The Ride

It's officialy spring here. One whole week in the 60 degree range. I think the danger of snow is officially behind us. This past weekend was the first non-rainy springlike weekend, and we celebrated with what is becoming an annual tradition  - a long bike ride. Last year's was up to the George Washington Bridge, and this year's was a loop around the island of Manhattan (plus the distance from our apartment to the Brooklyn Bridge). 37 miles. Gruelling enough to be rewarding, but not too gruelling to take the fun out of it.

We've been in this strange place for two years now, and I still don't know how I feel. I love it here, I'm not so thrilled, etc. Fitting, I guess. A complex, nuanced place deserves a complex, nuanced reaction. Sometimes I feel as though I'm flitting around on the edges, observing but not taking part in the scenes that surround me. I feel a little disconnected - it's strange.

Walking to work this past week though, passing by all those people out in the sunshine, I've felt excited to be here with them. I love seeing the construction guys, the pretty girls in their expensive clothes, the older business types. I've felt my "New York" scale tipping more definitely toward the positive. And this past Saturday, at the start of our big ride around the city, I biked behind Oliver as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge over to Manhattan. I watched him, some 10 feet ahead of me, against the backdrop of elegant bridge and impressive skyline. I heard the traffic noise, saw the cars moving along FDR Drive. This island of chaos and noise was waiting patiently for us. It was beautiful.

I just recently finished an interesting book on Buddhism. It makes a lot of points (as books tend to do), but one of my favorites is the concept of 83 problems. Everyone has "83" problems. When you desire to get rid of them all, the only thing you are doing is adding problem #84: the desire to be rid of all problems. Life will never be perfect. My relationship with New York will never be perfect. Instead of trying to figure out what my ideal is, maybe I should just be here, and appreciate it for what it is.

Fear

This past weekend I went skiing for the third and final time this winter. The weather was great, the snow was great, I made progress. It was great, all of it. I like the thought of picking up a new hobby - and one that takes a bit of work to pick up - at the "late" age of 30. I hope I keep collecting new interests for the rest of my life.

I went up to the mountain with people who are much better skiers than I am, and this ended up forcing me to try things I hadn't thought I would dare to. I went down new trails and had moments of real terror. I would ski off to the side of the run to collect my bearings, then look down and realize how steep the path in front of me was. It's one thing to ski down a steep hill, and another entirely to look down it and anticipate. You've got time to think, to picture yourself losing control or getting hurt. It's better not to stop, really.

In the end though, I came to appreciate the fear. The fear told me that I was trying something more challenging. The fear went away after a couple runs and told me that I had learned something new. I learned to take measure of my fear and use it as a guide. Too much of it was a clear indication that I wasn't ready for Difficulty Level X. A healthy amount flipped a switch somewhere and told me to go and attack.

And while I was mastering my fear, I couldn't help but draw a parallel to my everyday life. Do I scare myself enough? How important is it to scare yourself? What is the ideal ratio of comfort to risk? Or more accurately, what is my idea ratio of comfort to risk? What's the focus? Is it success? Is it kindness, love, and calm? Are the two mutually exclusive?

Oh yeah, and how soon until Winter 2011?

Give and take and give back: German children's book edition

In an ideal world, I would be more graceful. The tactful kind of graceful. I would always say the right things, say them softly, etc. I live in the real world though, and in that real world I can be sort of sarcastic. I always mean that sarcasm in the best possible way, and only use with those I'm close to - those who I think know that love and respect underlie the caustic humor.

Oliver is my main target. Forgive me Lord; I mock him mercilessly. I can't help it - he just gives me so much fodder! I admire the fact that he speaks every day in a language that is not his own. I respect him so much for that... think it takes such brain power... but man he says the funniest things. Some of my favorites:

*Occasional references to former presidential candidate "Mike Huckleberry"
*Concern that a small wound would leave a "scarf"
*Heartfelt insistence that, were he an artist, I would be his "moose"
*Confusion between beloved '80s sitcom and "White Christmas" crooner = "The Crosby Show"

What goes around comes around though, and he's having the time of his life with the sad little German sentences that dribble out of my mouth. He points and laughs at the children's books I bring home and struggle to read. It's all good. I best be taking it, after all the dishing out I've done. And honestly, it is funny.

So yes, I am reading books with two sentences per page. And it's hard! The books are really cute though, so I don't mind the struggle. And I'm no expert in German children's books, but I've noticed a few things in them that are, um, a little different. Coincidence? Culture? Let me know what you think.

Here, for example, is an image from a really sweet story about a boy, his grandpa, and the grandpa's guardian angel. In this picture the boy is visiting his grandpa at the hospital :

Do you see anything different in this picture? Something you don't remember seeing in your own childhood books?

 

...Like a pisspot? And it apparently wasn't enough just to draw the pisspot. No, the pisspot had to be full of urine. Because... um, because... um, you know, I actually have no idea why. I'm so confused.

 

Then there's this image. This is from an adorable story about a cowboy who is afraid to ride horses. Here you see the cowboy falling out of the hole in his wall (long story) onto the back of a horse. This is sort of a central, crucial page in the book. Again, notice anything that sort of surprises you?

...Like a naked woman? With carpet that doesn't match the drapes, if you know what I mean? I'm no prude. If I were reading this book to my child I like to think that I wouldn't even cover the picture up. Nudity. Nothing wrong with that. It's just... really? Is that level of realism really necessary here? "Yes sweetie, cowboys like to look at pictures of naked ladies. Just because, that's why."

In the end, I've got a healthy amount of respect for a culture that adds these sorts of details to its children's books. When I showed the pictures to Oliver (snickering like a child), his response was along the lines of "well, of course. My grandparents had one of those pots under their bed. Why wouldn't you put one in the book?" Children are going to live in the real world someday; why gloss over these sorts of things now?

So Germany, I love you and respect you. That's why I hope you don't mind if I tease you mercilessly about things like this.