up of the father's first name with “son” or “dóttir” (daughter) added to the end. For example, if your name is Michael and your father's name is Dirk. Then your Icelandic name is Michael Dirkson.    
• Economic Collapse: The soundbite version is...Iceland's financial mess is as bad or worse than the rest of the world. Corruption is to blame. Iceland's financial future rests in renewable geothermal energy.    
• Landmass & Population: Iceland's landmass is about the same size as Great Britain. But while Great Britain has over 60 million inhabitants, Iceland's total population is only 300,000, most of whom live in and around the city of Reykjavik. Since half of those people are minors or the elderly, the entire country is maintained by only 150,000 people.
• Horses: Iceland horses are a unique breed. They are small, like ponies, with a heavy coat to withstand the cold Icelandic winters. To keep the     breed pure, Icelandic law forbids horses from being imported into the country and once an Icelandic horse is exported it is not allowed to return. All Icelandic horses are privately owned and we frequently saw them grazing in fields along the highway. David stopped to let us get out and take photos, and as we approached the fence, the horses walked straight to us. They were friendly and gentle.    

After nine-hours on the Golden Circle Tour, we said goodbye to David, and after four days, we were ready to say goodbye to Iceland as well. That evening, we ate dinner and packed. The next day, we got up at a refreshing 4:30 a.m. to catch a bus to the airport, and by one o'clock, we were at our apartment in Paris.

The one that got away

Iceland is famous for good views of the aurora borealis, also known as the northern lights. Every night we got up and looked outside, and every night, we saw only stars and darkness. Well, not EVERY night. Once, I got up at 2 a.m. and saw some flashing lights off in the distance. Excited to share my discovery, I woke Joe up and he got dressed in all the appropriate layers. He stepped outside then patiently pointed out that is was just the airport strobe light. I felt both a little silly and sorry for waking him. Later, we learned that the northern lights are best viewed from dark areas on the plateau and through a camera lens, so maybe better luck next time.

Summary

Iceland was cold, warm, expensive, and memorable. David said that June is his favorite month, because most of the winter snow has melted, the roads are open, and wildflowers abound. July and August, though, are the warmest months and the usual tourist season.

If taking a tour, I recommend booking with David, who owns and operates Iceland Horizon. He is a British man who has worked and lived in Iceland over the past 20 years. He gives an engaging overview of the history, economics, and culture of Iceland, and because his mini-bus and groups are small, he has the flexibility to take a little more or less time at each location, and include extras like stopping to pet the horses.

For my friends in Seattle, I can recommend Icelandair. There is a direct 7-hour flight from Seattle to Keflavik Airport, barely longer than a headwind journey to Hawaii. Also, Icelandair allows for free layovers, in case you're on your way to... let's say...Paris!

If you would like to see more pictures of this trip to Iceland, visit: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1036573872&aid=2080857 

If you would like to be notified by e-mail when I post to this blog, please write me at anniescolumn@gmail.com and I will add you to the notification distribution list.

Who Am I?

On the right side of this page, about halfway down, loom the words, “About Me.” For months now, I have felt like I should fill in my profile, but have been stumped as to what to include. Do I keep it to a few short paragraphs, or make full use of the 1200 word limit? Should I approach it like a resume and touch on my education, work history, and personal interests? Or should I talk about why I write and how this blog came to be?

The real question is what do people who read my blog want to know about me? But since I don’t really know, I have decided to share a smattering of information and anecdotes that will hopefully give the flavor of “Who is Annie?”

Last week, I proudly posted a version of this story chock-full of details about my life, but I made the mistake of not thinking about identity theft. Actually, I paused before including my birthday, but then decided that anyone could find out that information if they tried and I wasn’t going to let identity theft paranoia interfere with my creative process. Mere moments after posting my column, I learned from a friend that listing my birthday was only a small part of the problem. I hadn’t thought about how the names of my family, pets, schools, and cities where I have lived could be used against me.

I deleted the post, but felt a little stupid and embarrassed. I should have known better. Here, I’m a modern woman who works in IT and I should be aware of identity theft issues. But, wait! Is my last sentence even safe? Is it okay to share my gender and industry? You probably could have guessed that I was female from the column title...after all, there aren’t too many men named “Annie.” And there are millions of people working in IT, so that’s not too personal. But it begs the question, “What is safe to share?”

