Northfield, Minnesota

Over the hills and through the woods (through one really evil speed trap, past one haunted house adorned with an abandoned school bus, and beyond the home with clydesdales), there is a town that has helped ease our transition from Cambridge to Faribault.

Northfield has two cool colleges (Carleton and St. Olaf), a Taco Bell (Matt's ambrosia), a Target (as Jennifer used to say, Tar-jay) and a Caribou, which already makes it a wee bit more cosmopolitan than Faribault. But that isn't really what makes it great. This is the home of Malt-O-Meal, an industry that innocently makes the entire town smell of cookies. This is the town whose motto is "Cows, Colleges, and Contentment."

Here's what makes it great:

Chapati's... especially Chicken Korma. Having Indian food so close when you live in what feels like the middle of nowhere is pretty special. It's not the same as Cafe of India, but that's okay. Chapati's is located in this old, red & white, historic hotel, The Archer House, with a huge white porch, where I can just see a Henry James novel happening if only this wasn't Minnesota.

Jesse James... Do you know that Jesse James tore through Northfield, hoping to get rich off the First National Bank in 1876? Too bad for him that the tough local Minnesotans stopped the raid! In honor of Jesse James (hmm, or maybe those brave locals), we celebrate Jesse James Days each September. I ran my first 5K to celebrate.

Paul Wellstone... Wellstone taught here in Northfield at Carleton College for over twenty years before he became senator and later died in a plane crash. Minnesota is the strangest state in terms of politics (e.g., lots of pro-life billboards, a wrestler for governor once, a comedian running for Senate) but the work done in Wellstone's memory is pretty nice to have going on here. Wellstone!

Window shopping, or not... Northfield has everything I need. The Rare Pair, where I can stock up on Merrells and Privos. Digs, my favorite (oh, and Matt's too), where you can buy fabric and yarn and buttons and dish towels and eco-friendly cleaning products, where I found my Stitchin' Vixen shirt that I adore, where I can buy sushi themed stationary, and where I found a very special Dracula for a very important person. Of course there's antiques on every block - perfect for my mom to spend an afternoon.

Books... There's an independent bookstore, River City Books, whose owner loves David Brent as much as I do, and there's a used bookstore, Monkey See Monkey Read, where I recently found a 1937 Collier's World Atlas and Gazetteer for only 10 dollars!

Coffee & Cookies... How can a place called Quality Bakery and Coffee Shop not be great? I recommend the cookies. For coffee (and rice crispy treats reminiscent of the cafe at Wesleyan), it's Goodbye Blue Monday. I don't know if they are referencing Vonnegut or New Order or the simple fact that Mondays suck and would be even worse without coffee. Who cares. My favorite thing about Goodbye Blue Monday is that even when I am 30 seconds away from being late to my therapist's office, I can still order a latte and be on time for my appointment across the street. I think there is simply a difference between my car's clock and the office clock, but I like to think of it as a little Northfield magic realism.

Dog Park... need I say more? When is the rest of the world going to catch on to this?

So, even when I complain, even as I look out on 5 fresh inches of snow, even when my skin hurts from the cold, even when I miss my family and my friends, even when I long to walk the streets of Cambridge or eat sushi in JP, even when I want to swim in the ocean, it isn't that bad here after all.

Maybe next time I'll tell you why Faribault itself isn't that bad....

Livingston, Guatemala

Last week, my husband Matt and I spent the day in a small Garifuna town on the coast of Guatemala. Livingston is not accessible by roads, so everyone and everything must be brought in by boat. We took a short boat ride past beachside homes, complete with thatch-roofed bungalows. When we pulled into the harbor, we were met by a lush green coast, small sailboats, several water taxis, and brightly colored buildings. Local men gathered around the water taxi stand, waiting for charges. Sure enough, one soon came trudging down the main street. A young American man, with a heavy khaki pack on his back and several weeks' facial hair, emerged from Livingston, ready for his return to Puerto Barrios and his next stop. I was instantly jealous and thought back to my days hauling a khaki army-navy pack from Munich to Athens and back again.

Before we headed up the hill that the backpacker had just descended, we wandered through a local park where three giant crocodiles were kept. We had to stare at these three animals for several minutes for a sign that they were real, for they appeared to be more like animatronic monsters on a Disney ride than living breathing manifestations of the underworld. Eventually, when I stared long enough into the desolate stone pit the crocs called home, I saw movement in the nostrils. Matt remained convinced the crocs were not real.

Definitely real, however, was a lonely dog sunning himself on the basketball court. Once he saw us, he stretched and followed us up Calle Principal. Soon enough, he was met by several other local dogs, and together they wandered the streets as though they owned them. The streets were lined with brightly painted shops stocked with soccer balls, fruit, and embroidered cloth. Bright fuchsia rhododendrons, posters for Gallo beer, and beach umbrellas adorned the main street. Matt and I happily stopped for both coco locos, a combo of rum and coconut juice served in a matcheted green coconut, and Gallo beer, Guatamala's beloved brew.

I didn't know of the Garifuna before visiting Central America. The Garifuna people here in Livingston are a unique culture in Central America. Living on the Caribbean coast, they are descended from Africans who escaped slavery and intermarried with the Carib Indians of the island of St. Vincent. The Garifuna were deported to Roatan, one of the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras, after they tried to rebel against the British on St. Vincent. Today's Garifuna are a people who represent a combined African, Carib, Mayan, and European ancestry and cultures. Walking through Livingston, this vibrant, complex culture was immediately apparent.

Once we walked to the top of Calle Principal, it was clear that Livingston was not a quiet or simple town. Indoor recess at a girls' school carried through the streets, and scooters sped past us. Police with automatic weapons slung across their back drove through town in a pick-up truck just as women carried baskets of fruit on the tops of their heads and elderly men wheeled bicycles with milk crates full of glass bottles. Two school boys caught my attention. Both wore Spiderman backpacks and neatly pressed school khakis. One boy walked with a stiff limp, and both boys' attention wandered from checking us out to checking out the noisy recess in the gym above their heads to checking out the pack of mutts following us through the town.

We stopped for mid-morning Gallo beers at a small pub with a traditional Garifuna band and dancers. The five men in the band traded instruments back and forth - maracas, drums, a turtle shell, and a conch shell - while two women and four young girls performed traditional dances. The girls danced to tell the story of the hard work of women while the older women wooed the pub crowd with fancy hip and foot work.

As we descended Calle Principal and returned to our boat to return to Puerto Barrios, I bought woven grass earrings and a roughly carved dugout canoe, and Matt collected quetzales and centavos. Much like the water taxis drivers at the dock, the policemen relaxed outside the station, no longer burdened with weapons. Instead, they traded police patches with another American couple. Two local teenage girls in flip-flops and sequined tanks began to climb the hill, and the not-so-lonely dog reappeared with his pack to lie back down in the heat of the afternoon.

William Carlos Williams Was Right

I don't care if being included in every high school literature textbook makes it trite, but William Carlos Williams is right. Plum is a wonderful word. Thick, round, hollow but full; strong, but inviting. It belongs on the page of the dictionary where succotash, succuba, succulent, and succumb live, but it can't. It's own page isn't too bad... pluck, plump, and plunge follow it (but then there is plug-ugly and and plumb bob).

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the ice box

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- William Carlos Williams, 1962
(http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535)