On Staying

It has been so amazing to be back to work!  Nothing like studying for the Bar to remind me how much I truly love my job (and hope to keep it!).  The worst thing -- to me -- about studying for the Bar is the isolation.  I crave human contact, and forcing myself to hide and think instead of indulging in community was challenging.  Luckily I had some amazing friends waiting to celebrate the moment I was done!

Now that I'm back to my routine, I'm noticing how much things have changed while I was in hiding. Alaska is a place that changes quickly.  Just like the weather, the turnover of people is constant.  It's an odd place that attracts odd people... wanderers, I guess.

My very first two friends here both recently made the decision to leave Anchorage -- for very different reasons.  In part of my endeavor to stop making everything about me, I realize that it's a good decision for both of them.  There's a new and exciting adventure ahead for each of them... and if I have learned anything about journeys, it's that they often include goodbyes.

I'm used to goodbyes, but I've never quite become good at them.  With my history of leaving, I am acutely aware that when an exit happens, no one can promise an imminent reunion.  What I'm not used to is other people leaving.  I'm always the one that leaves... and I like to imagine that everything behind me is frozen in time, waiting for my return.

Being the one to leave lends a slight sense of being in control of the return.  When people leave me, I don't have that assurance anymore.  I was blessed to return to California recently for a dear friend's wedding. I was happy to find that while some things had changed, my friendships were just as sweet and beautiful as I remembered. And so was the California sun.

But while I'm moping, something about staying here and watching people I love leave also makes me feel even more at home in Anchorage -- like maybe I will become a permanent part of this place and I don't always have to be the nomad in my community. I am open to getting used to the "staying" role... and if I pass the Bar, maybe Anchorage might be the right place to do that. I've never tried to be established anywhere before, but anything is possible in this quirky little wonderland.

So to the two dear people I was so lucky to find so early in my Alaska experiment: Feed your wanderlust, but come back soon, dear friends.  Maybe Anchorage won't be exactly how you left it, but I'm confident our friendship will be.

Do it Once; Do it Right; Never Do it Again

What a lovely summer it has been.

My awesome friend Kate, who bought me my first presents for my home in Anchorage, came to visit and we went to Denali.  It was probably the most beautiful place I've ever seen in my life.  It was amazing to get to spend some time with Kate -- who was a huge support in my decision to move -- and Alaska never ceases to amaze me.

After that it was time to hunker down for the AK Bar.  People keep asking me about this, so I'll clarify: In Alaska, you can practice on your out of state license for 10 months if you work for a public interest job (like the Public Defender Agency).  I'm about expired, so I had to take the Bar.  It sucked just as much as the first one.

I found it hard to shut my life down again.  I had promised myself so many times during the dark Barbri days in California: "If you do this right, you'll never have to do it again."  So trying to convince my sad little brain to do it again... it's like I just didn't find the promise to myself credible. Anyway, I tried hard, and we'll find out what happens in October.  Of course I hope I pass, because I love my life and job here.  But if I don't, then that's part of my story and I'll find something else to do.

Like making muffins.

Birthday Time

I love birthdays.

I love my birthday; I love other people's birthdays; I love birthdays of institutions and events and small animals.  I enjoy reflecting over the past year and contemplating all of the things that have changed -- and all of the things that haven't.  My friends' birthdays lead me to write sappy letters and plan silly surprises.  My own birthday makes me want to introduce different friend groups to one another and makes me hope for a pony.

Every year, I take June 29th as a time to reflect on the phases of my life -- like a flip book of just birthday time.  I can close my eyes and see the time I sent back a slice of cake to the cook I had a crush on at Texas Roadhouse (and all the chaos that followed that choice). I imagine sitting in the kitchen floor with my late friend Christy eating raw cookie dough at 2am after a night of karaoke and lap dances.  I picture the photos (because I can't quite claim to remember) of dancing and tequila shots in Madrid.

My first birthday in San Diego was hard.  Paul Green was my only friend at the time, and I couldn't quite remember why I left the terrazas of Spain for law school (I still can't exactly). Paul got some of his friends together for me, and they rallied to give me a very sweet birthday dinner even though they barely knew me.  I'll always remember that fondly.

Having just moved to Anchorage 5 months ago, I feel so so blessed to see so many people come out for my birthday this year.  It was a fun mini-review of how lucky I've been to build this life in this weird place!  The little segments of my life came together -- puppies in tow -- to celebrate one more year of life.

Cheers :).

What You Make It

My very lovely friend Lara has been an example to me since the day I met her.  When I began law school, I was worried that everyone would be angry competitive sharks.  I had just left Madrid, and I was still reeling from my decision to leave the sun and wine soaked terraces for three years of darkness and tears. (yes.  I am a dramatic person.)

But then I met Lara.  Lara was a ray of sunshine.  She emanated freedom and comfort and faith in a world that was beautiful.  I soon learned that we came from similar backgrounds and had somehow come to similar worldviews.  I admired her strength and ability to be forthcoming and comfortable with ideas that I still found intimidating and awkward.

More than that, Lara wasn't worried that she had traded her free spirit for life behind a desk.  She seemed to understand that her life would still be whatever she chose for it to be.  Throughout law school, Lara continued to believe in the beauty of the life she chose. While she excelled academically and professionally, she never lost sight of who she was.  She found a way to travel and work and study and play while the rest of us complained about being trapped by our choices. When the grueling Bar Exam was over, Lara went to the other side of the world with her German boyfriend (whom she met backpacking in South America) and heard the good news of her passing from India. 

I worried for Lara sometimes.  The job market is brutal is California (as most places), and she was choosing to wander instead of getting a head start on finding permanent employment.  But, resilient as ever, Lara eventually found her way back to California, attacked the task of applying to jobs with a vengeance, and was soon gainfully employed.

Basically, Lara unintentionally proved to me over and over again that living in fear and doubt was a choice I'd made for myself -- not something that was happening to me.

