We live in a weather-obsessed culture, which has been fueled by our ever-increasing access to weather data—we can check our local radar at any given moment and can find current weather conditions anywhere on the globe. The Weather Channel provides constant local updates and goes into crisis mode during any type of storm. But there's another factor that has contributed to our weather obsession—our mobility. Once we've actually lived in another place, with a different climate, we think about ourselves differently in relation to our local weather.
Long before I lived in northern California, I knew it had a warmer and dryer climate than Long Island, where I grew up, but it wasn't something I cared about. During my childhood, I regarded New York's climate as a given. My mind and body accepted the rhythm of the four seasons. I loved the changing weather. Summer seemed special in part because it had to end. During fall, I enjoyed walks home from school, with the crisp red, orange, and yellow leaves crunching underfoot. Winter meant skating at outdoor ice rinks and on local ponds, the quiet after a snowstorm, and soft mohair sweaters. And I couldn't imagine life without the miracle of spring, a time of rebirth and renewal, of love and longing.
At college, I became enchanted with the climate of western Massachusetts. There, the seasons were more sharply delineated—summer sultry and green, fall magnificent with mountains dressed in brilliant autumn hues, winter majestic and awe-inspiring. Spring fever never seemed so poignant and wonderful as during those college years, when the yearnings of adolescence were fed by the soft greens of budding trees and the scent of lilacs in the air.
When I was 23, I moved to northern California. At first, I found the climate bland and boring. The leaves never really fell off the trees, though the oak leaves turned brownish and a few of them drifted to the ground during December and January. Other plants stayed in bloom year-round, so when "spring" arrived in February, it passed largely unnoticed. There was a dry season and a wet season, which didn't feel natural to me. My body rhythms weren't attuned to them. And the air seemed harsh and dry. When I sat in the California sun, I developed a rash.
After a year, I returned to the East Coast for a year, then came back to California. This time, I felt more comfortable with the climate. I loved the smell of the eucalyptus trees and the sight of the fog bank looming over the Coastal Range. I still missed the four seasons, but I began to find compensations—no snow and ice to contend with while driving, the clarity of the dry air and the beauty of the sky after a rainstorm. In short, I began to feel at home in California. My mind and body adapted.
After about five years, I moved back east, with a two-year stopover in Chicago, where I experienced a return to winter with a vengeance. My stay in the windy city coincided with the most severe winter in Chicago's recorded history, which set records for both snow and cold. From there, I settled in Boston, which seemed balmy by comparison. I still loved the New England summers, the gorgeous falls, the delicate and beautiful spring, and even the cold and snowy winters. But I didn't regard them as inevitable anymore. I knew viscerally that I had options.
Over the years, this awareness, coupled with the length of New England winters, made me receptive to spending winter in a warmer place. Now I live in Florida during the coldest months and have adapted yet again. I love the softness of the air here and the lushness of the foliage. But I still look forward to returning to Massachusetts in time to see the daffodils bloom.
I haven't done a scientific study, but it's my impression that those who haven't ever lived in a climate without winter accept and savor winter more than those of us who have experienced the alternative. So, the more mobile we are as a society, the more people will object to climate conditions they once would have embraced. Add to that the availability of instant information to remind us that when it's inclement where we are, it's beautiful somewhere else, and it's easy to see why so many of us become obsessed with the weather.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Flying Above the Clouds
You know the feeling when you take off in overcast weather? The plane climbs up through the clouds. At first you can see the ground below, then the clouds surround the plane and you are flying blind, in the midst of soft gray, hoping the pilot's instruments are guiding him well. Then comes the wonderful moment when the plane bursts through the clouds into pristine blue sky and blazing sunlight. At that point, you are truly above it all, in a rarefied atmosphere, viewing the stunning cloud carpet from on high.
Rarefied is the operative word here because, in reality, you couldn't survive in this crystal clear environment, where the air is frigid and the oxygen thin. Still, it's a beautiful sight to behold, one I never tire of, and the memory of this experience has come to me at times of crisis, when I'm reminded of what's truly important.
There's nothing like a life-threatening illness to put things into perspective. Little problems fall away and the focus returns to what matters—love of family, of friends, of the wider world. The fog of everyday life clears and its little irritations seem irrelevant. Though born out of a sobering realization of mortality, the clarity that comes with that realization can be bracing and exhilarating.
