My Third Place City- NYC

If another city could be your Third Place, which one would beckon you back time and again?

Perhaps it would be hard for you to choose, but for me NYC continues to woo me back, for all the same reasons that the Dunn Bros down the street continues to be my 'go to' cafe.  New York is reasonably close given our 15 minute drive to the airport from St. Paul.  The city is familiar and comfortable, with sights and smells that are nostalgic and yet still bring a thrill.  Not many cities can rival the raw energy and excitement of New York.  I can count on eating well and being witness to the old and the new every visit.  A favorite pleasure is striking up a conversation with a person or multiple people who will get my juices flowing, either through their entertaining gestures and point of view or just thoughtful friendly banter.  I even find the challenging interactions to be life affirming, a little squabble with someone who comes at the world from another angle is refreshing and keeps me on my toes a bit.  It is also something Minnesotan's generally frown upon, they would rather end any overt signs of conflict, which can be dull at times.

One of my favorite activities in NYC is looking down on it from on high, both from the plane as I arrive but also whenever I can enjoy the vista from a rooftop, a hotel room, a restaurant overlooking Central Park, etc.  That perspective makes me feel like I know the town, that it's scale isn't as daunting as it sometimes seems on street level in the hustle and bustle in amongst the noises, fumes and need to keep my wits about me.  Instead I can listen to it's unique commotion and watch it like a performance, maybe a symphony, delighting in the various players like the oboes or cellos and the crash or roar of unexpected drums.  

Queens was my home from 4th to 6th grade and we spent many evenings and weekends exploring Manhattan.  I remember some of my impressions from those days and it was wonderful for me to bring my own kids to New York when they were about the same age and watch them respond to the city.  The sparkle and gums on the sidewalks, the perfect cheesy crisp slice of pepperoni pizza late at night, gorgeous display windows, fancy waiters, climbing boulders and spinning around the subway car poles.  What a joy to relive certain memories and to share them and refresh them for myself while perhaps planting the seed for a lifelong third place for my children too.

The Rotunda, Minnesota's 3rd Place

Perhaps one use of the blog format is to serve as a public confessional. The Catholics have a new pontiff this week and this leaves me wondering about what his influence will be on our world.  Although I was baptized Catholic, I was not raised as one except perhaps in a second hand way.  By that I mean that my mother was Catholic and was excommunicated upon her divorce; so like the second hand smoke I inhaled when my mother smoked cigarettes, I was infused with her religious or moral compass just by being in her presence.

Pope Francis the first has a unique opportunity and global influence and the Catholics are not the only ones with hopes and expectations that come with this major changing of the guard. Our elected world leaders seem to have trouble with leading according to a big moral picture and frame their decisions based upon the high alter of "the Economy". Many leaders refer to a religious motivation for their actions and often gain support because of these claims.  In all fairness, our politicians have many obstacles to bring about the changes they envision and they are not sequestered in marble towers studying and meditating without the daily survival requirements of family life in the trenches of the secular world.

After years of visiting Washington Square park I only learned this past weekend that a verse taken from the family Coat of Arms of George Washington was used on the Washington Arch in Washington Square park. In the sculpture Washington is flanked by a figure of Peace on one side and Justice on the other, and in the open book held by Justice is the latin phrase 'Exitus acts probat' translated in English to mean ' the outcome justifies the deed'. Perhaps some will say, yup, that's where the rubber meets the road, the difference between idealists and realists or the difference between business and elected officials versus spiritual leaders, but I wonder.  Is that the motto we really want held aloft on our monument to our 1st President's achievements?

So back to my 3rd place blog, Washington Square park is a 3rd place for so many but how many have wondered what that phrase means to them and to all of us when it comes to our leadership?  I confess that I have grown impatient with the belief that the elected leaders or for that matter religious leaders will do what is right based upon their own scholarly research and meditation. My faith is messier to be sure, but I feel called to exert my influence and education and years of reflection and meditation upon our leaders who get their moral authority from we humble citizens and our laws which thankfully can be changed as we humans grow and shape the world we want to inhabit together.  So therefore, I have been visiting our State Capital and it's beautiful Rotunda and the offices that flank it in order to claim our rightful 3rd place in the halls of power. Amen.

Trotter's Cafe

There's still time for a blog post in 2012, so here I go. Trotter's is at the hub of Merrium Park's "business block" at Cleveland and Marshall. It serves as the middle ground lunch location for a friend who lives in Highland and myself in the Mac/Groveland neighborhood. In the summer we like to sit at one of the few curbside tables and soak up the sun while we visit. This friend tends to be very particular about what she eats with various dietary restrictions and she is undoubtably the one who introduced me to Trotter's with their tradition for local, fresh, healthful fare. When I'm in need of some omega's I will order their grilled tuna sandwich and I'll feel energetic for the rest of the day.