I’m sure I could find articles on the internet offering guidelines, but, instead, I’m going to strip down my original anecdotes of anything that could uniquely identify me to a bad guy. Here is what’s left:

In the Beginning
I was born. Not a terribly original opening, but safe as far as identity theft goes. Since I have the act of “being born” in common with every other person on the planet, I’m certain the identity thieves can’t use it against me. Originally, I included some details on when and where the blessed event took place, but suffice it to say that I was born...somewhere, during one of the twelve months of the year, sometime in the last century.

Sam I Am
I’m not sharing whether or not I have siblings, but I think it’s safe to say that my Dad would have liked me to be a son and I did my best to be just that. I was a tomboy through and through.

Splish Splash
I am a good swimmer, but I am leaving out the story of how that came to be.

The Motherland
I speak German well enough to have casual conversations. I consider sauerkraut cooked with a nice ham hock and potatoes a perfect meal. And with it's festive markets, roasted nuts, and spiced wine, Germany is one of my favorite places to spend Christmas, which is exactly where I will be this year.

School Daze
Kindergarten: In winter, a friend dared me to stick my tongue on the metal jungle gym. Thank goodness I knew better than to pull it off and was rescued by a bucket of warm water.

1st grade: My friend Travis showed me his penis. I wasn't terribly impressed.

4th grade: My class kept pet white rats, and I still think rats are kind of cute.

6th grade: I had to wear a uniform that included a skirt and was mortified. Tomboy to girl was a tough transition.

8th grade: My friends put up a birthday poster in the commons and someone wrote the “C” word on it (rhymes with “punt”). I felt like a loser.

12th grade: My first boyfriend asked me to marry him, but I said “no.” He promptly got a new girlfriend.

University: For six months, my sister and I lived in a neighborhood so rough that pizza places would not deliver to our address.

The Stinking Rose
When I was eight years old, I learned the recipe for garlic toast—sliced bread, butter, garlic salt, broiler—and made it for breakfast almost every day. Life took on new meaning! Give me garlic and I'm happy.

The Stinking Stink
Cheese on the other hand has the opposite effect on me. While I've learned over the decades that a few mild cheeses are tolerable, in general cheese has been a substance to be avoided at all costs.

Thelma & Louise
My grandmothers were complete opposites:

Grandma was born and raised in a rural farming town. Her grandparents were homesteaders.
Grandmother was born and raised in an upper-class German family.

Grandma wanted to be a librarian, but she settled for the role of farmer's wife and mother.
Grandmother was a child prodigy pianist and a star opera singer who had a big career before settling into family life.

Grandma played baseball with me.
Grandmother played classical music.

Grandma taught me how to collect chicken eggs.
Grandmother taught me to be a lady.

Grandma, if she were alive today, would still use a wood-burning stove to boil water to do the dishes.
Grandmother, if she were alive today, would Twitter like a teenager.

Thanks to them, I am equally comfortable on a farm or at the opera.

On my Soapbox
I had barely heard of Amway when I joined in my late 20's. By the time I left “the business,” I was well aware of two things: 1) Amway makes great products and 2) I don't want to sell them.

The Pursuit of Me
I was first introduced to the concept of personal development through a course I took in 1993. The water fountain must have been dispensing Kool-Aid, because I have been a “what makes me tick” junky every since. Why do I do what I do and think what I think? What are my intentions? What parts of me have I tucked away into Jung's proverbial shadow? No matter how deep I dig, there's always more to discover.

The Writer Within
I have always been a writer. In school, I'd like nothing better than to hear the teacher say, “The term paper will be 50% of your grade.” Cake walk! Writing has always been a part of my work, but now I'm exploring creative writing. Luckily, my interest in personal development gives me a lot of fodder. And even luckier for me, I have this blog as an outlet, and wonderful people like you to read it.

Do you know me better after reading this? I’ll let you be the judge of that, but I know that these few snippets of memories don’t really tell the story of me. I’d love to share the deep crevasses of my heart and soul, but I have yet to explore them myself. This blog is one of my ways of doing that, so maybe the best way to know me is to just keep reading.

What Happened To Annie?

I am forcing myself to sit down and write. I can hardly believe it's been almost two months since I posted to my blog. From May 20 through August 1 of this year, I was on a roll posting roughly every week...then nothing. What happened?

Life, habits, and fear...that’s what happened.

