Author: Toby

  • Suzhou Snippets

    In it’s 2500-year history, the city of Suzhou has developed and refined many times over. It is known for its light, elegant, delicate cuisine and women. Marco Polo, when he visited in the late 13th century, declared it the “Venice of China.” Admittedly, every water town in China seems to bear this moniker, but I think Suzhou is the original.

    Suzhou strikes me as particularly ugly upon arrival. Massive, congested highways and bland, expressionless buildings. Never judge a city by its facades, of course. Tucked into pockets, Suzhou’s gardens and old walking streets are magical.

    At this time of the year, people come from all over China to eat hairy crab, a prized delicacy harvested from the lake nearby.

    If 1 billion people like something, I figure, it can’t be bad…

    You have to pull away the organs– heart, liver, etc.– in order to get to the edible parts. “No, that is not good to eat,” the woman helping us said, seemingly each time I pointed at a segment of my remaining crab.

    I am lucky to have a lot of “roe” (which I think is actually liver) in my crab. This is the best part… Finally, the crab is tasty, but very scarce, and a whole lot of work to get to. Something to try that I probably wouldn’t choose to order a second time, not least because of the cost– one 200 gram crab costs about 30 dollars!

    On our tour of Old Suzhou, our “guider,” Billy, leads us through gardens where rocks, trees and water have been arranged in perfect harmony. Everything symbolizes long life, prosperity and abundance.

    The sky darkens as our boat steers down one of the main canals. Red lanterns come to life, and streams of tourists pour along the cobblestone banks.

    While on the boat, “fighting noisily and playing on board are forbidden.”

    The laborious process of silk making emerged from this bastion of Chinese culture. Silk, you may be interested to know, is not vegan. In order to extract the silk fibers, manufacturers must boil the silk worms’ cocoons, killing the aspiring moths in the process.

    Beauty

    Is neither tradition nor change,
    But somewhere in between.

    ~

  • Waiting For The Invisible, Part III

    I think I could write about autumn forever. Something about this turning of the season insists on words. I would like to complete the series I began at the start of the summer, ‘Waiting for the Invisible’ (though who knows, there may be more to come), on the process of planting and growing and mostly waiting…

    The invisible has made itself known in a brilliant display of flowering trees, fruit-bearing plants, and a startling array of greens. Now, so soon, it begins again to slip beneath the Earth’s surface. Exuberant vines shrink and fade to brown; trees begin to shake themselves free of their leaves, laying a blanket down upon their roots; and the flowers drop their petals and turn inward, arming themselves against the coming cold.
    Though we still have hot, Indian Summer days like today, which bewilder us with the promise of a winter-less year, the brisk nights and turning leaves belie the charade. Autumn lurks in the corners, and at her heels, Winter.
    As the summer picked up, gardening mostly lost out to other, more insistent commitments in my week. The weeding got away from me, until I could no longer where the paths had once lain. My cucumbers foundered in poor soil, and the squash—I forgot to check the squash, so I don’t know…
    You could say I forgot to wait for the invisible to fully unveil, and like an unwatched pot, summer came to a boil while my back was turned, my attention elsewhere.
    Soon, a crackling carpet of brown will cover the evidence. The lively communities that kept me company these past months will settle once more to a nearly inaudible hum underground. The creature who rummages each night in the compost pile will go into hibernation (or maybe not… I can’t be sure since I don’t know what he is, or if his kind hibernates!).
    The invisible, irrepressible clamor of life and green and growth will have come and gone, and I don’t know that I will be any the wiser for the waiting.

    But I will remember its exuberance. I will know, next time, that whether I wait and watch or not, heeded or not, the invisible will wake and unfurl and rise again.
    ~