 The food is less interesting to me than the commitment to a local establishment run for 20 years by a husband and wife team who clearly care deeply about the mission behind their work. To the immediate left of the front door is a map which shows the local organic food sources they buy from and their employees give a portion of their wages to causes of their choosing which are listed on the website. Trotter's also provides monthly food donations to Keystone Food shelf! To top it off they encourage walking/biking on locals night with a 10% discount to locals within 2 miles of the cafe and an additional 5% off if you walked or biked to the restaurant! Live music is another offering on Saturday nights and once a month they host a reading night for local writer's to share their work. This year a collection of poetry from the year is available for purchase($7) with the proceeds going to the food shelf. They have a monthly newsletter posted on the front door which tells of the various happenings including mention of the monthly artist whose work is on display. FOR THE MONTH OF DECEMBER- UNTIL JAN 6TH- THAT ARTIST IS ME! I put up my photography series called Hands at Work as well as an eclectic mix of watercolors to fill out the display space. It is fun to share my work, but as with this blog I'm not much interested in the promotional aspect of showing my work; it's just nice to know that people will enjoy it during their time at Trotter's this month.

Besides supporting a great local business and getting to see or hear local artists, you might run into the mayor of Minneapolis who tends to drop in to get some work done on the fly. I've seen him twice, once last week as I finished putting up my work. He was rather focused on his laptop so I don't think he noticed the display on the walls. If you find this blog because of my sign at Trotter's - thanks for taking a moment to check out the musings of a fellow "Third Place" frequenter, feel free to share your own words if so moved.

Photo from my Christmas tree- Happy Holidays!

A BORDERS TRADITION

Jennifer Kimball Gasperini c. October 1, 2011

For weeks now, I have been driving past the bright yellow banner screaming “Store Closing” at Borders. Each time I pass, I feel a small part of my heart breaking for this loss. Not just for our community to lose a treasured bookstore, but for the loss of a second place, a place that helped foster a mother-daughter tradition. Just today I received a text from our daughter, a sophomore in college in Washington State: “I woke up this morning and all I wanted to do was go to Borders and drink Chai with you.” The last time we gathered there, in July, we were blissfully unaware that the store would soon be filled with screaming white sale signs and bargain hunters gleaning the shelves like locusts.

I love books and photos and words on the page. For the price of a cup of tea, all of these could be enjoyed for hours at Borders. The store was a place where we both felt relaxed and at peace. In this space we were free of heated discussions about curfew or chores, or the distractions of telephones, TV and dirty dishes. We started our tradition when she was 12. At first, it was not easy for me to go. She would suggest the outing and I would hesitate, conflicted about leaving the demands of home and our two younger sons. It got easier after a while and we created a pattern. When we would arrive at the store, we wordlessly separated, searching for treasure among the stacks. After 10 or 15 minutes of collecting our materials, we reunited at the coffee shop counter to order our beloved Chai tea. We felt lucky when we found the matching brown leather chairs or the couch that sat against the walls of the coffee shop unoccupied. There we would nestle in, warm drinks by our side, and peruse photo books, art books, books on felting or teenage mysteries. Occasionally, one of us would laugh out loud, or quietly chuckle, then share what amused us or moved us. We stayed for hours. I relished the time to be still and to read, two things that were too often relegated to just 20 minutes before bedtime.

We never set out to actually purchase books, although we did our fair share to keep the place in business. In our house, books are overflowing on shelves in our bedrooms, living room and hallways. The draw to Borders was about bonding, escaping to another world for an afternoon. For me, it was about letting go of all my responsibilities as a parent and wife and employee; about being in the moment, sharing a passion with my only girl.

On several occasions, the boys begged to come along. Neither of them liked to read much, but they were jealous of our time away and didn’t want to miss out. They would ask for hot chocolate, talk loudly while sipping, then skim through a magazine or two. All too soon, they were asking if it was time to leave. We were just settling in. They could not understand the draw to sit and read for pure pleasure. They were foreigners to our world.

It has been a struggle to let go of our girl, to see her off on her college adventure halfway across the country. Just as I was coming to grips with this loss, I must now let go of the place where we found solace and tranquility in difficult parenting years. I wonder when we will ever have endless hours to simply “be” together again. I thank Borders for the tradition that kept our relationship from sliding into the tormented years I so often read or hear about, and for the memories of sharing precious time and books that will stay with us forever.

Jeff and Randy's Porch

Our Third Place for the summer has been our neighbors' front porch. Jeff and Randy moved in across the street almost two years ago and they exude hospitality the likes of which I have rarely experienced, especially on a regular basis! Once the weather cooperates their porch decor makes it's way back outside. A round dining table with overhead wine bottle lamp made by a very handy friend, a wicker bench, coffee table and chairs, and gorgeous lush plants make for a lovely oasis. The late afternoon sun is the first to make an appearance on the porch and then Jeff usually heads out with a glass of wine. Randy joins Jeff once he gets home from work and on many evenings I'll simply wave as I head off to one of Ian's soccer games. Luckily there were many beautiful evenings to beckon them to the porch and I found myself looking for excuses to head over to visit. Initially I was a bit hesitant, wondering if I was intruding on the afterwork decompression time that might not lend itself to company. But their big smiles and friendly assurances that I was welcome soon made me a bit of a fixture on their comfy porch. Each time I'd be offered a beverage and sometimes Jeff would run inside only to return with a tray filled with elegantly presented appetizers. Of course if my glass needed replenishing it was instantly taken care of as though I were in a fine restaurant. After several evenings of this I started to bring my own wine, and some small offering like a book or DVD to loan or perhaps a few flowers from my garden. The length of our porch sittings would vary, depending on the comings and goings of our family but the open invitation was always there, even when they were hosting guests. This past week when Randy's parents were in town Eric and I went over to introduce ourselves and sure enough we were there for two hours passing the time and getting acquainted with their family. Perhaps we'll still get in a few porch visits before the hanging ferns come down for winter, I'm hoping we can reciprocate and offer up our basement for movie nights with some warm soup, but it won't compare to the casual seasonal open invitation of their presence on the porch.

