Just an ordinary day

I am having the best day ever.

Up at 6am so I could drive Chris to work and then drop the car at the dealer for some minor maintenance, I was on the train this morning by 8am on my way downtown Stuttgart with the challenge of filling the day. With nasty weather outside, Starbucks was an easy choice to start the day.  (At this time of year I'd rather dodge snow dumping from the sky than this nasty, rainy, slush-making business.)

I spent the first three and a half hours in the upstairs lounge at my favorite Starbucks.  I'd been worried I'd grow bored sitting with my laptop in a coffee shop, but I was being ridiculous, apparently.  I was a machine, putting together a calendar for the upcoming year for the Writers' Group, working on a story I've been miraculously focused on lately, and up catching up with a few friends via e-mail.  Something I've noticed is that I'm constantly saying to friends that I'd like to "catch up," when what I should be doing is staying up in the first place.  I hear a resolution coming...  A delicious peppermint mocha and a nice stretch of time later, I left my cozy spot  to seek out something for lunch.

Sushi for lunch is awesome, and sushi for one is a nice way to spend an hour.  After that I walked (almost) straight to the store that shall remain unnamed (in case Chris actually reads a blog of mine) to find and purchase the one little thing I'd been looking for all over to complete Chris' Christmas, but what apparently is only carried downtown.

After that success I did a little window shopping until I passed an old man sitting against a cement building, his hat set in front of him with a few coins inside and a tired look on his face.  With nothing in particular to do, I shopped the nearby Christmas Market stands for a good deal on some food, settling on some bratwursts in a sliced baguette and a mug of gluhwein.  While attempting not to spill as I shuffled through a sea of shoulders and shopping bags, I was surprised to hear my name.  It was Sarah and her husband, Matthew, downtown for some shopping and getting food, themselves.  Sarah, I recently met through a mutual friend, and her husband, I met right then.  We chatted a minute and then I explained I needed to make a quick run, but I'd be back.  When I handed the old man the brats and gluwein, his eyes red with what I hope was fatigue and not drunkeness, he said thank you and that was all I needed.  I spent the next little bit talking with Sarah and Matthew until it was again time to wander.

I ended up wandering right back to the same Starbucks at which I'd begun my day, this time with a less fancy coffee, but a big, fancy, chocolate cookie to put a cherry on the afternoon.  And I just felt like writing about today, because so many days pass right by without much appreciation for all the good they bring: I didn't want to let this one go by without some gratitude.

I started this year reading a book called The Happiness Project, by Gretchin Rubin, where a writer devotes an entire year to becoming a happier person.  Each chapter is devoted to one month and one set of goals to achieve the main goal for that month.  As I often do, I started it with gusto but got lazy about half-way through.  But last night something made me pick it up and I read through a chapter devoted to gratitude.  Gretchin writes about how easily we overlook all the good in our lives, and how unfortunate it is to wait until some catastrophe wakes us up to really appreciate it.  In an attempt to learn from other people's catastrophes, she tried turning each aggravation into gratitude, and I really like that.  So today, I was grateful to be up early because that meant I got to come downtown and explore on my own for the day.  And I'm grateful that I had to come downtown (not having a way to get anywhere else) because I've gotten some serious writing done today, saw some friends, found that last gift for my husband, and got to feed somebody who was hungry.  (If you're one who scoffs at people who fall for the sympathy act along major shopping streets, think of it like this:  most of us will spend $10 on 2 coffees from Starbucks, like I've done today, without a second thought, so why can't we spend the same to put some hot food and maybe a little hot, mulled wine in someone's stomach?  There's a reason I don't give money when I pass someone with their hand out, but something's happened to someone whose dignity allows them to openly beg, and I don't mind sharing some kindness with a stranger.)

Did I mention the sun came out, too?

So today I'm grateful that I have people to shop for for Christmas, that I have the means to spend the day wandering and writing in a city buzzing with the season and drinking overpriced coffee, and that I'm still lucky enough to have a full-functioning body and a home to return to tonight.  Although there are countless things I'm thankful for today, at this moment that which I am most grateful is that today is just an ordinary day in my life.  And I think that's pretty spectacular.

