No Sugar Tonight In My Coffee

This is me, steaming milk for a latte.

Saturday, July 25

Yesterday was my last day working as a barista at Colectivo Coffee. I've got really mixed feelings about this, mostly because I don't really know what's coming next...but also partly because we made damn good coffee, and after working there for a year, I'm not sure I want to quit the caffeine.

My first day on the job, in August of last year, I started off learning to make basic drip coffee. People like drip coffee; it's fairly inexpensive,
and hot, and full of caffeine. It's especially popular on business mornings, probably for the obvious reason.

And then I learned how to make other basic drinks, like smoothies and teas* and iced chai. I learned how to use the register and how to make and serve a sandwich. I woke up at quarter after four in the a.m., so I could open the store at 5.

And then I started working on on bar, first learning espresso, then milk steaming. In between other duties, I practiced.

I practiced more.

Colectivo's process of training baristas is, I'm told, a rigorous one in the world of coffee shops. I had to learn how to talk about espresso—to describe it as, “cherry with a hint of cola,” or, “grapefruit and pine notes with a buttery finish,” rather than the words most people come up with when they first describe espresso: bitter. Caffeinated. Coffee. Acidic. Gross. I learned how to change the flavors from acrid to drinkable**, in a process called 'dialing in'.

Latte art--this is why we don't add whipped cream!

I learned how to steam different types of milk, in different quantities, with different textures and temperatures.

I practiced.

It took a long time to be a 'certified' barista, and it felt even longer than it actually took. And it wasn't until I was making drinks for eight hours a day for three weeks straight that I felt remotely in control of what I was doing. For something as simple as putting together espresso and milk, it was insanely complex.

I liked my job. Coffee was fascinating. Espresso gained complexity as I tasted it, and built a mental catalog of what to expect from our regular espresso blend. I tried the blends and single-origin coffees Colectivo offered, and discovered different pour-over methods***.  Oddly enough, even after a year with excellent coffee, there are a million things I still don't know.

As much as I'd be happy to continue exploring coffee, though, the schedule started wearing on me. Some days I worked at 5am. Some days I worked at 10. Some days I worked a full shift starting at 2 in the afternoon. I'd get homesick, and work for ten days straight so I could fit in a four-day visit home. On top of that, I wasn't exactly eating regularly. Or taking medications regularly. Or sleeping normal hours.

This isn't atypical of most service industry jobs, but it was quite distressing when I figured out that I was working as much as I had my fifth year in college...and yet somehow doing a worse job of self-care than when I was also taking eight classes.

So when it comes down to it, I needed to leave, at least for a little while. Right now I'm on a train traveling across Michigan in the dark. It'll be pulling into the Ann Arbor station close to midnight, and from there...well, I'm still working on it, but I'll figure it out.

A Night In Tunisia (Oh, Sorry, I Meant Minneapolis)

It's amazing how many things I still haven't gotten around to doing, even after a year of living in Madison. This past weekend, for instance, was the first time I boarded a bus and traveled to Minneapolis, Minnesota, where I spent the weekend doing two things: spending time with my family, and attending a tiny-but-awesome sci-fi/fantasy convention called 4th Street Fantasy.

Ah, the magnificent Midwest!

Unlike traveling to Chicago, it was a painless journey, full of rolling clouds and a lot of trees humping up between cheerful green fields. At the end of it—only five hours, with no bus transfers, and no zig-zags—I tumbled out of the bus fumes and travel cramps, ready for the challenge of finding my way around a new city (with some help from my fantastic cousin) and the slightly more nerve-wracking challenge of being among a group of entirely unknown people. Some of whom were incredible authors that I have admired for a very long time; specifically, Pamela Dean, Patricia C. Wrede, and Caroline Stevermer.

Hopefully, I wasn't too much of a fool—except, of course, that these are my rock stars, my favorite actors of Hollywood fame. At best, I managed to have half-way intelligent but still embarrassing conversations with these authors. I've been told that being kind to your audience comes with the job description, and these ladies were nothing short of gracious. I sat and sweated and chatted about going back to fix world-building problems with Pat Wrede, who knitted the entire time. Pamela Dean and I talked about the brilliant books of Diana Wynne Jones, and T.S. Eliot, and her own books. Maybe next time I'll get past the weakness of character that comes with being star-struck—after all, everyone at this con was reassuringly human (whatever non-human characters they might write).

