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.