Have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a Festive Kwanzaa, and a Great Festivus, and a new year overflowing with joy and success.  I hope that if you're reading this, you know how much I appreciate the fact that you take the time to stop by.  I also hope that if you haven't done so in a while, you'll stop and think about the ordinary things that make your life good.

Love and happiness to all.

Why Did Constantinople Get The Works?

Istanbul
Day 1

Chris and I in front of the Blue Mosque

Turkey Day in Turkey, a concept that honestly did not occur to me until the day before flying out, but one that came to everyone else's mind immediately when I told them where we were headed for the long weekend.  Yes, this Thanksgiving we decided to go to Istanbul, which I learned years ago via They Might Be Giants, was Constantinople (Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople), along with the fact that even old New York was once New Amsterdam.  Why'd they change it?  I can't say.  (People just liked it better that way.)  You gotta love history lessons through music.

So we were off to the farthest place east I've ever been, ready to brave the chaos of the bazaars and for me to step into Asia for the first time.  We were eager to search out certain street food and learn what it's like to walk around a city where many citizens drop prayer rugs in the streets for when the call to prayer rises up from nearby mosques.  And although not every aspect of this trip was spectacularly positive, it was an amazing experience we won't soon forget.

Thanks to the recommendation of a friend (thanks, Melody!), we stayed in great little pension right in Old Istanbul with views of the famous Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya from the roof terrace, called Side Hotel and Pension.  Clean, inexpensive, and perfectly located, our trip was off to a great start at 11pm Wednesday night upon check-in.  We planned out the next few days and settled in for a good night's rest...

...and then, Good morning, Istanbul!  The 5:45am call to prayer rising from the city and into our windows was a little startling coming out of a deep sleep.  Being my first time in a Muslim country I had no idea that I wouldn't have to worry about setting my alarm, for the amplified song-like prayers to start the day would do the job.  I opened my eyes and listened, unsure of what I was hearing, half-convinced I was still dreaming.  Chris, of course, slept right through it, but I listened to the whole thing before going back to sleep for a couple more hours.

We started the first day at the Blue Mosque, a grand and beautiful house of Muslim worship.  It wasn't required of visiting women to cover their hair, but they had covers available outside the doors where we took off our shoes, so I tried one out, out of respect, before entering this massive structure.  The ceilings were dizzying but the air very calm, despite the waves of tourists ever entering through the doors.  We chose not to visit during a time of prayer because I knew it would be too difficult for me not to photograph what I saw, something visitors are asked not to do.  So we wandered and took it in, appreciating the beauty of such a place, then went on our way to see the former mosque, Aya Sofya nearby.




This is where the stories and warnings truly begin for any future travelers to this great city, for we were and you will be pulled in to one of the many attempts to sucker you into considering buying a fine, Turkish carpet, what you would think must be the life blood of this place by the actions on its devoted vendors.

"Mr. Sarasota"

His English was perfect and he was wearing a Sarasota, Florida golf club jacket when he called out to us as we passed, making our way around other obvious salesmen to Sofya ahead.  "American?" he asked.  "Canadian," we replied without slowing down.  "I'm not selling anything, I was just curious.  I'm from Florida."  He smiled and we turned around, embarrassed of our rudeness.  "We are, too, actually" we said.  "I didn't think you sounded very Canadian," was his reply.

Aya Sofya, former mosque

And so the ruse began.  We were suckered into stopping to chat with a fellow Floridian, who turned out to be a Turkish man married to a South Carolina woman who has a house in Sarasota, or so the story goes.  We had no reason to question (strike that, we had yet to learn that we DID have reason to question), so we had a nice little conversation about Florida and Istanbul.  In the city to do some rug business (he sells in the States, you see), Mr. Sarasota was waiting for a friend in the square near Aya Sofya, enjoying the beautiful weather.  As we chatted (he even showed me his Florida driver's license), Mr. Sarasota asked if we planned on doing any rug shopping, and having stupidly not discussed this before leaving the hotel, we looked at each other for help, then answered honestly that we weren't sure.  Surely he was just curious, there are rug shops everywhere.  Well it turned out he's a manufacturer and seller of Turkish rugs (also a businessman in real estate, hotels, and restaurants), and offered to give us some hints on how to decipher between cheap and well-made, natural dyes versus chemical ones, a rip-off and a good deal.  "Do you have 15 minutes?  My office is just around the corner.  I sell wholesale so there's no sign out front advertising rug sales, but I do take clients by sometimes to take a look.  If you're going to buy a rug in this town, you need to know what to look out for."