It was a very full weekend. I still feel muddled up and over-expanded with new people—ideas—information—books to add to my Must-Read-Immediately list—new places. It was my first con, and also the first time in awhile I've had a chance to see my cousin Cynthia. The first time, too, that I met her husband. In between me running off to squee over panels on genre-crossover and misdirection in novels and good vs. evil in apocalyptic settings, I spent some quality time with my family. A late-night walk, an evening fire, a glass of wine—we even managed to squeeze in breakfast with my aunt, who lives much closer to Minneapolis than I thought.

I can't formulate the past three days into any kind of narrative, or bring out any connective thread in my mind. A lunchtime tea with a wonderfully knowledgeable hostess—picking black raspberries from Cynthia's small garden—chatting with author Django Wexler, whose works are now at the top of my Must-Read-Immediately list—the inspiration that comes from smart people talking about writing...these things don't hang together and yet crammed themselves into this weekend, almost on top of each other. 

Did I mention the tea tasting? There was a tea tasting. It was delicious.

I'd like some more time to sort through them before going back to normal life. More time to examine the meeting of minds, the inspiration to write, the similarities of life to the fantastical. But time spins on, even as I write this, and the world grows smaller again--no wonder so many people read fantasy.

Promises to Keep, and Miles to Go...

When I was home at the very beginning of March, I promised to post more blogs. Here we are, already more than three weeks later, and I am only just making good on that promise. I think I've put my time to good use though—I've done a lot of thinking about my life in Madison, and my job, and my goals for the future.

My considerations have been, for the most part, less than rosy.

Not terribly rosy makes for a lot of thoughts that are probably best kept to myself. Which—I'm sure you understand—makes it a little difficult to write a blog post to share with the entire internet.

I do have a few concrete conclusions, though. They are as follows:

I.
Madison is nice, but after living here for about ten months, I am still working at building a tenuous network of friends and professional connections. I'm homesick more than not, and there are a number of activities that are made more difficult by living here: having a garden, keeping a pet, knowing enough jazz musicians to set up a jam session...or folk musicians, for that matter. So Madison may not be the place I want to stay long-term.

II.
I'm still feeling around for a career. I'm working as a barista, and it's no longer challenging. I need the money so I can pay my student loans, though, and I'm decent at it, and I like the people I work with, so for now it's alright. In the long run, I need a career that inspires me with more than money; a career that lets me use my brain and my skills and my experience; and a career that doesn't stress my body out with a constantly super-irregular schedule.

I applied to a couple of jobs (my writing energy has been going towards cover letters and resume revisions lately) and had some interviews that didn't go anywhere. I can't pretend I'm not disappointed, because I haven't been bothering to apply for jobs that aren't super-awesome sounding, and I feel like I am certainly a highly capable applicant for said jobs, but my plan is to just keep trudging forward. Something will turn up.

III.
The future.

I'm still figuring this one out, but I have a couple things planned, like taking the Michigan Teaching Certification Test, and a conference in June, and probably a road trip in August.

In the meantime, I'll keep going. After all, I have miles to go before I sleep.

Now We Are Twenty-Six

My twenty-sixth birthday was a week and a half ago. Since it's still October, I'm still on-time writing this post (just like I am still on-time with this year's NaNoWriMo, and my e-book project: it's still 2014).

Twenty-six is the Official Age of Adulting, at least in the United States. Now I am twenty-six, I have to figure out how this insurance thing works. I'm in the middle of my first-since-I-was-six autumn that did not include any classes. I've moved out of Michigan, and my parent's house (I may or may not regret this decision, depending on the day and how much I've got in my bank account/refrigerator). It's just coincidence that the repayment plan on my school loans starts at the end of the month, but it feels like another reason I need to become more proficient at Adulting. This includes things like budgeting, and getting up early enough to eat breakfast before leaving the house instead of on my mile-long walk to work.

This was my birthday haul...and what a haul it is!

I think it would help if I stopped buying books. After all, I was given the new Rick Riordan book, The Blood Of Olympus, for my birthday (among others).

On the other hand, I included Molly Wizenberg's book signing in my week of birthday celebrations. I bought a hardcover copy of her new book Delancey at full price, and stood in line to have it signed. And it was absolutely worth it, because Molly Wizenberg, besides being an incredibly vivid and articulate writer, turns out to be a darling, generous person who wasn't phased when I fangirled in a mildly embarrassing manner. Instead she asked encouraging questions about my writing, told me that she loves to read Calvin Trillin, and graciously posed for a picture with me at the end of the evening. 

