Homey Oklahoma

In the crossroads of America, where semitrucks thunder past likes sports cars to the radio's twang of Country music, I paused for a break. My mom's California college buddy David had lived in LA, tried it out, said the hell with Hollywood superficiality and headed home to Tulsa, OK where the streets are tidy, the people polite, and life is comfy. The Finers opened their home to me and I eagerly took shelter from the summer monsoons behind me in their comfy abode.

David treated me to some nice Southern barbeque (funnily familiar to my Polish Grandma's brisket), and we wound between the heavily forested city just enjoying the general calm. For my city thrills I stopped by the memorial of the federal building terrorist bombing, artfully presented, and an art gallery of Native American works from across the continent which was assembled to educate the ignorant Italians and other Europeans about the immense diversity of this land. 

After a good day's rest we hit the lake, a massive man-made string of freshwater fingers. I put my surfing skills to the test and started wakeboarding, jumped off a massive cliff with a hideously girlish scream, and realized this wasn't anything near the dry prairie I'd imagined. Even though I'd always thought the ocean was what made me feel centered, it was easy to feel at home in the middle of the middle of things.

 

David and I dig into a Southern barbeque feast! Pickled chiles a must.  

NEWS FLASH! DUST BOWL FLOODS!

July 17, 2013

CHEYENNE, OK - Rapid flooding swept over the plains of western Oklahoma this morning, as the United States' historic "Dust Bowl" transformed into a mucky claybed. Foolish Californians bore the brunt of the trauma, as one bleary-eyed San Diegan explains.

"Man I was like sleeping and then I woke up and then it was like, whoa my tent is squishy man. And then like I got out and the whole tent it like, went up and started floating. Dude, I've never slept on a water bed until like, last night!" Joel Kramer stammered.

Local residents were also on the scene, such as rancher Dale Pierce, whose neighbor had lost a cow to the nearby woods in the precipitous confusion. According to Mr. Pierce:

"Climate change." 

And more elaborately, "It hasn't rained here in 100 days, and now, in the middle of summer? Sho is strange. Creek's been dry e'ry summa since 2010 now. Fact is, last time we got storms like this was back in '88. Boy, you musta been a young thing then."

Black Kettle National Grassland in Western Oklahoma was the site of historic massacres by the U.S. Army of native plains Indian families. White settlers later took the fall when intense droughts turned their grassland farms and open skies into a snowglobe of black powder. Today, cattlemen like Pierce struggle with national entities like the Forest Service which claim access to waterways for ecological conservation. Wild hogs in the area mowed the forest to stubs, and a series of fires and droughts have ferried in the invasion of dryland mesquite shrubs.

With pots and plates on his car roof to catch washing water, the oblivious Kramer shares his wisdom, "Like - don't camp on clay where's it's all flat when you're like, next to a swamp. Yeah!"

 

Drenched marshland campsite pitched by none other than this foolish Californian

Heartland

The lungs of the country stir with the whirring of windmills. Rainy roads glisten with the setting sun. Dusk settles like dust on the prairie.

Spurting through the muddy tracks, my messy tires slide into the campground. A half moon lights the dusky sky. Fireflies scatter between the trees. Grasshoppers spring staccato from the switchgrass. Soil glows as vermilion as a summer sunset.

On my humble stove, rice, beans, a shiny jalapeno. I eat on a damp bench, my nostrils steam with the chile's Mexican heat. For so long I have clung to other cultures, Mexican, South African, Israeli, Canadian, English, clinging to anything that made me feel more significant than the estranging America around me.

I sip black tea. I smoke my cigar. Animals call in the night, darkness surrounds my small tent, and I relax. I am home in my camp. In my America.

Breaking Bad on the Ground

Gabi and I would do anything for the best TV Show on earth. So we saddled up and rode through Indian Country and highland desert to Albuquerque, New Mexico in search of Breaking Bad. Luckily, we were rewarded with a nice milkshake at Los Pollos Hermanos, A.K.A. Twisters! We hit up a couple of other essential spots, like the Irish lawyer Saul Goodman's office (a bar), a massive warehouse (a massive broken down warehouse) and Jesse's Crossroads Motel (the Crossroads Motel). Yup, turned out Albuquerque was in fact a bit shady. Desert. Drugs. Immigration infighting. BUT, we had the idyllic Santa Fe, NM just down the road to help us enjoy the scenery.

