Cowabunga, Dudes!

“Dude,” said Hawk. Which is appropriate, I suppose, given his Ninja-Turtley nature when sporting his new quilted vest. That and the surfing theme of “our” yoga studio, ocean earth wind fire, which not only landed in the Top Five of Fox 29’s recent Best of the Philly HOT LIST but is also soon celebrating its 2nd Anniversary Cowabunga Bash Week.

All next week, October 12–18, all kinds of fun events are taking place, beginning with Monday evening’s special class at the John James Audubon Center. For a schedule, go here. It’s hard to believe the studio’s already two and Hawk’s already one. Everyone’s growing up! Dude!

The Best of What’s Around: The Philly HOT LIST

Over the years, Phoenixville has become the place we go when we want to walk about in an urban setting. Recently, many of the establishments we frequent on the revitalized Bridge Street have been nominated as Best of the Philly HOT LIST sponsored by FOX 29. I'd have you vote for the whole block if I could, but since that option's not available I've provided handy individual links for your use (you do have to register). That goes for my international friends, too.

And make it quick. Voting closes on Friday, September 11.

Artisans Gallery & Café. Long-time readers will recognize Artisans as a frequent locale in these pages. Run by the mother-and-son team of Rosie and Rich Holck, Artisans provides great coffee and light fare in a warm setting festooned with local art. It’s also home to barista and local treasure Joey, who really does have red hair. Vote here.

Black Lab Bistro. The brave restaurant that helped ignite the rebirth of modern Phoenixville. This was our one destination when the town was still on the seedy side. The menu is varied and daring, and will likely satisfy fans of the burger as well as those who favor quail or gnocchi in their dishes. Vote here.

The Colonial Theatre. An old-time movie house and the closest and coolest place to catch indie and foreign fare. Vote here.

Hipster Home. If you aspire to a modern house filled with eclectic housewares, or, for example, prints of French anatomical sketches, this is your stop. Vote here.

Kimberton Whole Foods. A few miles away in historic Kimberton, this is where all the cool kids go for their local, organic, often biodynamic foodstuffs, including grass-fed beef, Fair Trade tea and coffee, and raw milk. You know you want to. Vote here.

ocean earth wind fire. You won’t find a cozier yoga studio in the area, for good reason: it’s also the home of owner/teacher Susan Madden-Cox. Enjoy a variety of restorative and flowing classes taught by excellent teachers, including Jenifer, as well as live music on Friday nights and the occasional fire-pit gathering. Located next to newly founded Balder Park and Iron Hill Brewery. Vote here.

Wolfgang Books. Located atop Hipster Home and reached only by climbing no less than 26 precipitous stairs, Wolfgang Books offers a mix of used and new books, from T.E. Lawrence: The Selected Letters to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and everything in between, in a spacious room with hardwood floors and filled with the haunting scent of old paper. Bonus tip: During Phoenixville’s annual Firebird Festival in December, visit the enclosed porch for the best view of Bridge Street decked out for the holidays. Vote here.

Hawk Is One

Joy of Mud

Fleeing District 9

District 9 is an important, original work. It creates a fully realized alternate reality and is likely one of the best films of the year. Think Children of Men with aliens. Jenifer and I really liked it, at least what we saw of it.

Jenifer lasted about 40 minutes, and I left about 5 minutes later. We don’t usually walk out of movies, mostly because we try to spend our limited moviegoing time on stuff that’s good. And District 9 looked good, and is good.

District 9 is intense. It is stressful. It is not for the faint-hearted, the squeamish, new mothers, or those with Vata out of balance. I don’t know if one’s astrological sign matters.

As with the best fantasy literature, I don’t see movies as escapism. I go to the movies to be moved. To be inspired, uplifted, challenged, provoked, made aware. But we were on a rare date, and a simple cost-benefit analysis had us each realize we didn’t need to spend our limited moviegoing time feeling stressed out. Julie & Julia this was not.

I think we’re most disappointed because we like science fiction, and this is science fiction produced by Pete. We want to know how it ends! I did check with Greg Broadmore, an online buddy and the designer responsible for much of the film’s amazing look, and he
assured me that [SPOILER ALERT] little CJ does in fact survive. [END SPOILER.] So that’s good.

I will probably try again when the film comes to DVD. And I will try not to launch a new movement whose manifesto calls for films free of conflict, tension, and menace, and troublesome things like “thematic elements.”

I will also pay attention to the lady behind the glass. When we went to buy our tickets, she carded us. Maybe she knew something we didn't.

City and Sea

We’ve been back from our trip for what seems like eons now, the subtle tides of reverse culture shock have long since ebbed, and a few weeks ago I got around to cleaning out the luggage. In my suitcase, in what I believed was an unused pocket, I found a sizeable plastic bag filled with dirt. How long the fine, powdery soil had been there, or where in the world I picked it up, or for what reason, I have no idea. I can only thank my lucky stars the LAX security forces didn’t throw me in a Homeland Security dungeon on charges of bioterrorism. They did take my bag of apples.

In any case, I’ll wrap up the narrative of our trip with some of the highlights of the last week of our stay. Our love of harbor cities demanded that we take a harbor tour, and it turned out that the Museum of Wellington City and Sea offered a particularly appealing program: the Ships and Chips tour.