I'm not done traveling and playing.  I'm not done with carefree nights in foreign countries or learning about new cultures or meeting strangers.  I'm not done with adventure and risks and experimentation. 

Right now, studying for the Bar Exam, it's easy to pity myself and reduce myself to the results of the Exam.  It's easy to imagine that the predictable future is the only possible vision for me.  I'm happy with the path I've chosen right now, but it's refreshing to remind myself that I can choose whatever life, whatever journey, I wake up and desire tomorrow.

I'm going to protect my own happiness, because it isn't anyone else's responsibility.  I have the life I want, and -- if I continue to be brave enough to follow my bliss -- I always will.

Thank you, Lara, for being a living lesson.  May you never lose your sense of strength, tranquility, and light.  I love you more than I can say, and my life is more beautiful for having you in it.

Updates

I haven't blogged in a while, which can only mean one thing: I have a full and real life here!  I've been beyond blessed in the people who have found me, and I feel so grateful I could burst.  As my new friend Angela says, "We found a family in the land of orphans."

These have been my chief activities in the last month:

• finding my party pants (I seem to have packed them away when I left California) 
• taking advantage of the warmth by playing outside and seeing a little bit more of Alaska
• freaking out about having to take the Bar yet again (despite all those promises I once made to myself that I'd "never have to do this again").

Along the way, a lot has happened.
Here are some highlights:

1) I've fallen madly in love with my bike.  I think I learned to ride a bike when I was 5 or 6... but I've never loved one until I met my little craigslist wonder.  Pete, who was my very first friend in Anchorage, has a curious fixation with bikes; one of the perks of meeting him was that it opened my eyes to what a significant part of life a bike can be.  It helps me make friends, gets me from A to B, gives me a sense of windy abandon, and allows me to get home safely and legally from bars.

2) My college roommate and favorite tiny soldier came to visit me from New Jersey.  We did a little wandering and observing of puffins, but spent a lot of time either talking or enjoying the comfortable silence.  It was a nice reminder that while I often gravitate toward noisy dressy nights out, quiet cozy nights are rare -- and ones to cherish.  When I was 20 and lived in the ghetto with Alaina, a night in giggling and watching Sex & and the City was one that couldn't be topped.  Turns out, that's still true.

3) I've spent an outrageous amount of money at REI.  Before the annual REI sale, I had never realized that I've never actually owned (or carried, or pitched) my own tent.  These are tasks (among countless others) I've always depended on someone else to do for me.  One of the innumerable reasons I love moving so often is the opportunity to start fresh without the luxury of using people or familiar circumstances as a crutch.   I like object lessons, so maybe successfully backpacking while carrying my own weight (haha!) encourages me to believe that I can be less dependent on people in life and love as well as in camping.

I fall in love with Alaska more and more every single day.  I feel completely myself here, even (or maybe especially) stripped of the trappings of my easy California life.  I'm frustrated and challenged and inspired and enthralled.  And you know what?  That bitch from REI was right: I'm absolutely awed.

Springing Forward

It's great living somewhere with seasons again.  I love ongoing change, and it's refreshing to have it happening all around me.  When I was in Virginia, I always loved spring and fall.  Spring was so fresh and lush and promising.  And I've still witnessed very few scenes as beautiful as Southern autumn. Spring in Alaska is proving to delightful as well.  The landscape literally changes every single day as the snow melts to reveal new landmarks and colors and curbs.  (Not lines on the street though.  I had reasonably assumed those were hiding just beneath the snow. Not so much.)

The light here is truly amazing.  As I type, it's almost 10:30 and it isn't quite dark out.  I can still make out the outline of whatever island it is I can see from my living room window as well as the last little threads of pink light on the water. I'm realizing that I do not have a strong inner clock and should probably work on that since it's only going to get worse from here. 

To add to the list of things winning me over in Alaska, I'd like to discuss the DMV.  This weekend, I was in and out of the DMV in 15 minutes on a Saturday afternoon.  It was clean, efficient, and had validated parking.  California: take notes.  Or suddenly discover large amounts of oil beneath your surface, I guess.

I've been in Anchorage for 3 months today.  I've officially lasted for a season.  And my life, like the coastal trail, looks so different than it did on January 22nd.

I'm finally starting to feel like myself again on several levels.  My social circle is slowly growing, and I'm back to my favorite habit of filling/double booking most of my weekends and evenings with friends.  Between the warming weather and my new bike, I'm slowly becoming physically active again (and realizing how much the sedentary winter months affected by chubby little body).  I'm finding balance professionally, learning which battles to fight and which to ... postpone.  The weather and I are meeting each other in the middle, as it's relenting and I'm toughening up.

I fall down from time to time; I occasionally have a lazy or complacent day where I don't make as much progress on this life-in-Alaska project/experiment as I'd like, but overall I'm happy with my journey.   I'm as excited to see the changes in myself as the ones I see out my widow.  Every day is a discovery; every day is an adventure.  I'm looking forward to the summer visitors that I have lined up, and I'm so excited to introduce Alaska as my home.

I love DJ

When I was in law school, Diana John did not laugh at me when we did zumba.  She looked ridiculous with me instead.
When I was studying for the Bar, she made me dinner every Sunday night.
When I couldn't find a job, she:

•  introduced me to her mother, who gave me numerous job leads in Sacramento
• gave me the email address to public defender recruiters
• advised me about the hiring practices of the Alaska Public Defender Agency and encouraged me to apply for the job here in spite of how ridiculous it seemed at the time

Now, Diana has landed a kick-ass job as a DA in Brooklyn, is the world's coolest aunt, and is one of my favorite people to gossip with on Gchat.

These are some of the many reasons that Diana is one of my favorite people alive.

Also, she taught me about cake batter shots.

Who says you can't go back?