In the fortunate event that the crisis passes and health is restored, that heightened awareness often lingers for a while, then inevitably slips away, like an airplane descending back into the clouds, coming down to earth. It's hard to hold on to the experience of sun shining down on a glorious blue sky over a white cloud carpet. But when I catch myself sweating the small stuff, I try to put myself there, to remind myself that life is short and I should treasure each moment.
Rarefied is the operative word here because, in reality, you couldn't survive in this crystal clear environment, where the air is frigid and the oxygen thin. Still, it's a beautiful sight to behold, one I never tire of, and the memory of this experience has come to me at times of crisis, when I'm reminded of what's truly important.
There's nothing like a life-threatening illness to put things into perspective. Little problems fall away and the focus returns to what matters—love of family, of friends, of the wider world. The fog of everyday life clears and its little irritations seem irrelevant. Though born out of a sobering realization of mortality, the clarity that comes with that realization can be bracing and exhilarating.
In the fortunate event that the crisis passes and health is restored, that heightened awareness often lingers for a while, then inevitably slips away, like an airplane descending back into the clouds, coming down to earth. It's hard to hold on to the experience of sun shining down on a glorious blue sky over a white cloud carpet. But when I catch myself sweating the small stuff, I try to put myself there, to remind myself that life is short and I should treasure each moment.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Etiquette of Arrival
When it comes to arriving at places, I have a split personality. I love to get to the airport early, with plenty of time to go through security and relax at the gate. For business or doctors appointments, I feel it's important to be on time, if not slightly early. But when it comes to social occasions, I'm all for arriving fashionably late, or at the very least not early. There can be no greater social faux pas than arriving early for a party.
I could never convince my father of this, however. He liked to arrive early, even for social occasions, much to the chagrin of my mother, who preferred to make a later entrance. It was difficult to thwart my father's desire to get going. He would stand by the door with his coat on, impatiently calling for us to hurry up. When we arrived at our destination before the appointed time, which often happened, he seemed oblivious to our mortification. He liked the comfort of knowing we had made it there safe and sound.
By the time I was a teenager, my mother and I and my two younger sisters had worked out a tacit plan to prevent early arrival. While my father stood by the front door, one or another of us would call to him from the upstairs bedrooms where we were dressing. "I'm almost ready," we might say, soothingly, or "I'll be down in a sec." Finally, in an attempt to show he was serious about leaving, my father would go out to the driveway and start the car, where he'd sit, engine running, until we finally emerged. Usually, we had stalled long enough to avoid arriving before the appointed time.
I still go to great lengths to avoid arriving early at social gatherings. Recently, I prevailed on E. to sit in the car for fifteen minutes, so we wouldn't ring the bell early for a dinner party. And I've been known to circle the block or even take a scenic detour in order to avoid showing up before my host expects me. In all other matters of arrival, though, I've inherited my father's anxious nature and find it comforting to arrive early. This even extends to some social situations—I don't like to be late for restaurant reservations and when a friend is driving me to the movies or the theater, I try to be ready for pickup early.
So, rest assured, I won't keep you waiting if we're going to the movies together. But, if you ever invite me to dinner, don't worry—I won't show up while you're still in the shower.
I could never convince my father of this, however. He liked to arrive early, even for social occasions, much to the chagrin of my mother, who preferred to make a later entrance. It was difficult to thwart my father's desire to get going. He would stand by the door with his coat on, impatiently calling for us to hurry up. When we arrived at our destination before the appointed time, which often happened, he seemed oblivious to our mortification. He liked the comfort of knowing we had made it there safe and sound.
By the time I was a teenager, my mother and I and my two younger sisters had worked out a tacit plan to prevent early arrival. While my father stood by the front door, one or another of us would call to him from the upstairs bedrooms where we were dressing. "I'm almost ready," we might say, soothingly, or "I'll be down in a sec." Finally, in an attempt to show he was serious about leaving, my father would go out to the driveway and start the car, where he'd sit, engine running, until we finally emerged. Usually, we had stalled long enough to avoid arriving before the appointed time.