Inside Aya Sofya

I know what you must be saying to yourself.  Just around the corner?  How convenient, of COURSE he's trying to make a sale!  But we had been pulled in, trusting him a little more because of his connection to our home state, wanting to believe he wasn't trying to lure us in to make money.  He's a successful businessman after all, he didn't need our money.  Bravo, Mr. Sarasota.

So against better judgement, we went for the lesson and the apple tea, both of which were great.  When fifteen minutes and a free lesson turned into nearly three hours and me really wanting to throw a few thousand dollars at him for a beautiful hand-woven, wool masterpiece of a carpet made with all natural dyes, it was clear we'd been had.  Luckily for us, Chris is more immune to such ploys than I, and we were able to escape without handing over a cent.  Mr. Sarasota had made excellent use of such sale tactics as authority (he was the owner and was the only one who could make us such an incredible deal), time sensitivity (we couldn't leave and think about it because he had an appointment and would have to call a guy with the credit card machine to run over since this office wasn't normally a shop for sales), and so on.  How could we walk away knowing we were throwing away such an amazing opportunity to own a beautiful piece of art which we could pass along to our children, paying just $3,000 instead of the $15,000 we would surely pay in the States?  He knew, KNEW we'd regret it once we got home and realized what a deal we let slip through our fingers.

Aya Sofya

So even though we lost a few hours on our first day in Istanbul to a sales ploy, we decided to call it a much needed lesson to start a trip that would surely be chock full of other opportunities to avoid.  (What was more interesting was upon scouring the internet that night at the hotel, Chris found descriptions of similar experiences with a Turkish man from Sarasota who had an office near Aya Sofya, with every weird detail lining up with our afternoon.  This man is skilled!)

Us in a few years?

Every line of children that passed was a long line of enthusiastic "Hello!"s

Inside the Basilica Cistern

Medusa Head One

Medusa Head Two

The rest of the day was more enjoyable, though slightly soured by the events of the morning as we lost a lot of time on one of the prettier days we'd have.  We made our way across Sultanahmet, the old section of Istanbul, walking through Aya Sofya and watching the fountain outside while groups of school children practiced their greetings in English on us.  We read about and visited the two Medusa heads down in the Basilica Cistern, and marveled at how many cats and dogs roam these streets.  The cats lounge on steps, window ledges, vendor tables, hanging rugs, and benches, while the dogs seemed to plop down just about anywhere for a snooze.  I was surprised at how well these strays seemed to be taken care of, as cats don't approach anyone who's wronged them and these cats were all over everybody.  The dogs, I noticed, had all been tagged in the ear and not one looked malnourished.  I guess Turkish hospitality doesn't stop with people.

And that was something that really stood out - the hospitality.  Having lived in Europe for nearly seven years thus far, Chris and I have grown accustomed to the world outside American customer service standards where wait staff live off tips and everybody's willing to go a little overboard for the sake of a happy customer.  In Istanbul, even though most of the time the warmth was likely motivated by the desire to lighten our wallets, it was still nice to be around.

Istanbul at night was just as beautiful as it was in the day, though we knew we had much more to explore in the coming days.  Our first day, Thanksgiving Day, concluded with some delicious Turkish cuisine at a restaurant called Amedros Bistro.  Excellent food, excellent service, and some nice tea at the end of the meal made for a memorable Thanksgiving in Turkey.

At the end of the evening that melodic question entered my mind... with how beautiful, friendly, and richly historic this place already was to us, why did Constantinople get the works?

That's nobody's business but the Turks.

...so what comes next?

Lemon Slushee is falling from the sky!

Wouldn't that be cool?