Dog Park

We added a new member to the family about a month ago so the dog park has become another Third Place for me. Mya knows how to have fun and the dog park is a great place to show off her roll over move. I'm not sure I would recommend getting a puppy mid winter in Minnesota unless you already love exposing yourself to the frigid weather no matter what each day, several times a day! The dog park helps by adding another entertainment factor. The dogs and their owners get some great laughs just like going to the playground.

Swede Hollow Cafe

A great name never hurts a Third Place, it can lure you in when you would otherwise not discover it. Swede Hollow sounds like something out of a fairytale, and indeed in the summer the garden with its lovely tiered fountain and cobblestones and rambling terraced area is magical. Luckily the cafe faces south and west with enormous windows and a wonderful brick interior wall which gives the place a warm feel even if the frigid air blows in with each new customer during the winter months.

Despite the great name, it was two new factors which have created a shift in my daily routine that made Swede Hollow a Third Place for me this year. The first was that both children started attending the same school again located just a few blocks from the Swede Hollow. The second is that my mother, who just retired this spring, also lives within a few blocks from the cafe. This coincidence has turned into the perfect excuse for a new Third Place for me.

I will often pick up my mom and then we will head together to split a piece of quiche for breakfast, and we each get a latte, hers decaf mine regular. The display case is full of other options for those who prefer a sweeter launch into the day, gorgeous sticky carmel rolls and a variety of scones and beautiful granola, but generally we stick with the quiche because it is delicious, a large portion, and each of us tries to put forward a healthy image for the other's sake. Besides, the bar of dark chocolate on the latte cup makes you feel decadent anyway. The latte is served in a heavy large cup that warms my always cold hands and they make sure to have the perfect decorative wave across the foam, just so. The servers are friendly and remember our standard order and stop to chat with us about our knitting projects, etc. The owner is very congenial too, checking in to make sure everyone is doing well and he seems appreciative and genuinely happy to have created such a warm community spot.

My mom is off traveling now so I drop by Swede Hollow less frequently, but I will call her on occasion from my cell phone when I'm there to check up on her and have a little rendez- vous as though we are having coffee together. I look forward to the warm spring days when she returns and we can sit outside and get a hint of sunburn.

Palmetto Bay Sunrise Cafe

Before kids, Eric and I used to love to discover breakfast locales in Seattle. We were less successful after our move to the Twin Cities but we are still always on the hunt for a great breakfast spot. On the rare vacations without the children along we feel like we have struck gold when we find a perfect match, a third place in our home away from home. We found such a place this past week in Hilton Head.

I must say I was dubious when we drove up to the mall location with unremarkable architecture and no view. We walked inside and were happy to see a bustling business on a weekday morning during the off season in a resort town. The decor was cozy, cheerful and funky, displaying the personality of real people rather than the sanitized version of theme decor so typical of chain restaurant design. I always appreciate the expression of personality in a restaurant because it feels more intimate. Similarly, when you are invited to someone's kitchen for an informal breakfast, you become a member of the family, not just a guest. To take this mood one step further we sat up and the bar seating next to the cooks and servers, in on the action, without having to do the work.

Eric commenced on the crossword puzzle and I read the front page of USA today as we waited for our menus. Check out www.palmettobaysunrisecafe.com for their full spread of options. I love a nice simple one page laminated menu, who needs 5 pages of choices, especially for breakfast. We were off to a good start. Our waitress came over to fill our classic coffee mugs and take our order. When I ordered the Sunrise, an eggs benedict concoction with avocado, red onion and tomato; the waitress politely asked if I was a vegetarian. When I replied with a no, she smiled and gestured delightfully befitting a food network cooking show host and demonstrated how I should add some bacon to the mix for the perfect combination. I ordered a side of fruit instead of grits or some other option and she nodded approvingly and added that the fruit cleansed the palette after the rich hollandaise sauce. Our coffee was delicious and was promptly refilled. The cooks and staff behind the counter were clearly enjoying themselves. Some were singing along with the 70's music on the radio, others were joking and sharpening knives, they were having fun with one another and their customers. When Mary Ellen our waitress, delivered my Sunrise, she glowed and announced "it's a thing of beauty isn't it?" I agreed, eager to dive in. Meanwhile Eric was giving his grits the taste test and waiting for the appropriate moment to ask for a taste of mine. We lingered for awhile contented and well cared for until our exit when our waitress was the model of southern hospitality and made sure to say goodbye and thanks for coming.