I still go to great lengths to avoid arriving early at social gatherings. Recently, I prevailed on E. to sit in the car for fifteen minutes, so we wouldn't ring the bell early for a dinner party. And I've been known to circle the block or even take a scenic detour in order to avoid showing up before my host expects me. In all other matters of arrival, though, I've inherited my father's anxious nature and find it comforting to arrive early. This even extends to some social situations—I don't like to be late for restaurant reservations and when a friend is driving me to the movies or the theater, I try to be ready for pickup early.
So, rest assured, I won't keep you waiting if we're going to the movies together. But, if you ever invite me to dinner, don't worry—I won't show up while you're still in the shower.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Bizarro Restaurant Universe
Yesterday evening, E. and I and two friends had tickets for a concert at 8 pm. Our friends suggested we have dinner beforehand at a nearby restaurant, one of very few within walking distance of the concert hall. They hadn't been there before, but it seemed promising, with an appealing menu, creative-sounding cocktails, and rave reviews from diners on the Zagat and Urban Spoon websites. If only our experience had lived up to the reviewers' hype.
We arrived at the restaurant shortly after 6 pm, so we wouldn't have to rush to make the performance. Our first impression was great—we liked the colorful artwork and stylish bar. A number of tables were already occupied, a good sign at such an early hour. In retrospect, it might have been better for us had we been the only ones there.
We were seated and given menus. As we chatted, activity swirled around us, but no one approached our table. After about ten minutes, a busboy came over to ask if we'd like some water while we waited for the waiter to take our drink orders. Tap water would be fine, we said. The water arrived, then nothing happened for at least ten more minutes. Wait staff traversed the floor, but no one made eye contact with us. I flagged down a passing waiter and asked him to get our waiter. He said he would. No one came.
We looked around the room. We saw people younger than us and older, more chic than us and stodgier. We could find no obvious explanation for our waiter's inattentiveness. For that matter, the staff may have been studiously ignoring any number of other tables. It was hard to tell. Eventually, we caught the eye of the manager. He apologized for the delay and took our drink orders.
Finally, our waiter sauntered over to our table. He, too, apologized, but he sounded totally indifferent. We explained that we needed to leave by 7:30 in order to walk back to the concert hall in time for the performance. He assured us that would be no problem. No problem for him, that is. We finally received our entrees at 7:20. I quickly shoveled down the food, which was not bad, if I'd only had a little more time to enjoy it.
We wondered what had happened to make such a well-reviewed place perform so badly. We noticed that there seemed to be a surplus of busboys. At one point, we heard one busboy teaching another how to set the table. When a different busboy finally served us our meals, he seemed so nervous that his hands were literally shaking. Had half the staff quit the day before, resulting in too few waiters and a bunch of newly-hired busboys?
I prefer to believe that we entered a bizarro restaurant universe, where the aim was alienation of the customer. By that measure, our dinner was a complete success.
We arrived at the restaurant shortly after 6 pm, so we wouldn't have to rush to make the performance. Our first impression was great—we liked the colorful artwork and stylish bar. A number of tables were already occupied, a good sign at such an early hour. In retrospect, it might have been better for us had we been the only ones there.
We were seated and given menus. As we chatted, activity swirled around us, but no one approached our table. After about ten minutes, a busboy came over to ask if we'd like some water while we waited for the waiter to take our drink orders. Tap water would be fine, we said. The water arrived, then nothing happened for at least ten more minutes. Wait staff traversed the floor, but no one made eye contact with us. I flagged down a passing waiter and asked him to get our waiter. He said he would. No one came.
We looked around the room. We saw people younger than us and older, more chic than us and stodgier. We could find no obvious explanation for our waiter's inattentiveness. For that matter, the staff may have been studiously ignoring any number of other tables. It was hard to tell. Eventually, we caught the eye of the manager. He apologized for the delay and took our drink orders.
Finally, our waiter sauntered over to our table. He, too, apologized, but he sounded totally indifferent. We explained that we needed to leave by 7:30 in order to walk back to the concert hall in time for the performance. He assured us that would be no problem. No problem for him, that is. We finally received our entrees at 7:20. I quickly shoveled down the food, which was not bad, if I'd only had a little more time to enjoy it.
We wondered what had happened to make such a well-reviewed place perform so badly. We noticed that there seemed to be a surplus of busboys. At one point, we heard one busboy teaching another how to set the table. When a different busboy finally served us our meals, he seemed so nervous that his hands were literally shaking. Had half the staff quit the day before, resulting in too few waiters and a bunch of newly-hired busboys?
