Filed under: AwesomeSauce, Bookworm, Favorite Things, Phoenix Booksale, Proof that I'm a Nerd
You guys, I am so excited!! February is almost here and I have been counting down the days for an entire YEAR!
No, it’s not because of Groundhog Day when that Puxatony rodent will decide what the crap is going on with the pathetic excuse for a winter that has been reigning over the Rocky Mountain West…
No, not because of Valentine’s Day…
It’s not because of President’s Day and the accompanying paid Monday holiday…
Or because of Fat Tuesday…
It’s not because some Academy of movie watchers will present awards for all the great films I missed in 2011. (That’s right, of the Best Picture Academy Award nominees I have seen exactly zero. Cinema Culture Fail.)
No, not because of my birthday…(However, I will be turning the big 2-9 in three weeks and until this moment I hadn’t actually thought about it.) (And now I probably will have to think about it…) (Crap.) (How about, I don’t. Does that work for everyone? GREAT!) (Hello, denial, nice to see you.) (Also, nice to see you again, overused parantheticals.)
Nope, it’s not any of those “legitimate” holidays, it is far more exciting than a paid day off or an excuse to gorge yourself on chocolate and sprinkles (see: Valentine’s Day, Fat Tuesday, Birthday, Denial). No, the reason I ma STOKED is because the second weekend of February is The Booksale! The wonderful, legendary Phoenix Booksale.
Are you lost? Confused? New around here? Let me catch you up. (Or you can read posts from the last few years here.) Every year the second weekend in February the VNSA society in Phoenix hosts a huge Used Book Sale; 600,000 books are donated throughout the year, collected from all around the city, organized and carefully arranged in a warehouse. They are stacked up on tables in towering piles and crammed underneath them in crates and boxes quietly waiting for someone to adopt them and take them home. Paperbacks are $1.50 (the price went up a few years ago) and hardbacks are $2-3 dollars a piece and those big, shiny coffee table art books priced around $5-$10. On Saturday morning 100,000 people show up at the Phoenix Fairgrounds, wait for hours in switch-back lines that go for miles and jostle and throw elbows for this or that particular book. There have even been incidents of two or more bibliophiles coming to fisticuffs over one book or another. Despite the fisticuff violence, it is all for a good cause. All the proceeds go towards literacy programs in the greater Phoenix area.
Did you get that? You are helping kids learn how to read! You take home boxes and bags and entire SUITCASES full of books all the while helping finance programs to help kids and English as a Second Language students learn how to read! It’s a win-win-win! Now, your only problem is deciding if you are going to fly or drive (fly Southwest if possible, Phoenix is a hub and they let you check 2 bags–i.e. 100 pounds of books–for free!), and figuring out a place to house all those lovely hardbacks once you get them back home. You have such first world problems!
Now, last year my friend HRH and I had a particularly epic adventure. We slept outside in the parking lot in a sketchy part of Phoenix. We were probably 50th in a line of thousands to get inside the booksale whem the doors opened at 8am. We both scored some amazing finds. I, by myself, came home with 94 new books. Ninety-four! Now, this year HRH cannot come to Phoenix with me, but I have convinced J-Mo to be my parking-lot camping buddy and I guarantee I will again come home victorious from the booksale.
In preparation for all the bookish festivities I am printing out a full spreadsheet of all the books that I own. (Yes, I have such a spreadsheet and it is updated every time I new book makes it’s way across my doorstep. Don’t judge. It’s brilliant.) I’ve been collecting titles from around the blogosphere of the books you all loved and raved about in 2011 (Room, In Zanesville, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, Great House, etc), I’m taking that list and will try to track down those titles. I’ve talked to my older brother, a Phoenix resident, and have secured both a place to stay (and shower! and nap!) AND the camping gear required to comfortably sleep in a parking lot. (Thank you, Brother #1!) I even ordered an eye-mask so I’ll be able to sleep better under the bright lights of the fairgrounds.
You guys, I cannot wait!
Two years ago I visited the Salt Flats and absolutely fell in love. In fact, for 18 months my blog header has been me cartwheeling across the flats. At the time I last visited, the flats were completely dry, a vast expanse of white crust glittering in the sun like it was flecked with diamonds.
(August 2009)
After a year of tremendous snow and rainfall for this desert state, many things are flooded. The Spiral Jetty is mostly submerged, and the Salt Flats are covered in several inches of standing water. At first I was pretty disappointed by this fact, but it turns out that the reflections in that shallow pool can make me just as giddy as the white, glittering flat.
When I was first driving out towards the giant puddle, I was worried that if I got out of my car I would be attacked by bugs; lots of big, nasty ones hatching and breeding in the standing water. Nope, not a single one. Apparently the water is far too salty for mosquitos (win!).