Alaska is similar to the South in ways I hadn't anticipated.  The redneck culture here is alive and well, and the love for big guns and small government runs deep.  Maybe snow machines replace ATVs, fish and game look a little different, and there's a marked absence of confederate flags, but sometimes I could swear I'm back in Alabama.

Before you cringe and say "I'm sorry," there are many things I love about the South.  The charm and hospitality is so warm and tangible, the comfort food is magic, the men are strong and self-sufficient, and -- I'll admit it -- I was always prettier in jeans and flip flops in the South than I ever was in a lace mini-dress and stilettos in Southern California.

There are negatives that carry over too.  The good ole boys' club has an active Alaska branch, racist stereotypes have their stronghold, and homophobia plays a shameful role in politics.

Maybe the reason the similarities don't bother me as much as I'd expect is that I'm much more comfortable with myself than when I left the South six years ago.  Feeling misunderstood and ostracized was enough to bring me to tears back then, no matter how much support I had from those close to me.  When I first began to question the religious, political, and cultural norms I had been brought up in, the least bit of criticism was enough to make me question my intelligence and moral compass and even to make me feel unloved.

Now, I understand that reasonable minds can and do differ, and I appreciate how resistant people can be to change.  I realize that I took the concern from loved ones and authority figures too personally.  I know that sometimes, when people react out of fear, it can look a lot like hatred.  I've also found that I'm not alone.  As much as the ego-centric college student version of myself thought that I was alone in my newly found principles, I've discovered that I am within arm's reach of kindred spirits no matter where I am.

I've been lucky to find so many here, and hopefully I'm also getting better at seeking them out.  It seems that every time in the last few month I've truly make the effort to reach out, I've accidentally met like-hearted people who are willing to be my friends.  It certainly proved true for me this weekend, when a Habitat for Humanity project turned into an entire weekend of playing and laughing and bonding with women I already feel that I've known a lifetime.  Although I don't yet have a community to rival the one I left,  I have faith I'm well on my way.

For any of my dear friends who may feel alone, I hope I can encourage you to force yourself to branch out of your comfort zone.  Meetup.com has been a great resource for me here, as well as going alone to activities which I would normally have wanted to go with a friend (volunteer opportunities, cooking classes, trivia nights.).  Give the strangers around you a chance to surprise you. We're never as alone as we think we are.

You feel like home to me

My beautiful and dear friends Tarren and Becca came to visit me last weekend.  I have never cried and laughed so much in such a short period of time.  I haven't missed the beach or the burritos or the happy hour specials nearly as much as I thought I would, but my god do I miss you lovely people who read my blog.  It is easy for me to walk away from places... even though I've been lucky to live in some beautiful ones.  But it has always been people who feel like home to me, and these girls are prime examples.

Laughing and drinking and drinking with the girls, it's easy to pretend that we have been this comfortable and close since the summer we met.  But the truth is, we had to work for these friendships. We took care of each other after heartbreaks, practiced and critiqued oral argument together, held bags for each other to vomit in, didn't kill each other when our cycles were synched, endured each other's misled romantic choices, ran each other's errands, and kept each other's juicy secrets when we were so excited we wanted to burst.  That's how we woke up one day and found that nothing was as satisfying or cathartic as all three crawling into bed together on Sunday morning with cups of coffee and messy hair for storytime. And it's worth all the dues we paid.

I had a hard time when Tarren and Becca left Anchorage, and the friend-shaped hole in my heart still hurts a little for the feel of family and unconditional love.  I do very much feel at peace with being in Alaska, and it's not without its joys.  I've been beyond blessed with the people I've met, and there really isn't much to complain about. I'm learning an overwhelming amount about who I am personally and professionally and hopefully moving more and more toward the person I want to be.  There are strong and weak days, but mostly I'm committed to building my relationships and career here and learning to be a good Alaskan even if I have to buy new outerwear every season, adjust how often I wear stilettos,  and stumble along as I learn new sports as well as social and cultural rules.

Alaska and law school are similar in that if someone had presented me with a complete list up front of every expense involved, I probably never would have followed through.  The same goes for general emotional struggles. Luckily, the purchases and traumas came as surprises one by one until I stayed long enough to realize that I'd spent too much to back out.

I went to the Anchorage museum with new friends today, and I was entranced by the Alaskan history represented by some of the exhibits.  Although I felt humbled by how little I knew, I also felt proud to be a recent addition to the state.  It inspired me to educate myself a bit more about my new home, and it's probably the most interested in Alaska itself I've truly been so far.  This relationship between Alaska and me... honestly, it is still work.  But I hope one day -- after I invest enough -- I feel as comforted, accepted, and whole as I do standing in the cold with Tarren and Becca waiting for the liquor store to open.

Boundaries

I have trouble with boundaries.  I always have.  I care way too much about way too much and consistently overcommit myself.

I try not to blog about work very often because my best stories are either confidential or borderline, but anyone who knows me well knows I love indigent criminal defense.  It was such a dream come true for me to finally get paid to do it.  But doing the work full time hasn't changed the fact that I'm very emotionally involved in the lives of my clients.

During my very first public defender internship, my supervising attorney (Zaki) asked me to leave a client meeting because I started crying.  Afterwards, I asked for the client's address so I could send him cat food (it makes sense in the long version).  Zaki taught me so many things by example during the semester I fell in love with the career that could rip my heart out, but the only direct criticism he ever really gave me was, "At some point, you're going to have to grow some boundaries."

I like to think I've gotten a little better.  I now have access to the mailing address of 124 clients and never send cat food to a single one of them.  No matter how difficult it is.  But I'm still overly invested in their actions, which I have shockingly little influence over.

I love and hate my clients. They write me crazy letters; they send me funny drawings; they yell and ramble and laugh and cry into my voicemail.  They make me yell, ramble, laugh, and cry too.  They also make me feel fulfilled, feel guilty, feel appreciated, and feel that I am depriving people of their Constitutional right to competent counsel.