Sure enough, the next day we were back and I ordered the Sunrise again and was equally satisfied. Mary Ellen looked pleased to see us. Her enthusiasm for the food was contagious and I recommended that she start a cooking show. Eric asked if she was the owner, she said no and gave us the name of the owners. On day three I opted for the stuffed french toast which was good but a bit too sweet for me. I would have preferred a quarter sized portion along side some eggs and meat. To return three times was a high compliment since we are unlikely to be back in Hilton Head anytime soon. There were plenty of other breakfast places to try out, but our experience was so comfortable and we knew we were in for a good time, so Palmetto Bay Sunrise Cafe became our Third Place for a few days. When on vacation it is nice to introduce something that feels familiar to "try on" what it might be like to be a local someplace else. If you are ever in the neighborhood give Sunrise a try and ask for Mary Ellen.

Art Museums

Hey I'm back, it's February and the garden is safely buried under at least a foot of snow, the sidewalks should only be tackled with ice skates, so that brings me here.

I have wanted to write about The Minneapolis Institute of Arts since I began this blog endeavor for the obvious reason, it is my favorite and most consistent "Third Place". I am a volunteer docent and I'm at the MIA at least once a week if not several times a week. So why the hesitation? Why not shout it from the roof tops? I realize that it means so much to me that I don't want to get it wrong in the description. A year into this and I have come around again to the idea that its better to share imperfectly than not at all, so here goes.

My experience at the MIA is a religious one, in some ways more so than my Unitarian/Universalist weekly routines which sometimes fall short of my "religious" expectations and aspirations. What am I blathering on about? When I am at the museum, either giving a tour, preparing for one, or visiting with fellow docents I feel like I am tapping into my highest self. I am transformed by the mental stimulation and I feel connected and closer to the sea of humanity through the vehicle of art. I lose myself, rediscover myself and expand myself all at once. I feel an openness, a sense of hope and an ease of knowing what to do with my spirit. This is not a state I get to readily in life, so you can see why I might tread lightly on this sacred territory.

The following is a reprinted version of an article I wrote for the MIA docent quarterly publication. It captures the spirit of the "Third Place" of museums for myself and possibly for you. Enjoy. The exhibit closes on February 7th so there is still time to view it!

As docents, if we caste the right spell, priestess and spectators alike will be transformed by the experience.

Consulting the Oracle, 1884, is on display at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and was my inspiration for the above comment.

Actual Size (W x H): 198cm x 119cm [ 78.01" x 46.89" ]



A sumptuous exhibit of JW Waterhouse, (1849-1917) aptly called The Enchanted Garden is on view until February 7th. I was exhilarated by this exhibit for many reasons. First of all, in October William Holman Hunt was still fresh in my memory and I enjoyed the rare thrill of connoisseurship that sometimes comes as a result of being a docent.

Also, in the northern climes we seek refuge and sanctuary in our museums when it gets cold outside. Our gardens die back, but our spirits do not, they live on in that internal world of contemplation and reflection and imagination. I may curl up by the fire with books, but also need and crave the communal- so I venture out and hope that the external world will rekindle that inner fragile spark.

Waterhouse’s exquisitely painted large canvases of ancient narratives did just that, they were breathtaking and were marvelously set off by full length black velvet curtains and large cushioned benches. The theme of Garden Enchantment was enhanced with the use of lighting which created the illusion of a magical stream running through the exhibit. My guess is Waterhouse would have approved of these enhancements and theatrics, he was fascinated by the new developments of his day in archeology, anthropology and comparative mythology. He had a progressive interest in the lives of ordinary people with an emphasis on sensuous delight.

Finally I loved this exhibit because it features one individual. It is such a treat to see an artist’s development and preoccupations. Waterhouse’s sketchbooks are full of insights, especially when we see his early stages of an idea and then the later developed and often very different final versions. It was particularly fun to see Waterhouse’s sequence of paintings on ‘The Lady of Shalott’. I hope you will transport yourself to Montreal before this exhibit leaves on February 7th, you won’t regret it.

Internet Social Networking as a Third Place

All is quiet on the blog front and that is as it should be in summer. As I read Thomas Friedman's editorial in the Sunday NY Times this week he commented on the advantages and disadvantages of places in Africa with and without the connectivity of cell phones, internet, etc. The goal is to know when the tool is beneficial and when it is not.

I have yet to delve into the Third Places available via the internet as a subject of my blog, probably because as we all know it is a curse and a blessing depending on the person and the moment. My mind doesn't work in pithy sayings so I am ill suited for status updates on Facebook. I am a reluctant internet social networker or cell phone user. I resent dependency and have enough of a hard time figuring out social etiquette face to face without further complexity. Imagine my shock and dismay when the rest of the world proceeds without my approval, harumph! My latest blow was finding out that my monthly cell phone bill was going to be in excess of $400! Well, not mine exactly, but my "family plan" with my daughter. She pays for her phone, so this is going to set her back a bit. Those plans for new school clothes with summer babysitting money have gone out the window! I consider myself partly to blame because I was in the dark about "normal" text usage for teenagers. I thought our plan was generous, especially since I do not text at all. The "average" teenager texts 2000 messages per month. The sprint guy says I got off easy, that there have been parents with $4000 bills! I'm sorry, but internet, cable, cell phones, none of these replace real live face to face contact!