Gabi lookin' tough next to her hefty sidekick at Walter & Gus's favorite rendezvous. (above)

Ancient Pueblo architecture lives on in the touristy "Spanish" style of Santa Fe, NM (below)

The cubic adobe architecture in Santa Fe was very unique. I liked the cool feeling inside the thick-walled buildings, the beams sticking out of the finely plastered stucco, and it made me wonder how the Spanish so cleverly adapted to the local climate. After all, it couldn't have been the natives who had devised such practical yet attractive engineering. However, we were enlightened from our trip to the dusty, barren and friendly Hopi Nation, where this architecture was the staple. Yes indeed, while the tourists walked the streets and enjoyed the supposedly Spanish style, it was in fact the indigenous pueblo-dwellers who engineered and mastered the craft. These original architects belonged to the same community who, when faced with the Spanish, lost their women to rape, their artifacts to bonfires, their lives to the gun barrel. 

The abuse and theft dealt by the Spanish was nothing unusual for the Hopi and other Pueblo tribes. These farming natives had defended their precious desert riverbeds for centuries against the onslaught of the warrior Navajo. The Hopi relied on the techniques of dryland farming, while the Navajo hunted wild game, and the two peoples fell into natural roles of hunter and hunted. The Navajo would attack the Hopi pueblos to steal from their granaries, forcing the Hopi to build their villages on flat-topped hilltops (mesas) and hire mercenaries to guard the entrances. In their ancient way, they continued to farm, and the feeling of their tightly-bound community contrasted greatly with the spacious and disjointed feeling on the Navajo Res.

Although the Navajo have the largest American Indian reservation in the mainland U.S., equipped with a multi-campus university system, the community there felt broken. Gabi and I drove through the flat valleys lined with buttes on our way to the Canyon de Chelly. We passed an old woman with a cane and couldn't miss the opportunity to give someone a lift. This seemingly sweet woman hopped in and soon enough, we found ourselves at a gas station buying beer for her "sick brother". We stopped at the university, the whole campus as quiet as the library, and by the time night fell we'd barely seen anyone. The natural beauty kept us afloat and before long we got lost on a spider web of deep sandy roads in a magnificent thunderstorm.

All this worked up an appetite.

Albuquerque's best chilli feast in the back of a florescently-lit pharmacy

The hectic history had my hot head aching, and moreso my stomach. We set off in search of satiating spice and lo and behold, ran into the bearded shark scientist Dovi Kacev. He was, of course, visiting the interior Southwest to lecture to freshwater fish researchers. His communication expertise was invaluable as we asked a couple of tattooed cholos where to get lunch. And of course the answer was in the back of a nearby pharmacy. While this sounded like the start to a drug deal, we were in Breaking Bad land so, what the hell, we followed the enchiladas.

By god that was chilli. We got to the pharmacy, walked in through the doors and, with florescent lights beaming down, sniffed our way to the back of the store where a full-fledged traditional Mexican restaurant was dishing out bunuelos and salsas like mañana had come early. We needed the fuel because I was about to drive Gabi to the airport for a sad goodbye. What a great journey together through our beautiful Southwest!

Shady parking lot in Gallup, NM; Chinese goods rumble across the tracks. Meth country.

With the sharp crack of a cowboy's whip, the thunderous wind spurred dust and alamo leaves across the riverbed. I hurriedly gathered firewood for the wet desert journey ahead. In the midst of it all, my friend Surprise (Simangele) called from distant California, asking where I might be. Scurrying into my car, I was enamored with the West, its winds, its untameable wildness.

Dry Humor

The most treacherous rains I've ever been in were in the middle of summer, on a lake, in the desert (Santa Rosa, NM). These jokes are inspired by that night of which I tried to make light.

Got something funny to say? Just add a comment on the blog. That ain't no joke!

~
   
Why don't fir trees grow where cacti do? 
The desert ain't no place for softies.

~

Three guys walk across the desert in search of water - a bedouin, a Spanish missionary, and a Namibian bushman. They reach a saloon in Arizona and take a seat at the bar.
The bushman takes a sip of amarula and asks the Spaniard, "Xqolope tciqxa xco axaxfqao he?" Meaning: What have you gotten up to on your journey?
Being a man of the well-travelled Catholic church, the Spaniard understands, sips his tequila and replies, "Eh, you know, spreading the word of Christ, son of Abraham, by song or by sword. Un dia normal."
With a little too much arak in his system, the bedouin is alarmed. "Walla! You must mean Mohammad, son of Abraham!"
Harrumphs the bushman, "Xqho!" - The gods must be crazy!
And he walks swiftly back home across the Bering strait.

