In a New Context

I've long been a believer in the value of bringing old and new things together. Juxtaposing an element from the past with one from the present has the effect of highlighting the qualities of both, and in my opinion, makes for a deeper experience. I love cities that exhibit the influences of multiple generations of architectural style. Seeing hundred-year-old masonry beside modern marvels of steel and sheet glass is a reminder of the many types and expressions of beauty.

Enjoying a familiar relationship in a novel context is one of my favorite variations of this theme. In college I always loved taking the train up to Boston to spend my fall break with Sachi H. We've known each other for most of our lives, but I felt as though visiting her at school and having adventures in the city together added another nuance to our friendship. From these visits, I concluded that having an old friend by your side as you explore a new place really enriches the experience. I think this is partly because you have common ground from which to evaluate the things you see and do, but it's probably mostly because when you enjoy someone's company, any time spent with them will feel like time well-spent.

Plus, sometimes you go out and get tattoos because you're 19 and you can.

I've been doing a good deal of this melding of old and new since moving to Boulder last month. Relocating is easy when you already have friends in the area, and I'm lucky enough to have a handful--both from Hawaii and from the University of Virginia. As it happens, all of my U.Va. friends who have ended up in Colorado were members of the Virginia Alpine Ski and Snowboard Team (VASST) with me. (I think this is not exactly a coincidence, and anyone who enjoys downhill snow sports but also lives in Virginia will probably agree.) One of these friends is Rachel, a skier who was once the president of our illustrious organization.
 

Rachel mixing up some deliciousness.

Over the weekend, I went over to Rachel's apartment on the other side of Boulder, and we spent the evening cooking dinner together and talking about our Colorado lives and the latest news from our college friends (P.S., heard about that fire at ski house, guys... glad everybody's okay). The menu for the evening was orange-carrot soup made by Rachel, and stuffed zucchini boats made by me. The rest of this post is an Eats for Sachi-style instructional from a recipe originally published here.

On Giving Thanks

Admittedly, it’s a little late for a Thanksgiving post. But honestly, every day should be a day for being thankful, so you should read this anyway.

Fresh tracks

Saturday:
I love looking out the window of a plane and taking in the landscape below.  I'm twenty-two now, but I press my face to the cold double plastic like a child, because no matter how many times I fly, it's still fascinating to see everything in miniature. Sometimes I glimpse clumps of carefully diagrammed neighborhoods, dotted with trees that belong in an architect's model. Later it's miles of patchwork farmland. From above, the fields are sharply demarcated by their varying hues of green and brown. I've always presumed that this is because of different crops and phases of growing and harvest, but I can't be sure. My favorites are the circular fields that interrupt the monotony of right angles. They look friendly and out of place. I tried to paint it once, but my watercolor skills weren't up to the task.

I can't resist smiling as we float over mountain tops, the sun glancing across the first snow I've seen since the wintery mixes of spring in Washington, D.C. But this is snow of an entirely different sort. It cloaks the crumpled skin of the earth in brightness, and I imagine crunching through it and leaving deep footprints in its pristine surface. As we cross a mountain range, I pick out the slopes I think I could snowboard down, and nod respectfully to the ones I know would kill me.

As we reach the edge of the bare, rugged wilderness, I pick out the houses at the far edges of towns, and wonder what the people living in them feel when they turn their backs to civilization to look out on the vast emptiness that blooms from their back yards. Are they ever overwhelmed? As we begin our descent, the buildings huddle closer together, drawing each other near. I see baseball fields in clumps of threes and fours, home plates at the center, and I strain without luck to see the tiny players rounding the bases. Lower still, I watch the ebb and flow of traffic. Where are you headed, little car, on this bright, blue Saturday? Have you driven from your doll house to the farmers market, today just a thumbnail cluster of tent canopies? Do you see me up here in the sky?

We land with a rumble of tires on asphalt. Maybe it's the soy latte I had in Phoenix, but I'm feeling a little giddy. Here I am, Colorado! Let's have an adventure.