There were quite a few people in this little corner of the world, and I was particularly delighted to see a group of girls armed with bunches of balloons. Makes me wish I’d thought of that.
Thank you, girls, whoever you are, for bringing a smile to my face!
No cartwheels this time, but that doesn’t make me any less obsessed with the Bonneville Salt Flats. I seriously wonder if they will be dry enough in August for Speed Week. Speed Week is when all the daredevils from around the world bring their machines (cars, motorcycles, whatever else they can configure with wheels) to the Salt Flats to test how fast they go. It’d be a little inconvenient with all that gloopy wet mess, you know?
If you happen to make your way out that way, may I give you an excellent recommendation? Well, two recommendations.
1. If you plan on skipping around in that salty water with bare legs, you should rethink shaving them that morning. While there are no mosquitoes, the feeling of super-saturated salt water splashing into your freshly shaved gams is more irritating and wince-inducing than a dozen bites on your calves. You’re welcome.
2. Pease stop for breakfast, lunch, or dinner at the Salt Flats Cafe. It is this fantastic little joint on the north side of I-80 off Exit 4, attached to the Sinclair Gas Station. They don’t have a sign bigger than the one painted on their window, so you’ll just have to trust me on this. Go to the scary-looking gas station and you’ll see it, you won’t be disappointed. Pinky promise. The Cafe has Mexican and American fare, and their prices are really low; I got plate brimming with french toast, eggs and bacon for $5 dollars.The walls are covered in pictures from Speed Week, many of them autographed, the staff is pleasant and our waiter had a wicked-awesome memory. The place is clean and it’s better food than anything you’ll find in Wendover. So remember this: Salt Flats Cafe, exit 4, north side, Sinclair-adjacent. You’re welcome.
(Full Disclosure: I actually visited the flats twice in two days, once while heading West towards Wendover at sunset, which are the pics in the last half of this post. And then the next morning before heading south on yet another adventure, which are the pics in the first half of this post. Hence the dramatic differences in light and sky and color.)
Yes. This. HappySigh.
The Tree of Utah, a huge but strange sculpture in the middle of the desert. It is 87 feet tall and was built by Swedish artist Karl Momen in the mid-1980′s. He donated it to the state after its completion, returned to Sweden, and hasn’t been back since. The strange thing about this particular piece of public art is it is illegal to stop or pull over on I-80 to view the thing. There are signs all over stating “Emergency Stopping Only,” and “Fine Imposed for Loitering”–both of which I “didn’t see” as I pulled over, stopped, and loitered–making it near impossible to really get a good look at the sculpture, or appreciate it. Most people use it only as a marker; 25 miles to Wendover or 95 miles to Salt Lake.
In contrast, a few miles down the road is a lovely little rest stop to view the Salt Flats.
See? A bit on the mod/Jetsons side, but quite comfortable. A few benches, a little shade, a restroom and a couple of vending machines. They even have a water pump to wash your feet off after you prance around in the salt. That is good planning for the middle of nowhere, you know?
I couldn’t resist. (wink)
I’m not entirely sure what I find so soothing about the Salt Flats, I don’t know if it’s the enormity of it; or the strange, other-worldly quality; or the fact that it is 100 miles away from a city of any significant size (Wendover doesn’t count, it’s just a handful of trailer-homes, casinos and fast food places). But watching the sun creep towards the horizon as I drove west settled all the fluttery places in my soul. I found myself calmed, and the scared, stressed feelings in my heart went back to the dark places from whence they came. Does that sound cheesy? Maybe. But that’s what happened. Whether that was due to some magical power of the flats, or finally giving myself a chance to unwind after a crazy week, or perhaps even excitement for my upcoming weekend adventures, I don’t know. But I associate that feeling of calm with the solitude of those wide open spaces, craggy mountains, and sky that goes forever.
Full Flickr set here.
In my 28 years living in the Wild, Wild, Rocky Mountain West I have never been to Yellowstone National Park. Until a few weeks ago. On my way back from Montana I decided to take the long way home and drive through Yellowstone and the Tetons. I’m afraid and delighted that I will never be quite the same, the gorgeous mountain vistas, the sheer scope of the park, the geysers and hot pots, the smell of unadulterated sulphur. It was amazing. I wish I had a few more days in the park, I would have loved to take a few hikes and get off the beaten path. Part of me wishes I had someone to share those vistas and experiences with, and the rest of me is happy that I went alone, just me, the buffalo, and ten million acres of wilderness.