~
   
This Yiddishe joke is also a true story.

Why did the Rocklins leave kneidls, knishes, and kreplach of their cozy shtetl in mother Russian for the godforsaken Sonoran desert? The Czar. He was feeling moody so they wanted to keep their distance.

~

The city we know as Sin City in English has a very different facade in its Spanish. Las Vegas actually means...fertile valley. Now how could that be? Was that business foresight, or an outright mistake?
I say, blame it on the Vikings.
See, those horny seamen started off in Iceland looking for a place to chill, and found out it was covered in boiling lava. Then they went to Greenland looking for some good farmland and froze their butts off. Before they turned into human icicles they decided they'd find a nice pasture to avoid the rough weather they had been through. With the last of their savings, they set off for Las Vegas. But, when they arrived and found it was a desert, they just started gambling!

Still today, you can see the evidence at the Sons of Norway Lodge.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!

~
   
The tortoise and the hare have some cousins down south, and they love to race just as much as their northern cousins Franklin and Fluffy.

So, back in Tucson, the gun fires and desert tortoise and desert hare wobble and hop across the sand. The desert hare is ahead, making great progress at night. He reaches the edge of a mesa and spots the finish line when, a coyote pounces on him and turns the desert hare into lunch. With that, the worn, coyote falls sound asleep for a siesta on his ACME pillow.
Fortunately, desert tortoise is finally ahead for once. As he reaches for the trophy at the finish line he hears, lo and behold... Meep meep!

Moral of the story? Hyper, flightless birds always win the race.
 

~    

A cowboy, Bruce Wainwright treks out west from his ranch in Colorado, in search of some good farmland along the banks of his home river, the Colorado. Between the tumbleweed (Salsola tragus) and sand dunes, he beings to lose hope. After months of weary travel, he finds himself in Yuma, Arizona, at the delta of the great river.
"Well, well, well...what do we have here!"
That red water and sandy soil might as well have been gold.
Then, on the other bank he sees someone roll up wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops.

"Boy, what kind of boots are those?" teases Wainwright.
"Enough to give a good kick" responds the Casual Friday stranger. "What do you call this thing?"
"This here's the mighty Colorado." jeers Wainwright.
"Patented!" yelps Casual Friday. "Surf's up!" He tosses something across the water. Bruce grabs it with his lasso...a business card:

BARRY WAVERIGHT
River Acquisition Specialist
Gnarly Biotechnics, Inc.
San Diego, CA

"Aw, shucks!" scowls Wainwright.
And with that, San Diegans extended their life another 12 years.

~

Still wondering why Native Americans are called Indians? Because they are!
Looking for proof? Try eating some fiery chili in a summer desert monsoon and you'll start wondering, (thought bubble) "how in the hell did I get here?"

~

After a good winter rain, a few cacti take a long drink, and store up the courage to head over to the saloon to hit on some hot desert dames. The saguaro sidles, the barrel rolls, and cholla jumps over to hit on a smoking hot mesquite babe, but these well-hydrated cacti are just too cool for her.
"I like my cactus men tough and prickly" she says.
So, desperate and desolate, they wait.

And wait. Summer hits and they finally feel dry enough for at least one of them to get lucky.
"Should we go?"
"Hey, why not."
They start to head over to the saloon. But, mid-sidle, roll and jump, a summer monsoon hits.

Some things are better during a drought.

~  

And now to honor our Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters from across the Rio Grande:
  
Esta mediodía.

¡Knock-knock!
- Where you at pal? Let's get lunch! Si estas en casa, dime lo que si!
...Silencio...
Otra vez, ¡Knock-knock!

   
Mas tarde.
   
¡Knock-knock!
- Hola gringo como andas!?
- Donde fuiste el mediodía?
- Como dijiste gringo, siestas. Su casa es mi casa, pero fijate, mi cama es mi cama. jajaja

Happi Nation

Weds, July 10

It's sunrise at the Hopi Cultural Center. Yesterday Dion Dashee told me a story, and in Hopi fashion, I am going to run the story over to you.

Of course, the story begins with the Gods, but luckily, these kachina Gods were most interested in food. When the kachinas of the desert southwest were choosing the destiny of the people of the region, they began by handing out cobs of corn to the various communities. Long and yellow went first. Then red corn, purple kernels. As each different type of corn was handed out to the farmers of the desert, the Hopi waited patiently for their turn. Big kernels. Next, sweet corn. Finally, it was Hopi's turn, and all that was left was a stubby blue cob. But the kachinas were reassuring - the Hopi life would be a life full of hard work, but they would always be provided for. They were the chosen people.