This is a self-portrait of a client
who asked me to please not
forget that he is incarcerated.

This is from a client who is very
proud to be Native American

My confidence in my competence as an attorney is attached to whether I'm able to make a difference in their lives... which makes me feel constantly guilty and worried that my exhaustion, busy-ness, and professional interpersonal conflicts will affect them negatively.

I have a therapist-friend who enjoys biking and giving unsolicited advice (in his defense, I use him as my personal counselor more often than I should, so he probably gets confused about when advice is being solicited). He says that if I don't learn to control how much of myself is invested in my clients' behaviors, I won't be able to stay in a job like this long term.

I am not sure how I feel about that.  I know that I am sometimes emotionally exhausted by being disappointed or frustrated or even heartbroken about the actions of people  I can't control.  Biking Therapist calls it codependent and has a book about it.

I've had jobs I didn't care about... jobs where every Friday morning was take-your-burrito-to-work day because every Thursday night was dance-and-drink-tequila-until-2am day.  Those jobs served their purpose of financing my burrito and tequila habit but didn't give me much else.

So here's the thing... hopefully, we are choosing jobs because we care about them, right?  How do you separate caring about your job from caring so much about your job that it eats you alive?  How do you care about what happens to people (clients, friends, or acquaintances) without making their successes and failures and joys and heartaches your own?

Speak up kids.  Give my pro-bono therapist a break and tell me how come all of you aren't crazypants at work.

Green Light

Last night, I was approaching a downtown intersection, and the light turned green.  And so did the next one.  And so did the next one.  You know when you hit that string of green lights, and you can look down the street and watch the domino effect as if it's two bathroom mirrors facing each other?

I'm starting to see green lights all over my life.  I'm developing real friendships; I'm in love with my job; I'm learning to enjoy (and not endure) the weather.  It wasn't too long ago that Alaska and I were ending our honeymoon, but I think we are starting to accept each other for who we are now. Even the moose have stopped hiding from me and instead guard my car in the morning to ensure I don't get to work on time.

I know I should feel grateful, but good fortunate tends to make me feel anxious. I'm always afraid my luck is about to run out... like I've had too many blessings for someone of my average goodness, and pretty soon a higher being is bound to realize that I've eaten more than my share of karmic cookies and cut me off for life.

I've never been one to believe that things "happen for a reason," but one thing that has always challenged my skepticism is the friends I meet.  Since coming to Alaska, I feel ridiculously fortunate to have found every single person I've met outside of the Public Defender Agency.  Each friendship has been one I've stumbled upon by accident, and each one has added depth and comfort to my Alaskan life.

A year ago, when I imagined the life I wanted, it certainly wasn't this one.  I remember last March pretty clearly ... believing the innumerable hours of volunteer work I'd invested in the San Diego Public Defender over the last three years would pay off soon, believing I would stay in my Hillcrest apartment with my dear roommate and a million bottles of wine, believing that fighting hard enough and applying to enough jobs would keep me by a sunny SoCal beach forever, and trying frantically to believe that love would eventually conquer all.

I never wanted to cut my losses in the professional network I'd sacrificed so much of my free time in law school creating.  I never wanted to leave the women who became my family through the nightmare we called law school. I never wanted to live alone or buy a puffy down coat or extricate myself from my love for Daniel.

But now that I've done those things, this amazing life I never knew to wish for has found me.  I love my job and my apartment and the snow and the independence more than I ever knew I could.  I fell down the snowy rabbit hole into this wonderland I never knew to search for.

I hope I am not jinxing myself when I entertain the idea that I might not ever run out of good luck.  Maybe I do deserve the amazingly beautiful people who come into my life. Maybe doom is not impending.  Maybe even more happy things are on their way and I just need to hold still and let them catch me.

For once, I am just going to enjoy the green lights.

More Stuff

I finally bought furniture and unpacked most of my boxes. Thankfully, my friend Cass went with me for the shopping endeavors.  I got my table from Wal-Mart, because I am super classy.  The Wal-Mart guys helped us get the giant heavy box into the back of the Subaru and off we went to celebrate with beer and enchiladas.

When I got home, I suddenly became very unaware of the absence of the Wal-Mart guys.  I desperately wanted furniture in my apartment to reward me for finally going shopping.  I tried to carry the box in myself, but I couldn't even lift it enough to try to open it. So I went inside, got a kitchen knife and came back outside.  I butchered the cardboard box and made six trips inside with armfuls of wood. Voila.  Furniture.

I got my couches delivered on Saturday too.  The company gave me a window of 11:00 - 3:00, but luckily the delivery came at 11:45 -- early enough for me to go snowboarding with my caesar salad friends!

I think I have everything I need now.  Couch, table, chairs, appliances, and boxes of everything I own.  I also have friends I'm getting closer to, a job I love, and a basic knowledge of how to snowboard.  2012.  It's not so bad.

Fur Rondy

These Reindeer

are chasing these people

and I have no idea why.

Stuff

I'm not good at watching movies, so people like to explain storylines to me.  This is fine and saves me a substantial amount of time.  In a conversation about whether or not possessions matter, my friend Pete told me about some plot in some movie where the guy gets super attached to his volleyball and names him. (You don't all have to comment to tell me which movie.  I don't care.)  It sounds stupid.

I like to think I care about stuff less than most people. I move too much and have been too poor for too long to have nice things.  Every few years I whittle down to my favorite/most useful things so I can move.  Also, I lose/break things on a regular basis. But when the Public Defender offered to pay to move all of my stuff to Alaska, I took them up on it.  Sounded fun.

I want to insert a warning here to anyone who might hire a California-based moving company: DON'T GO WITH "NOW THAT'S A GOOD MOVE."  It isn't.  I won't rant here about every single thing they did wrong... just don't do it.