The tour starts with a brief account of Maori creation myths, then dashes through a selection of the top 101 stories from the 20th century that are relevant to the day’s main attraction. At this point you are whisked outside to catch the vessel that will carry you across the Wellington Harbour to Matiu/Somes Island.

The island’s name reflects modern relations between Maori, the original settlers, and Europeans, or Pakeha: peaceful coexistence, mutual respect, and a prevailing "get it done" attitude. As Matiu, the island had been the site of an important fortified stronghold, or pa. In the 19th century, the island was renamed after Joseph Somes, deputy-governor of the New Zealand Company, and served as a sort of Ellis Island for the unwanted: the diseased, prisoners of war, and individuals guilty of belonging to races or political affiliations suspected of anti-nationalist agendas.

The journey to the island was magnificent. For winter especially, and considering the beginning of our trip, the skies were sunny and the water clear and steady. The white towers of the city’s Central Business District quickly fell away, and within 20 minutes we reached the green island.

We were greeted by Matt, one of the rangers who lives on the island. He escorted our party into a little outbuilding where we got the lay of the land and checked our bags for mice, which have been kept off the island as part of conservation efforts. After Matt’s talk we were free to range the island’s various loops, with the only significant rule being to return in time for the ferry. Before heading off, though, Matt taught us the Maori word for “hawk”: kahu.

After enjoying our boxed lunch of the Kiwi standby, fish and chips, we began a large circle around the perimeter of the island. Soon we were found the cemetery memorializing the quarantined who had perished, and just off the south coast the smaller Leper Island, so called for the Chinese businessman forced to live in a cave for a year until he died not of leprosy but kidney failure. The walk was far from grim, however, as the alien trees and the rocky shores, and the call of the red-crowned parakeets/kakariki provided plenty of satisfying wonderment, even if we didn’t spy the elusive tuatara, a contemporary of the dinosaurs. Atop the island are the conservationists’ buildings, and near the working lighthouse I found a tram track dated to 1866. From that point we could see, across the harbor, the narrow, winding road we’d taken around the Miramar peninsula a number of times, including just the day before.

Our aim was the Chocolate Fish, the popular café in Scorching Bay, Miramar, but we knew that was impossible since the establishment had closed recently under scandalous circumstances. Our friend Jack agreed to take us to its replacement, if only to enjoy the view, and then on a tour around the city’s extensive coastline.

Since New Zealand is so far away as to seem either exotic or an abstraction of time and place, one of the questions I’m asked most, not unreasonably, is “What’s it like?” The simplest answer I can offer, at least of Wellington, is San Francisco with Seattle weather. The domestic architecture is a mixture of Victorian and modern, and in the countryside or along the shores you are likely to find sprinklings of weather-beaten bachs (pronounced “batches”)—little huts that serve as summer homes and vacation getaways.

As we drove through these little seaside villages, we looked out for blue penguins and shags and took in Jack’s engaging commentary. At one point we reached the end of the road and the awesome slope of Red Rocks. The landscape was impressive as it was, but it didn’t hurt to learn that it had doubled as the site where Frodo and Sam hid from a troop of Haradrim in the shadow of the Black Gate. In every sense of the word, this place is fantastic.

The Soul of Wit

My mother-in-law says my blog “has too many words.” She laughed in telling me this, realizing that words are, after all, the chief currency of most blogs. She just wanted to see some photos from our most recent trip to New Zealand. Later, it occurred to me that her assessment may have been directed not so much at the blog but its author instead.

The other day I went out for my usual meditation at the Quaker meeting house near the office. As I was about to take my seat on the front porch, I saw that two men were cleaning and painting a newly installed fence by the road. They belonged to Millennium Restoration, the outfit that had recently applied the same treatment to the fence bordering the graveyard. Wanting to preserve my privacy, I kept walking. I also noticed, in the field across the street, a clearing filled with stones arranged in a familiar, winding pattern.

One of the men, seeing my new intent, pointed to the rings of stone.

“What is that?” Millennium asked.

“A meditation labyrinth,” I answered. Deep creases formed on his brow.

“What?”

“A meditation labyrinth,” I repeated.

“A . . . lab-inth? What’s that?”

At this point a competent rhetorician, or a rational adult human, upon sizing up his audience, would give the shortest possible answer so as to make good his escape. I wish I could tell you this is what happened. Alas, herewith did I launch into a telling of the tale of Theseus and the Minotaur.

Fortunately, I managed to detect that the glint in the man’s eye was not rapture but rather the light of the burning sun under which he was toiling. So I quickly swerved into a line about needing to clear my mind and get away from the office for a few moments. He griped good-naturedly about the heat, but I pointed out, trying to be helpful, that at least he got to spend his time outdoors.

I took my leave and Millennium bid me “good luck.” I found this a potentially ominous thing to say, for what divine assistance would I require in traversing a path on which one cannot get lost? I reached the labyrinth, and just then a red-tailed hawk screeched and took flight from its perch high above the trees shading the cemetery. (Amazingly, this would happen again in exactly the same way later in the week.) I took this as a countering good sign.

I proceeded to wend my way through the labyrinth. And just as I reached the center and a suitable degree of “no mind,” a jarring sound from the outer world penetrated my consciousness.

“AFLACK!”

It was Millennium. I didn’t look up from the stones, only smiled at the well-meaning intrusion. And reminded myself not to tell him, on my journey back, about that poor fellow named Yorick.

(And all this to say: trip pictures are up! Enjoy.)