We are sensual beings. We need to touch, smell, taste, see, and hear to feel alive. At least I do, especially in summer. I am content to read books, watch movies, surf the internet or gab on the phone when I cannot bear to face a bitter Minnesota February evening, but give me the breeze off the water, the cricket in the grass, the smell of hydrangea and the ability to lose myself in it without interruption. My sentimental views are quaint and obvious but I know I have kindred spirits out there, some of whom are too content with summer to be reading blogs, perhaps we'll connect in February!

Rush River Produce

Does an annual trip constitute a Third Place? Today was the picture perfect summer day, 75 degrees and big billowy white clouds floating along a blue, blue sky, beckoning us away from the city. Each year the kids and I, usually with another family, head to the river bluffs above Lake Pepin Wisconsin to pick blueberries. It's about an hour's drive from St.Paul and we get a dose of country for the morning. We drive over hill and dale past fields of corn and farms with sheep, horses, cows and even llama!

The drive along the St.Croix river is beautiful and relaxing because we have the road to ourselves. It brings me back to similar meandering drives from my childhood along the Hudson River or along the coast from Monterey to Big Sur. We city dwellers enjoy the freedom and escape of the open road away from the traffic and stoplights, especially in summer. It's a wonderful sense of arrival to go from the 4 lane highway to a two way road and then a dirt paved windy climb alongside prancing deer to the door of Rush River Produce, a farmstead surrounded by gardens and fields of blueberries!

We spend the first half an hour wandering and taste testing. Elena is determined to find the biggest blueberries and Ian gets to work filling his box, forever the competitor to see who can pick the most. I usually plop myself on a bucket and start eating. They weigh the boxes of blueberries to determine your price as you exit, but they don't weigh us, so I treat it as an all you can eat buffet. The scenery is gorgeous, the farm is situated at the high point above Lake Pepin surrounded by rolling hills into the distance. The picking is easy and after about an hour or so we pay up, usually buying some honey and maple syrup for a total of $30. This is a much better deal than going to the amusement park, we head home full and refreshed and we have tapped into an experience which reinforces and celebrates the sensory pleasures of summer.

Unity- Unitarian

I've been a member of Unity and it has been a consistent Third Place for my family for 13 years. Our lives were reeling after Elena was born. Eric was still in residency, I was back at work and finding it hard to claim the mental space to think beyond the next moment. Unity became my sanctuary. Then and now Unity reminds me to believe in a bigger picture. The music restores me, the service inspires me and the community provides the structure to motivate me beyond my isolationist tendencies.

After my father's premature death, my nephew's forced admission to rehab due to meth abuse, my knee surgery, or just a run of the mill tough week, my instinct would be to recoil from anything social. Despite this, more often than not, I have often found myself seated on a pew at Unity crying, smiling, praying among others. There are so many repeated strains on our existence, it helps to connect with others along this journey, in the same place week after week.

Summer services are run by church members. These are some of the best sermons and on more than one occasion I have felt as if the service was designed and delivered specifically for me. Our attendance is rather erratic in the summer months, but we did make it this past week. The message was a call to be more than American consumers, but to be citizens and to see our lives, our money, our short time on earth as a precious resource.

This was uncanny because three days later I was sworn in as a US citizen. Similar to my experience at church, I stood in the Great Hall at Bethal University Seminary (as a US District Court) surrounded by 701 other people from 95 different countries and I felt the power of our new connection and status, as stated on the US coinage, E Pluribus Unum, from many one. Every one of us was there with our own story, the man I met in line from Gambia with his two year old twins, the man who sat next to me from Nicaragua who invited his accountant to witness the ceremony, the woman behind me dressed in her traditional dress from Togo, each of us with our private thoughts but all of us united through the power of ritual.

There were many factors contributing to my decision to finally become a citizen, including the Obama effect, but the tipping point has been building for some time as I have grown into being a Unitarian. We have a special Coming of Age ceremony for ninth graders at Unity which Elena will take part in this year. As I have crossed this new threshold into US citizenship, I too feel as if I have come of age.

My third place, set serenely and defiantly amid the cracked pavement and cracked people.

To stand at the door of 245 Hyde Street, San Francisco, is a miserable experience day or night. The smell of urine hangs in the air, drug deals go down, people yell at no one and about nothing. Trash flutters by, as forgotten as the people who tossed it.

But open the door and you are transported. For inside lies Hyde Street Studios, home to countless legendary musicians. Creedence Clearwater Revival recorded here, as did Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and the Grateful Dead. More recently, Hyde Street has housed the sounds of Cake, Joe Satriani and... me.

Hyde Street Studios is where I am recording my first album.

To be within the walls of Hyde Street is to forget all that is outside. When I'm there, my mind is totally focused on the music and the people I'm working with. There are no dying souls right outside worrying about one last high. There is no weather, no night or day. Sometimes I even forget about my brain injury and how wrenching it has been to me and to Catherine, my wife, and my parents and sister and friends. And there is a sound, not of drums and bass, not of guitars, not of singers, but the singular sound of being at peace.

Thank you, Hyde Street. I don't know where I'd be without you.