Anyway, I thought I'd get my stuff after two weeks (because they lied), but it took six weeks. So there I was, after six weeks,  sitting on my living room floor surrounded by files and trying to work because moving company could only come during office hours. A big truck pulled up and a little man came out.  Just one little man.  I wondered how he was planning to carry all of my stuff by himself, so I asked him. As it turns out, he was only authorized to leave my stuff in my snowy driveway.  Because I am even less capable of bringing all of my stuff inside alone than that little man, I refused to sign and made him leave. He was pissed.

The thing about being new is that even though you're forming new friendships, you don't have people you feel comfortable asking to drop their lives to do an annoying favor (like help you carry stuff inside out of the snow because you didn't have the foresight to ask ahead of time whether this was covered in your moving expenses).  I really don't have any favors to call in here. So I called a temp agency, priced the job, then called the moving company to reschedule the shipment.

The moving company told me that there were two men at my apartment to help me move.  There weren't.  They insisted.  I went outside to look for them.  I couldn't find them.  I came back inside and tried to figure out what to do. Then two large scary-looking guys knocked on my door.  They were there to help me move.  The moving company had apparently contracted a shipping company and a temp agency without telling any of the three parties. (me.  I'm the third one.)

I invited the guys in out of the snow and called the moving company, who confirmed that that's who the guys were (not just random large people lost in the snow). The guy with the truck couldn't come back for another hour.  So, I made the guys some coffee and toast and we all sat on the living room floor and told stories.  As it turns out, they were convicted felons so we had a lot to talk about!  I really wanted to take pictures of them for the pending blog, but couldn't figure out how to do it without being offensive. Their largeness really emphasized the smallness of my living room. Eventually, the truck came back, the men unloaded it, and we all lived happily ever after.

Anyway, even though I had a lovely morning with these guys, I was thinking by the end of the ordeal that I wish I hadn't shipped anything at all.  It was all such a hassle, and my stuff really isn't worth anything.  But then, I saw him: my pet dragon.  I have a giant pet dragon that the best person I know once won for me at a fair (after $65 and a relentless ball-throwing match with a fair worker).  When I carried that dragon around the fair, little kids kept approaching me to pet him.  He's that huge and exciting.

Then, I saw the sparkly sombrero that was given to me to remind me that I'll always be the honorary Mexican of my urban tribe back in California. My dragon loves that sombrero.  So I took my sombrero and put him back on my dragon's head, where he belongs. When my giant Mexi-dragon smiled up at me in appreciation of being hatted, I felt like I was reunited with an old friend.  I couldn't believe how happy I was to see him.

I might as well have named him Wilson.

More than a month in

As it turns out, I'm not great at living in Alaska.

I forget not to leave water bottles in the car.  They freeze.
I forget to cover my hands and my throat and my ears.  They freeze.
I forget I need to completely blow dry the ends of my hair.  They freeze too.

I forget to give myself extra time in the morning to scrape the ice off of my car, and I forget which acronyms to use at work, and sometimes I forget to wear extra little pants under my big pants.

Alaska is extremely beautiful.  It is also cold -- perpetual, consistent, unyielding, bone-cutting cold.
And it's odd.  And it's overcast. And it's more of a Boys' Club than I had ever expected.

For the last month and a half, my life has been consumed with this move (see blog).
I think that's expected, and I think it's ok.  But sometimes people bring up current events -- which I used to enjoy being up to date on -- and it makes me realize that I've been so wrapped in up myself and every tiny lesson I'm learning that I have somehow forgotten about the rest of the world. Why would I read the Economist or listen to NPR when the subject isn't my move to the Arctic?

Last summer, I suffered the loss of a beautiful relationship with a very good man.  The breakup was mutual.  And it was the right thing to do.  And it sucked very very much. Like many people do, I went through a party-centric period for the next few months.  I focused on myself and my happiness and did every single thing I felt like doing. I will never forget one morning few months afterwards, waking up and realizing that I was no longer "recently out of a relationship" and was instead just "BEING SELFISH."

I met a really amazing person this weekend, who was brave enough to open up to me about some things they were struggling with.  For the first time since coming here, I forgot myself for a while and got emotionally involved in someone else's journey and someone else's pain. At the end of the conversation, I suddenly realized that I was not the loneliest person in the room.  And I wondered for a long and horrible moment how many other people I have overlooked in my insistence of examining only myself.

So I guess my point is this: the move has been hard and continues to be.  I'm extremely interested in myself, and will probably continue to be the main topic in most of my blogposts and thoughts.  But I have spent more than an acceptable period of time pretending I'm the only person on earth. It's past time for me to get outside of myself a little bit, and to start thinking more about the struggles and successes of others.  And maybe even watching the news again.

The Caged Bird Sings

As I write this post, I'm sitting on an air mattress in my teeny tiny one-bedroom apartment.  I had leftover Pad Thai for dinner from a styrofoam box, and soon I'm going to a comedy show with people I don't really know.

When I stalk my friends on facebook, I can't help but notice that I'm in a very different place than many of my high school and college peers.  Many of them got married, produced small humans, purchased homes, and accumulated furniture.  Obviously I have not done these things.

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who thinks renting is a waste of money.  He explained investing and interest and some other things that bored the manners out of me.  So to many of you successful, mature, well-meaning individuals who may be understandably tempted by my first paragraph to lecture me about my life choices, I'd like to clarify something that I hope brings you relief.

I didn't decide not to participate in grown-up activities because I think they are a bad idea or because I think my lifestyle is superior or even because I didn't want to.  The thing is, different people value different things.  Many intelligent and lovely people value security.  I can respect that.  I can even understand that.  And every once in a while, I am envious of that.

But I don't think there's anything I value more than freedom.  That's why I rent a cheap apartment, own cheap possessions, and am slowly inching my way toward being a barren spinster.  Ultimately, it's also why I love my job. I know I would have more financial security if I invested in a home.  I know I'd be more comfortable if I had nice (or any) furniture.  I know that I would reduce my chances of dying alone if I stopped wandering around the globe and didn't use contraception.