Life first got in the way when I went to California for a one-week business trip. Shortly thereafter, I flung myself into the one-month project of sorting through and moving my entire household. Since I am living with a girlfriend at her house, I loaned most of my furnishings to a friend for his apartment. In return, he stored the rest of my boxes and furniture in a spare room at his place. When he decided to move, I suddenly lost my free storage unit and needed to get myself organized in a hurry.

It’s now four weeks later. I’ve made two trips to Oregon to bring things to my Mom’s house; one trip to Spokane, Washington where my bedroom set has found a home at my best friend’s house; and five trips to Goodwill where lucky shoppers can now find great deals on everything from a set of IKEA shelves to a used tent.

Aside from a few odds and ends, I’m finished and I feel great...but it came at a price. I haven't spent much time writing, I've posted nothing to my blog, and I’ve felt an increasing sense of unease, even unhappiness, about letting my column fall to the wayside.

While the business project and move both took a lot of time, I can’t say they occupied every moment. In the past two months, I have also done yoga classes, visited friends, read books, and watched TV. And, yes, I spent some time writing, but not much. I started blog posts on two other topics, but the key word is “started.” I didn't finish them. Why?

In part, I think I simply got out of the habit. In early and mid-August, I still felt an imperative to write. I wanted time at the keyboard. I wanted the experience of hours evaporating in a blur and not caring whether I eat. I wanted to watch my ideas twist and turn in unforseen ways as the stories took on lives of their own. Writing is like a sandbox for me and words are the toys. As with all good games, time flies and I wanted more time to play.

But writing also takes a lot of mental energy, and as the days and weeks passed without time in my sandbox, I missed it less. It became easier and easier to find other things, easier things, to do. I didn't “feel” like writing as much. I had dozens of topics queued up, but not the energy to put fingers to keyboard. Writing felt more and more like a chore. The scale had tipped—writing went from being something I wanted to do to something that felt like an overdue homework assignment.

How did I let that happen?

This is where fear reared its ugly head. During the business trip in early August, I was introduced to Tim, the CFO of small technology company. As we shook hands, he said, “You're the Annie. I really like your blog!” I was dumbfounded. Over the past month, I had received online comments about my blog from distant friends of friends, so I knew I was developing a readership, but meeting Tim really hit it home—real people made of actual flesh and blood were reading my blog. I could shake their hands and look them in the eyes. What if those eyes turned out to be full of criticism instead of praise?

That same week, two more people that I had never heard of before sent me “Friend” requests on Facebook saying they were fans of my blog. Again, I was surprised and excited, but having people so previously unknown to me read my work and reach out to me was also outside of my comfort zone.

My blog was starting to have a following. That following was growing. If it kept growing, my dream of being “a writer” might come true. I could be a big success. I could also fail. I retreated.

I beat a swift trail back to the safety of my “to-do” list and wrapped myself in a warm and cozy “someday when” blanket. The dream of being a writer “someday” is much more comfortable to me than the reality of being a writer right now, so I curled up in a psychological blanket of “what ifs” and “someday whens.”

I told a friend about this and she relayed a similar story. She had lost an amazing 150 lbs with only 10 more to go to her goal weight. She was on the precipice of a new life. People commented on how great she looked and men turned an admiring eye. Her dream was coming true, but it was too much. Being thin and admired was outside of her comfort zone and if she didn’t have weight to lose, well, what would she do then? So, she let life and habits get in the way and packed on a comfortable 80 pounds. Ahhhhh, back into her own warm and cozy “someday when” blanket—someday when she gets her weight back down to where it was, then life will be good.

I think it’s fascinating that the idea of being a writer, the idea of being thin, or the idea of any kind of real success can be more alluring than the real thing. Can I free myself of this psychological trap? Can I turn things around in my mind and get used to the idea of being a successful writer and actually having confidence in my work?

Even as I write this, I feel like I’m about to jump off the edge of a cliff. Sure, people have told me they liked my other blog posts, but that was then. What about this one? What if people don’t like it?

The cozy blanket has let me wrap myself in my dreams of the future, but has kept me from realizing those dreams. Now that I’m aware of it, I have a choice. I can be like Linus from the Peanuts cartoons and always keep my blanket with me, one hand gripping it for safety, or I can let it go.

In this moment, I’m choosing to let go. After all, it’s hard to type while holding a blanket in one hand. I realize that I might pick up the blanket again, but maybe next time I’ll be quicker to put it down. And maybe someday I’ll just leave it folded in the closet, or better yet even throw it away.

