What's better than soup so hot it burns? Almost scalding, sets my tongue tingling. Spicy to the point of a runny nose. Ahh, it's a beautiful thing.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Mont Royal
It's the name of both the mountain in the center of the city, whose summit is dominated by a monumental glowing cross (a remnant of the original settlement of French traders) and the source of the city's name. Mont Royal = Montreal
We mounted that edifice (by which I mean the group took a bus to the viewing point midway up and back down again) and conquered that city. It was beautiful. Not just the mountain or the view, though; the whole city is gorgeous. As was the experience.
In a lot of ways, Montreal reminded us of New York and other urban areas the group had visited. But, in a number of respects, the city is unique. Old Montreal sits right beside the minuscule Chinese Quarter and the Centre-Ville district (read: "Downtown"). A metro line exists that connects only three stations, one of which is mostly desolate island parkland and the farthest of which is "off-island" altogether. Extraordinarily useful tunnels connecting metro stations, hotels and shopping centers were austere and mostly empty, but magnificently well-kept.
It was like we caught the city off-guard. The Sunday to Tuesday visit is a bit eccentric, I guess. That was part of what made this trip what it was. We got something like an "insider's view."
I doubt, though, that any true insider would have chosen the particular combination of sites we chose to frequent. Best stop: an abandoned (and partially roped off) stadium leftover from Exposition '67 in the middle of a barrier island park. Post-industrial ruins - the new cool hangout. Take that intentional and advertised amusement parks! There was one of those on the same island complex, but we disregarded that altogether.
We mounted that edifice (by which I mean the group took a bus to the viewing point midway up and back down again) and conquered that city. It was beautiful. Not just the mountain or the view, though; the whole city is gorgeous. As was the experience.
In a lot of ways, Montreal reminded us of New York and other urban areas the group had visited. But, in a number of respects, the city is unique. Old Montreal sits right beside the minuscule Chinese Quarter and the Centre-Ville district (read: "Downtown"). A metro line exists that connects only three stations, one of which is mostly desolate island parkland and the farthest of which is "off-island" altogether. Extraordinarily useful tunnels connecting metro stations, hotels and shopping centers were austere and mostly empty, but magnificently well-kept.
It was like we caught the city off-guard. The Sunday to Tuesday visit is a bit eccentric, I guess. That was part of what made this trip what it was. We got something like an "insider's view."
We did a lot of that, overlooking the obvious hangouts, going for something "off-the-beaten-path," so to speak. We put on our adventurers' hats, or looped on our photographers' gear, in the case of the paparrazzi, and found our own Montreal. Go find your own; biospheres, Blue Dogs, bad beer, deserted parks, random sightings of teachers of music humanities, off-limits underground exploration, and killer poutine need not be included.
Canada, go another round? I'll be back.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
American buffalo: "There are like a few hundred of them left, right?"
The range of the American buffalo (or more accurately, bison) used to stretch from the Canadian Great Bear Lake down to Nuevo León in Mexico and east to the western edge of the Appalachian Mountains on the East Coast of the United States. There were truly massive herds of bison roaming this huge tract of land before the 17th century; many of the so-called Indians hunted them almost exclusively and, indeed, based much of their culture around the traditional hunt.
Almost all bison alive today are held in captivity. To be sure, there are many in zoos or on preserves. The majority of all bison, though, are raised for human consumption: 250,000 of the 350,000 remaining buffalo are farmed for food. There is also a large population of "beefalo" - a genetic cross between bison and domestic cattle. Of the 100,000 non-farmed bison, only about 15,000 are considered "wild buffalo." Yes, down from the hundreds of millions of American buffalo that once ranged the land of the Americas and fed the Native Americans, there are only a few thousand left in the wild.
Admittedly, it's better than "a few hundred," but barely. Once there were more American buffalo than people in the North American continent. Even if scavenging was unsuccessful, if the season was unproductive, if other forms of hunting proved a failure, if a drought destroyed any crops the Natives might plant, the bison on the range offered some solace. A skilled group of warrior-hunters could reliably bring home bison meat to feed their families and their community. Admittedly, the American buffalo played little role in the day-to-day nutrition of most Native American peoples, but they often played a great role in the culture and lifestyle of many Native communities. The culture of the hunt was more important than any other singular activity in defining tribes like the Sioux, the Arapaho, and the Cheyenne which depended heavily on the bison population.