Still today, most Hopi food is blue - Blue pancakes, blue eggs, blue bread, blue stew. But the Hopi themselves weren't blue at all - I found them quite friendly and welcoming...Happy.

---

A few days before, Gabi and I had started our adventure in San Diego. It was the midst of summer and we were experiencing dreadful coastal temperatures of 75 degrees F. We left the comfort of the marine layer and with the help of my little 2000 Camry, rumbled over the mountains and into the Sonoran desert. Before dinner we had already reached sand dunes straight out of Aladdin!

footsteps proceed into barren dunes fruitful with adventure

As we scampered down the road, we came across the most American emblem of the desert ... meep-meep! The roadrunner calmly sidled off to the side as we frantically looked behind us, expecting it to sprint. The locals keep it cool in the desert. Little did we know the ruckus that would await us that evening. As we tried to enjoy our riverside Colorado campsite, a bunch of river hicks blasted their awful pop-rock into the night, but the swim the next morning made the rough night all worth it. 

The next day we hit the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen - Red Rock country, Sedona, Arizona. It looked like the basis for that Disneyland ride Thunder Mountain except, there were no vendors, no sidewalks, no trains...just towering sculpted red rocks surrounding the cottonwood-studded creek in the dim dusk light. We had already driven 500 miles and we decided we'd stick around Sedona for a couple of days. 

In Sedona we met a couple of interesting folks. There was the bear-like hippie in a monster truck, ex-San Diego North Parker named Truly. We met him after a magnificent sunset hike to chimney rock. My right hand was full so I gave him a hug with my left arm. Earlier that day I asked a plain old son-of-a-settler-looking ranger about campsites in Navajo Country, and he gave us a mysterious name that would take us on a wild roadrunner chase - Roeena Jackson and her sisters ... the Jackson 5.

The next day we indulged with some Dairy Queen and, much more refreshing, a dip into Slide Rock Park. This gem was filled with naturally occurring water slides, and cliffs to jump from, all of which were subsequently filled with cute families. We were absolutely refreshed and ready to move North to the Grand Canyon and Indian country.

When Gabi and I reached the Grand Canyon, the sun was getting low. We read some frightening signs about deaths in the Canyon, then grabbed a flashlight (just in case) and set out. There it stood in the evening light, a perfect perch on top of a ridge. We made ambled down the stony trail, and sat on the throne to watch as the sun set at ground level above us.

Looking out over the Grand Canyon the next day, Gabi found ourselves suddenly surrounded by a horde of Israeli tourists. When they realized I could speak some Hebrew, we all got chatting. Then, in a few moments they were gone, ephemeral as the water which carved out the Grand Canyon, yet with the same deep impact that made me feel at home. Another chosen people, on their own mission, however theirs involved an air-conditioned tour bus.

fitting my small self into the Grand Canyon mold ~ a sense of pure tranquility at sunset

As we said farewell to our Semitic friends, we drove East into the Indian yonder. We entered a place of wide desert expanses, horizons interrupted by mesas, with wild sunflowers dotting the roadside. Desolate, it was. But, luckily, we still had a fresh head of lettuce. We stopped for lunch at a park with dust in place of grass, and colorful, misshapen concrete tables, and we prepared a rather fashionable salade Nicoise:

4 boiled eggs
1 cup tuna
1/2 head romaine
red onion
beefsteak tomato 
black pepper
seasoned salt
lemon juice
salad dressing
1 satisfying siesta

And with that scrumptious feast, we went looking for Roeena and the Jackson 5. It turned out they had their own raised stage...Second Mesa. It was good to have friends in high places. We got past the tribal bureaucracy, the costly tour guide, and the art salesmen. But we didn't get to Roeena. Instead, we met her neighbors, friends, and fellow tribespeople. One after another, we built friendships. We would ask them a brief question, and find ourselves still hanging out with them at their houses an hour later. Gabi and I traded addresses and phone numbers with three different families, promising them surf lessons when they visit San Diego. One chosen people meeting another.

I was intrigued to learn about Hopi history. The Hopi actually don't live on a reservation; they are a sovereign nation. They are, however, completely surrounded by the largest rez in the USA - the Navajo Reservation. Back in the 70's, there were still battles and land disputes going on such that the Navajo blocked out the main road connecting Hopi to the rest of the world. 