So maybe I need to budget for the occasional new book.

And maybe I can start posting my blog once a week.

And maybe I'll have a plan for NaNoWriMo when it starts on the first of November. While still working enough to pay my bills. I'll figure out how to get home for Thanksgiving, navigate the ridiculous world of student loans, and start thinking about grad school.

After all, I managed to graduate from Eastern Michigan with a degree in music education. Being twenty-six can't be any more or less difficult than that.

The Days Are Just PACKED

Prepping the balloon

I've been looking through the pictures I took while I was home last week: a sampler tray of beer from Corner Brewery in Ypsilanti; the flowers blooming along my parent's barn; our dog Molly grinning; Whitmore Lake reflecting the sky in such a way that I could see the depth of both sky and water simultaneously.

I was home for less than seventy-two hours, but they were wonderful hours. We celebrated my dad's sixty-fifth birthday as a family. My older brother and I discovered the beer garden that appears in a magical manner outside Downtown Home and Garden when the evening draws in. I had a chance to jam with some of the jazz musicians I worked with in college. The hours were packed with happy occurrences for me, and a list (however long) cannot convey them in their entirety.

Perhaps I am inclined to romanticize my time at home, because there are so many elements of home that I no longer have the privilege of enjoying. Things like making plans with good friends for tomorrow or next week—taking a walk around the yard while Molly races in loops around me—discovering that someone has made delicious food, and there are leftovers in the refrigerator up for grabs...really simple, stupidly simple, things that I miss every day.

And of course, nobody in Wisconsin is asking me if I'd be interested in going balloon chasing.

Balloon chasing turns out to be very close to what I expected. My friend Mike Ball brought me along as ground crew for a balloon launch. It involved a very early morning, a van trip trying to follow a balloon that didn't have to follow roads, 9am champagne, and (oddly enough) a Fox 2 news team. Despite the fact that I didn't actually go up in the balloon, it was weirdly exhilarating. Hot air balloons! TV cameras! Sparkling wine! This is not my every-day fare.

Bringing in the second balloon

Once again, the details aren't nearly as interesting when listed as they were to live through. My co-workers have been asking about my trip home, and I have yet to come up with a better answer than, “It was soooooo great!” In truth, it was even better than that—a mixture of familiar and new, of family and friends.

A Gathering of August Days

I haven't written a blog post in nearly a month, despite best laid plans, because life has gotten in the way. First I went home for a variety of reasons, so I didn't feel like I needed to write—everybody who reads this would see me in person, for as little as a hello or as much as possible in a week. Then I found a job, and an apartment, so I had all these beautiful feelings about life working out.

And then, after being very gracious (I felt) and hauling my trombone about a mile across town so I could do a sound-test for the new landlord, my lease application was unceremoniously dumped. I'm not saying there was a bias against me being a musician, although there definitely was that tension in the air. What did happen was a freak occurrence of both my new boss and my landlord being out of town and out of reach; this combination seemed to convince the landlord that I was lying about my job and leasing history.

All in all, it was awful. It rankled, and festered, and sucked maggoty gopher guts. Not only was I on the hunt for a new apartment with only a week left on my lease, but for maybe the first time in my entire life someone looked at me, looked at my blue eyes and blond hair and earnest habit of talking, and thought to themselves that I looked like someone who is untrustworthy. Someone who might play loud bass guitar at 2am. Someone who won't be willing or able to pay rent on time.

This made me feel highly insulted and also weirdly as if I had spent my entire life surrounded by a cushion of privilege.

In the end, though, I found a place to live in the same way that I found a sublet at the beginning of summer: I scoured Craigslist. I sent out email after email, made calls, toured single-bedroom flats, and met prospective housemates. With just two days to spare before officially becoming homeless, I signed a lease with four guys on an apartment in the more hippy-dippy, artistic, slightly pretentious part of Madison just off Williston St, right on the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona.

So far, it's been going as well as can be expected. The washer in the basement doesn't work, but the front door lock was replaced. I wish I could have the entire shower ripped out and replaced, but at least the grout was re-done. It's a mile hike to work, and with the exception of days when I'm tired because I was on my feet for nine hours, I like the walk. Sometimes I stop to sit and look at the lake. Sometimes I merely look at the houses I pass and think about the lives that take place inside of them.