  • I Went on a Vision Quest and All I Brought Back Was…

    At exactly 3:00pm today, I passed the “Town of Middlebury” sign on Route 7.
    I’m back.
    Though it will be days, weeks, or perhaps months before I begin to understand the last ten days, I wanted to share with you my first impressions. A selection (hodge podge) of thoughts and verses from my journal. Some spiritual, but more not.
    I will be recording more organized second, third and fourth impressions in the coming weeks, but I think this might actually provide a more visceral glimpse of my experience.
    I could sum it up by saying nothing happened. Or everything happened. Reality is probably somewhere in between. But I would rather share the journey…
    On Wednesday, September 17, the night before my departure, it takes me hours to fall asleep. Hours upon hours upon hours.
    Thursday, September 18
    I am searching for the cause of my searching.
    Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt made guest appearances in my dream. Really?
    Friday, September 19
    It is becoming clear that I brought far too many books to fill very little down time. (I packed a stack of ten…)
    Saturday, September 20
    I have decided to leave behind my camera (Sorry, that does mean no pictures), and my yoga mat. I have a feeling I won’t need them…
    I am leaving behind the known. Soon I will begin (or continue!) to walk my path into being. Yes!
    Sunday, September 21
    Today, I found my place of power (location for my solo time: 4 days and 4 nights). I hope. It is a solid 45 minutes, maybe more, from base camp… a little bit apprehensive about the walk out after four days of fasting. Close to the shore (Lake Sommerset, Southern VT), but back into the woods a little ways, and in a lovely circle of young trees that sing back to the wind.
    [Frog is making me laugh, trying to be so stealthy as he walks past my sleeping bag.]
    Today is Monday, September 22
    How many kinds of blue have passed before my eyes today, rippling across the lake? Could I name them all? Aquamarine. Periwinkle. Turquoise. Navy. Sky reflected in lake blue. Blue within and upon blue. What do we call that? Sky blue. Royal blue. Midnight blue. Blue that flutters in the wind. Blue that reaches beneath the surface. Blue that reflects a sudden bit of sunlight and sparkles. Do we have names for so many kinds of blue?
    Broken trees and branches are guiding me through the woods today.
    Sometime this afternoon it hit me: Shit, days are really long.
    Today is Tuesday, September 23
    I just spent the entire morning doing absolutely nothing. I’ve been lying on the rocks trying to take in as much sun as possible. The sun is hot, but the air is cold—I’ve had to keep rotating to keep warm. I feel no desire to do any ritual right now, no restlessness… I could do with a slightly more comfortable “do nothing” spot, though.
    No matter what, I’m telling myself, I will come out of this stronger, and knowing myself better—for that alone it will be worthwhile.
    [I’m hungry at this moment.]
    The sun may not have set yet, but I am ready for bed, and to move on to the next day. I let my stomach know that we still had 2.5 more days until food—best not to dwell on it.
    Waiting for Dusk
    As the water turns from shimmering teal to gray,
    And the last drops of sunlight fade from sight,
    I am here, waiting for dusk.
    She gathers herself—slowly, slowly—
    One wispy purple shroud at a time,
    Like the longest dimmer in the world, lowered without haste.
    And still I am here, waiting for dusk.
    The wind never tires, but my body asks for rest;
    The birds chatter on, and the flies collect around my tarp—
    The sky holds on stubbornly to blue,
    As I rest here, waiting for dusk.
    [Definitely still hungry. Dreaming about breakfast Saturday morning!]
    Today is Wednesday, September 24
    When I finally rise, the sun is already high in the sky, and the last wisps of fog glide silently across the water until they vanish. Soon, they will be only a ghostly memory. Now, the lake is a perfect mirror with foggy edges, and the grass along the shore sparkles with dew, iridescent.
    I have never felt so much doubt. I don’t feel any different; still have no idea why I’m here, what I’m trying to find. My mind holds on stubbornly, along with my stomach, to normalcy.
    My journey thus far, from Mother Earth’s perspective (abridged)
    I saw here wandering through my forest, so lost.
    I heard her cry out for guidance, but she will find her way.
    I listened as she lamented her doubt, her lost-ness to Tree, to Rock and to Lake.
    The brown leaves on which she sat carried them to me.
    I heard, but I did not answer…
    Maybe I will appear to her in spectacular fashion. Maybe not.
    This journey she finds herself on—the truth and vision and clarity she seeks—
    Well, it is all within her, and I can only play a supporting role.
    When she learns this, she will be ready to meet me.
    For then, it will no longer matter.
    Today is Thursday, September 25 (Last day of solo time)
    I want a fucking steak.
    (On the last night of a quest, many people choose to stay up from sundown to sunrise in something called a purpose circle. Inadvertently marooned on my chosen spot, far from my sleeping bag and other gear, I managed to stay up all night. Not because I wanted to in the end, but because I couldn’t make it back in the dark, and because I would have turned into a popsicle if I didn’t keep moving!)
    On the night of Friday, September 26, back in my tent and with food in my belly, I wrote this about the experience:
    The Darkest Night
    Strange calls rise up across the water, break this eternal quiet.
    A faint light hums at the horizon, taunting me with the thought of dawn, but that is far away still.
    There is no moon, this night.
    There is no rest, this night. No respite in sight.
    Icy dew falls heavy upon the earth, chills me to the bone.
    Geese honk through the sky, in a hurry to get where they’re going.
    I, too, am desperate to return.
    I, too, have called, unanswered, too long. Slowly my voice fades from song.
    I know there will be no more fire, this night.
    Any warmth must be my own.
    This is the darkest night, and nothing will break it but dawn.
    But I don’t see that Light has been there all along,
    Because it was right before my own eyes.

     I don’t know exactly what I learned or what I am bringing back from my time away, but I intend to find out.
    ~

  • Why I am Doing a Vision Quest

    (This article was originally published here at elephant journal. I decided I wanted to share it on this blog, too.) It’s just settling in that I am leaving to do this tomorrow…

    On the 18th of September, I will leave Middlebury for 10 days, 4 of which I will spend on a solo fast.