And I know that on a regular basis, I fight for rehabilitation for parolees -- some of whom do not want to be rehabilitated and will eventually reoffend and contribute to the appalling recidivism statistics of the great state of Alaska.

But the thing is, I want freedom.  I want it for myself and for my clients and for baby killer whales. Even though I know it costs me money and security and relationships.  Even though my profession is found distasteful and unethical by many.  Even though I'm a Democrat;).  And even though it makes my loved ones worry.

Breaking the Seal

You know how annoying it is when you are trying to open a shrink wrapped book and you just can't seem to find a good place for the initial puncture?  That's how I had felt trying to find good friends in a sub-Arctic climate.  But, just like all of those law school textbooks that I ignorantly lowered the resale value on, I have found that now the tiny tear is easily giving way.

I spent the long weekend with Claudia, Jose, and their family at Big Lake.  Their aunt has a beautiful cabin  where we all napped, ate, drank, and snow-machined.  Being the only single and un-related girl in the group somehow landed me in a huge bedroom with a fireplace and private bathroom.  It was great to be in the middle of nowhere with lovely people and a million bottles of wine.

The entire lake is frozen of course, and provides the foundation for Iron Dog, the world's longest snow machine race. 

It was definitely an interesting experience.  I kept an eye out for Todd Palin but couldn't find him. (Side note: No one here seems to find the Palins nearly as hilarious as I do.  It's very disappointing.)

I'm glad to have finally gotten the opportunity to get out of Anchorage, and look forward to doing it a lot more.  I have been reminding myself a lot today about how I love my job and sacrificed a lot specifically to do this... but the idea of going back to work tomorrow makes me feel like this:

I live here

The beginning of a big move always feels like vacation to me.  I remember touching down in San Diego and smiling as the palm trees got closer and closer.  I remember how I felt the first time I tripped down the cobble stone in Madrid.  And I hope I'll always remember how giddy I felt last week when I finally saw a baby moose on my way to work. (I wish I could post a picture, but alas, I was on a bus and felt ashamed of my cheechako tendencies.)

I'm still excited about my adventure, and this place still feels as foreign as any new country I've ever arrived in. But the vacation part of moving to Alaska has recently begun to fade, and that feeling is being replaced with starting to sense that I might belong here.

Part of this has been because I bought an Alaska-approproiate car:

And I don't want to downplay my very first household appliance, a gift from my current favorite person, Kate:

But as is usually the case, the largest contributor to my emotional shift has been the people I've met.  As I've said before, the first few weeks of a transition are always hard for me, because I am such a social person and crave more interaction and intimacy than normal people do.  Last weekend, I went to a class to learn to make different kinds of caesar salads and pair them with wine. I'm not remarkably domestic, and before that class, I had no idea that there was more than one type of caesar salad (but was already fairly familiar with various types of wine).

This is where I met Claudia and Jose, an adorable young couple sitting across from me.  Together, we learned that these glasses are apparently bottomless.  After too many glasses of wine and plates of caesar salad, they were kind enough to invite me out with their friends for the evening.  And there, for the first time since I moved to Winter Wonderland, I finally found myself surrounded with laughter and wine and besos that didn't leave me on the outside looking in.

Cheechako

During my interview for this position, one of the interview panel members commented, "Alaskans try to go outside at least once a year."  For about thirty minutes, I stopped listening to anything the panel members were saying while I tried to figure out how they managed this.  Incidentally, I hate being cold almost as much as I hate shopping, and it didn't strike me as odd that people living near the North Pole would avoid going outside at all costs.  I imagined that there were tiny tunnels connecting all important Anchorage entities in order to avoid going out in the snow.

When I snapped back, "we" were discussing more relevant details of the job.  I was obviously shocked when I was eventually offered the position.

There are a million things about Alaska that make me feel like I live in a foreign country.  There are so many tiny cultural differences -- things that seem to come so easily for some people but would never have occurred to me:  You always take your shoes off when you enter a home, and trucks come into the city after every snow to pack it all up and take it out of the city.

Since the day of the most awkward interview in life, I have learned that Alaskans have their own vocabulary.  I learned that I'm lucky to have a plug-in in my parking space -- and not because Alaskans all drive electric cars or because I may wish to blow dry my hair in the spot.  I have learned that most windshields are cracked and you can wear jeans anywhere.  I have learned that we all hate "breakup" for reasons that are not emotional.

I have learned these lessons through awkward conversations, stupid questions, and risky/lucky interviews.

The other day, a friend texted to inform me that I am a "cheechako."  I googled it.  As it turns out, needing to google cheechako is sure proof that you are one.   But as a result of this search, I found this amazing resource:

Click this cool Alaska Link!

I wish I had found it three weeks ago, but I guess the hardest lessons are the most remembered.

Experience Required

I have several incredibly smart and talented friends who are having trouble finding employment in California.  I had similar issues when I was there (which is how I ended up in Anchorage).  Everyone seems to be running into the same problem: each firm with a job vacancy states that it requires 2-5 years of experience.  How is anyone supposed to get experience if firms are only hiring people with experience?  You have to have experience to get experience.

When I lived in Virginia, it snowed sometimes.  Not Alaska-caliber snow... but still white, frosty, and scary to drive in.  When it was snowing and I had to go to work/school/more-than-two-blocks-from-my-apartment, my friend Paul always came to the rescue and chauffeured me around.  I'm a nervous driver under perfect conditions (yes, I'm perpetuating the stereotype and don't care), and the snow doesn't help.

The colleague for whom I am house-sitting has kindly allowed to me borrow her car. Yesterday, even though there were flurries, I decided to drive to work instead of taking the bus.  I was so proud of myself. (Even though I got all the way downtown before realizing I have no idea where people in our office park.  Different story though.) It was a little scary, but I made it!  Once I got to the office, however, the flakes really started coming down...