As a part of the Indian Wars in the 19th century, when American troops couldn't defeat the Native American tribes allied against them outright, they rounded up and exterminated the buffalo herds for sport and as a form of subjugation. Without the bison herds, Natives could no longer be defiant; they would be forced to depend on Indian agents and their rations. Tied to the reservation, they would be unable to defend themselves proactively. It gave further force to the American theory that Indians needed to be restrained, pacified, civilized, and educated. Deprived of their traditional hunting means and gathering grounds, the reservation system and the Indian bureau could force Indians who had never farmed to learn the "civilized skill."
Then, in 1880, there were literally only "a few hundred of them left." The American buffalo were near extinction, and so were the Native people. Confined to the reservation, and with their children shipped off to re-education boarding schools, the traditional ways of the American Indians were being deliberately erased. The myth of the vanishing Indians ran rampant. Just as there is evidence of a comeback for the American buffalo in recent years, there has been a reclaiming of Native identity in the past century. Thankfully.
You wouldn't know that from quotes like the one that titles this page. A very dear friend uttered this phrase, and I was livid. I simply could not find a way to express it. In many ways, the buffalo is equivalent to the Native, especially to those whose heritage traces to the Plains Indians. To disregard the animal is to disregard the people, not my people necessarily (the Eastern Cherokee, Chickasaw, and Lumbee never really hunted buffalo; we're east of the Appalachians), but definitely those in the heart of Indian Country.
Almost all bison alive today are held in captivity. To be sure, there are many in zoos or on preserves. The majority of all bison, though, are raised for human consumption: 250,000 of the 350,000 remaining buffalo are farmed for food. There is also a large population of "beefalo" - a genetic cross between bison and domestic cattle. Of the 100,000 non-farmed bison, only about 15,000 are considered "wild buffalo." Yes, down from the hundreds of millions of American buffalo that once ranged the land of the Americas and fed the Native Americans, there are only a few thousand left in the wild.
Admittedly, it's better than "a few hundred," but barely. Once there were more American buffalo than people in the North American continent. Even if scavenging was unsuccessful, if the season was unproductive, if other forms of hunting proved a failure, if a drought destroyed any crops the Natives might plant, the bison on the range offered some solace. A skilled group of warrior-hunters could reliably bring home bison meat to feed their families and their community. Admittedly, the American buffalo played little role in the day-to-day nutrition of most Native American peoples, but they often played a great role in the culture and lifestyle of many Native communities. The culture of the hunt was more important than any other singular activity in defining tribes like the Sioux, the Arapaho, and the Cheyenne which depended heavily on the bison population.
As a part of the Indian Wars in the 19th century, when American troops couldn't defeat the Native American tribes allied against them outright, they rounded up and exterminated the buffalo herds for sport and as a form of subjugation. Without the bison herds, Natives could no longer be defiant; they would be forced to depend on Indian agents and their rations. Tied to the reservation, they would be unable to defend themselves proactively. It gave further force to the American theory that Indians needed to be restrained, pacified, civilized, and educated. Deprived of their traditional hunting means and gathering grounds, the reservation system and the Indian bureau could force Indians who had never farmed to learn the "civilized skill."
Then, in 1880, there were literally only "a few hundred of them left." The American buffalo were near extinction, and so were the Native people. Confined to the reservation, and with their children shipped off to re-education boarding schools, the traditional ways of the American Indians were being deliberately erased. The myth of the vanishing Indians ran rampant. Just as there is evidence of a comeback for the American buffalo in recent years, there has been a reclaiming of Native identity in the past century. Thankfully.
You wouldn't know that from quotes like the one that titles this page. A very dear friend uttered this phrase, and I was livid. I simply could not find a way to express it. In many ways, the buffalo is equivalent to the Native, especially to those whose heritage traces to the Plains Indians. To disregard the animal is to disregard the people, not my people necessarily (the Eastern Cherokee, Chickasaw, and Lumbee never really hunted buffalo; we're east of the Appalachians), but definitely those in the heart of Indian Country.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Americans, Greedy Bastards
"It's pretty clear why this particular sale lodged in the cultural memory, why it became legend: the extreme incongruity, the exquisitely absurd price. It is the most dramatic illustration of the whole long process of stripping the natives of their land. The idea that the center of world commerce, an island packed with trillions of dollars' worth of real estate, was once bought from supposedly hapless Stone Age innocents for twenty-four dollars' worth of household goods is too delicious to let slip. It speaks to our sense of early American history as the history of savvy, ruthless Europeans conniving, tricking, enslaving, and bludgeoning innocent and guileless natives out of their land and their lives. It's a neatly packed symbol of the entire conquest of the continent that was to come."
