ich Kalliope

From my Milan Archives

I won't be going to the Milan Furniture Fair this year (((insert sad face here))).  I have a feeling that this year might be a breakthrough year at the Salone Internazionale del Mobile, at least that's what I thought when I was walking the streets and exhibits in Milan last year, rather uninspired.  It was a look back last year, everyone heralding their classics (((and there are some amazing ones!))).  2011 had little innovation, imagination or inspiration for those of us who are blessed to take in this annual feast of design. 

A look back through the hundreds of photographs we took last year paints an inspiring picture.  And let's me see in retrospect, that even a "bad" year at the Salone is pretty dang good!

       

       

       

       

          

          

       

 

Mind the Gap

I had known my sweet husband just over three months when I met his family for the first time at their home in Germany.  In a small, beautiful village next to a mid-size town, by a good size city a couple of hours away from Munich.  This was over twenty-one years ago and I have been in love with all of them ever since.

The strength of family shores me up.  It always has, it always will.  But my support system just got one person smaller, in a big way. 

  With the passing of my dear father-in-law, there is a gap today.  It is the first time I am here, in this small village without him.  He embraced me, my country and my family from the get go.  I was never an outsider.  I was family.  A daughter, and I hope a friend.

There were language barriers I'm sure, but I don't remember any.  There were cultural differences, but I can't recall anything specific at the moment. There was distance, from a few kilometers to thousands of miles, but it never felt far.  Two families.  One Greek.  One German. It felt like one during those lucky times when I was blessed with both sets of parents in my midst. 

Yes there is a gap that I need to mind.  Bigger than language, culture or distance.  There is a gap in my heart. 

Lieber Schwieger, danke fuer alles. 

Christmas Sweets @ Alte Weihnachtsfabrik

After travel packed, heartwarming and indulgent holidays, you would think I'd be ready to put it all away, and start to think of spring.  But a visit to the Alte Weihnachtsfabrik in Neustadt/Coburg, Germany last week has me thinking about next Christmas.  Seriously.  This magical shop and museum was a such a treat.   Words don't do it justice, but hopefully these photos will give you a taste of what's in store 365 days a year.  I was thinking of many of you when I pulled out my camera and snapped these photos.  Whether you love, and I mean LOVE purple, can't stop buying tableware from Germany or obsessed with Snowmen, this is our place.

 

True Confessions

Is it inspiration, immersion, obsession or addiction?  You be the judge.  In the midst of a glorious Boston fall, a long Thanksgiving weekend, and deeply engaged in a page-turning, can't put it down biography... I look up to find myself surrounded.

 



It started with the product, moved to the experience, and now I'm afraid it might be transferring to the person.  Uh oh... cause he wasn't THAT likeable!  His real understanding and ultimate respect for my chosen profession Industrial Design is unrivaled.  Perhaps I've been courted into his "reality distortion field"?  In any case, I've got a crush big time.

 

Sea to Shining Sea

 We spent 9 great days in our sweet 1996 Porsche 993 C4, traveling across the country.  Starting in Cannon Beach, Oregon and ending in Boston, Massachusetts.  It was the second best travel partner a girl could wish for, the first best was the driver.  What a car, passing 100K miles heading into Denver, a loose tailight in eastern Indiana, some orange duct tape that made it look even tougher, a sip of oil from time to time.  Go sweet Porsche go!

 

 

Shampoo Injury

Yep, you got it!  I got hurt at the hair salon yesterday.  After many, many happy blissful years at Grace salon in Portland, Oregon, my gray hair wouldn't wait for me to return there for a touch-up.  That's the way gray hair is.  I had to search for a new salon, in my new city, to take care of my old gray hair. 

So after careful consideration, asking around, yelping, I found one.  But what I forgot to ask about was, how is the shampoo experience???  Honestly, it never entered my mind.  Silly me... I was more concerned with the quality of the haircut, the experience of the stylist, the color products they used, and the overall ambiance of the salon. Big mistake. 

After my color had been properly processed, out came Carmen from the backroom...  as in "Carmen will shampoo you now".  I didn't have a good feeling, but it was only a shampoo.  I followed her to the wash stations.  Then it started, a combination of feeling as if I was in a World Wrestling Federation match while riding Splash Mountain at Disneyworld.  It was brutal.  I prayed it would end quickly, but it didn't.  She actually shampooed, rinsed and REPEATED.  Who does that???  Then came the conditioner and the color set.  Over and over and over again, she batted my head around, in what was marketed as a "signature head massage".  At one point the water really got away from her and she soaked me.  "It's only water" she bellowed.  BELLOWED!