Car Connections

My car is a third place. We live on a hobby farm on the eastern border of Woodbury where corn and soybeans are our closest neighbors. We spent a lot of time on the road Luckily, I love my car. For 10 years I drove an eggplant-colored all-wheel-drive Dodge caravan, with erratic squeaks and door locks, in which I most-often felt like a Sherman tank driver. On my 45th birthday my husband surprised me with the gift if a new Volkswagen Jetta that runs on diesel and gets 44 miles to the gallon. This was the car of my dreams. I have admired Jetties from afar for years. They seemed sporty, but roomy and reminded me of adventures from the carefree years when I was out of college and single.

My red Jetta drives smooth as silk and is outfitted for almost any situation. In the glove compartment I have a stash of napkins for messy moments and spills of Chain tea or iced coffee, my favorite drinks. There is a pouch with quarters for parking meters along with the obligatory car manual that I consult less than I should. Purcell hand cleaner, of course, a tire gauge I’ve never used and a flashlight I forget is there when I need it.

In the door pocket to my left is a notebook for keeping lists of things I think of while driving that I can’t forget to do. There’s also our school’s phone directory, the hours for the libraries in our county, my CD case and a laminated Twin Cities map. There is also a pack of gum for those days when I forget to brush my teeth. In the passenger door pocket, I carry a Minnesota/Wisconsin road map and a magnification sheet because I cannot read a road map without glasses. I’m scared I might get lost one day when I don’t have my glasses.

A compartment between the front seats carries pens, glasses cleaner, discount coupons, lip balm and tweezers. In my advanced age, I am the victim of long stray hairs that grow overnight on my chin. I have discovered that the light streaming in the car windows together with the small mirror on my visor, provide the best place to see and remove these embarrassing hairs.

My trunk is surprisingly large and carries numerous essentials. A complete car emergency kit with tools and light, jumper cables and air pump. Also, a rope for tying down the hatch when carrying bikes; a leash for walking the dog, a towel for wiping her feet after a muddy hike, a box of peanut butter crackers to stave off starvation, a baseball cap and balls for tennis, a pouch with tampons, a box of band aids, a tiny first aid kit, and a bottle of water. I also have 5 fabric grocery bags that I am finally in the habit of using. For months after I put them there, I would get into the store and realize I had forgotten them and berate myself. There’s a blanket for laying on the back seat when I’ve taken our dog to the beach, to sit on during soccer and baseball games or for impromptu picnics. I also have the obligatory folding chair for the sidelines.

More importantly, my car is a place where I can enjoy the undivided attention of my family members – an extremely rare commodity in my life these days. In the car, I have the best conversations with our three children, broaching topics that are difficult to bring up over the dining room table, such as trouble with friends, school challenges, and sex. I once read that it is easier to talk about difficult subjects with your children when you are side by side as opposed to face to face. This has been true for me and, since our teenagers hate going on hikes (one of my favorite things) and we don’t wash dishes together, because we have a dishwasher, the car is the next best thing. My husband is a whirlwind of activity; he juggles multiple projects simultaneously and is qualified to fix any and everything. He is a lawyer, mechanic, plumber, electrician, tree mover, handyman, teacher, son, brother, father and husband all wrapped up on one. Weeks can go by when we hardly see one another, he to bed long after me and up and out before I open my eyes. On rare occasions, we find ourselves together in the car, and if I can keep him from his cell phone, we reconnect. I love to read out loud while he drives, sharing parenting books, the newspaper, essays I’ve written. We talk about our kids, our schedules, future plans. He fills me in on his myriad of projects and I share what’s going on in my world. My parents used to reconnect like this on a daily basis over cocktails before dinner. My husband rarely drinks or sits down. The car is the place where I get him all to myself.

Franken Rally

Please join Sen. Klobuchar, DFL Chair Brian Melendez, Franni Franken and Al Franken for a victory rally today from noon-1 at the Capitol. We've taken Wellstone's seat back!

Saints Game

I love this blog and the concept of Third Place. I think my experience at the St. Paul Saints last Friday fits: I went with our 10 year old and his two friends and was captivated. The Saints games are a cacophony of sights and sound. Like a teenager with ADD in math class, I could barely keep my focus on the players on the field. It was the crowd that so mesmerized me.

Immediately, I become drawn to the young, unhappy couple sitting in front of us. She, thin and dressed in a red cotton dress, was clearly annoyed with her husband (I checked for wedding rings on both their fingers). In shorts and a red T-shirt, he was ignoring her, turned away from his wife and focused on the game or his friend to his left. Her mouth hung down and I could sense her sadness like a waft of vegetables burning on the stove. She glaced up at him off and on, quietly sighing, then looking down at her lap. At one point, she quietly spoke to him, then stood and made her way past us and the others on our bench. At the isle, she stopped, glancing back towards the one who angered her, no doubt to see if he was watching her leave. No eye contact. She repeated the gesture again as she passed in front of him. I caught a hint of resignation on her face when she realized that he was not connecting with her. Then she walked away, empty handed, towards the concession stand.

Her sadness touched me deeply; I could imagine the fight that came before the game, like so many I’ve had with my husband. I longed to reach out to her and ask what she was feeling, what had happened between them, to offer my sympathy, my understanding. After she left, I considered asking him if he realized how devastated his wife was and encouraging him to reach out to her.