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A Murder of Crows

A few years ago, a friend and I saw a bald eagle swoop down to a lake, pluck out a large fish, and fly away. We were in awe, and the exclamations tumbled out in a flurry: "Did you see that?!" "That was an EAGLE!" "The fish was huge!"

Seeing an eagle is always a special event for me, but this particular occasion stands out, because we were not in a pristine national park where you might expect to see such a sight. Instead, I was at Green Lake, a popular urban lake in a Seattle residential neighborhood. People from all around flock to the lake and its surrounding park to play team sports and enjoy the three-mile paved path that winds around its shores. Eagle watching is not among the usual offerings.

On that particular day, the path was dense with people and everyone who saw the eagle stopped in their tracks. The story of the eagle catching a fish was certainly retold many times that evening as the walkers and runners left the lake to meet their friends. Those conversations probably began with an enthusiastic, "You'll never guess what I saw today!"

Last week, I was at Green Lake, again, and saw a crow swoop down to a garbage can, pluck out a crumpled McDonald’s bag, and fly away. I was not in awe and no one stopped in their tracks. Indeed, seeing a crow root around in the garbage is commonplace and we don’t even take notice. But what if there were thousands of crows assembled in one place? I can tell you, it’s breathtaking.

My sister, Janie, lives and works in Seattle’s southend and, for years, has talked about an immense flock of crows that gathers near her house at dusk. I had seen large groups of crows in her area before, but on a recent visit, she insisted I hadn’t really seen them until I went with her to her “secret special spot.” We got in the car, drove past the mall and warehouses, snaked up some side streets, and ended up parking next to a plain, two-story industrial building.

“Secret spot, eh?” I said with a tone of sarcasm.

“Just you wait,” she replied.

We left the car and walked across the street, and there I suddenly saw a beautiful wetland. It was completely unexpected, especially just over an embankment from an industrial area.

We walked along and, at first, I noticed only a few crows flying off one way or another and heard a few caws, but nothing remarkable. The area is beautiful, though, and we strolled on a boardwalk that extends across a marsh. My attention turned to a heron taking off with its long wingspan and slow, elegant wing stroke. Like the eagle, it’s special to see a heron and we both watched it glide up the creek until it disappeared behind distant trees.

When we looked west—after being distracted by the heron for few minutes—there were suddenly many more crows. Dozens in fact, maybe even hundreds. The cawing increased. As minutes passed and the sun dipped lower and lower on the horizon, the numbers continued to grow. Janie told me that they fly into the area on what look like rivers in the sky. They always take the same routes, which feed into the final roosting place for the evening, which is in the trees near the boardwalk.

More of the blue sky turned black as ebony patches flew up and down and left and right. The main flock flew east, only to come back a few minutes later from the south, even bigger and stronger in numbers. They flew wingtip to wingtip like planes flying in formation. Once overhead, the crows were in a loud frenzy. Thousands and thousands of birds were cawing at once and the sound vibrated through my body. It was awe inspiring, like a scene from the Planet Earth series where thousands of birds fly across the African savanna. In that moment, I felt the vastness and wildness of the earth and her creatures.

Standing underneath that ceiling of beaks and claws and beating wings made me think of the old Alfred Hitchcock movie The Birds. I can see why someone would be afraid of being attacked. But while a flock of crows is officially called a “murder” of crows, there was nothing murderous or sinister about the birds overhead. Sure, I felt a little vulnerable, but not in danger. In fact, I laid down on the boardwalk with face to the sky and drank up the energy. Janie was right, this was a special spot.

I’ve read that crows are symbols of many things to many people. Crows can symbolize justice, balance, creativity, and even the shadow self. They are said to teach us to live in the moment and to know ourselves. After watching them swirl overhead, I believe it. I felt alive. I didn’t want the moment to end. I felt in tune with the earth. I was inspired to write about crows and wondered how to convey the beauty and majesty of the great crow assembly. It was every bit as memorable a moment as watching the eagle catch its dinner at Green Lake.

So, the next time I see a crow grab a piece of garbage, I’ll be reminded that as dusk nears, it will fly south on a river in the sky and become part of something magnificent-—a murder of crows.

For a map of crow activity in the Seattle area, visit http://depts.washington.edu/uwcrows/. The crows I describe are located on the map at the “nighttime crow roost” south of I-405 near Renton, Washington.

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