    I have decided to do a vision quest.

    Anthropologists coined the term “vision quest” to describe a particular Native American rite of passage. The practice of going alone into nature, fasting, and seeking vision, insight or clarity.

    However, this practice is ubiquitous across human histories and beliefs. Jesus, Moses, and Siddhartha Gautama all completed “vision quests” of a sort. I’m not trying to say I’m like any of them, of course. My point is this: such a tradition has roots in so many groups and cultures, and belongs to none.

    The program I have chosen to participate in strikes me as an archetypal rite of passage, following the classic anthropological characterization. There is a beginning (“severance”), a middle (“threshold” or “liminality”), and an end (“reincorporation”). There are, additionally, a fast and a period of isolation. The form, meaning and context of the ritual, however, depend on the individual.

    The vision quest has a rich and varied history. Still, I find myself sheepishly telling some that I am “going camping” for 10 days. Others, I know will understand and support my intention immediately. And some, upon hearing my real plans, ask, “Why the hell would you want to do that?” An answer is never quick to reach my lips.

    And so, I am sharing this letter of intent (requested by my program) for the first and the last category of people. For those whom I have not had the courage to tell, and for those who have not understood. Because I am proud of myself for choosing to embark on a journey that twines with the sacred and echoes across time. I want those people, and others like them, to understand why.

    I want to do a vision quest because the prospect of going alone into nature, facing my fears, finding my path, and meeting my deepest self appeals to me on a primal level.

    I feel that I am at a moment of deep transition. I have recently graduated from college, and stand with one foot through the door to the rest of my life. Not just the physical trappings, but also the emotional, metaphysical, and spiritual material of my life seem to be hovering in limbo.

    I would argue, too, that physically the last 23 years have comprised a prolonged transition from total protection and dependence to total self-sufficiency. These shifts call for ritual. I believe we need ritual and ceremony to mark significant passages, and I have chosen that which speaks to my Truth.
    I see my preparation for this journey as an opportunity to articulate for myself and for others the kind of transition I hope to undergo.

    I want to bury frivolity, selfishness and vanity. That is not to say I wish to let go of levity—the six-year-old girl who laughs unstoppably at silly jokes and chases after bubbles can stay. That is also not to say I wish to part with confidence, for that is possibly the greatest strength I possess.

    The 18-year-old woman who tested her power at the expense of others can stay in the past, though. So too can my high school make-up and gratuitous “selfies.” The pride that stops 22-year-old me from asking for help or accepting criticism may stay behind as well.

    Every coin has two sides. I would like to exchange frivolity for meaning, selfishness for generosity, and vanity for humility. I want to discover the outlines, the shadow, even, of the path I am on—the underlying purpose of my actions, choices, and the work I find myself doing. I want to explore the gifts I have not had the chance to cultivate, and then I want to share them with those who might benefit. Finally, I hope to do this for the right reasons, to avoid both praise and confrontation. I intend to return quietly, with grace.

    Moreover, I invite an abundance of joy, laughter, adventure, magic, spirit and stardust into my life. I wish my journey to be a never-ending pursuit of these things.

    Now the hard part. What obstacles block me? What do I really fear? I am afraid I don’t know my weaknesses. I don’t know what I really fear. That in of itself seems a major lacking of knowledge. I cannot fully know myself without it. Maybe it is dangerous to wish for, but I hope to find my fears while I am alone. Until I know what they are, I can’t confront them. Until I know what they are, I can’t defeat them. I am, undeniably, afraid to find out.

    Lastly, my strength. It flows from water. From the moon. From the earth and the stars. I do not connect with these sources often enough. That is, to end where I began, I do not spend enough time alone in Nature. When I stop to listen, though, the wind whispers secrets in my ears. The trees teach me to grow roots. The birds teach me to grow wings. The earth sets a rhythm for my heart to follow, and the rivers sing as they flow through my hair. They know why I am drawn to do this. I want to do a vision quest so they can tell me too.

    ~
    I will, clearly, be mostly ‘off the grid’ for the next ten days. I look forward to sharing some of my experiences when I return.

  • We’re Running Low on Unicorns

    Unicorns seem to be one of those funny, random, reoccurring themes that run through my life. They are joined by the word vagabond, feathers, the color purple (I mean the color, not the book), and plenty of others that I forget about until they pop up once more, unannounced.

    I remember a couple friends who once told me they had decided I was like a unicorn. That is, I was a rare and magical creature. Naturally, this is the best compliment I have ever received to date.

    Unicorns, along with horses, became one of my favorite things to draw as a young girl. To be honest, they were one of the only things I could draw with any accuracy.

    Not mine.

    Yesterday at work, I started a grocery list while waiting for customers to arrive. I made it through yogurt, granola, bananas, cheddar, and cayenne before things got busy. At the end of my shift, I folded up the list, stuffed it in the outside pocket of my backpack, and, as I typically do, completely forgot about it when I stopped at the Middlebury Coop on my way home.