From Gardiner, MT I came through the historic Roosevelt gate, commissioned by President Roosevelt when Yellowstone National Park was created. I picked up my Annual National Park Pass, and off I went exploring.
Mammoth Hot Springs, the orangey parts of the formations are the parts that currently have water running over them and the white parts are dry. Depending on the springs below these formations, parts can be dry or wet and things change all the time. In the 1970′s the entire thing was orangey and slippery. Now it is mostly white and dry.
I wandered through these springs for a good hour, snapping a couple dozen pics as I went. I’m still fascinated by the colors and the intricate details of some of the formations, it’s almost like coral.
It would be a waterfall, you know, if it wasn’t made out of rock-hard mineral-coral (that is a technical term that I just made up, by the way).
Aren’t these beautiful!? I can’t get over it.
First buffalo sighting, there is no zoom involved in this shot. Awesome.
A canyon vista on the way to Tower Falls. This view only gets better and better, stick with me. I drove up Mt. Washburn to Dunraven Pass, and down the other side to see the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.
I could look at this view all day, it almost looks like a painting, photo taken at the brink of the Lower Falls.
I didn’t hike up to the Upper Falls of the Yellowstone, but I did go to a look out to see the Lower Falls. This view? Also amazing.
After a long day of exploring the park, I headed to West Yellowstone for the night and had my first bison pot roast and it was delicious. Yellowstone: don’t feed the wildlife, eat them with gravy.
The next morning on my way into the park I saw a herd of buffalo, including a few pale babies that just make your heart melt. For as wooly and mammothy as they grow up to be, those babies are adorable. (Note: I also saw 2 wolves, a black bear, and a couple of deer…although not a single pic of those animals turned out recognizable, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.)
The Celestine Pool in the Lower Geyser Basin, which is just outside of Old Faithful.
The Grand Fountain Geyser, a constant gurgle of boiling water and steam.
Old Faithful. It’s faithful alright, it spit up right on the dot. Honestly, I was pretty underwhelmed by Old Faithful, I’m glad I saw it, but I’m also glad I showed up right on time so I only had to wait for 10 minutes before seeing the geyser blow.
West Thumb of Yellowstone Lake, this was perhaps my favorite and the most picturesque place that I visited. The lake is beautiful and the geyser system next to it have these gorgeous aqua and green pools with orangey-red surrounding soil. It’s stunning.
Those colors are incredible, and the steam coming up from the pools makes it feel like you are walking through a sauna (mind you, it was chilly enough that I needed a jacket, so the sauna-steam felt fantastic).
There is this wooden walkway that leads you around the hot pots, and it is worth every step (I think total it’s about a 1.2 mile walk).
I am withholding a ridiculous amount of restraint in posting pics of West Thumb, I took about 200 photos here, not all of which turned out, sure, but there are a dozen more beautifully gorgeous ones on Flickr.
After finally extricating myself from West Thumb, I headed south towards the Grand Tetons, passing Moose Falls on my way out.
See all photos here (and there’s a ton more, I have only posted 20 of my 100 favorites here.)
Once upon a time, a few weeks ago, a very charming boy arranged for he and I to volunteer at o-dark-hundred at a hot air balloon launch. His company was a sponsor and was looking for volunteers to help the ballooners get set up and then chase the balloons around town until they landed. Well, because this particular boy is extra charming, he also arranged for the two of us to go on a little ride in the hot air balloon. (Yes, he’s real. And yes, he’s that swoony.)
For the record, I am not skilled at getting up, and being personable and pleasant at 6-o-clock in the morning. On a Saturday. (It really is a good thing he’s so charming.) At any rate, I kept my camera close and tried to take pictures of everything as it happened. And yes, I was also helpful while doing so. Pinky promise!
When it’s on it’s side and without the balloon, that seems like a really teeny little basket. Especially when you take into account that there will be three adults standing inside.
After they attach the propane tanks, it takes a little while for the balloon to be full enough to stand up on it’s own. So I helped keep the envelope (that’s the balloon opening) wide enough to fill up with hot air. (Do you see me helping? Ok good, just didn’t want you to think I was a freeloader or anything.)
Please meet the Out of the Blue, the most gorgeous blue and yellow balloon ever! Here she is halfway full and starting to look really good!
I think there were nine or ten balloons that day, including a giant pink piggy bank balloon. And you thought pigs didn’t fly. (wink wink, nudge nudge…no? Nothing? Not even a giggle? Fine. Moving on.)
There she is! I love the yellow and blue against the morning sky. (At this point it was still ridiculously early, the sun wasn’t up and I was still trying to wake up fully. Because I? I am not a morning person.)
After the balloons were up we hopped in the Official Balloon Chase Vehicle with Dee, chaser extraordinaire, and off we went to follow the balloon wherever the wind took it, trying to obey as many traffic laws as possible.