Today I have the battle scars to prove it, and I'm afraid no one will believe me.  Not to mention a new found fear of the shampoo station at what might turn out to be my new salon.  I know I can request not to be with Carmen on my next visit... but I can tell you, Carmen does not forget a face.  I believe she may have ruined the awesome experience of a great salon shampoo for me for a long while!  Never will I close my eyes, lean back and breathe. 

 

Construction Zone

 

The roadtrip continues in Boston.  I am in a major construction zone. 

Arriving on the 4th of July, the city put on a tremendous fireworks display in our honor.  One of the best we've ever seen.  It's the official start of the "beginning", and the well-deserved chance to catch our breath and settle in.  It's all a work-in-progress, as life should be.

At the moment kalliope is feeling like the photo on the left, when she would much rather feel like the photo on the right.  Who wouldn't?  But isn't the image of the construction zone, with electric orange and flashing lights much closer to what a work-in-progress looks like? 

As I long for the road of smooth sailing, I am working on getting more comfortable with the construction zone.  The excitement, change, unknown, adventurous and riskier road.  Not the warning, caution, don't go there image that it usually invokes. 

Working towards that day when both images bring on a sense of comfort.  When both images are a welcome sight before me.

Still my home sweet Oregon home

Oregon has been our home for 13 lucky years.  We've come a long way, Oregon and me.  From having to look on a map to see exactly where Portland was located before our first visit, to that familiarity and comfort of a longtime relationship, it has been hard to say goodbye.  Crossing the state line into Idaho on our roadtrip to Boston, with Oregon in the rearview mirror, it was emotion filled to be sure.  Of course it was! 

We arrived in 1998 knowing one person.  It is the only home my sweet husband has ever known in the United States.  It felt like the wild west (((still does sometmes))), and people were way too friendly (((still are sometimes))).  The drivers were so polite (((turns out they're lousy drivers))), the landscape was breathtaking (((still is))), and you could make a difference (((still can))).  The fashion sense left much to be desired (((still does))), and dogs seemed to outnumber people (((they do now))).  The wine region was amazing (((more amazing now))), and when the sun was shining, there was no more beautiful place anywhere.  They wrote about the salmon as much as they did the citizens in the local paper (((never understood this))) and neighbors would be up-in-arms when an osprey nest was in danger of being relocated (((you get the picture))). 

When we left this past week we had friends who became family.  We had a neighborhood that became a community.  We were regulars in our favorite restaurants.  We had things we loved and hated about the place.  It was home.  It still is.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Oregon getting further and further away, and the tears fell (((and fell))).  It wasn't sadness for leaving it behind (((well, maybe a little))), it was for the blessing of taking it all with me. 

I will miss seeing you everyday sweet Oregon home.

Old School

The first day of our roadtrip, as we were ready to set out from Cannon Beach, OR, my sweet husband found his compass and placed it on top of the roof of the car to get us directed.  To confirm where "east" was.  Beautiful isn't it?  Simple compass, fresh raindrops on the car, a good way to start.

A roadtrip is good for the soul.  The hours spent in the car, reflecting and absorbing all that is around you, and letting the miles wash over you is a gift.  Our roadtrip across the USA is well underway.  Tonight we find ourselves in Iowa City, Iowa, making our way from Portland to Boston.  We have a lot of technology with us, trip trackers, Facebook, iPhone, cameras and laptops.  Documenting and sharing with friends and family along the way. 

A couple of days into the journey we realized we didn't have a map.  A real map.  Fold up, fold out, paper map of the USA.  We missed it.  We bought one, and I am highlighting our route as we go along.  Analog.  So in our digitally connected world, sometimes you just want a map... or a compass.  Something that will keep you on track, moving in the right direction, no matter what. 

     

Dream Job? Not so much.

A longtime dream of mine came to end.  It wasn't easy to admit, but I had to accept it.  My dream job of holding a STOP/SLOW sign in a road construction zone came to a sad end today.  For many years, when pressure at work would be high, professional relationships complex, and navigating a politically charged matrix would add a few grey hairs, I had a dream I shared with only a trusted few, of being hired to hold the signs on the side of the road.

