don't judge a dancer by her pole

While spending time with a friend in the San Francisco apartment she shares with her husband, I noticed a pole in the middle of her home office. She has been taking pole-dancing classes. Apart from innocuous demonstrations for friends, she saves her performances for her husband. I asked for a demo; she obliged.

With soft music playing in the background, she twirled and whirled and swung and hung, all the while verbally describing things that one could do to make the dance more... provocative. I was amused at points, nervous at times (that she might slip and injure herself). But I was altogether impressed by the grace, strength and agility it requires to capture the aesthetics of a dance that's generally (mis)perceived to be purely prurient. I also quickly understood why her husband did not object to erecting a pole in the middle of their spare bedroom.

My friend - international lawyer, interior decorator, writer extraordinaire - tells me that learning to pole-dance helped her gain strength and confidence in her body. She doesn't quite fit the picture of a pole dancer that comes to mind, but somehow the whole thing seemed perfectly normal that afternoon as fog from the Bay slowly drifted over the hills. And I suppose this is one of the things I love about San Francisco: it doesn't put much stock in meeting expectations or standards for "normal." As much as I love a good boundary here and there, sometimes it's nice to have a bit more space to think, move and live outside the box.

spare change

I love to reminisce. So visiting Berkeley, my old stomping ground, was a real treat.

Even though I spent my three years in Berkeley as a penny-pinching law student, my selective memory initially conjured only happy memories as I roamed about town. My favorite cafe is the same as it ever was: crowded, warm and humid with espresso aroma and milk steam. My old church, thanks to a big building project, looks big and impressive, albeit a bit impersonal. I stopped by the law school. The lecture halls have been modernized. Once upon a time, there had been one electrical outlet in the entire room; now, every seat is wired for electricity and internet access. I wandered into the library, where the quiet tension and thick odor of anxiety brought a different, less happy memory to mind: studying for the Bar exam. Needless to say, I made a quick exit.

The streets of Berkeley and their homeless vanguards reminded me of inconclusive conversations about the right response to beggars. Give them money? What if they use it to buy booze? Is it up to us to judge how they use what we give them? Give them food? What if they have allergies? I absent-mindedly handed out some cash and snacks as I walked, puzzled by my own hesitation and uncertainty. I thought I had already settled this question, in favor of a literal application of this passage.

It's much easier to come up with a definitive answer about how best to interact with street people in Los Angeles, where I spend most of my time in cars and buildings, where I'm able to control and define such interactions. It's more difficult in places like Uganda, where there's no predicting (or avoiding) encounters with people in need. It's even more difficult in places like Berkeley, where the "needy" are sometimes belligerent and ungrateful.

Turns out, I hadn't reached any clarity about this issue; I had merely changed locations.

sex and the city

Over the holiday weekend, I spent a few days in San Francisco with 3 women who knew me back in the braces-and-glasses days. One was my first friend after transferring to a new school in the 6th grade, another was my tennis partner in high school, and another whose friendship I initially purchased with forged off-campus passes. These women were not the classmates who I shared friendly chit-chat with everyday in honor classes. They were the "bad" girls, or, as I thought and still think of them, the fun ones.

We saw shadows of fireworks through dense fog. We talked about sex. We shopped at fancy shops and ate a lot of seafood. We contemplated massages and watched movies. We reminisced and made fun of each other. We went dancing. We talked and talked and talked about sex. Frank, hilarious, disturbing and insightful conversations about sex that I once believed only took place between fictional characters on cable television shows. (I stand corrected.)

Yet at the end of our time together, I remember little of the city or of the sex talk. What I do recall -- with great ease and affection -- are the unabashed transparency and the freedom to hold and speak different opinions, rooted in the unspoken belief that friends are the ones we come home to, the ones who see and know us without our makeup. Now, as before, they rescue me from the tedium of polite society.

yay, america!

In honor of Independence Day, here are some things that I've come to really appreciate about America:

Orderly instincts: The other day, I was on a road that seemed congested for no apparent reason. When I finally neared the intersection, I saw that the stop lights were not functioning. There were no police officers or any traffic directors in sight, but drivers just instinctively treated the intersection as a four-way stop. Huh? People voluntarily stopped and allowed others to pass? It took my breath away.

The honor system: Public libraries let you take books home for free, on your word that you'll bring them back. Open-faced offering plates are passed in churches. Shops keep little containers full of money dedicated to charities right on the counter. Clients let their accountants and lawyers keep track of time worked. Obviously, this doesn't work every time. But it works often enough that the system is kept in use.

Public Defenders: Thanks to the plethora of criminal law dramas, most of us are familiar with the recitation, "You're entitled to a lawyer. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you." I once thought this was a great idea as left-leaning member of the citizenry. I thought even better of it after working with a group of public defenders, amazing lawyers who do a thankless job for scrap pay. Now, after working for a year in a foreign criminal justice system -- where if you (like 90% of the population) can't afford an attorney, you're just SOL -- I think this is absolutely essential for a just society.

Working democracy: For the most part, each citizen has one vote and the candidate who gets the most votes wins. Election 2000 was a mess of hanging chads, but guess what? Nobody died. The military did not figure into the outcome in any way, shape or form. The government carried on and, in a few months, someone else will occupy the White House.

Utopia? Hardly. Room for improvement? Certainly. But all things considered, there are plenty reasons to give thanks and celebrate.

Happy 4th!