    Today, I pulled the list out of my bag to use as scrap paper, and noticed my coworker’s delightful addition: unicorns.

    “How did you know I was running low?!” I asked her by text.

    She replied: “Aren’t we all.”

    Indeed. Aren’t we all running low on unicorns.

    Now, I could take this much too far into deep, metaphorical waters, and I am tempted to do so, but I will refrain myself. Take from it whatever you choose. A bit of silliness as you segue into your weekend. A nonsensical story only peripherally about unicorns. Or an unintentionally insightful comment on the diminishing place of whimsy in our world.

    It would seem we’re running low on unicorns. Would you mind picking some up at the store?

    ~

  • Servers Love When You Do These Things (Just Kidding. Never Do Any Of It!)

    After a few years working as a server, sometimes part-time, sometimes full-time, always questioning my sanity, I think it is time to let you all in on a few trade secrets. Servers really hate when you do these things:
    Hide your credit inside the checkbook.
    We don’t have x-ray vision, and it is impossible to know if there is a card in there or not. On a busy day, your server will only have time to glance over, and will assume you haven’t looked at your check yet if there is nothing poking out of or sitting on top of it.
    Split checks.
    Okay, sure, it’s convenient for you. But really, how hard is it to figure out what your lunch cost and put in that much money, or to split the check evenly between a few cards? Does that dollar difference between your meal and your friend’s really matter that much? And anyways, you probably eat with these people every week. Why not go in rounds—you know, I’ll pay this week, you pay next week? It will probably work out.
    Be impatient when you ask to split the check six ways.
    So no one has cash and you have to split the check. It happens. No worries. But realize it takes a lot of time to run 6 cards through the credit card machine. No magic wands here. Sorry.
    Hold the check hostage when it is brought to your table.
    You want to sit a while. That’s okay! (Unless it’s busy and there’s a long wait for tables, in which case it’s not really okay. But we’ll say it is.) Just pay for your food so we can close your table and forget about you. There’s no implicit contract saying that once you pay you must leave immediately, so calm down and hand over the checkbook.
    Stand right in the line of traffic while waiting for your table.
    Everyone will dislike you for doing this. When things get busy, we are running, and getting in the way is hazardous for all parties. Fifteen minute wait? Go away, sit in a corner, or stand off to the side. Be anywhere but that spot. Please.
    Ask for extra dressing. Wait for your server to bring it. Ask for more bread. Wait until they return. Ask for another beer. Repeat ad infinitum.
    Oh, your table is low on bread, beer, and dressing? Why not save us three trips back and forth and ask for it all at once? Waiting until your server brings one thing to ask for the next is one of the most inconvenient things you can do.
    Tip poorly.
    There is no excuse for tipping less than 15 percent. I tip 15 for bad service. Good service gets 18 at least, but anyone who realizes that minimum wage is $4/hour and isn’t a miser generally tips at least 20. Regulars who never tip over 15 might be the worst; clearly you like the place. For an extremely comprehensive guide to tipping, check this out: https://www.tobyisrael.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/TABLE-final-3.png.
    Say you are ready to order, then take 5 minutes to make up your mind.
    Every minute spent at your table is a minute a server can’t be doing any of the 50 other things they need to do, like running food, bussing a table, making drinks, or going to the bathroom. Have pity, and don’t ask to place your order until you are actually ready.
    Complain when you receive the food you ordered.
    We want you to be happy and enjoy your food. However, that statement has limitations. If a mistake has legitimately been made, by all means say something. But if you’re unhappy that the garlic potato soup you ordered has too much garlic in it, or that the salad you asked for is too salad-y, sleep in the bed you made.
    Wait to complain until it’s too late to do anything.
    If you are unhappy and there is a way to fix it, don’t say everything is fine when your server checks in on you (unless you are actually fine with it). Once you finish eating, your complaints no longer count.
    Complain, and then insist on doing nothing about it.
    Don’t complain unless you want something changed. Letting your server know the burger is under-cooked, “just to tell them,” is utterly pointless. Don’t take advantage of the free-dessert-to-unhappy-customers-policy, either.
    Be the last people sitting when it’s closing time.
    At this point, you are the only thing stopping your servers from breaking down, sweeping up, and going home. Don’t be those a**holes. When you realize the restaurant is suddenly empty and the servers are sneaking glances at you every minute or so, it’s time to leave.
    Play music loudly on your phone, sit with your chair way out blocking the path, or otherwise disrupt the meals of other diners.
    A restaurant is not your private dining room. Please remember to be a respectful human being while there.
    Invent your own menu options to order.
    Most restaurants will be flexible around modifications and substitutions. Within limits. Yes there is a chicken sandwich, pesto, and asiago chese on the menu. No, it does not say “build your own sandwich” anywhere. All of you no cheese, no gluten faddists are also getting old. The researchers who discovered non-celiac gluten intolerance now think it may not be a real thing (http://www.alternet.org/food/new-study-claims-gluten-intolerance-may-not-exist-separate-celiac-disease), so why not enjoy the bread?
    As always, I present these comments to you with love and appreciation for all those kind, considerate, easy-going diners that find their way to my tables as well. And ultimately, if you must do any of these things, it’s okay. Just realize that they are inconvenient, time-consuming or disruptive and remember to say thank you!