By the time I was able to leave work, 7 inches had already fallen.  The air around me was literally white.  I looked out my window periodically to notice the streets becoming less and less visible. Reluctantly, nervously, I decided to take the bus back to the house instead of driving.  After I had looked up the route and figured out my schedule, I took a moment to look out my office window and enjoy the beauty of winter.

But instead, I couldn't help but notice how many cars were rolling through the snowy streets.  So many cars... yes, some trucks and SUVs and Subarus, but some tiny cars too!  Some of them even driven by Asian women, I bet!  The longer I watched them the more frustrated I became. Why could they do this simple task when I was so afraid?  I reasoned to myself that it must be because they have all grown up in Alaska... they have years and years of winter driving experience.

But how do you get experience if you keep waiting until you have experience? If I'm going to live in Alaska, I can't be stranded and call for help every time a snowflake falls.  If Alaskans for years have driven through the snow, why can't I?  There is no way they are all smarter or stronger or braver than I am.  Sarah Palin lives here for goodness' sake.
So I waded through the snow and dug through a giant snowball to find the car.
It wasn't the right car.
I dug through another snowball to find the car.
Then I scraped ice and swept snow and defrosted windows.
Then slowly -- maybe obnoxiously  slowly -- I drove home.

I know this may sound like a small victory to people who aren't afraid of driving in bad weather.
And maybe it took me thrice as long to get home as it should have.  But it was the beginning of my experience.
And I'll be damned if these Alaskans can do a single thing I can't.

Moose

Moose are afraid of me.

A few days before I moved to Anchorage, my fantastic friend Kate cooked me dinner and made me watch Alaska State Troopers.  It was lovely. And they started by doing a close-up of a moose in the middle of a downtown Anchorage street.

So far, I've been in Anchorage for 11 days, and I have not seen a moose.  I have learned a lot about them.  I know they are big.  I know they are fast.  I know they are dangerous. I know they are not as friendly as the ones in cartoons and printed on my socks. I know that they are allegedly everywhere.   But I have not seen a single one.

Last night, my friend Pete and I went into Kincaid Park specifically on a moose-scouting mission to remedy this grave misfortune.  Apparently this park is supposed to be Moose-Palooza.  The only wildlife we saw was a mouse.  Although, we did spot him twice, for what it's worth.  He says I'm bad luck. (Pete.  Not the mouse.)

I was fortunate enough to be offered a house/dog-sitting job while I wait for my furniture to complete its journey from San Diego.  I was walking to the house from the bus stop this evening when an SUV pulled up to me, slowed down, and rolled its windows down.  A nice Alaskan-looking lady stuck her head out the window and said, "Sweetie, there's a wounded moose about two blocks down.  Look out!"

I wasn't sure what I was looking out for.  Was I looking out like you look out for a shooting star?  Or like you look out for manhole in the road? Or like you look out for ducks on Duck Hunt?  It didn't matter.  I wanted to see this moose, wounded or not.  I crept down the street, hoping Gimpy Bullwinkle would neither charge me nor run away.  But he was nowhere to be found.

It's official.  Moose are either legends or cowards.

Airport Time

I've shared with many of you before that I love airports.  I love them because it's The Land Between Time.  I am generally frantically busy (by my own doing), but in an airport, all of my obligations and commitments fall away. I am able to spend my time exactly as I please -- reading, writing, and making up stories about the people I'm openly staring at.

Whatever it might say about my inability to attach, I love moving.  I love new faces and places and roads. But my least favorite thing about moving is the being-alone part in the beginning. No matter how outgoing you are, there is going to be a lag period where people have yet to realize how amazing you are.  I'm in that place now.

Although, before I sound like I'm complaining too much, I want to say that I'm appreciative of the few friendships that have begun.  My favorite person thus far in Anchorage took me here today:

Anyway, today, as I wandered in downtown Anchorage, I realized that this is my airport time!  I sat and had a beer at an Irish pub, chatted with the odd people sitting by me at the bar, then sat in a coffee shop to read for a while.  Instead of being impatient that it apparently takes more than 7 days to make new best friends, I want to embrace this space as the peaceful in-between.

Starbucks

When I lived in Madrid, I felt guilty every time I wanted to do something "American": Speak English, use a clothes dryer, walk while eating a sandwich... and especially wanting to stop by Starbucks.  But anyone who has made a big move can tell you that homesickness kicks in a few months after the initial relocation.  When your friends back home have stopped revolving their schedule around your Skype dates, after the adrenaline of the adventure starts to drain, homesickness lurks in the darkness waiting for his debut.

When this happened to me in Madrid, I gave in and went to Starbucks.  There, I would drink out of a paper cup, hear English chatter, and have my grande skinny hazelnut latte that tasted exactly like home (even if my name wasn't spelled correctly on the side of it).  Maybe that was when Starbucks started to feel like home to me.  It was an inexplicable source of comfort, and I learned to seek it out when my Spanish bravado was wearing thin.

Today, when I sank into a leather couch at a downtown Anchorage Starbucks, I recalled the countless times I've done the same thing in so many cities around the world, taking joy in one token of familiarity while every other tangible thing in my life was slipping away.  I could close my eyes and imagine I was in any city I wanted to be in. I know that, as a good liberal girl, I'm not supposed to love Starbucks... but I do.  Maybe I walked away from warm sunny beaches and California burritos and the best friends a girl could ask for... but I'm keeping my hazelnut latte.

Week One

This week is crazy!

I'm done with my first week of work, and I'm wiped out.  So many new things... I thought picking up in a PD office wouldn't be so complicated, but everything is new.  Everything takes effort: every acronym, every new face, every time I need to find the bathroom.  But everyone at the office is incredibly warm, and I think I'll feel at home in no time.  I did a few hearings this week, and I feel more comfortable every day.

