The Alchemy of Warm Milk

In the best description I have ever read of getting dressed on a crisp morning*, my friend Christina inspired me to think about what I miss most and I'm very embarrassed to admit the first thing that came to mind.

Pumpkin Spice Lattés from Starbucks

If my narrative mimicked hers it would go something like this:

I take the cool walk from my car to the Starbucks storefront noticing a man, sitting out front with a pet bird on his shoulder, who wants to be noticed. I enter and take my place in line.

Well... um... It just doesn't have the same universal feel or classic undertones that punctuate Christina's writing.

I feel disconnected from my life and from myself on this odd island that is little more than a holding pen for people and a breeding ground for banana rats and iguanas. Here normal life literally stops for the many prisoners living in cells (we actually have two prisons here: the controversial and from-the-future high-tech facility for foreigners and a much smaller and more inviting military brig that is located a block away from the hospital) and figuratively stops for many of the thousands of personnel who live and work here for a short time.

After I landed in Guantanamo Bay drug dogs sniffed my bags, I was issued two identification cards with my photo, name, rank, parent command and a color code that indicates my security clearance, and then I waited at a picnic table on a slab of concrete for the rest of my co-workers. Sitting at the wood table, my second of the day (earlier we had a longish layover at a base in Atlanta and I sat at a picnic table on a slab of concrete there, too), as I watched small groups form, was the place where I realized that my social structure would have to be reinvented and that I would need to find new tools, as well as sharpen the old ones, to navigate my way through the next six months.

The day before my flight I was at home and buffered from the Navy by routine and comfort. Now I was in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba trying to figure out how I was going to build a bridge and at the same time play well with even the strongest personalities littering the concrete.

As of today one quarter of my time here has passed and I still intermittently struggle to figure out my place among these men. And now, because of Christina's post, I know that the pacifier I crave most is the alchemy of pumpkin spice and espresso flavored milk. It makes me feel at home: comfortable and buffered. I'm glad she asked about what I miss, because even thinking about the latté relaxes my brain.

In February I'll fly home, Pumpkin Spice season at Starbucks will be over, and I'll savor every drop of my second favorite seasonal drink, the Cinnamon Dolce Latté.

*I can't create a link on this e-mailed post but there is a link to Christina's blog, Driving a Stick Shift While Drinking Coffee, on the right side bar.

Against All Reason

I blatantly acted against all reason and what I know to be true: I applied for a library card.

I have a real problem getting books back on time and it's not a new phenomenon. My first memory of getting in punishable trouble is hearing my mother yell my first and middle names from the base of the stairs. I sheepishly slid down each step on my rump, looking at my mother, and wondering how many stairs I would have to descend before she decided I was close enough to reprimand. She was holding a letter,

Jessica Michelle, why didn't you return your library books on time?! I asked you about this weeks ago! Go upstairs and get them! THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN!

Little did she know that not only would it happen again and again and again but that I would later seal a book from my university library and use it to anonymously seduce a corduroy blazered professor.

On the phone last night I told my mom about my new library card and my new library book (an account of working as a prep cook for Mario Batali titled Heat) and reminisced about my age six mismanagement of fairy tales. She laughed and said,

The one I'll never forget is when I tried to use my library card for the first time after you moved to Chicago and the librarian looked up at me and said, You do know that you have a $47 overdue fine that will have to be paid before you can check out any books. I almost fainted.

I had forgotten that one. I guess it's the whole "History is written by the winners" thing.

I'm Falling in Love

I am singing the praises of triangles. I love them. They do everything they're supposed to and, to date, have never let me down.

The piles, while difficult to place (the welding geek admited defeat) because they are in the middle of a flowing river and need to be hammered by a crane on a floating bardge, are ending up right where they're supposed to. It's a great feeling.

In high school I never believed my math teacher when she told me I was going to need SOH CAH TOA later in life. I was wrong. Maybe I should call her.

One Pile in the River

Today is over and there is an I-beam peaking out of the middle of Guantanamo River. It looks straight and right and in every way like a properly placed pile. And the icing on the cake is that we started to sink the second pile and all the measurements between the two check out (the only hang-up is that one of the steel workers, a welding geek who proposed to a hooker in Thailand and refers to her as his "girlfriend overseas", wants to weld a jig onto the first pile to help place the others and I don't think it's a good idea but you can't tear the welding rods out of this guy's hands so tomorrow morning we'll see what he comes up with).

I like when things work out.

To Triangulation

This is the day I've been scared and excited for since I landed on the island six weeks ago: Today we start to sink the center piles. I'll be directing traffic with two instruments. If the I-beams are in the wrong place in the river (I have an allowable error of 1/2") it's all my fault.

I've figured out how I'm going to position the beams, but I'm still unsure of how to check my work. It's a most necessary step.

I'll be going at it for the next two weeks so if anyone reads this, please wish me luck.

Books Still Get People in Trouble

I'm reading this book, "The Omnivore's Dilemma",
that's about where our food comes from. I can't get
enought of it. (It's worth noting that I've had this
feeling about a book or two before and I know I'll be
sad when it's done, like I've lost an understanding
friend.) I love the book so much that it makes me want
my own animal farm... I'm serious... I want it bad...
(though I can admit it helps that running a farm seems
to mean that young, virile, strapping, and ravenous
farm hands will eat dinner at my table every night).

I just finished the part of the book about rotational
grazing and I've never, with the possible exception of
Capote's "In Cold Blood", been so genuinely mesmorized
by non-fiction. I wanted more.

I'm in the computer lab right now and about fifteen
minutes ago I typed in "eatwild.com" trying to
navigate my way to a site with lots of information on
grass-fed meat. The following error popped up:

GTMO MWR's Internet use policy restricts access to
this web page at this time.

Reason: The WebSense category "Advocacy Groups" is
filtered.

I was shocked... and angry... and then I started to
tear up. How did I get here, to this place where
reading about grass-fed beef is an act of subversion?

I read down the page and was able to follow a link
that promised me 60 minuites at the website in ten
minute increments. I clicked the link and made it to
eatwild.com hoping for radical livestock manifestos
that, in this restricted atmosphere, explained the
censorship. But there's nothing radical or crazy in
its pages. It's really about raising and buying
grass-fed beef, lamb, pork, and poultry.

As WebSense promised after ten minutes I was kicked
off eatwild.com and redirected to the WebSense
blocking message. Again I followed the link to go back
to the site and that's when I made my drastic move: I
clicked on "Shop for Eggs and Dairy" and was greeted
with another WebSense error: "You are not able to view
this page."

It makes me sad that I'm not supposed to associate
with groups of people who advocate their cause. My
dope-smoking parents raised me on Bob Dylan (among
others) and I have a need to educate myself and act.

I feel very alone.

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