Hopi and Navajo have been disputing land for centuries. Simply put, the Hopis are farmers, and the Navajos are hunters. Thus, the Hopi live on raised plateaus called mesas to protect themselves from attack. The steep cliff walls sang loudly of the desert Israelite holdout against the Romans at Masada. The Hopi had to ward of the Navajo, the Apache, the Spanish. They even hired mercenaries from the Tewa Pueblo in New Mexico to live on the Mesa and guard the entrance. However, when the Tewa were off duty one day, this matrilineal society formed a feminist legend, Hee'ee Wuti. The Apache and Navajo warriors approached Second Mesa, knowing that the Hopi men were in the fields. Despite her parents' protests, Hee'ee Wuti stopped grinding corn, grabbed her uncle's shield, and like an Amazonian woman with half of her hair down, she yelled and wailed until the troops fled out of fear. Now that's my kind of woman!

The magnificent architecture of the highly-touristed Santa Fe, New Mexico, is a modern adaptation of the Pueblo Indian style whose creators once dominated the Four Corners region. Of these pueblos, the Hopi are the keepers of the culture, since only they were able to fully resist conversion to Catholicism by Spanish missionaries. They follow their own calendar still, and regularly host their converted compatriots for seasonal dances and ceremonies. They are a chosen people, and they have chosen to remain that way.

History can get a bit heady, but these Hopi were full of heart. My favorite couple that brought us home with them was Dion and Felicita Dashee. Together, they supported their family through a combination of dryland farming, sculpture, welding, and dentistry. For the first trade, their herb of choice ain't sweet Mary Jane. It's little blue corn. These blue kernels, passed down from generation to generation, grow without any irrigation. Following a rain, a stalk can grow as much as a foot in one day, despite the harsh desert climate. Some of their varieties produce yellow cobs as long as your thigh. But, the center of their agriculture is blue corn. Dion told me the pillars of Hopi society - Corn, Rain Clouds, and Kids. Without the kids, without any of them, there is no future. Most people leave the Hopi Nation to work, because work is as scarce as rain. But despite their modest lifestyles, these people were outrageously generous. I left their home carrying two grocery backs filled with ancient corn, chili and bean seeds, desert tea, and even a cookbook filled with native recipes. Wow! I can see why they might be poor, because they so freely give what they have!

Hopi dryland farming ~ ancient technique does not use irrigation ~ after a rain, plants grow a foot in a single day

After visiting with the Dashees, Gabi and I went for a run. We were lured by a sign:

"TACO SALE"

What kind of Southern Californian can resist such temptation?! 
We finally found it in the dark as they were closing up shop and opening up living room...yes, the restaurant kitchen was part of a trailer house. We got our chili-covered Indian fry brad tacos, and headed back home, satiated. As we walked back, a rez dog followed us. At first we were surprised and scared of it, but then we realized it was just being friendly. As we kept the dirt beside the road, the dog walked back and forth across the road. Cars sped past, but the dog kept its space. Then a truck sped by and, strangely, the dog stood in place. BAM, the truck smacked its hindquarters and the dog wimpered in pain and desperation as it rolled off of the road. Rez life.

It was late, and I was feeling a bit down. We set up a tent at the Hopi Cultural Center. I laid down in my sleeping bag, looking forward to a morning meal of blue corn shortcakes, closed my eyes and then...drumming and chanting started.

A worthwhile detour from I-40.

Hopi Breakfast ~ blue eggs, blue fry bread, blue shortcakes, and normally-colored but extraordinary-tasting chili

Waterward

- Are you going travelling?
- So it seems, Bra!
- Where to?
- So IE SYEMz, Bra!
American SOuth
Iceland
England
Mediterranean Sea
Yisrael
Ethiopia
Mzantsi Africa (South Africa)
Brasil

My Life as a Naturalized Weed

I am a proud San Diegan. But while my feet are firmly planted on local soil, I can't leave out the root of the matter that I stem from afar. However naturalized, I am a weed.

San Diego is a gosh-darn popular place to live; 8th most popular city in the country, in fact! Our three million residents (2012 Census) love the weather here, making it a great place to live for many an organism (San Diego Natural History Museum). Astoundingly, our county is home to more birds (492), more plants (1,573), and in total more species than any other in the continental U.S.! That diversity is thanks to our variable geography of sea, sand, mesas, and mountains that we people like for surfing, volleyball, suburban sprawl, and hiking. This multitude of wildlife is also thanks to - our favorite - the steady sun and steady temperatures of our placid Mediterranean climate.