* from The Island at the Center of the World: The Epic Story of Dutch Manhattan & the Forgotten Colony that Shaped America, Russell Shorto - p. 50
* from The Island at the Center of the World: The Epic Story of Dutch Manhattan & the Forgotten Colony that Shaped America, Russell Shorto - p. 50
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Prostitutes on "Holy Ground?"
Interesting fact:
In the mid-1700s, all the city's prostitutes - "500 ladies of pleasure*" - lived in the vicinity of St. Paul's.
* from Empire City: New York Through the Centuries, p. 84 - Kenneth T. Jackson and David S. Dunbar
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Makes the locavore practice more and more appealing.
Pineapples, bananas, and mangos. All these are brightly colored, highly prized, tropical fruits. I love them all, but I'm constantly reminded of their origins. Ultimately, they are all "trophies of imperialism and colonialism.*" King Ferdinand proclaimed the pineapple, for example, a royal and lordly fruit when Mr. Columbus brought them back. These breadfruits, now seen as a Hawaiian icon, came originally from Argentina and Paraguay. Hawaii, though, is the so-called "pineapple empire" - just as the northeastern coasts of South America became known as the "Banana Lands." Both of these colorful designations come from the rise of an international economic system, one expressly controlled by western exporters.
It's most interesting that color plays so important a role in defining the character of these so-desirable fruits. Like their source countries' inhabitants, the exotic skin color is part of the intrigue. Tropical fruits are sumptuous and exciting; they're thought to add variety or spice to one's life. In other words, it's gastric colonialism.
* from Pineapple Culture: A History of the Tropical and Temperate Zones, Gary Y. Okihiro
It's most interesting that color plays so important a role in defining the character of these so-desirable fruits. Like their source countries' inhabitants, the exotic skin color is part of the intrigue. Tropical fruits are sumptuous and exciting; they're thought to add variety or spice to one's life. In other words, it's gastric colonialism.
* from Pineapple Culture: A History of the Tropical and Temperate Zones, Gary Y. Okihiro
Monday, September 21, 2009
Why does this make me so unbearably sad?
"Initially it was what Denton called 'the sweetness of Air' that bewitched explorers and travelers. 'Dry, sweet, and healthy,' Adriaen van der Donck wrote. 'Sweet and fresh,' the missionary Jaspar Danckaerts noted...
It was the miraculous size and quantity and variety of things - the sheer prodigality of life - that left the most lasting impression. Travelers spoke of vast meadows of grass 'as high as a mans middle' and forests with towering stands of walnut, cedar, chestnut, maple, and oak. Orchards bore apples of incomparable sweetness and 'pears larger than a fist.' Every spring the hills and fields were dyed red with ripening strawberries, and so many birds filled the woods 'that men can scarcely go through them for the whistling, the noise, and the chattering.' Boats crossing the bay were escorted by schools of playful whales, seals, and porpoises. Twelve-inch oysters and six-foot lobsters crowded offshore waters, and so many fish thrived in streams and ponds that they could be taken by hand. Woods and tidal marshlands teemed with bears, wolves, foxes, raccoons, otters, beavers, quail, partridge, forty-pound wild turkeys, doves 'so numerous that the light can hardly be discerned where they fly,' and countless deer 'feeding or gamboling or resting in the shades in full view.' Wild swans were so plentiful 'that the bays and shores where hey resort appear as if they were dressed in white drapery.' Blackbirds roosted together in such numbers tha tone hunter killed 170 with a single shot; another bagged eleven sixteen-pound gray geese in the same way. 'There are some persons who imagine that the animals of the country will be destroyed in time,' mused Van der Donck, 'but this is an unnecessary anxiety."
* "Lenape Country and New Amsterdam to 1664," Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898, Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace
Oh right. That last sentence: that's the sad part. He was so wrong. Van der Donck was so so inevitably wrong. Yes, this is the early New York being described, as the Dutch found it, as the Natives were used to it being, and as it will never be again.