    Did I miss anything? Feel free share your addition in the comments!
    ~

  • Would You Like to be Email Listed?

    Dear friends and readers,

    I have decided (I think) to start up a monthly email update as a kind of lazy-man’s alternative to remembering to read my blog. I’ll let you know where I am, where I’ve been, where I’m heading, and maybe a few thoughts and impressions. In addition, I will include links to my favorite blog posts, articles, and anything else I’ve published that month– just the highlights.

    I’ll keep it short. It might come less often than once a month. It definitely will not come more frequently. There might be pictures.

    Sounds like something delightful you would like to find in your inbox? Just send me a message with your email address and I will add you to the list! (Use the Contact Me form on the right hand side of the page.)

    Happy September everyone!

  • A Vagabond’s Manifesto

    I believe in coincidence. Happenstance. Chance. It has been responsible for so many of my experiences—too real to ignore—creating connections where I expected none, and repeatedly linking past interactions to present ones. I recently picked up Milan Kundera’s “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” and he believes in coincidences too. He writes, “Only chance can speak to us. We read its message much as gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup.” I believe that meaning pools in the cracks between our expectations.
    Only this kind of meaning-full coincidence could explain how often the word “vagabond” crossed my path during my travels through Asia and Europe.
    I saw it painted across the front of buses in Nepal. Printed on a license plate in Thailand. Written on a Guest House sign in Cambodia. On graffiti. On T-shirts. Everywhere. I took its recurrence as an endorsement of my wandering activities by the world of signs.
    “Be Happy. Be Free. Vagabond,” became my motto for that year. I carved it into trees, painted it on walls, and tucked it into emails and postcards.
    In most every religious tradition, words themselves are understood to have power. That is why we are encouraged to repeat mantras or prayers even when we don’t understand them. I had long been drawn to words like “gypsy,” “wander,” “journey,” “nomad,” “wayfaring,” and, of course, “vagabond,” not only for their meanings and the images they conjured, but also for their taste in my mouth, rich and piquant. Their sensual, abstract power touched me deeply. I wrote essays on wanderlust, papers on nomads, and blog posts on wandering. These words cast a spell on me, saturating my dreams, and my waking life too.
    According to the Merriam Webster dictionary, a vagabond is, “a person who travels from place to place and doesn’t have a home or much money.” It can also refer to “leading an unsettled, irresponsible, or disreputable life.” Well, yes. The word “vagabond” often does, admittedly, hold negative connotations. Vagabonds are gypsies, tramps, and vagrants too. Our society often stigmatizes and demonizes these titles and the people who hold them. There is an implied element of disreputability, unsavoriness, or indolence.
    Such definitions have merit, too, and yet, I never lost my love—idealistic though it may be— for the vivid flavor of these words and what they describe. One word, “vagabond,” through chance or predestination, came to inspire my actions, beliefs and perspectives over the course of that year-long journey, and it continues to do so.
    For me, a vagabond is indeed one “who travels from place to place and [maybe] doesn’t have a home or much money,” but he or she is also one who is content with little, open to the world, and ever curious and optimistic. A vagabond defies society’s rules, certainly, but is by no means immoral; we need rule-breakers, (well-meaning) trouble-makers and chance-takers in the world. Vagabonds defy what is expected of them and read signs in the coffee grounds of coincidence. By this definition, I am proud to assign myself such a title.
    In sharing this accumulated list of a vagabond’s guiding principles, garnered from my experiences, I hope to highlight the beauty of this word and its impact on me and my travels. Maybe I will succeed in redefining it for you as I did for myself.
    A Vagabond’s Manifesto:
    • Always expect the absolute best of others, but have the resourcefulness and resiliency to recover when you encounter the worst.
    • Be fluid, open and expansive.
    • Carry little on your back, much in your mind.
    • Embrace spontaneity. Have contingency plans.
    • Never turn down free food.
    • Turn theory into action. Learn courage and fearlessness by doing things that are courageous and fearless.
    • Trust your instincts. Your intuition. Your belly.
    • Never say no to an adventure.
    • When unsure how to proceed, laugh.
    • Play often.
    • Walk everywhere. (Or bike. Or hitchhike. Or scooter. Or swim.)
    • Don’t believe anything everyone tells you. Believe everything anyone tells you.
    • Love and live like your train is leaving tomorrow.
    • Find joy in movement. Find joy in stillness.
    • Wander. Seek. Pursue. In body, mind and soul.
    • Be Happy. Be Free. Vagabond.