The person training me to do his old job has been unspeakably generous with his time and is much more patient than I would be with someone with so many inane questions. One colleague is allowing me to stay in her home and borrow her car for two weeks while I dog-sit for her. A large group of people came out for happy hour Friday, and it was an easy group to relax in.

I'm quickly getting acquainted with the favorite PD coffee shop as well. But every time we want to go on a coffee field trip, it is a huge ordeal!  Someone sounds the call from the hallway, and all of the sleepy PDs come crawling out, slowly robing in coats, scarves, gloves, and hats.  Then we all trudge out in the snow for a cup of coffee.  But today, just as I started to feel sorry for myself, I saw a puppy wearing mittens!  I tried to take a picture of him, but he was pretty quick.

I was lucky enough to have one Alaska contact before moving.  I emailed a law school professor to let him know about my new job (and to thank him for the extensive help he gave me on a scholarly writing article that contributed to my procurement of said job), and he responded by letting me know that his nephew lives in Anchorage! He was kind enough to hang out this week, and it was refreshing to already feel as though I have a friend here.

I found an apartment as well!  It's in an adorable community called Bootleggers' Cove.  You can see the water (and the sunset over the water) from my living room window!  I'm excited not to be homeless anymore, and even more excited to have a dishwasher for the first time in my adult life.  Email me for the address if you'd like to send me a present.

I'm Here!

I arrived in Anchorage Sunday around 4:00 p.m.  I dropped off my stuff in the cutest bed and breakfast on earth, and decided to take advantage of my hour of remaining light and went for a walk around the neighborhood.  I found a grocery store and bought some snacks for my room.  I found a reindeer and took a picture of him.  

Mostly, I feel like one of the small unattractive children that fell through the wardrobe and into snowy and magical Narnia.  I am only missing some Turkish Delights.

Then my new boss, Tracey, came to get me for dinner.  We ate at the Bear Tooth Grill, and had Polar Pale Ale (made by Moose Tooth Brewery).  They like animal teeth here, I guess. I feel lucky to work in an office where my superior will welcome me into town and buy me my first beer.

I had asked the agency if I could have one day to myself before starting work, and I’m glad I did.  I’m not sure if it’s the cold, the dark, or the sudden realization that I moved to Alaska, but I’ve been exhausted!  I decided to go on an adventure on my Monday off.  I’ve wanted to go to REI again, which is a few miles away from my B&B.  I don’t have a vehicle, and public transportation (the “People Mover”) is unimpressive. But I discovered that there are some hiking trails that you can take almost all the way there from where I’m staying in downtown. 

It was a good walk, about an hour and a half.  I bought some wool socks, tights, and underwear at REI.  I spent a shocking amount of money on these things. But everyone keeps saying I'll enjoy my life here more if I'm not afraid to drop money on warm clothes, so I'm diving in.  The boots and coats Christina made me buy are fantastic; I'm so glad to have them! So if that’s any indication, the warm clothing is an investment.  Here is what the warm clothes empowered me to see:

The trip back from REI was a little trickier.  Everything is so white it was hard to remember the way I came.  But I did find my way back after all, completely wiped out by my tiny task.

Odd

In preparation for my impending move, Christina (my amazing friend and super-shopper) offered to take me shopping.  Shopping makes me grumpier than any other activity on earth, and I’m always amazed/grateful that she is so willing to take on the challenge with me.  So she escorted me to REI, where she instructed me to try on countless coats and boots to prepare for a climate with which I have no experience. 

While I was trying on a particularly furry pair of shoes, a friendly older lady asked me where I was going in them. 

I took a deep breath. “Anchorage.”

“Anchorage is the most beautiful place I have ever been!”

“Have you been a lot of places?” I don’t know how to justify my response other than to say that I wanted to know her frame of reference, and I often think out loud.  The question was actually irrelevant now that I think of it.  I think San Diego is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and she had obviously already experienced this.

She smiled graciously, “Yes, dear.”

Christina urged me to continue working my way through the pile of shoes and socks she had brought me. (Until that moment, I had assumed sock sizes were fairly generic.  Apparently not.) I obediently participated in the world’s most boring ritual of trying on things that don’t belong to me.

Just as Christina was narrowing down my selection, the woman was leaving the shoe area and turned to give me one last word of wisdom. “Good luck in Anchorage. I promise you will be absolutely odd.”

I sat in stunned silence (which rarely happens, I assure you).

Christina was stacking boxes and chatting with salespeople, nonplussed.

“Christina.  Did you hear that woman?”

“Yes.  She said you’ll be awed.”  I don’t know why, but when Christina repeated the phrase, it became very obvious that the woman had promised that I would be AWED, and I had projected my own fears into her words.

I’m sure I’ll be both.

Alaska

One week ago, I was offered a job in Anchorage, Alaska.

Since then, I have learned that people have very strong feelings about Alaska.  I was surprised to learn this, as I had never spent much time thinking about the state one way or the other. But when I bring it up, I consistently get one of two responses: “I have always wanted to go there!” or “Why would you ever move there?”

I was never aware that Alaska was a place that anyone (much less my closest friends) had a burning desire to explore.  It had certainly never occurred to me to try to make the trek.

But that was before.  Before the economy and job market gave all of us lawyers (at the time, law students) a rude awakening.  Before I knew how boring civil law is and before I had learned how fascinating criminal law is.  Before I had been passed over for a deputy public defender position in seemingly every PD office in the state of California, and before I – inexplicably – had started to feel an itch to leave the lovely city of San Diego.

With all of these recent progressions, my mind began to open.  When my good friend Diana suggested I apply to the Alaska Public Defender Agency, it didn’t seem like such a shocking idea.  I had somehow developed a sense of obligation to apply to every single public defender opening I became aware of.  So I applied. Two weeks ago, I was offered an interview.  One week ago, I was offered a position.  And one week from today, I’ll leave this beautiful town that has brought me so much warmth and happiness.