There's just a handful of other places around the world that have this same mild climate, and they too have a cornucopia of indigenous species. In California we boast the stubby yet resilient biome of chaparral. The stony, fragrant shores of France's garrigue, Spain's tomillares, and Australia's mallee also have a diversity of organisms despite limited rainfall. My upcoming travels include two Mediterranean climes: the regal fynbos of the South African Cape, glory of England's best botanists and home of the King Protea; the batha of Israel, which supported the development of wild plants into fundamental crops like wheat, grapes, and olives in the birthplace of the most popular of religions: Despite their arid climate, these are productive regions.

Funnily enough, residents in these botanical hotspots still identify with plants of other regions. For example, native Israelis call each other cacti, or sabras, after North America's prickly pear cactus. For them, this signifies their adaptability to the arid conditions of their country. San Diego is also very hospitable to newcomers: a quarter of our plant species are weeds, and they come from other parts of the world.

<ode to Opuntia> O Cactus, king of the scrub, regal profiteer of the scarce, careful guardian of the precious, steward of ¡WatEr! - I admire you so!

Let's get into the thicket of it. Say, last month with the San Elijo Lagoon Platoon. We Platoon goonies are a team of volunteers who get down and dirty to restore native wildlife habitat in the San Elijo Lagoon Ecological Reserve. One morning last month we pulled a lot of weedy radish on Escondido Creek. Some wild radishes were better rooted in the sandy soil than others. We piled up those gigantic daikon-like roots until we had two chest high mounds steaming in the sun. Every week for the past three years I've pulled an exotic weed or planted a native shrub. I've been lucky enough to lead a group of people who truly love the wilderness in their own backyard. Together, we get to know the weeds that take up residence here, and also the amazingly biodiverse natives which inspire us. When you're in the midst of the coastal sage scrub, it's easy to experience the interstellar oddity of chalk dudleya (Dudleya pulverulenta), the intensely sour flavor lemonade berry (Rhus integrifolia), the curving elegance of San Diego pea (Lathyrus vestitus), and the pungent aroma of black sage (Salvia mellifera). (Sorry about the scientific names; it's habit now. Click on the highlighted letters to check out neat pictures of these plants)

We can't hope to get rid of these weeds altogether. But, we do make it easier for our lovely natives to thrive. Funnily enough, many of the weeds we work with come from those same Mediterranean locations I typed about earlier, popular semi-arid landscaping plants like the grand Canary Island date palms in our driveways, or the South African iceplant which coats our freeway slopes. They are travelers just like we are. We Lagoonies love this place, we live here, many of us were born here, but we hail from elsewhere - Back East, Vietnam, Italy, Africa. I'm evidence of that, with my grandparents' accents, from Brooklynese to the Queen's best South African English.

I am a weed too, but I'm naturalized. I believe in this stunning place and want to make my life here. We San Diegans all live in a gem, and we know it. It's our pleasure to live here, and it is our stewardly duty to keep its beauty shining. We'll adapt our needs to this place with the best of our ability. To get there, we'll have to draw on where we came from. This journey ahead of me will be an adventure to recollect my roots and bring them back home to good ol' San Diego. I want to see where these weeds come from, to learn what it means to be a transplant, and to set foot into this eternal summer.

Stamps in place

This morning I sorted through my dad's stamp collections. Stamps. One by one, carefully torn from the edge of an envelope, delicately glued to an impassioned letter, faithfully sent around the globe in the hands of a stranger, patiently waited for in a distant hemisphere. 

One stack for Argentina, another for Finland. I sit here waiting for Skype to ring from England or Israel and am struck by these tiny pieces of paper, their intricate illustrations packed between four small serrated edges. With a buzz, I am interrupted by a text message; I speak to my cell phone and effortlessly send a text to a friend in South Africa. One stack for Thailand, another for Senegal.

Where my dad grew up in Johannesburg, South Africa, he felt in some ways more isolated than his grandparents may have in their boggy Eastern European shtetl. Not only was he confined to the edge of the earth, next-door neighbors with Antarctica. He was also suffocating under a wicked government. During the Apartheid years, the South African government would not allow certain foreign music into the country, nor South African money out. This racist system was a magnificent prison, both for the darker-skinned peoples who were oppressed by the it, and the pale pricks who benefited from it. All were locked in. My dad, a chlostrophobe to the core, could only dream of traveling and traveling and traveling the world. He peeled off these stamps, one by one, until at the age of 25, he encountered those countries they were sent from. On that grand voyage, my dad gathered the experiences that shaped his life into the American he is today.

Now I am ready to stamp around the globe.