    ~

  • Animals Who Think They Are People

    I can’t believe I never got around to posting these. I spent a good chunk of my 2012-2013 travels photographing animals who seemed to really believe they were people. One part photos of animals standing on things in entertaining ways; one part dogs being dogs, goats being goats, etc; these photos never fail to make me chuckle.

    Something about this rooster standing on a motorcycle is so delightful. These roosters really want to go for a joy ride, but they can’t find their keys!

    “I could have sworn I tucked them in here somewhere.” “Dammit Bob, it’s always something with you!”

    Dogs are notorious for thinking they are people.

    “Who? Me? I’m not a dog. Nope, no dogs here.”

    This dog really wants to go to school, but they won’t let him in.

    And this dog is still waiting for his meal to be served.
    “Um, excuse me? I think you forgot something.”

    This monkey may or may not think he is a person, but he knows he is pulling one over on that silly lion.

    “I sit on your head, lion!”
    And last but not least, my favorite travel photo, which I have definitely posted before, deserves to join this list: a goat riding a cow.
    I hope you enjoy these moments of classic animal behavior as much as I do!
    ~

  • An Ode to Small Towns

    In the spirit of Buzzfeed and the general ethos of blogging at present, I would like to begin this post with a list.

    You know you live in a small town when…

    1. Your customers for lunch show up at your other restaurant for dinner.

    2. You run into your “regulars” all over town. They always seem surprised to see you.
    3. Going grocery shopping consists of 2 parts socializing and 1 part buying food.

    4. “Downtown” is Main Street.

    5. Your yoga students show up for dinner, and your dinner customers show up for yoga.

    6. When you walk into the local coffee shop, it takes 30 minutes to get to work, because you have to stop and greet everyone already there.

    7. When you throw a party and invite people from various parts of your life, there is no need to make introductions.

    8. Going to the “City” (Burlington) is an excursion you indulge in about once a month.

    9. You expect greetings from strangers, and find it odd when people don’t say hello.

    10. At least a couple times a week, someone you know drives past you as you’re walking to work and offers you a ride.

    11. Everyone talks about their garden like most people talk about the weather.

    12. No one calls you a hipster when they see you a. fermenting things, b. knitting or crocheting, c. baking, d. biking, or e. wearing flannel.

    Soon-to-be homemade sauerkraut.
    Above all, it is a small, small world when you live in a small town. I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, I live for those coincidences and connections. On the other, I hate gossip, nosy neighbors and unattainable anonymity. For better, for worse, or for bizarre, I currently reside in Middlebury, Vermont, and that deserves a poetic tribute…

    An Ode to Small Towns

    Oh, small towns,
    I can’t decide if I love or hate you.
    You are full of people who compulsively read Front Porch Forum,
    Scanning for nuggets of gossip to purloin,
    or petty arguments to join.
    Still, your characters rival those of the Big City—
    Where else will my neighbor ride his tractor down the road,
    Wearing a cowboy hat and white Santa beard as he goes?
    Oh, small towns,
    I can’t spend a day on your streets without running across a friend, or twenty-two.
    If I have news in the morning,
    They’ve all heard it by noon.
    If I see Main Street I’ve seen all there is to see,
    That is, everything but the dump, the gym, and the local brewery.
    A night out with friends often ends with drinking tea.
    Oh, small towns,
    By your community I feel supported-
    Strangers offer rides into town
    When the rain is pouring.
    Yet at the end of the day
    When I look around,
    I see all the same faces,
    Hear all the same sounds.
    What you lack in variety you make up for in warmth,
    But even so, small towns,
    I think my time with you must be short.
    ~

  • And How Is Your Family?

    A recent conversation with the lovely Alec MacMillen (Arabic speaker and traveler on his way to Jordan on a Fulbright at the end of this month) reminded me of this topic…