It's snowing outside, the first of the season, and since I wrote the first line, it's gone from slush to almost real snow.  It was an ice cold rain when Heidi went out a half hour ago, then morphed into slush, and now is gradually solidifying into fluff...weird since, usually isn't it the other way around?  But I digress.

I've been neglecting the blog.  When I think back to how incredibly supportive those who have been reading along with me have been, leaving me notes here or making real life comments in the land beyond the internet, I feel guilty for not keeping it up more consistently.  I think now as I've faced the milestone (and kind of scary one) of 30, it's time for what's next.

'Why does she harp on about 30, it's no big deal,' you ask.  But for someone who had expectations far greater than their present circumstances describe, 30 is the first evaluation point, the forced stop where all of this is judged.  And to be honest I've had some difficulty facing it.  Having fallen into a crazy fortunate situation I've not done badly, but I wanted more from myself, and it's hard to excuse that when I was such an over-achiever in my academic years prior to this wonderful chapter.  I wouldn't change anything about my life; I would, however, like to change the me in the middle of it.  I'm 30.  I can no longer hang onto the mentality that I've still got time, I'm in my 20's!  I don't have to grow up yet, it's not time to look at the next part of life, I'm in my 20's!  Because I'm not and it IS time to grow up a teensy bit more and face life's next chapter.  And whereas I'm excited to move into that next part, it's always scary leaving the familiar for the unknown.  Will I make something of my writing?  Will I fail and have to face that maybe writing, this part of who I am, is not what I should be doing?  Will we start a family?  Holy crap, and be somebody's parents?!  Making their decisions for them (which, I must admit, as a control freak sounds lovely at first), and hoping we're not screwing them up from the get-go?  And then not save them when they make the wrong decisions for themselves, but let them get hurt instead?  And then watch them grow up and go out and get their own lives and leave me behind like I didn't birth them from my own womb!

I get ahead of myself.  This is something I do, which overwhelms me back into a state of paralysis and not-doing, something out of which I need to grow.  Maybe that starts now.  Because here's the kick-start I may have been waiting for, the psychological punch to get me moving.  I do want to make something of my writing, and I do want to be a mother.  I want to do good things and contribute where I can.  But none of this even sets into motion until I make some changes, some commitments, and pour some super glue between me and them.

I'm not sure what will become of this blog, but I feel it might be ready to grow with me, and that's exciting for me.  What has thus far been a kind of sounding board for all that bounces around my head, a place to recount trips and visits, and a blank canvas ready for whatever I feel like splashing across it, might be in store for some morphing of its own.  I don't know yet, though, what I want it to be.  Many successful bloggers become that way by finding what makes them stand out in the blogosphere, a reason to be sought out among the masses.  A niche.  So what's mine?  Because once you define your niche, don't you have to stay there in all you write?  I don't think just me and my voice are unique enough to carry me to the next phase, as much as my ego would be delighted to think so.  So this is something I have to figure out, and perhaps a new blog will come of it, something more defined.  I'll let you know.

The snow has lightened up; I can see across the hills now.  Heidi has gone back upstairs to bed, but it's 8:30 in the morning and I have blogged something!  And it's something I think I needed to work out through my fingers, to see in typed words across my screen and know has been said.

After this, my focus will be on a new story I've been working on, something a little light-hearted, not my usual kind of short story.  We all need to step outside our comfort zones from time to time to see what's possible, right?

Thanks for reading.  I promise not to let so much time pass next time.

The Big 3-0

It's happening.  I'm officially stepping out of my 20's and into the next decade of life - but not till next weekend!  The party was Saturday and it was fantastic, thanks to some truly amazing friends.  

Farrah in Barbara Walters mode - me with a mouthful already

The night was a celebration of the 80's, with appropriate games and music to complement the Ghostbusters and Goonies posters hanging on the walls.  Farrah came armed with delicious mac 'n cheese to pay homage to a childhood favorite, as well as a list of trivia questions from the year 1980.  Though I do believe I surprised them all with my fabulous knowledge of my birth year, by the end I was three shots of green apple vodka and about six pieces of Bubblicious gum in the wrong.  You see, for each incorrect response I was forced to choose between a piece of gum and a shot.  I think the massive wad of sugar did more to me than the vodka!