Highly paid, have heard that it could be as high as $40.00 an hour.  Little to no ambiguity, it's either STOP or SLOW.  Not to mention having a thermos of something and the right to smoke on the job.  For the record, I don't smoke... but considered taking it up if I were to get this dream job. 

As the sun was shining bright today on the road, and we passed a couple of these individuals on the road, I realized that even with the power they wield, to make us STOP or SLOW, it is not for me.  Not sure if it was the lonely look in their eyes, the fact that nobody really slowed down or that they have to wear flourescent orange or green EVERYDAY, my dream ended on a stretch of US 26 from Portland to the Oregon Coast. 

 

Boxed In

Eventually, there comes a time in a move, when all your precious things end up in boxes.  And if you're lucky to have help with your move, some strangers show up at your door, and spend your last full day in your home with you, packing up your precious things.  They leave, you stay one last night, boxed in. The last time my beautiful home looked like this was when we moved in.  Sigh.

As I spend the night surrounded by boxes of every shape and size, drinking my wine from a paper cup, I choose not to think about the beginning, or the end, but all the in-betweens.  The evenings with family and friends, cooking, laughing, drinking great wine and of course schnapps and grappa.  Wonderful neighbors, a special golden lab, and watching a neighborhood grow around us.  Evenings on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars and yes... even The Bachelor from time to time!  Fun times with our parents, listening to music, dancing, grilling and relishing the time together.  A surprise visit from a brother for his brother to celebrate his first fifty years.  Holidays with friends, over-eating, leftover sandwich making contests and potlucks.  We do seem to eat and drink a lot!

So here's to the special "in-between" that we spent in this wonderful home, and to ALL the "in-betweens" to come.  Cheers Portland!  Cheers Boston!

Paying Tribute to the Distance

As I've come to learn, change is exciting, it's the transition that's tough.  From the ending of something to the beginning of something else, there is an important in-between, the transition. 

The in-between isn't always easy, and that explains my tendency to want to speed through these times.  Keep moving, look forward, don't let the engine rev in neutral, put it in gear... now go!

This time it's different.  The engine is warming up gently in the in-between.  It's been getting a lot of TLC from many sources, more than just a tune-up.   It's getting ready for the roadtrip, paying tribute to the distance, and preparing for the journey.

As we get closer to the actual moving day... the hit the road, your body is moving to Boston, the car is shifting into first gear... we will be making this journey in our sweet Porsche.  We will pay tribute to the distance.  A roadtrip across the beautiful United States.  Simply getting on a non-stop flight to Logan Airport, landing a few hours later, is not the transition my dear husband and I long for. 

We want to extend the in-between just a little longer.

So we will start with our feet in the Pacific at Cannon Beach, Oregon facing east... and we will drive until we dip our toes in the Atlantic.  Yes, I will be looking in the rearview mirror from time-to-time, but most importantly I will be taking in all that surrounds me along the way. 

As much as we love our car, it is a 1996 993 C4... we are 1957 and 1958 models, and we will most certainly be looking for a good chiropractor and masseuse once we "land" in Boston.  Recommendations are welcome. 

I heart, heart, HEART Bill Cunningham

A good friend recommended that we see the film Bill Cunningham New York, a documentary about the longtime fashion photographer, who is most famous for the On the Street pages of the New York Times.  Although one of the first pages I turn to when reading my Sunday Times, I am ashamed to say I didn't know the name of the photographer personally until seeing the film this week.

From anonymity to hero in a couple of hours, that is how change happens, and ones perspective can be fed and nurtured.  He is a hero for his talent in spotting trends, and his dedication to sharing what he sees everyday on the streets.  More importantly he is a hero for his simple joy for what he does and who he is.  A genuine soul, uncomplicated, authentic with a purity that inspires me to be myself.

After seeing the movie, another friend of mine described it this way, "Bill Cunningham is so heartbreakingly sweet and authentic.  This documentary had me crying and laughing at his unimaginable tenderness and talent.  This film was a gift to me tonight..."

Seeing the film was certainly a gift to me as well.  Thank you Bill and for those who knew your story was worth telling and would be so incredibly relevant for us all.