    And How is Your Family? Making Connections Abroad

    In the first unit of my Tibetan language class, we learned words for family members and how to ask about them. “Do you have any brothers or sisters? Where are your children? What do they do?” Beyond “how are you?” these were the first questions I learned how to ask the Tibetan residents of my neighborhood in Boudha, Kathmandu, Nepal.
    My friend, a novice monk. We could converse only at a very basic level, but he knew that I had one brother who lived in Canada.
    When I traveled to Senegal on a High School summer exchange program, I learned much the same phrases in Wolof. “Where is your family?” “They are here,” was a classic exchange between strangers or friends. What I didn’t quite understand at age 16, I began to see more clearly while studying in Nepal: In almost any corner of the globe, family is literally the foundation of every relationship. If you want to form a friendship, begin by asking about someone’s parents, sisters, brothers, children. If you wish to grow closer to your host family, ask about children, cousins or siblings abroad.
    In most beginning language courses, vocabulary for family members and questions about family almost always show up in the very first unit. In 6th grade French, I remember finding this awkward and a little bit silly. Many college language students feel much the same way.
    In the U.S., these are not the first questions we are taught to ask. At least, these were not the questions I was taught to ask. For many Americans I know, inquiring about family members is intimate, almost invasive for acquaintances or strangers. Here, if you want to form a friendship, begin by talking about shared interests, food, school… Family comes later.
    In that Tibetan language class, my teachers stressed the importance of asking about family first, before anything else. This was crucial to respectfully initiating conversations and friendships; omitting to ask about family could be perceived as inconsiderate or even offensive.
    Istanbul, where I probably sat down to drink tea in every candy shop over the course of my week-long visit.
    Once learned, this was a lesson I would carry with me. In Turkey, I made friends with every shopkeeper I met, exclusively by asking about family. In Italy, I remembered to ask new friends the same. Regardless of country or age, new acquaintances responded with warmth and enthusiasm to my queries. Do you have children? Where are they? What do they do? Do you have any brothers or sisters? What do they do? Where are they? Are you married? Where is your husband? Your wife? What are their names? Detailed, personal questions repeatedly forged an immediate intimacy and connection that flippant conversations about the weather or school could never produce.
    I became more comfortable in the asking as I saw how people opened to my questions. When I returned home and began conducting interviews for my senior thesis work, I employed the same technique, with surprisingly similar results.
    There exists in the U.S. an individualism that de-emphasizes the role of family. We are individuals. We are not where or who we come from. As I traveled and made friends, however, I found that most people do not agree. Questions about family are so crucial to forming relationships because family is crucial to forming individuals. No matter how much we pretend, we do not exist independently of it.
    While hitchhiking, I bonded quickly with strangers by asking about siblings, children, parents, etc.
    At least, that is the belief that drove my experience of connecting with strangers. Whether or not I believed it didn’t even matter so much; my new friends did.

    So, if you are traveling and you want to make friends, after you ask “how are you?” remember to go on with, “And how is your family?” See what happens.

  • Love Like a Thunderstorm

    I am really happy with the piece I published at elephant journal today, “How to Love Like You’re Caught in a Thunderstorm.” I wanted to share the first part of it here…

    Today, I huddled under the bus stop shelter as torrents of rain poured down outside. 
    Vermont summer storms. 
    A particularly long, sharp bolt of lightning flashed on the horizon. 
    Water splashed on my toes. 
    A little girl stood close to her mother beside me, sobbing. She was scared of the storm. Each crack of thunder louder than the last; I can’t remember the last time I heard thunder like that, reverberating in my chest, echoing in the pit of my stomach.
    My dog is afraid of thunderstorms. She cowers in a tiny nook under a bathroom cabinet whenever she hears rumbling (she is a big dog, so this is quite impressive). The little girl next to me, too, appeared terrified of the wet and the noise and the turmoil. 
    I love these storms. I prefer not to be stuck in them with my yoga mat and my laptop, like today, but that is another story.
    A clap of thunder is like a jolt to my system; it energizes me. My body responds to lightning. I am hardwired, like most of us, to doggedly avoid a downpour, but when I accept the inevitability of being soaked, I relish the rivulets of rain on my skin.

    I rarely write about love. The occasional poem or journal entry aside, I stick to more earthly things: travel, food, wellness. Wary of cliché and cautious of imitation, I leave love to the poets.  But the thunderstorm today inspired me; it was the perfect metaphor, I thought…
    Read the rest here: http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/07/how-to-love-like-youre-caught-in-a-thunderstorm-toby-israel/.
    ~