Check out this wad!

Chris and I tried our hands at homemade pizza to celebrate my favorite food from the teen years, and for my 20's, Ashley provided mudslides all around.  I was extremely lucky to have friends willing to take over many of the responsibilities I first set out to conquer all on my own, since I decided long ago that I wanted a party for this milestone birthday.  Thanks to Angela and Diane, there were '30s' strung around the house, balloons in every corner, birthday confetti, candles, and everything needed for food, drinks, and cake in coordinating colors.  Diane also sneakily coordinated with my mom Stateside to obtain a slew of childhood pictures that were fantastic to see again, and stood about the room for everyone to see.  The pigtails, the spiral perm in the 4th grade, the snaggle-toothed grin and hair-sprayed bangs...it was great.

Diane, me, & Angela

After a while, Sara called everyone's attention to a challenging game of 'Name That Tune' that she organized, which stumped everybody at some point.  With plenty of food all around for munching and dipping (thanks to Diane and Farrah for the help), one might have scoffed at the idea of adding cake to this food fest.

Perhaps any other cake, but not this one, made by my friend Amy, who designed it, baked it, and graciously accepted the praise from every party guest as we dug into this chocolate-peanut-butter ecstasy.  I loved the book on top so much (it's made of cake, too!!!), I'm saving it to enjoy on the 13th (my actual birthday), if I can leave it alone till then!

In true Lindsey fashion I wrote a toast, and as I'm incapable of being brief, it stretched the length of one of those super long steno pads.  Here is what I subjected my guests to before rewarding them with champagne...

Thirty.  It probably seems silly to fear this number - after all, you've all already surpassed this particular milestone :)   I've been hanging out in my 20's for so long, what's wrong with staying there and holding onto that college age mentality that says it's not quite time to grow up yet?  But as all things do, life progresses, and instead of just planning where we're going next summer, I'm starting to plan for a family - though NOT YET.  I'm thinking more about hand moisturizer, the threat of wrinkles, and how the hell do I already have grey hairs?!  And just as I'm about to stomp my foot in protest and demand for all this to stop, I have to consider how kind life has been to me so far.  And this getting older doesn't seem so bad because I'm so excited to see what comes next.

I celebrated my 20th with Chris at the Roadhouse Grill in Gainesville, FL ten years ago, and how lucky am I to be ringing in my 30th with him still.  What I love most about this birthday is not only do I get to celebrate in this beautiful place with my best friend, I also get to do so surrounded by wonderful friends.  I'm lucky to have you all, and grateful for the friendship and for the opportunity to know each one of you.  As we're discovering more and more, it's the people connections that really make an experience, so thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for making mine.

To what comes next.

Back: Chris Cole, Amy  (the fabulous baker), Chris L., Angela and Chad, Farrah and Brian, Ashley and Sean, Diane, Josh, and Scott
Front, from one arm of the couch to the other:  Peter, Suzanne, Heidi, me, Kristen, and Wayne
Floor-dwellers:  Sara and Rick

Germany Welcomes Kelly

Back in July my best friend came for a visit.  For her first overseas venture, Kelly would be spending three solid weeks between Germany, Italy, and France.  We were both as excited as a couple of pre-adolescents with tickets to see Justin Bieber, since 1. we hadn't lived under the same roof for more than 5 days since we shared an apartment in college, and 2. Kelly had never visited me in my post-college grown-up life.  When you can live with a person and still love them to no end, that's a relationship that'll last, so I had no worries about the length of Kelly's stay.  Living together had worked well for us; we were good for each other.  Like we've both said before, had one of us been born a man, it would have been the perfect marriage :)

After actually jumping up and down when we saw each other through the glass security wall that separates passengers gathering their luggage and the people waiting for them at the Stuttgart Airport, it was all hugs and smiles and stories of creepy men on the flight.  For the first week, we took it pretty easy, as jet lag is least kind to first-timers.  Kelly and I spent time wandering around Tubingen, a charming university town nearby, and Strasbourg, France, as well.  The real first treat of the trip, however, awaited us on her first Saturday in Germany.

every one welcome!

fun for all ages

I toyed with the idea of not telling Kelly the reason for Saturday's big parade in downtown Stuttgart, slightly concerned she might not want to go.  Mean, I know.  But in the end I felt honesty was the best policy so I let her in on the details, and thankfully, she was up for it.  Who doesn't like a parade?