I prefer to believe that we entered a bizarro restaurant universe, where the aim was alienation of the customer. By that measure, our dinner was a complete success.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tiger Repents
Today, the world witnessed the long-awaited apology by Tiger Woods, golfer extraordinaire and philanderer. In carefully enunciated phrases, Tiger said he was sorry, so very sorry, very sorry. He repeated himself. Almost ad nauseum, but not inappropriately. Tiger has plenty to be sorry for.
He let down his wife, to put it mildly. He let down his mother. He let down his fans. And he let down the PGA, which depended on him to draw people to the sport. In fact, before the sordid story of Tiger's personal life broke, the stories about him often concerned the fact that golf was losing popularity and he was the main reason people still had any interest. I'm exaggerating a little. But not much.
The best moment in Tiger's apology came when he acknowledged that he had believed the regular rules of behavior didn't apply to him. He said he had mistakenly thought his fame and fortunate entitled him to have affairs and generally act selfishly. The words were right, but Tiger's delivery sounded a little canned, as if he were mouthing phrases that had been drummed into him during the 45 days he recently spent in therapy for sex addiction.
More therapy will follow, Tiger said, and eventually maybe he'll play some golf. Meanwhile, he'd like people to respect his privacy. Can't say I blame him, though his long-held privacy policy obviously didn't succeed in keeping his past peccadillos private. Experts say that sex addiction is very difficult to cure. If Tiger strays again, I doubt he'll find his antics will remain private for long.
Tiger spoke slowly during his fourteen-minute apology. He read the words. The words were contrite. He may have meant them. He spoke before a friendly audience and took no questions. He seemed so controlled and robotic that I felt sorry for him. But I'm not convinced that he truly feels sorry about anything other than having been caught.
Am I being too hard on Tiger? If you haven't yet seen his apology, you can watch it and decide for yourself. Just go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xs8nseNP4s0 and take a look.
He let down his wife, to put it mildly. He let down his mother. He let down his fans. And he let down the PGA, which depended on him to draw people to the sport. In fact, before the sordid story of Tiger's personal life broke, the stories about him often concerned the fact that golf was losing popularity and he was the main reason people still had any interest. I'm exaggerating a little. But not much.
The best moment in Tiger's apology came when he acknowledged that he had believed the regular rules of behavior didn't apply to him. He said he had mistakenly thought his fame and fortunate entitled him to have affairs and generally act selfishly. The words were right, but Tiger's delivery sounded a little canned, as if he were mouthing phrases that had been drummed into him during the 45 days he recently spent in therapy for sex addiction.
More therapy will follow, Tiger said, and eventually maybe he'll play some golf. Meanwhile, he'd like people to respect his privacy. Can't say I blame him, though his long-held privacy policy obviously didn't succeed in keeping his past peccadillos private. Experts say that sex addiction is very difficult to cure. If Tiger strays again, I doubt he'll find his antics will remain private for long.
Tiger spoke slowly during his fourteen-minute apology. He read the words. The words were contrite. He may have meant them. He spoke before a friendly audience and took no questions. He seemed so controlled and robotic that I felt sorry for him. But I'm not convinced that he truly feels sorry about anything other than having been caught.
Am I being too hard on Tiger? If you haven't yet seen his apology, you can watch it and decide for yourself. Just go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xs8nseNP4s0 and take a look.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Like Ships Passing in the Night
Recently, I received an email from an old friend. He had tracked me down after finding an article of mine that had been published online. In his email, he told me what he'd been up to for the last 35 years and said he'd been wondering what had happened to E. and me since the 1970s, when we all lived in Los Gatos, California.
I answered his email and we swapped photos. He appeared to be a nice-looking guy. But, staring at his picture, I didn't recognize the person I'd known all those years ago. Perhaps, had I seen him in person, his smile or body language would have made him seem more familiar. However, it's entirely possible that if I'd passed him on the street, I would have walked right by. Realizing this got me thinking about all the times I may have walked right by someone from my past life without knowing it.
This certainly could have happened with old friends from high school. While I didn't attend my fortieth high school reunion, in 2007, I later saw a video of the event. I hardly recognized anybody. My class was relatively small, about 300, and back in high school I knew virtually everyone by name. Not any more.