As part of the balloon launch, there was a contest amongst pilots to try and drop a couple of bean bags on a giant target located on the baseball diamond of the local high school. So all the balloons headed that way, unfortunately the wind had other ideas. So, instead of hanging out on the bleachers watching Balloon Wars, we hopped back in the car and followed the balloon around sleepy neighborhoods.
After an awesome landing in a quiet cul-de-sac and a little interaction with some very surprised neighbors, it was our turn. Climbing into that hot air balloon I was a little nervous, mostly excited, and–okay, I’ll admit it–pretty giddy.
When we–me, the charming boy, and the pilot–were properly situation and briefed on Hot Air Balloon rules, the balloon team let go* and the pilot fired up the propane. And up we went. Goodness, it was exhilarating!
*They literally let go, it took about 6-8 people to get enough weight to keep the balloon on the ground while we climbed in and the neighbors gawked at the enormous blue and yellow cloud of awesome in the middle of the street.
After we gained a little altitude, the propane was turned off for a minute and everything was just…quiet. The sun still hadn’t peeked over the horizon, but the valley was flooded in that gorgeous early-morning light, the mountains towered over the sleeping city, and my heart caught in my throat. It was just peaceful, and calming…it was amazing.
As we floated around, following the winds, one of the other balloonists made a landing in a nice neighborhood, our pilot decided to follow suit and help give all the neighborhood kids a ride. Do you see that white pick-up on the street? Our pilot was so skilled he would have landed his basket in the bed of that truck if the red, gray and white balloon was two feet farther away. Their balloons bumped and our mischievous pilot had to give up his little prank. Too bad, it would have been awesome.
The fearless pilot, and one helluva nice guy, Kent.
The two balloons tethered and gave the neighbor kids–most of whom were still in their pajamas with sleepy-bugs in their eyes–rides for almost 45 minutes. And I’m sure they would have continued if a crazy-strong wind hadn’t come blustering out of the canyon. Within minutes the balloon teams had their balloons on the street and deflated. No one wants to see their balloon electrocuted by a power line or punctured by a light pole. Wind while a balloon is on the ground is all sorts of bad news. We packed everything up and piled it back in the trailer.
Back at the launch site, the pilots busted out a red carpet, champagne and sparkling cider. Apparently, when you go on your first hot air balloon ride there is a little ceremony that goes with it.
Each person is given a cup of their bubbly of choice and one of the pilots relates the story of the first hot air balloon. I don’t remember it very well (it was still early, you remember), but you can read one a pretty close variation here. At the end of the story, you get to drink your bubbly, but you don’t get to use your hands.
While you are negotiating your drink, a very friendly pilot will dump cold water on your head. And if you drop your drink you’ll have cold water dripping down your face and sparkling cider soaking your lap. It’s quite the predicament, and simultaneously a pretty awesome tradition.
Even though it started at a ridiculously early, this was one of the best Saturday morning’s I’ve ever had. (Thank you, Sir. You’re amazing)
Check out the rest of the photo set here.
I have lived in Utah for exactly 28 years, 3 months and 25 days. Until last weekend (28 years, 3 months and 23 days) I had never visited the Spiral Jetty, a piece of earth-art located in the Great Salt Lake. I had always had a vauge idea that visiting such an oddity would be a good idea, but a few months ago I read this essay about the Jetty and fell in-love with the idea of seeing the spiraling art formation in person. And then I read the essay Looking for Spiral Jetty, and while I don’t necessarily agree with all of the author’s points, it only made me want to see it myself even more. (Thanks to Mel for sending the link along in the first place!) I vowed that as soon as the ice and snow melted a bit I’d head Northwest to see it. Saturday was the first really nice day Salt Lake has had this year, and I made good use of it! I was not disappointed, in fact, I was practically giddy as the Jetty emerged from behind the ridge.
(Yes, I’m squinting. It was really bright, okay? And after months of no sunshine a cloudless day can turn me completely beady-eyed.)
The Spiral Jetty was created by Robert Smithson in 1970, is 1,500 feet long and the coils are 15 feet wide, stretching into the reddish water of the lake. Depending on the water level of the lake, it may or may not be submerged, the black rocks crusted in salt and gleaming white in the sun. On Saturday it was mostly under water, with just a few rocky points peeping above the surface, denoting where the spirals curved inward.
Hiking a little way up the hill offered some excellent views of the buried formation. It seems like a massive undertaking when you are standing on the thing, and when you see it from a distance it seems so much smaller than I’d imagined. I didn’t walk the length of the coiling path, I walked until I was more than ankle deep in salt water, took a bunch of photos, and then walked back.