You see, although we have mounds of things in common, I might be a tad more liberal than my dear best friend, but she kept her jaw-dropping in check and, I believe, had a fantastic time.  How could you not?  The Christopher Street Parade is an annual demonstration of freedom and pride for the area's gay/lesbian/bi/transsexual community and with the outrageous costumes, open trucks packed with candy (and condom) throwing celebrators, music, and dancing, it was a massive good time for the whole family.  The day was gorgeous and the spirits high as we watched the parade, then walked behind it through town, smiling and moving to the music blaring in the streets.

Ra-ra-relly!  Yea, it's Kelly!

 Really, could Kelly have had a better welcome party?

Submission

I'm finally realizing that no one reads what I don't share.  What, you already knew this? 

When I began this blog it was to work myself through the fear of sharing my writing, establish some kind of discipline, and explore myself through different means.  I've done the daily blogging thing, the travel blog thing, the random thoughts thing...it's time to actually start not only sharing, but pushing for attention.  As is often true of writers, I'm more comfortable behind the page - or the monitor - but if anything is to HAPPEN with regards to this love of mine, I've got to DO something more.  So I've been spending time looking over old short stories, snipping and polishing, organizing and trashing, looking for something worthy of submitting for publication.  The problem is nothing ever seems done, because you can usually add more, or shorten, or rake through one last time to sharpen things up.  Letting go of something into which you've woven a little bit of yourself is a little terrifying, because letting go of that baby so that it can fly out into the world invites criticism and rejection.  I'm no sadist, so this naturally makes me nervous.  But without letting go of our darlings, as creative pieces are often called, we rob them of the opportunity to return to us in another form, preferably, published in my case.  

I've searched writers' websites, scoured the internet and bookmarked like mad.  I've started subscribing and reading to get a taste for each publication that called out to me, and I've carefully read over each one's submission guidelines.  I have a stack of note cards on my desk, each one detailing one literary journal, magazine, or e-zine for quick accessibility, and this week I submitted to two of them already.  By the time I hear from either of them I will likely have forgotten I'd even sent anything in, but no matter, because there are many to which I'd like to submit, but a lack of finished material to send.

One literary journal is all food related, though the stories need not be about eating.  Since Chris and I enjoy so very much the experience of new and sometimes scary-sounding food whenever we travel, I bookmarked Alimentum.  A few are travel-oriented, like the Literary Bohemian, but instead of travel pieces, per se, they're looking for quality stories that really transport the reader to another place.  This feels familiar, so onto the bookmark list it went.  Given the opportunity to travel I have, an international readership is attractive, so there are a few of those, plus the regular American big name magazines like the New Yorker, Cimarron Review, and Glimmer Train.  I've also got an all woman journal in the mix and a few that seem a little dark in nature, both showcasing sides of myself.  So a good list, I've got.  Now I just need some new material.

I thought about posting some short pieces here, in hopes of getting some feedback.  Would anyone read it and feel like offering some constructive criticism?  I'm not sure, but it's a thought.  I'm still (slowly) learning the ways of blogs, and am hoping to add more dimensions to this one.  Like a section for fiction writing.

As I've been bad lately, NOT blogging regularly, this is me trying to get back in the habit without the pressure I've put on myself to recount life since July in order.  This, I have little doubt, is the reason for my hiatus, but I'm working on getting over that.  Thanks for stopping back in.

The Coffee House

This morning I found my way to a small coffee shop very close to the gym where my friend Sara is now kicking my behind four times a week, or will be starting today.  My new commitment to a healthier me includes a 6am spin class and then a 9:30am Body Pump class to keep me sore.  I like that her classes have fallen on the same day as one another, as this makes for a serious workout at least twice a week.  Since my employment has shape-shifted again this school year, I’m without a consistent daily schedule to make sure I get to the gym otherwise, so this is something I plan to cling to, nails dug in.