A few faces did stand the test of time and I would have known them anywhere, but in most cases youthful appearance had been obscured by the years. Whether it was weight gain, wrinkles, jowls, gray hair, or hair loss, these former classmates didn't look like anyone I'd ever met. A few women had clearly had face lifts, presumably in an effort to look younger. But the process of smoothing wrinkles had distorted their previously-recognizable features, making them strangers to me.
All of which leaves me wondering, would my old friends recognize me? Or would we simply pass one another on the street, unknowing, like ships passing in the night?
I answered his email and we swapped photos. He appeared to be a nice-looking guy. But, staring at his picture, I didn't recognize the person I'd known all those years ago. Perhaps, had I seen him in person, his smile or body language would have made him seem more familiar. However, it's entirely possible that if I'd passed him on the street, I would have walked right by. Realizing this got me thinking about all the times I may have walked right by someone from my past life without knowing it.
This certainly could have happened with old friends from high school. While I didn't attend my fortieth high school reunion, in 2007, I later saw a video of the event. I hardly recognized anybody. My class was relatively small, about 300, and back in high school I knew virtually everyone by name. Not any more.
A few faces did stand the test of time and I would have known them anywhere, but in most cases youthful appearance had been obscured by the years. Whether it was weight gain, wrinkles, jowls, gray hair, or hair loss, these former classmates didn't look like anyone I'd ever met. A few women had clearly had face lifts, presumably in an effort to look younger. But the process of smoothing wrinkles had distorted their previously-recognizable features, making them strangers to me.
All of which leaves me wondering, would my old friends recognize me? Or would we simply pass one another on the street, unknowing, like ships passing in the night?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Miami's Hills
To speak of Miami and hills seems an oxymoron—there are no natural hills in Miami. The only way to achieve elevation in Miami, short of flying, is to spend time in a high-rise. There are many to choose from and quite a few along the coast, with spectacular views of the water. As a New Englander, I miss the rise and fall of the land when I'm in Miami, but I compensate by living on the eleventh floor of a high-rise. In Miami, high-rises are the next best thing to hills.
There are advantages to living in a flat landscape. I love to walk and I appreciate the endless level terrain. The flatness of the land allows winds to sweep from the Gulf of Mexico east across the Florida peninsula, clearing out pollutants and helping to make Miami a city with exceptionally clean air. The land may lack definition, but the sky here is big and beautiful, an ever-changing landscape in itself, with mountains of clouds often nestled at the horizon.
Still, living without hills can feel monotonous. Sometimes, I long for the beauty of a gentle slope or the curve of a road through a valley surrounded by hills. It's then that I most appreciate my apartment aerie, where I can perch on my terrace overlooking Miami. From there, I see houses submerged in lush greenery and sailboats dotting the water. At night, I survey the lights of the city and the dark expanse of the bay. The view never fails to provide a sense of space and possibility.
From the outside, many high-rises appear hulking and out of place. I sympathize with Miami natives who wistfully remember the days when much of the coast consisted of only sand and surf and an occasional house. But I've come to appreciate the value of buildings that rise up from the flat land and, like hills, provide their residents with the gift of an elevated perspective.
There are advantages to living in a flat landscape. I love to walk and I appreciate the endless level terrain. The flatness of the land allows winds to sweep from the Gulf of Mexico east across the Florida peninsula, clearing out pollutants and helping to make Miami a city with exceptionally clean air. The land may lack definition, but the sky here is big and beautiful, an ever-changing landscape in itself, with mountains of clouds often nestled at the horizon.
Still, living without hills can feel monotonous. Sometimes, I long for the beauty of a gentle slope or the curve of a road through a valley surrounded by hills. It's then that I most appreciate my apartment aerie, where I can perch on my terrace overlooking Miami. From there, I see houses submerged in lush greenery and sailboats dotting the water. At night, I survey the lights of the city and the dark expanse of the bay. The view never fails to provide a sense of space and possibility.From the outside, many high-rises appear hulking and out of place. I sympathize with Miami natives who wistfully remember the days when much of the coast consisted of only sand and surf and an occasional house. But I've come to appreciate the value of buildings that rise up from the flat land and, like hills, provide their residents with the gift of an elevated perspective.
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