The Jetty is made of black basalt rock and salty earth. Over the years the rocks have become completely encrusted in salt and glitter like icey geodes in the sun. (Can you tell I’m obsessed?)
My favorite photo of the day, because apparently I have a thing for attempting long-lost feats of gymnastic skill on salty surfaces. Once upon a time, when I was 11 years old, I was quite skilled at standing on my hands and even walking on my hands. I could go for quite a while, hundreds of steps without falling. But now? Um, not so much. Perhaps this means I should get back into a yoga class? (Probably.)
The water near the Jetty is a reddish color, I think due to decaying brine shrimp, a miniscule little bony thing native to the Great Salt Lake. The colors–red, blue, lavender, black and white–are gorgeous and meld into each other in waves and ripples. It is stunning. The rest of the area, Rozel Point, has some equally impressive and beautiful views. Colors were muted, the sand and decaying pier are covered in layers of salt, and due to being situated on a natural oil ooze there are little puddles of shiny black slick oozing up from the sand. It’s a fascinating contrast.
(Editor’s Note: For the last few weeks I’ve been taking a photography class to learn how to use my fancy new SLR camera. I’m still a total beginner, and I keep getting Aperture and ISO mixed up and have a little cheat-sheet packed in my camera bag to keep me straight. But I am quite pleased with how these pics turned out. For the rest of my pictures of the Spiral Jetty and Rozel Point click here.)
If You Go:
- Print out driving directions here. (The gravel road is well maintained, you don’t really need high clearance or 4WD.)
- Give yourself a good chunk of the day, it is 2-hours from Salt Lake City to the Jetty, and you’ll probably want to stay a little while, absorbing the scene.
- Bring a camera.
- Pack sunscreen. And bug spray (seriously, bring bug spray).
- The Jetty is sitting on top of some natural oil seeps, and if you aren’t super careful (or even if you are super careful) you can easily get some tar-like black gunk on your shoes, or your hand, or whatever. Baby wipes (or, in my case, Armor-all Auto Wipes) and a bit of elbow grease should take those right off.
- You will pass the Golden Spike National Historic Site, it’s worth stopping to use the restrooms and see the old-timey trains.
Edited to Add:
6/8/2011: The Great Salt Lake has already risen more than 5 feet this year due to enormous snowfall and excessive spring rain. This explains the submerged Jetty. (Click here for a comparison between this year and last year)
6/8/2011: There is going to be somewhat of a kerfuffle over the ownership/administration of the Jetty in the coming months, check it out.
7/21/2011: Negotiations between Utah and New York officials begin today on the fate of the Jetty. (That link includes a photo that shows the Spiral Jetty is mostly submerged in water. Kind of crazy.)
Filed under: AwesomeSauce, Bookworm, Favorite Things, Phoenix Booksale, Proof that I'm a Nerd, There and Back Again
Last weekend a couple of things happened:
- I turned 28 without pomp or circumstance, just like a big girl. (In fact, there was so little pomp or circumstance it was almost like no birthday at all. Next year? I’m throwing a Big Ole Bash.)
- I play-fought my niece and nephew with the light saber app on my phone, and proceeded to build some of the most awesome Star Wars-related buildings out of legos. (I’ve never seen Star Wars, but I make a mean jail for the bad guys!)
- I lounged around in the sunshine and delightfully warm Arizona spring weather.
- I ate a freshly picked orange, it was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.
- I slept on the asphalt of a parking lot in a pretty sketchy part of Phoenix, all in the name of love. (Book love, that is.)
Say whaaaat?
It’s true, friends. You know how in the first 300 pages of the last Harry Potter book it seems that the only thing that is going on is one camping adventure after another? I mean, I know there are MORE things that happen, but it’s all about the camping. Last weekend I had my own mini-experience at modern, urban camping (without magic wands and a fancy house/tent). I slept in a parking lot of a really sketchy part of Phoenix with approximately 50-1,000 frenemies. (Frenemies because we were all nice and chit-chatty before the sale started, but as soon as the doors opened it was every man, woman, or child for themselves. I was not above throwing elbows to get the ONLY copy of the “Lonely Planet Italy” book. Don’t judge me like that, it was $1.00! One Dollar!)
Last year at the Booksale of Awesome my friend HRH and I decided that instead of waking up at o-dark-hundred to secure a place in line, we would simply camp out in the parking lot. This was by far the best idea ever in regards to the booksale. We arrived at the Phoenix fairgrounds at midnight on Friday night, armed with a blow-up mattress, sleeping bags and two bags of snacks.