Later in the game, I was absorbed by the resemblences in family members, noticing how much father and son looked alike, or similarities in husbands and wives. I was especially captivated by the lips of the young mother of 4 in front and to the left of us. Her son’s lips mirrored hers exactly; striking lips with exaggerated bumps on top, just like the red wax lips we bought at the candy store as kids. I watched her remove her tiny infant from the snuggly in front of her, then bottle feed the baby, whose face was hidden behind a big-rimmed royal blue hat. Her three other young children sat sandwiched between her and her husband on the bench. I remember those snuggli days, when I carried my own children, tightly tucked to my body. She looked so calm and serene; how could she be, I wondered, with four children under four? Were the girls twins? I said nothing but so many questions swirled through my head.

Another mom caught my attention. She had two girls with her and an infant in a car seat. She was dressed like a teenager, despite her heft from a recent pregnancy, in jean shorts without a belt and doubled-up white tank tops. Her shirts had ridden up and her shorts down, leaving her brown thong all too visible. Her bare skin was showing both above and below the waist strap of the undergarment. She was standing up for the longest time as she talked to someone on her cellphone, scanning the crowd, obviously trying to locate this friend. Her skin was exposed to all who sat above her in the bleachers. I kept wondering if I should tell her she was showing. Was I the only one who noticed? Why wasn’t anyone else saying anything? Eventually, a middle-aged man sitting behind her asked her to sit down so he could watch the baseball game. What a relief. What was he thinking as he watched her expose her darriere, so unaware? Had he ever seen a thong? I wonder if his wife wore one?

At the end of the game, if you asked me to reveal the best plays of the game, I couldn’t tell you. I’m not even sure I know who the Saints played that night. I was too busy working out the more important aspects of baseball: what goes on in the stands. I remember being at a Twins game at the Metrodome when I was very pregnant with our first child. We were far from the action of the game, my seat uncomfortable and I was bored. At one point I had the startling realization that every one of the 30,000 fans in the crowd had once been in their mother’s uterus. It was an awesome thought and I felt connected, in some strange way, to the crowd.

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Call for Guest Bloggers

Tag, you're it! I know each of you have your own "third places" and I invite you to share them here. I've established the rhythm for this dialog, now it's your turn. In my "third places" the emphasis often tends towards observation of others. When talking with some of you about the "third place" concept I've heard ideas such as a being on a bicycle or anyplace you can pick up a guitar. My last post was about airports, I know everyone has perspective and insights about that subject. Restaurants, parks, blog sites, you name it, I'm interested in your take on the "third place". You know who you are, get in the conversation, this isn't an essay contest, it's just for fun. I hope to hear from some of you soon.

Airports

Airports fascinate me. They have much in common with Disneyland. Crowds, lines, food, shopping, visual and sensory bombardment of all sorts, at prices which make your head spin.

Disneyland was fun when I was a kid, in part due to lack of concern and responsibility around calories and costs. Airports were also fun, I felt pampered and awestruck by the experience of flight. The magic of flight still captivates me but the sense of being catered to is long since gone. A very strange mix of anxiety, thrill, frustration, and amusement overtake me at the airport. There may be a plan in place but the sense of adventure comes from what is unpredictable.

In typical "third place" fashion I immerse myself in daydreams and people watching. Usually I keep a close tab on time, but when I'm alone there have been instances where I've had to make a mad dash because I lost track of different time zones. Every type of behavior can be witnessed by fellow travelers at the airport.

Minnesotan's are great to watch arrive at the airport in February. We arrive at the airport when it is 20 below outside already dressed for the beach. You may see us sneaking the down coat into the suitcase or it will come on the plane to second as a pillow or feet warmer. (On my cousin's most recent flight she found a frozen banana on the floor next to her feet!) Shoe choices provide a similar amusement, especially at airports. The reality is, unless you are in a wheelchair you must walk, or run and sometimes for quite long distances. Apparently this does not occur to many airport travelers based upon their footwear choices. The full spectrum of outfits are also on view, with regional variations, you see everything from business suits to beachwear and pajamas. This gets even more interesting or embarrassing when people make their way through security. To see people publicly disrobe is already odd. In this context it seems like a scene from a police station. Once again the pragmatist, I wonder at the belts, buckles and assortment of things that come out of peoples pockets, did they not know they were going to the airport?

Baggage has become complicated in recent years. Now there is a charge per bag, so this has shifted what constitutes a "carry on" item. I only flew a few times as a child, now many families fly with children of all ages which translates to strollers, car seats, baby bags, etc. I used to feel a great sense of luxury on an airplane, now it has the ambiance of a bus station. The stewardess (today's flight attendant, once upon a time was very solicitous, handing out airplane "wings" introducing kids to the pilot, passing out pillows and blankets and making small talk. Today they are the enforcers, "seat up, table up", mumbling "watch your hands" when they slam past with the food cart. Packing the plane is a science, I've heard people discuss the simulation studies conducted to figure out the most efficient method of loading people. Whatever the results of the studies, we human cargo are not easy to transport.