  • Oh, the Characters of Middlebury

    One of my favorite things about working in restaurants is the unlimited entertainment potential of observing the characters that pass through. Middlebury, Vermont does not disappoint.
    Once, in High School, I took a class in Nonfiction Prose. The first week, the teacher had us walk around the neighborhood, observe the people around us, and write a few character sketches. A few descriptive lines that form a verbal portrait. They can be straightforward or metaphorical, humorous or serious. In what seemed an apt metaphor at the time, and in retrospect more like poor judgment, I distinctly remember comparing my teacher to a baboon. Better choices have been made. Regardless, I love this exercise, and I would like to present to you some of the characters of the – Café. No names, of course, will be named.
    ~
    M— is a tall, odd man. He almost always comes alone and almost always orders a hummus salad to very precise specifications. It is shocking when these two things are not the case. He wears a bucket hat and leans slightly when he walks. Though a bit withdrawn at first impression, M– proves quite garrulous on any subject when engaged. He does not like ice in his water, and he eats very, very slowly.
    G—worked in the foreign service, but I would never have heard it from him. It took a long time for him to decide I was worth conversing with at all. He must have his soup piping hot and immediately. He comes for lunch with various friends. Last week, he asked me if I had seen any sea monsters lately in Otter Creek. I suspect he is hiding an eccentric sense of humor.
    Mr. and Mrs. – are my favorite regulars. They are understanding, appreciative, and very sweet. They always drink iced tea—many, many glasses—and sit for a while.
    C— sits at the bar and has a Switchback beer with his lunch. He might be in his seventies. He speaks gently, likes golf, and has a wife that I have never seen. We don’t have many things to talk about, but he is kind, pays in cash, and tips well.
    J—and A—, whether they come separately or together, are strange and, in my opinion, wonderfully entertaining. They have raised friendly banter to an art form, and on a busy day it is best to avoid them as much as possible. On a quiet day, a conversation at their table is a great way to fill up time. J—is tall with very short hair, and always leans in to speak. He likes Caesar salad and sometimes quiche. A—has curly hair and an old, lumbering dog who waits outside.
    Mr. and Mrs. A— are always very nice, and they always order the same thing. Always. I could tell you their exact order, but that might give it away. Inside, they like the table in the corner. Outside, the table against the wall. They like straws and lemons with their water, but they only sometimes use the straws. They never tip over 17%.
    The I—‘s would be lovely if they weren’t so troublesome. An order for two can be a foot long with all of their additions, substitutions and peculiarities. They usually come for brunch, order more food than I think a person could eat, and finish it. They think the — Cafe is their private kitchen, and we do nothing to disturb this conviction.
    The lawyers are very important people. They never have more than 50 minutes for lunch. They like their soups and salads first, and M—with the blonde hair must have her soup extra hot. With all that, they are surprisingly agreeable, and they never linger.
    Mr. D—owns something in town. He is also a very important person. He likes his iced tea with no spoon in it. His lackeys drink soda, sometimes; they defer to him in all matters. There are usually four of them; only Mr. D— orders an appetizer. As far as I can tell, only Mr. D— speaks. He takes up twice as much space as those around him, in every sense of the phrase.
    ~
    When I was little, and we had to eat at McDonalds on family road trips, I would order a cheeseburger without the burger. We called it a Toby Special. Now that I am not six years old however, one, I avoid McDonalds at all costs (along with the rest of my family), and two, I order off the menu. I can make myself a sandwich with no bread and nothing on it at home.
    When work is slow and I have time to, I often wonder how people come to have such exact, particular peculiarities. Likes and dislikes. Demands. Needs. Are they born that way, or is it a byproduct of aging? Are they raised to need straws in their water with no ice, to demand that their soup be hot enough to give third degree burns, and to require, absolutely, that there be no trace of onion on their burger? Are we all so peculiar in our tastes, only more self-conscious of demanding their satisfaction? Do I just have lower standards? Were our parents less indulgent? Are “characters” just average people whose idiosyncrasies have gone unchecked? Possibly.

    Or maybe, as my experience as a server indicates, idiosyncrasy is the norm, and those without restrictions, requirements and specifications are the exception. Maybe this pattern is a unique result of American culture and values. That seems likely, for in all the time I have spent outside the U.S., I have never seen someone order a sandwich without bread.*
    ~

    *That is not to say there is anything wrong, necessarily, with ordering a sandwich without bread. It is simply interesting, and  maybe indicative of something, to observe the frequency of such requests.

  • New Articles on Elephant Journal

    http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/07/dig-to-the-bottom-other-lessons-i-learned-from-thrift-store-shopping-toby-israel/

    http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/07/its-okay-to-be-a-jewbu-but-im-not-toby-israel/

    Check them out!

    ~

  • Waiting for the Invisible, Part II

    (I promised lots of pictures this time…)

    Watermelon flower. I think I am a little bit in love with these plants.

    It’s official, there is nothing invisible about my garden now. Two strapping zucchini vines are nearly two feet tall, competing with the flowers I didn’t know were already planted there. Tomatoes have turned from green to orange. Red is just around the corner. The turnips that I don’t want to eat and will probably give away are pushing round white haunches out of the earth. Even the watermelon vine (Yes, watermelon in Vermont!) displays one tiny fruit the size of my pinky nail, and several flowers. The haricots vert, too, are in bloom, with the scrawny beginnings of green beans dangling beneath.

    Teeny tiny baby watermelon!

    Soon we will be enjoying fiori di zuccha (zucchini flowers), stuffed with cheese and fried, fresh tomatoes and basil warm from the sun, and… something with turnips. (Maybe I will grow to love turnips.) Here they are, round two of garden photographs:

    Purple basil flowers. I hear you are supposed to clip them, but they’re too beautiful!

    Oh turnips, what will I do with you?

    Tomato before.
    Tomato now.
    Zucchini before.
    Zucchini now.
    The haricots vert survived the rabbits, hedgehogs and foxes!

    I hope you enjoy these as much as I do! Check back for Part III.
    ~