There were about 50-ish people ahead of us in line (this is MUCH better than last year, where there were probably 1,500 people ahead of us), we chit-chatted with our neighbors, two book dealers looking for treasures, and started making things cozy.
You’ll notice all these photos are really REALLY well lit. The giant stadium-strength lights were on, keeping everything a lot less sketchy than the neighborhood would lead you to think. Admittedly, it made it a bit trickier to fall asleep. (Note for next year: bring eye mask.)
1:00 am, wide awake, no make up and hot pink mittens to keep my fingers warm. It wasn’t terribly cold, in the low 40′s or something. But I was really REALLY glad my older brother hooked. us. up. with his cold-weather camping gear. And his SUV to haul it all back to his house. And his guest room. And his cooking skills. And his hilarious off-spring (see Star Wars reference above). And old movies to watch with his lovely wife. He moonlights as my awesome older brother, but in Real Life he’s clearly a Rockstar. (Mucho gracias, #1!)
Doors opening in T-minus-7 hours. I woke up about 5:45 Saturday morning–the lights were still insanely bright, but the line was starting to fill in with people (the line was up to about 1,000 at this point) who had no intention of sleeping. There was laughing and talking and jostling and I had no hope of getting back to the Land of Nod. HRH and I packed up our gear and pulled out the camp chairs and some breakfast (lunchable anyone?) to wait for another few hours before the doors opened.
Don’t judge. It was cold outside and the hot chocolate was too watery to make a difference. At about 7:15 am we packed everything back to the car, got our respective lists in order, and tried to smooth down some really incredible bedhead. (Operation: success!)
At this point it was perhaps 10 minutes before the doors opened, I was starting to get a little antsy and anxious, like Christmas morning. I had my list, both of books to look for and of books I already own. I knew what sections I was going to visit first. I had big plans to dash for a shopping cart, which is the most essential part of the sale as it enables you to toss in anything that looks remotely interesting and sort it all out later. Coincidentally, this is how I ended up with 3 copies of “The Three Musketeers” before the sale was over. I ended up bringing home the prettiest one, because I’m apparently really shallow like that.
8:00 am and it is GO TIME! The door opened, HRH and I made our way inside and dashed to our respective sections. She scooped up books in the Children’s section, while I raided the Travel section. We totally got a shopping cart. For the next two hours we skitted about, throwing in things that looked interesting, sorting out what we had, going back to make sure we’d gotten everything we wanted. It was heaven. To give you a little idea about how enormous this sale is, think of a giant warehouse that covers an entire acre of ground. Now pack it full of 600,000 books and about 5,000 people.
This pic was taken from one end of the warehouse. Ginormous, right? And packed with all sorts of fantastic treasures.
Imagine this multiplied by about 100 and you have an idea of how many books we’re talking about. What’s that line from Beauty and the Beast? “Books! Gads of books! Mountains of books! Forests of books! Cascades of books! Swamps of books! More books than you’ll ever be able to read in a lifetime! Books on every subject ever studied, by every author who ever set pen to paper…” (As I was googling this exact quote, my own blog post about the Library of Congress popped up as the third option…I am nothing if not consistent.)
Last year I brought home 63 books, and this year I made an even more amazing haul!
That, my bibliophilic friends, is 94 books. Ninety four! I’m still working on the comprehensive list of what I brought home, which should be published tomorrow. (It takes TIME to catalog all those titles, Mr. Braddy!) But I’ll have you know that I spent less than I’d budgeted for and with just a LITTLE bit of suitcase jostling HRH and I flew all our books home without paying any baggage check fees. (Thank you, Southwest, and your free baggage policies!)
(Ninety four!?! Daaah!! Sometimes, I amaze myself.)
I’m guest posting today for Abby over at Bright Yellow World. Learn how to make a gingerbread house–from scratch–by clickity-click-clicking on over there. If you already came from Abby’s house, um, Hi. I’m heidikins. Nice to have you here, settle in and stay a while, won’t you? Would you like a cupcake?
December has become a time of reflection for me, it is for many people I guess. This year I’ve had a lot of things to ponder, things are so very different for me right now than they were a year ago. I could not have predicted in any way where I would be and where I am heading. I’m not disappointed with where I’m at, not at all. It’s different than expected, but it’s also wonderful. Unexpected, but awesome.
A friend of mine sent me the following, and it explains so much better my thoughts. Our situations are vastly different, but the sentiment is the same.
I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this…
When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum, the Michelangelo David, the gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”
“Holland?!” you say. “What do you mean, Holland?” I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.
But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to some horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.
So you must go out and buy a new guidebook. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It’s just a different place. It’s slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life you will say, “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”
The pain of that will never, ever, go away, because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss.