Most importantly, I have my own space—my own bed, my own kitchen, my own room. It'll take a few more books and posters to make it feel like home, but I'm working on it, and it will get there.

Heart Made of Art

This week has been all about the art, starting with comics and ending with Art Fair on the Square.

This gorgeous piece by Aaron Hequembourg.

I.

I was excited to find out that DanielleCorsetto, the writer of my favorite webcomic, was coming to Madison. Girls With Slingshots is very funny, a little bawdy, and not for anyone with an aversion to alcohol, commentary on vibrators and sex, or cats that say, “Dooooooom.” Graciously hosted by Westfield Comics, this book signing was a weird but happy conjunction of web-art and real life.

Book signings are a strange beast in general. Sometimes you meet interesting people that are happy to chat about the author, elections, tv shows, and the disappearance of the honey bee. Sometimes you meet nobody, and the time spent in line becomes a trial of bad posture and aching feet. Since Madison is still a new town to me, I didn't have the bravery and gumption to chat up my neighbors in line. Not this time, anyways. What I had was an excellent selection of comics to distract me, and that kept me happy enough.

Then, of course, was the moment I met Danielle. The moment she asked if I was from around here (the same question asked to all of the fans, I think, but it still felt special.) The moment she signed two books for me. The moment she said, “Sure! We can do a picture!” And the moment I walked out of the shop, thrilled to have two signed copies of GWS books—thrilled, too, that after admiring Danielle Corsetto for years, she was just as fantastic in real life as her comics suggested. 

II.

I stepped foot inside the OvertureCenter for the first time, where I saw a collection curated by my new acquaintance Anders in Gallery 3. Titled "The Printed World: Artists as Visual Ecologists," I believe it's a collection of prints by various artists. I don't know enough about art to comment, other than to say that a lot of the pieces seemed to be trying to re-arrange bits of my brain.

III.

Laura Harris, these ones.

Art Fair on the Square is more or less (mostly less) like the Ann Arbor Art Fairs. I am firmly convinced I've seen some of the same artists with booths in Ann Arbor.

As excellent as the art was, the Ann Arbor Art Fairs win this round, hands down. Madison's Art Fair on the Square cannot compete with the sprawl of art, the extensive and strange collections, or the devotion it takes to see even half of the art that takes over Ann Arbor this week.

I think this was Dolan Geiman...

Of all the silly things that could make a girl homesick, I think being homesick for a city that goes into slow motion with closed streets and a record of disgusting weather during Art Fair, is quite a silly thing. Still, here I am. Feeling homesick.

And then I said, "Look! A mustache ride!"

4th Night

I didn't do much on the Fourth of July. It's one of my favorite holidays, but there were no fireworks, no grilling out, no red-white-n-blue cake for me. Instead, I spent the day marathoning episodes of the TV show New Girl, and the evening at a rock show featuring local talent.

This is not to say that I completely missed out on national fervor. Six days before the Fourth of July, way back in June, I heard the boom and crack of fireworks outside my window. These weren't a pop here and a fiery spray from a Roman Candle there, but rather a serious fireworks display that crackled above Lake Monona.  I live a half-dozen blocks from Lake Monona, but when I stepped outside I could still see the sprays of light from my tiny balcony. Or rather—I could see some of the fireworks through the leaves and branches of the trees outside my house.

Despite the somewhat terrible view, I couldn't leave. The loud, celebratory nature of fireworks around the Fourth of July usually drenches me with a glorious feeling of solidarity and pride. I might even go so far as to call it patriotism, which is a word I associate purely with politics and firemen.

This year, though, I started thinking. Having missed the memo that the celebrations were starting, I spent my time watching the fireworks remembering other July 4ths.

One year, watching the fireworks sparkling over Lake Michigan with family in Petoskey.

Another year, at my neighbor's house, happy after an afternoon of sun and blue pool water.

The times I ran the Fourth of July 5k in my Michigan hometown of Whitmore Lake. The reading of the Declaration of Independence at the library. The Kiwanis club frying up chicken dinners until the scent of fried chicken wafted across the town. The small-town parade that I marched in as a high schooler. Watching the fireworks exploding over the lake from a friend's deck. After dark, taking a pontoon boat out for a cruise and watching the occasional firework blooming around the lake.