I have never flown first class, nor have I purchased a new car. In my reverse snobbery, I scrutinize the 1st class passengers as I make my way past. I experience seat envy and mean thoughts such as "why are those two little kid bodies in 1st class?" Then, looking at the passenger behind them seated next to the children's mother I feel smug, "nah, nah, you may be in first class but you still came up with the short end of the stick." Yes it is a roll of the dice when it comes to seat assignments, it isn't just a question of who is seated in your row, but who is in front or in back of you, or even in your generally vicinity if their behaviors are really disruptive. The parent kid dynamic is painful. Children have all the power and everyone knows it. There is no possibility of immediate consequences, so parents and all other passengers just pray that the stars have aligned and babies will fall asleep, siblings will be separated and that children and their parents woke up on the right side of the bed. The question of aisle seat or window seat is another thing to ponder, if a person is very confident of their lack of need for a restroom during a flight it is likely they will want and perhaps be able to choose a window seat. If , however, the person at the window seat is 8 months pregnant, as was the case on my last flight, expect to get up and down several times as the one in the adjacent aisle seat. I actually don't mind this because for the most part I welcome the chance to stand up and stretch the legs and since I cannot sleep on planes I'd much rather be the one asked to stand than the one climbing past a sleeping passenger. I marvel at how long some people's legs are and I find the whole sharing of armrests to be problematic, but overall once settled in I welcome the guilt free opportunity to read.

Despite flying in and out of many big cities, I have never been aware of being on a plane with a celebrity. Some of the most revealing conversations occur during the course of a 2 hour flight. Yesterday I heard the filmmaker Mr. Klein describe his flight sitting next to Malcolm X and the opportunity it created for his access to Cashis Clay. So, you never know. If, like myself, you enjoy and seek out serendipity then the unpredictable aspects of airport travel can be seen as a positive side of the adventure. In truth when all goes smoothly on trips the stories are not nearly as memorable or noteworthy. If you allow yourself let go for the ride, it can be fun to be temporarily knocked our of your usual orbit. These experiences, even the trying ones, allow us to reenter our normal orbits with fresh eyes and a new appreciation.

Disneyland is no longer my idea of fun, but despite two delayed flights that got me home late last Monday, I'm already eager for my next visit to the airport.

The Friends School

For much of ours lives, our "third place" is school. Today my daughter graduated from the school she has been attending for 8 years, since first grade. For some, school is a bit like a jail sentence, but Elena has always loved it. From an early age she has enjoyed her independence and school has been a perfect place for her to claim her own realm. We call her our extreme extrovert, and with 3 house mates who are generally introverts, she often seeks out the company of others. Her farewell speech, along with those of her 14 classmates, was delivered with confidence and poise. Elena has a foundation of memories and relationships where her individuality was celebrated and learning was communal, fun and stimulating. These are the best of times.

Early parenting is fraught with decisions, and school is a big one. We hemmed and hawed about whether to try Spanish immersion at the public school or to go with the Quaker Friend's School. Each addressed different yet similar values towards education. The decision was made for us, she was not excepted to the Friends School. I was a bit relieved about no longer facing the dilemma of choosing and off she went to Adams. She had a ball there, yes there were imperfections, such as the fact that half the kids already spoke fluent Spanish at home and then were asked to spend the day learning how to say " Donde esta el bano? " Or, when I would go in to volunteer at the beginning of the day and find that Elena was off in the cafeteria with friends having donuts, the free breakfast program intended for those who didn't have a meal at home. Elena's kindergarten teacher was a fabulous teacher, but she had 32 kids with very different needs. Two other concerns were that the principal didn't speak Spanish, and the first grade classrooms had no windows. Mid year we were given a call from the Friends School saying they might have an opening in first grade and would we be interested? More decisions, ugh. Elena was settled in and happy. Despite my concerns, why rock the boat? I delayed, waiting as usual for divine intervention to solve the problem. As luck would have it Elena took a summer clay class and became fast friends with a girl named Liza from Russia who happened to be listed in The Friends School first grade for the following year! They were kindred spirits, my sign, I told myself, and promptly accepted the spot a The Friends School.

Elena took the news without much fuss and after the first day at school in my attempts to draw forth the evidence of my success masterminding her future, I asked the obvious question, "How was Liza?" "Oh" said Elena, "she went to another school". Needless to say, I was speechless. However, the stars were aligning because that same week we had the tragedy of 9/11 and I knew then that the school was the best fit for our family. The school community sentiment around that event mirrored our own. The Quaker values of Simplicity, Integrity, Community, Equality and Peace seemed more important than ever to have reinforced in a variety of venues outside of the home. Today in each of the speeches given by the graduating class a common theme emerged, in the word's of Thich Nhat Hanh, the seeds of compassion were sown. In a humorous moment when a few of the girls were crying, the row of kids passed tissue to those in need. It was perfect, a symbolic testimony to their bonds of friendship and proof that their speeches were founded in experience.

Hindsight is 20/20 but there is no doubt our second child, Ian, would have despised Spanish immersion and a large school and I would have hated the logistics of having 2 different schools and splitting up the kids. So the Friends School has become a third place for Elena and Ian, and also for me. We have been there for 8 years for various plays and potlucks and have volunteered in many capacities, from teaching watercolor and putting in a tile mosaic at the front entry to being a cashier at the plant sale and spreading fresh mulch over the playground. As any parent knows there are no shortage of needs to make a school function. If only we would recognize as a culture the investment payoff of a great education, and quit the business of war, perhaps we would all prosper. Every child deserves a great "third place" that is their school.