It was the miraculous size and quantity and variety of things - the sheer prodigality of life - that left the most lasting impression. Travelers spoke of vast meadows of grass 'as high as a mans middle' and forests with towering stands of walnut, cedar, chestnut, maple, and oak. Orchards bore apples of incomparable sweetness and 'pears larger than a fist.' Every spring the hills and fields were dyed red with ripening strawberries, and so many birds filled the woods 'that men can scarcely go through them for the whistling, the noise, and the chattering.' Boats crossing the bay were escorted by schools of playful whales, seals, and porpoises. Twelve-inch oysters and six-foot lobsters crowded offshore waters, and so many fish thrived in streams and ponds that they could be taken by hand. Woods and tidal marshlands teemed with bears, wolves, foxes, raccoons, otters, beavers, quail, partridge, forty-pound wild turkeys, doves 'so numerous that the light can hardly be discerned where they fly,' and countless deer 'feeding or gamboling or resting in the shades in full view.' Wild swans were so plentiful 'that the bays and shores where hey resort appear as if they were dressed in white drapery.' Blackbirds roosted together in such numbers tha tone hunter killed 170 with a single shot; another bagged eleven sixteen-pound gray geese in the same way. 'There are some persons who imagine that the animals of the country will be destroyed in time,' mused Van der Donck, 'but this is an unnecessary anxiety."
* "Lenape Country and New Amsterdam to 1664," Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898, Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace
Oh right. That last sentence: that's the sad part. He was so wrong. Van der Donck was so so inevitably wrong. Yes, this is the early New York being described, as the Dutch found it, as the Natives were used to it being, and as it will never be again.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Primeval = Savage(s)
"Horrors lurked in the primeval forest, not nymphs and naiads. Terror lived there, with its close attendant, Magic, and its most common defense, Human Sacrifice."
* from Edith Hamilton, Mythology
* from Edith Hamilton, Mythology
Thursday, August 20, 2009
You can find me in the moonlight.
Sunlight is something I can fully get behind. The warmth, the feel of its rays dancing on your skin, the wholesomeness of sitting in its light at midday in some out-of-the-way corner of the world. One could say I delight in it, revel in this sensory expression of the electromagnetic radiation given off by the Sun. But more than direct sunlight, I appreciate the reflection of the Sun's rays onto the Earth via the Moon. Not because I necessarily prefer this weaker form of light. Moonlight is a part of the night, though, and I love the world of darkness that emerges after nightfall. I always have.
It explains a lot about me.
I love everything about the night. The sounds - grasshoppers, owls, cicadas, the quiet and often unidentified scramblings of creatures heard from afar, trees rustling in the wind. Night time smells are admittedly less easily identifiable than the sounds of the night, but distinctive in their own right; the night is fresher than daytime, more pristine, and "quieter" if that word can be used to describe an olfactory spectrum. Jasmine scents the air where it blooms and grass has an even sweeter smell by night, forced to filter through the cooler and thicker air.
Night is filled with mysteries. Maybe that's why I love it. Things are hidden. People and things can go unnoticed in a dusky setting. Everything is a little shrouded, and making out the details is an exercise in observation. It's this very atmospheric trait that makes vampire and werewolf legends so arresting, in my opinion. The night feels like it's keeping a secret, hiding something from you. Why can't that secret be supernatural creatures and legendary shapeshifters? Anything can be true in the night air, or so it seems.
For an adolescent adrenaline junkie, it was perfection. Sitting alone, curled up with my imagination was enough sometimes. I could feel the moonlight streaming down on me, hear the night sounds, and imagine that at any moment something unexpected could happen. My childhood is filled with memories of spending time alone in the woods past nightfall, walking for hours wrapped in the heavy and mysterious air. Still, I love these things. The moonlight reminds me. To this day, dawn sometimes makes me sad. Even though the day brings just as much to enjoy, dawn marks the end of the night, the disappearance of the stars, and I can feel it almost physically.
It explains a lot about me.
I love everything about the night. The sounds - grasshoppers, owls, cicadas, the quiet and often unidentified scramblings of creatures heard from afar, trees rustling in the wind. Night time smells are admittedly less easily identifiable than the sounds of the night, but distinctive in their own right; the night is fresher than daytime, more pristine, and "quieter" if that word can be used to describe an olfactory spectrum. Jasmine scents the air where it blooms and grass has an even sweeter smell by night, forced to filter through the cooler and thicker air.
Night is filled with mysteries. Maybe that's why I love it. Things are hidden. People and things can go unnoticed in a dusky setting. Everything is a little shrouded, and making out the details is an exercise in observation. It's this very atmospheric trait that makes vampire and werewolf legends so arresting, in my opinion. The night feels like it's keeping a secret, hiding something from you. Why can't that secret be supernatural creatures and legendary shapeshifters? Anything can be true in the night air, or so it seems.