These memories sifted through my mind as I watched Madison's fireworks through my tree branches. I wasn't homesick, exactly, but certainly nostalgic. It's difficult leaving home for a city of 300,000. For me, this is especially true because am acquainted with very few of that number. It made celebrating Independence Day in the traditional fashion almost impossible.

I ended my day with a rock show, however, and that was great. Very American.

City of Many Ways

“Just like Ann Arbor, but bigger,” I was told. Similar, maybe, but not exactly alike; although it's true I moved here partly because the trees wouldn't make me homesick. Instead, they make the horizons here almost familiar.

Madison is a biking city—and, according to some people, one of the best in the United States. There are streets where cyclists are granted equal status with cars. The street I live on, for instance. My neighbor has propped a sign near the road reading, “Mind Bicycle Boulevard,” with an illustration of a bike, a heart, and a car. 

I see cyclists, dozens of them, every day. Despite this, I wasn't brought home to the meaning of a “biking city,” until I was riding a bus that was held to the speed of four cyclists zooming along directly in front of it.

Madison is a foodie city, too—which would be wonderful, if I could afford to eat out as often as I have some new place suggested. This place has the best Laotian, that place offers amazing gyros. I hear things like that all the time. Bloody Marys. Fish n chips. Italian. Cheese. Sandwiches. Indian. Fru-fru drinks. I have a list of recommendations as long as my arm and leg to check out once I have a decent job.

The thing that I can really get behind is the Saturday farmer's market. Tents stand in lines around the capital square, each bursting with fresh produce, cheese, honey, flowers, or bread. Masses of people move from one tent to the next, a sluggish stream of humanity that skirls and eddies around the stalls. One couple stops to exclaim over the snap peas. Another walks by with a bright bouquet of deep red lilies and purple Canterbury bells. Parents keep a close eye on small children. A few people have escaped from the mash of bodies to lie under the trees shading the capital lawn.

One tent full of dried bird-house gourds is fronted by a grinning man, and the next sells lamb skins. I find myself drawn to the tents full of colorful produce. I don't have the budget for organic lettuce at $3 a head, but in making my circuit around the square, I find better deals. For my farmer's market haul, I bring home small sweet onions, new carrots, dirty young beets, and a cutting of rhubarb in seductive red. I'm more than satisfied.

So...not just like Ann Arbor. I find myself missing Top of the Park, and meeting up with friends at Arbor Brewing Company. I have yet to find a bookstore equivalent to the Dawn Treader. There's no Zingerman's Deli. But I think Madison has its own wonderful corners, and its own festivals and farmer's markets.

Where I Live Now

I've been living in Madison, Wisconsin, for just over two weeks. That's long enough to be forced into figuring out the bus system and where to do my laundry, and definitely long enough to be bummed about not having a job.

It's also long enough that my internal clock has gone bonkers. Without a job, or any real schedule, I've been sleeping nine or ten hours a night, waking up tired at eleven a.m., and just starting to think about supper at half past nine in the evening. It doesn't help that my room only seems to get sunlight at around 5:38 in the morning, when I am not remotely ready to open my eyes.

Today, I aim to reset my body.

This is my plan: a little exercise. Healthy sized meals. Getting out of bed in the morning before 10 a.m.

I started with a run down the next street over, although calling it 'running' is maybe too ambitious. I have an embarrassing tendency towards the golf jog, which is little more than than a glorified shuffle. But today, it's better than doing nothing.

Where I live, on the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona, it's only a few blocks from anything. From the corner of my street, I can see the capitol building. Three blocks over is James Madison Park, where I can watch the sun set over Lake Mendota. In the opposite direction of the park is Willie Street, which is home to a lot of restaurants and other small businesses: a baker, a butcher, a glassblower, a cat-centric pet shop.

One street over from my apartment, though, is mostly residential homes shaded by friendly, giant trees. There are neat gardens, and fancy gardens, and a lone front yard with nothing but thigh-high weeds. I passed a school with a small community plot full of young tomato plants and raspberry canes straining against their ties. There are houses of all sizes and the occasional apartment building. More importantly, in the middle of this city, with its population over 240,000, I can do my little shuffle-run down a street where the loudest noises are the birds calling from the tree tops. It feels surprisingly like home.