Ten months ago, Sara decided she wanted to be a fitness instructor and after some classes, exams, and waiting for the paperwork to settle, she’s doing a superior job.  It doesn’t hurt that she’s in crazy good shape and perky in a very non-annoying, if not kind of inspiring way.  And let me tell you, that’s a hard thing to pull off when you’re leading a huffing spin class at six in the morning. 

Having successfully gotten through this morning’s spin without the embarrassment of vomiting on my handlebars, here I sit in this cute little coffee shop, positioned next to a wall with an outlet for my laptop, facing the door so I can do a little people-watching while I enjoy my cappuccino.  I told a member of the staff that this would likely be a twice-weekly occurrence, me setting up for a couple hours between classes, if they didn’t mind.  It doesn’t make much sense to go home, only to turn around and come back a little while later.  I’d rather be stuck somewhere because being stuck means there’s nothing I can do except that which I can do sitting around.  Sure, I could run errands, but the amount of sweating one does in the typical spin class is not conducive to being around other people.  It’s safer for everyone if I pick a spot and stay put to keep my moving around to a minimum, thus containing my area of possible air contamination.  I like my little corner and I think this is going to be a great chance twice a week to sit down and write.

When I talked to one of the staff of the shop about making this visit a habit, it was after she handed me a flyer for this weekend’s artist exhibition where local artists will be showcasing their work.  She’s an artist, she told me, and will have a stand there.  I’d already planned to go and am really looking forward to it.  I have a deep respect for people who not only create art, but share it, which is why this blog ever came to be.  I would absolutely love to have a body of work good enough and complete enough to put on display, and even more to give it to people who actually want to give me money in return.  I am an artist at heart, but even though one would assume the part of the brain that handles creative writing would likely also handle visual art, I have a very hard time focusing on both at once.  As I’ve repeatedly admitted, I’m not a great multi-tasker, not even a good one, but it still surprises me that I can’t work on a story and a photo project at the same time.  My brain makes a noticeable shift when I move from one to the other, so I guess this is just a limitation I have to learn to work with.  Another detail that factors into my lack of creative aggression is the sheer amount of things I’d like to do.  Again, too many choices is paralyzing.  When my mind starts making a list of items I need to work on, and that I’d like to work on, writing for my blog, writing and editing short stories, submitting said short stories for publication, and doing work for Klett Publishing are quickly joined by experimenting with photography in a mixed-media piece, attempting to combine writing with visual art, and working on putting together a photo book of our time living in Italy.  And then I just sit there, blank.  Unmoving.  Chris is great and listens to my rambling concerns every time, and he actually asks if there’s anything he can do.  Really?  I have all these ideas, the luxury of having the time and opportunity to do something about it, AND a supportive cluster of people around waiting to help?  And I still have the ability to sit still?  Shameful.

So I’ll visit other artists’ exhibitions and appreciate their efforts, because not only is this fun for me, it’s a chance to soak up some of their creative energy for my own use.  Tonight I’ll be attending the official opening of 'The Turning,' a photographic and literary exhibition in downtown Stuttgart at the Deutsch-Amerikaner Zentrum.  Jim and Tiffany from the Writers group have collaborated to put on this fall-inspired showing and I can’t wait to see it.  It’s important to support your fellow artists because I doing so you’re not only strengthening their conviction in what they’re doing, but you boost your own need and ability to create.  I’ll be getting quite a dose of creativity from other people in the next couple of days, and am so happy about it. 

The coffee shop was experiencing a small rush when I came in close to seven this morning but it soon calmed down and eventually emptied out.  The next rush was at eight, and now it’s 8:45 and the place is full again with people placing their orders, joking with the staff, and chatting about work and the sharp cold outside.  The sweat has almost completely dried from my clothes and it’s nearly time to walk back over to the gym for Sara’s next booty-kicking session via Body Pump.  I’m quite sore from Tuesday’s class, but looking forward to round two.

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What is it about sore muscles that feels to good?  I think for me it's a reminder that they're in there somewhere, waiting for me to pay attention to them again.  Nurture them.  Thanks, Sara, for 2 hours of pain today :)