But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland.
I am no longer going to “Italy”, I don’t know if I was ever meant for Italy. A year ago I would have sworn up and down that I would go to Italy no matter what, and now I’m almost positive it’s not for me. I’m in Holland. I don’t know if I’ll stay in Holland, but I’m here now and I’ve finally come to appreciate Holland. It’s a good place to be.
Stresses: I has them.
- Last week I swore myself off sugar in an attempt to drop a bit of weight; a good idea in theory, but the timing couldn’t have been worse!
- I have a final tomorrow for my Math for Economists class (uh, what?) and the very thought of partial differentials and income functions makes my heart beat faster and a feeling of nauseous panic rise from my chest to my throat.
- Relationship Drama: It’s a factor.
- Personal Drama: An even bigger factor.
- The rest of my stress mostly comes from the explosions of my life (see: above) that have taken over my apartment. I’m the kind of person who craves a clean apartment. At the moment I do not have a clean apartment. Not one little bit.
Add these factors up and what do you get? A big, old mess. And how do I deal? I bought several boxes of sidewalk chalk and spent all day Saturday coloring on the cement at a family reunion.
The beginnings of my sidewalk-chalk masterpiece.
The “black” piece of chalk was really more like “concrete-gray”, so I hoisted a few pieces of charcoal from the fire-pit and used those instead.
Ta-daah! My sidewalk-chalk version of Starry Night may never hang in the Louvre, but I think it’s cool.
“Building” my city, heidikins-opolis.
Finished, complete with all my favorite things: shoes, cupcakes, world-travels, books, and the Crimson Nation taking over the biggest, reddest building. (In case you missed it, my school was inducted into the PAC-10 (now PAC-12) last week and I celebrated a little. Please also note the teeny little “Y” building in the corner, included to irk my die-hard Y-fan uncle more than anything else. For more on “The U” vs. “The Y” please see this post. Or just look up “Holy War“.)
All in all, the sidewalk-chalk weekend was just what I needed to recharge for yet another really hard week; I highly recommend it.
Alternative Title: All about the time I almost moved into the basement of a National Monument.
Before I went to Washington, D.C. I joked with a few friends about finding a persuadable security guard at the Library of Congress who would let me move into the basement. Reader, I found him. Solomon an enormous, muscley, hulk of a man with a killer toothpaste-commercial smile and a deep, contagious laugh. And he promised that if I smiled at him on occasion he would let me sleep amongst the stacks of books. Admittedly, I think at some point my virtue would be on the line, but it is a small price to pay to live here:
From the outside, I think the Library of Congress is one of the most beautiful buildings on the Mall. On the inside it is absolutely breathtaking. Sure there are marble columns and gorgeous paintings and sculptures and inlaid mosaics. But it’s the books that I am in-love with. I think I spent about 6 or 7 hours wandering around, ogling the rooms and rooms of books. They have a Gutenberg Bible, as well as The Giant Bible of Mainz, just hanging out in the lobby. Respectively, that is the first book printed in the Western world and the last of the great, handwritten Bible’s of Europe. There they are, side-by-side, looking imposing and gorgeous and breathtaking. Of course, in 90% of the Library of Congress there is no photography allowed, and due to the reverent nature of the items on display (see: bibles, Magna Carta, Bill of Rights, etc) I decided not to be my usual naughty self and take pictures anyway. Besides, I wanted to stay on good terms with Solomon to ensure my place in the basement.
Any reader who has been here for longer than 10 minutes is well aware that I have a bit of a book-addiction problem (as well as a shoe-addiction problem. And a Nutella-addiction problem). So it should not be any kind of surprise to know that my visit to the Library of Congress was, by far, the highlight of my trip. The original Library of Congress was donated by Thomas Jefferson, from his personal collection of books, some 6,000 strong. (Note: I would LOVE to have 6,000 books in my personal library. I’m sitting at about 700 right now–I have a spreadsheet, don’t judge–and my apartment is absolutely bursting.) During the War of 1812 when the British sacked and burned Washington those dastardly redcoats burned the building housing the Library of Congress. They burned it! Half of Jefferson’s carefully curated collection went up in flames. At this point in the video-presentation about the beginnings of the Library of Congress I actually gasped and may (or may not) have cursed the bloody English. I know I know; it was a war and they were under orders from a (tyrant) king and we’re on good terms now thanks in large part to the Beatles and Kate Moss. But in my world, book burning is tantamount to genocide and ethnic cleansing. The Library of Alexandria was destroyed by Roman invaders and frankly, despite their pasta and Vespa’s and chic fashion, I’ve never forgiven them. /book rant.
