Homegoing

This should be a shorter post than last week's. I've been on my own and hanging out at Janet's pad in Washington's tony Cleveland Park neighborhood (just above the zoo), and how much can one say about hanging out?

Janet returned from Rochester on Sunday ... her dad left this world at the ripe old age of 90, may he rest in peace. We have spent as much time as was available to us getting caught up, talking about what we've both been up to since the last time we saw each other, which if I remember correctly was 3 summers ago. We also traveled together in Thailand and Bali about the same time, which was a blast-and-a-half.

The weather was warm enough here on Monday, even in the evening, that we both arrived at the same idea: picnic on the roof. We carried up candles and wine, cheese and crackers and a huge fruit salad made from a fruit basket that Janet had brought back down with her: the spoils of grief as she so aptly described it! A little rain began to fall, so we moved under an overhanging, and enjoyed a January picnic in the open air, in shirtsleeves. Although I did go down a little later to retrieve a light jacket. Unbelievable.

Big news: I've completed my 2nd week of Bikram yoga. I missed the 2nd and 3rd days of their 7 days for $20 special, but with the exception of the last session, all of the instructors were exceptional. The only thing I'll say about the last session is that the instructor had a voice and style of speaking that to me was annoying: Valley Girl gives yoga instruction. There was no calmness or serenity about her, and as she strode around the room effusing this phony cheerfulness, I found it more and more difficult to get into my own routine.

I finally realized the battle was with myself and my attitude toward her rather than with her as a person, but her booming false-happy voice kept impinging on my own sense of quiet determination to do well and to get deeply into my practice, and by the end of the session I felt emotionally drained and a little depressed. So I realized how much impact a poor (or great) yoga instructor can have on students.

I guess overall I've been lucky. In 11 Bikram sessions, I had 7 or 8 instructors who were either very good or outstanding. A woman named Tiffany at the Dupont Circle Bikram (in DC) was so good that after the class, I was so elated with what we'd done and the way she'd made me feel that I went up to her, wai'd her and said with a smile, "I so honor your being!" She laughed, wai'd me back and thanked me. For some reason, she was the only instructor in DC who would close with Namaste, something all the instructors did at the Bikrams' in Ft. Collins.

Observations of the Customs of the American People
I used to sometimes remark to my Dutch friends how much I appreciated the way most Dutch people simply think nothing of talking to others (strangers) in day-to-day situations. My Dutch friends usually commented that they thought Americans were also friendly, and I know Americans have this reputation. But .. I don't know .. here's what happened.

The 4 pm Bikram session Jan. 2 was packed, and afterward about 10 yogis and yoginis sat sweating and panting, peeling and eating tangerines that had been placed in a bowl on a table in the center of the waiting area. And most of the few minutes we sat there, no one. Said. A thing! And very little eye contact as well. I got the distinct feeling that these people just did not see any value in risking conversation with a stranger. I was tempted to start something, but then thought I would simply observe and see what happened. Two women next to me who seemed to know one another did start to murmur between themselves, but that was it.

It was the same thing in the men's locker room. Here are 7 or 8 guys all trying to dress and undress in this little tiny room, get to lockers, coming from the shower, etc. and no one is saying a word! I thought Maybe it's because Dupont Circle is known to be a gay neighborhood, and the straight guys here are worried about who's gay and who might be checking out their package, and the gay guys are thinking "i'm only here to do yoga and i don't want anyone thinking that i'm cruising them." Or it could be something else entirely. Go figure.

Anyway, I'll let you know what else I observe of these strange people.

Wednesday evening I was on the phone for more than 3 hours { ! } -- the next best thing to a face-to-face visit -- with my old buddy Lance. We were at the Monterey Institute together getting our degrees in Teaching English back in the early 90's. Lance is back from his teaching job in Japan to spend time with the folks in Detroit, and is currently soaking up some California sunshine, lucky dog, before heading back in a day or two to his man and his gig in the land of the rising sun.

Another highlight of the week was my Lance-inspired visit -{thanks dude!}- Dec. 30 to the Smithsonian Museum of the Native American which was phenomenal. It's a gorgeous building, and right on the Mall between the Air and Space Museum and the Botanic Gardens. I started at the top on the 4th floor, but in the two hours till closing, I never made it down to the next level.

So I went back the next day, in time to see a number of dances performed by 3 members of the Piscataway Indians, who have lived in what is present-day eastern Maryland and beyond for perhaps thousands of years. Over the course of an hour, three men in full Piscataway regalia took turns beating drums, dancing, and describing some of their customs for a huge group of people who had gathered around in the main lobby area for the performance. Dozens of people looked down from each of four levels directly above the site as well.

One of the most moving moments that I experienced came when I turned a corner and found myself on the back side of an exhibit. The curator had used a translucent material, which allowed me to just barely perceive the shadowy outlines of people on the other side who were looking toward me, but at the objects on display. I wasn't sure the other visitors were aware that I was on the other side, and I suddenly got this feeling like I was a spirit from the past, maybe a spirit associated with the objects in the exhibit, the way I could see the people while thinking that perhaps they couldn't see me. Being behind the scene too contributed to this very powerful feeling.

On my last night in town (Jan. 5), Janet and I continued a long tradition of meeting at Afterwords, a bar / restaurant attached to the Kramerbook's at Dupont Circle. And I got one more chance to spend some time with Bruce, the very cool guy she's seeing. I liked him even more as I listened to him tell about helping to organize the protest during Bush Jr's first inauguration. It's quite possible that it was one of his eggs which hit the presidential limo before it sped away! (Great scenes of this in Fahrenheit 911 which is a must-see film regardless of your political leanings.) A couple of pitchers of micro-brew, a few plates of "sharezies" and lots of great social-philosophical breeze-shooting, before work the next day began to rear its ugly head, and we all headed home.

Now to pack and prepare for the 5:45 flight from Dulles up to Rochester, and a few days with my brother Scott and his wife Kathy. I'll be in doin' the home-town thing at least through the 12th or so before heading down to New York City to pick up the Wonder-Dog at JFK Jan. 14.