For an adolescent adrenaline junkie, it was perfection. Sitting alone, curled up with my imagination was enough sometimes. I could feel the moonlight streaming down on me, hear the night sounds, and imagine that at any moment something unexpected could happen. My childhood is filled with memories of spending time alone in the woods past nightfall, walking for hours wrapped in the heavy and mysterious air. Still, I love these things. The moonlight reminds me. To this day, dawn sometimes makes me sad. Even though the day brings just as much to enjoy, dawn marks the end of the night, the disappearance of the stars, and I can feel it almost physically.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Does this make me an energy vampire?
The city offers me its vitality on a daily basis. Vitality may seem a strange choice of words, but it's the word I meant. Its lifeforce, its surging humanity, sustains me in a way that very few things, places or activities ever could.
Hiking fills me with strength and wholesomeness. Sitting quietly, alone with my thoughts can be peaceful. Parties are filled with a certain sense of life. Dances, powwows, and gatherings are great. It's true: I love all of these things and they contribute to my overall mood in a similar way as the city. But none of them compares to simply living as an integral part of this city.
It baffles me that people living here feel "dragged down" by the city, or tired out by its constant hustle and bustle. People leave the city on the weekends in a mass exodus for anywhere but here. I'm included in this flow since I babysit for a family who makes the weekly trek to parts elsewhere. They're all happy to be leaving, excited to be leaving behind the massive sink that is New York City, for places like rural Connecticut, Massachusetts, and the Hamptons. I enjoy the comparative greenness of some of these places, but I can't wholeheartedly agree with their desire to leave the city. I can't find in myself the excitement they feel in leaving it behind.
In leaving each weekend, there are so many things that I miss. Summer in the city is filled with innumerable free and cheap events. I hear complaints everywhere that everything in the city is overpriced, too expensive, etc. That simply is not my experience. Buy an unlimited MetroCard, and spend some time doing your research (or hell, pay an online service to do it for you - Club Free Time, etc.), and get out into the city. It's well worth it. The people who are at events like these (film screenings in Bryant Park, free concerts, NY Philharmonic in the park, SummerStage, poetry readings, museum shows) are all seeking similar experiences.
At free events and shows, the people around you are at least slightly like-minded. We are all the intrepid adventurers of the city. We all seek the same thing, to a certain extent: we want to take in the scene, the show, the environment, and (even if most won't acknowledge it) the energy of the crowd itself. That is what I mean by vitality. Energy emanates from the people who populate this city and at the many and varied events I attend around the city, I bask in it.
Hiking fills me with strength and wholesomeness. Sitting quietly, alone with my thoughts can be peaceful. Parties are filled with a certain sense of life. Dances, powwows, and gatherings are great. It's true: I love all of these things and they contribute to my overall mood in a similar way as the city. But none of them compares to simply living as an integral part of this city.
It baffles me that people living here feel "dragged down" by the city, or tired out by its constant hustle and bustle. People leave the city on the weekends in a mass exodus for anywhere but here. I'm included in this flow since I babysit for a family who makes the weekly trek to parts elsewhere. They're all happy to be leaving, excited to be leaving behind the massive sink that is New York City, for places like rural Connecticut, Massachusetts, and the Hamptons. I enjoy the comparative greenness of some of these places, but I can't wholeheartedly agree with their desire to leave the city. I can't find in myself the excitement they feel in leaving it behind.
In leaving each weekend, there are so many things that I miss. Summer in the city is filled with innumerable free and cheap events. I hear complaints everywhere that everything in the city is overpriced, too expensive, etc. That simply is not my experience. Buy an unlimited MetroCard, and spend some time doing your research (or hell, pay an online service to do it for you - Club Free Time, etc.), and get out into the city. It's well worth it. The people who are at events like these (film screenings in Bryant Park, free concerts, NY Philharmonic in the park, SummerStage, poetry readings, museum shows) are all seeking similar experiences.
At free events and shows, the people around you are at least slightly like-minded. We are all the intrepid adventurers of the city. We all seek the same thing, to a certain extent: we want to take in the scene, the show, the environment, and (even if most won't acknowledge it) the energy of the crowd itself. That is what I mean by vitality. Energy emanates from the people who populate this city and at the many and varied events I attend around the city, I bask in it.
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