[It has only been in the last fifteen years that the library has made a concerted, dedicated effort to reclaim copies of those books that were lost. So far they have acquired through purchase and donation, about 4,800 volumes and in one, marbled wing there is a room dedicated to Jefferson’s originally donated library. There is this enormously tall, circular bookcase made out of plexiglass that winds into itself. You can walk through it like a little maze and gorge yourself on Jefferson’s collection. He had his own organizing system, which is complicated and logical and, frankly, kind of brilliant. He divided books into three dozen different types and topics, and then arranged them by size. By size. This brilliant mind arranged his books by size. I suddenly feel much better about the fact that my books are arranged by color (again, don’t judge). I spent almost an hour slowly perusing these shelves, making notes of philosophers I should become more acquainted with, like Cicero, for example, and smiling to myself when I came across his section of Shakespearean plays. I really think that Jefferson and I would have been great friends.
[A few hours later, and after a little harmless flirting with Solomon (and also going through the proper channels) I got myself down into the “reading room” of the Library of Congress. The bookshelves are miles long and several stories high. There are balconies and walkways and arches and domes and more books than you can even imagine. I wandered around for a long time, running my finger along the edge of the shelves and just smelling the old-book smell. I wish I had something to research because I mostly walked around aimlessly, wandering from one section to another.
Many hours later, I emerged from the Library of Congress on a biblio-contact high and desperate for something to eat. I bid goodbye to Solomon, who still insisted he’d found a nice warm corner for me to live, and promised to return.
Carpe Diem.
Seize the Day.
Spring has finally arrived here in my fair state, daffodil’s and tulips dot the gardens. Flowering cherry, plum and pear trees line the streets and the smell of fresh-cut grass wafts among the neighborhoods. We will most likely have another snow storm or two before Summer is here, but this week I am enjoying the warmer temperatures and sunny weather.
About a year ago the Capitol Building restoration project was finally completed. The scaffolding and plastic sheeting that had enclosed the Capitol Building for several years was carted off, the grass was replanted, new guardian lions were put in place and a running trail was built around the Capitol and Legislative complex. Last year I was shocked, surprised, and delighted to discover the trail is lined with flowering cherry trees. However, because this is Utah and because no spring weather lasts very long, approximately 36 hours after the blossoms burst open every single tiny pink flower was dashed to pieces due to a massive wind storm. The spectacle was glorious, but short-lived.
Last week I noticed the first hints of pinkness. This week the walks are something straight out of Anne of Green Gables, but, you know, with a giant granite municipal building instead of a quaint island town. Details…psssh.
Our trees are still small and spindly and immature; but they’re pink! At least, this week they’re pink. Unlike Washington, D.C. or San Francisco or Japan (or any older city with a well-established population of cherry trees and a moderately temperate spring climate) we do not have a Festival in conjunction with their flowering. In fact, I would venture to guess that most resident’s of Salt Lake City do not yet know of their existence. The Capitol Building is on the top of a hill overlooking the city and marks the origin of one of the busiest streets in the state, kind of like the head of the Mississippi. Most people don’t go up there unless they have legislative business or a wedding/engagement photo shoot.
I’m distracted. I’m rambling about traffic patterns and fluffy pink trees when I really wanted to talk about Seizing The Day.
Go ahead. Seize that Day.
It’s okay, I’ll wait.
Go on now; Seize It.
Except…well, there’s just one teensy little problem; I don’t really know what that means. I am having a mini-panic attack that some surly kleptomaniac will be snitching Wednesday right from under my nose, stuffing it into an unmarked van and driving helter-skelter off into the wild unless I somehow snatch it up first. Oh. That won’t happen? Well, you can’t be too careful these days. Alright, jokes aside (I wasn’t really joking about the klepto in the van) yes, I understand the concept, but I’m a bit iffy on how to apply it to my daily life. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the pages and pages of lists of countries, cities and places I’d like to visit…someday. (To be fair I’d love to visit them tomorrow, or yesterday–but funds, timing, Icelandic volcanoes and other mundane things being what they are–those destinations will remain as simply lists for the moment.) I’m pretty sure that ordering the exact same thing at my favorite Mexican place every single time I have a hankering for pork barbacoa (their specialty) doesn’t really count either. And I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with that adorable-and-possibly-crazy cardigan I bought on a whim (or does it?).
Does buying a plane ticket on a whim count? What about hosting a dinner party for a bunch of semi-strangers? Or going back to school? (University classes start in just under a month. I’m nervous excited nervous.) In your opinion, what exactly does it mean to Seize the Day? And have you done it lately? And–be honest now–did you need to fend off any shady characters with wit, elbows, and/or pepper spray?