Parting Signs

I'm not sure if I can still authentically call myself a "blogger".  Certainly, if the definition is by regularity, I'm out. 

It's not for lack of desire, or need to express and I'll never use time as an excuse for my absence on these pages.  It has more to do with a lack of clarity, vision and quite simply a timeout. 

A timeout that went a little too long, that got a little too lost, that didn't think enough about the connections lost, and those not made during the timeout.  My sweet husband even missed reading it, and for better or worse he is privy to most of my ideas, dreams and thoughts!

During my timeout from ich Kalliope, a lot was going on in our non-virtual life.  A major decision to leave the beauty and familiarity of the Pacific Northwest for a new adventure on the other side of this beautiful country, Boston.  Driven by a deep desire to get closer to family, to a bigger city, and to new adventures. 

Change. 

You all know I'm all about change right?  Well... actually... maybe... not so much!  Partings are not so easy for this Kalliope.  They never have been.  I never wanted to leave home and I still don't.  I didn't want to go into the second grade, because I liked the first grade (((( my mom helped me then, and she's helping me now )))).  I'm the middle age woman who gets weepy before a business trip... because I would prefer to stay home (((( until I get to where I'm going )))).  But as you know, I did make it to the second grade, and on those amazingly, fantastic trips and am blessed with family, friends and experiences that connect and ground me everyday.  All because of change.  All because of not getting stuck.

This time around, I got stuck, big time.  Fear of change was winning, and as plans proceeded, and moving companies provided estimates, and dates confirmed I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  Clicking my heels, saying there's no place like home, there's no place like home... and wishing to stop all the change or the impending partings (((( let me stay in the first grade ))))! 

But yesterday, in the midst of clouds (((( on a rare sunny day in Portland )))), there came another kind of parting.  One that brought clarity to one stuck Kalliope.  My patient husband reminded me of our mantra, "home is where WE are".  We like to shake things up, to explore, to experience, and we like to plant roots.  That's what we've done and what we'll do again, together. 

And just as I was quoting a dear friend, he called.  An intervention, I am certain of that.  My husband was witness, and boy was he relieved it came!  He needed some backup, some support!  Sensing the "stuck" in me, he reminded me of what it meant to keep changing, to write new chapters and not to stop.  Bless his direct NYC heart, he also told me he wouldn't want to be my friend if I ever "settled down"!  I am in wonder of the timing of his call, and am so very grateful for it. 

Partings. They are sweet sorrow.  They are beautiful.  They are scary.  They are change.  They are clarity.  They are new perspectives.  They are life. 

 

Frugal Fatigue

I've been waffling on the title of this one, just as I've been waffling on a number of things lately.  For the record, I'm not a waffler.  Yesterday a dear friend mentioned to me over breakfast (no waffles) that I hadn't been writing much lately.  It's true, but it's not for the lack of ideas, connections, colors and insights that bubble around my head most days. 

Waffle [wof-uhl] - verb: to speak or write in a vague and wordy manner

 I realized it was because of my new habit of waffling. Talking myself out of something, rather than talking myself into something. 

First I blamed it on the month, February.  It's a short month, ends tomorrow.  Blame February.  Done (no waffle).  It's easy to get into a February Funk... February Fatigue. That's not it either, it's bigger than a month and certainly bigger than February. 

Fatigue [fuh-teeg] -noun: weariness from bodily or mental exertion

There's something in that word fatigue that is starting to connect, minus the reference to bodily exertion (no waffle), but that's another post! 

Frugal [froo-guhl]  –adjective: economical in use or expenditure; prudently saving or sparing; not wasteful

We're living in an era of frugality, that has cast it's net wider than just living lavishly and wastefully.  Everyone is trying to do more with less, and we certainly can.   But we can't afford to be frugal with our ideas, our thoughts, our dreams.  We can't be frugal with making connections, reaching out and putting it out there. 

In the end, self-diagnosis, I've been suffering from Frugal Fatigue.  And I don't think I'm alone.  Saving up, waiting, contemplating, re-considering then re-considering again.  The anecdote is slowly starting to show signs of life.  And yes, that includes these fabulous Rag & Bone boots that caught my eye during the Fall 2011 shows in Milan.  The only waffling should be me learning to walk properly! 

Balance!