Whirlwind, crashcourse, sinking or swiming...I am on my way to swashbucklingdom!
Assignment #1: audio slideshow
Armed with my trusty audio recorder (which I maybe know how to use?), my steno pad, and of course my leather satchel, I set out last Sunday to find a story.
My first try was the Apache Motel, one of a dozen or so 1960s-era motels that line a short stretch of Lincoln Avenue, classified by some as Hooker Motels. Hitesh, the front desk man, was kind and friendly, but not so well-informed on the history of the area. Background character, but not the story. So I called Heart O'Chicago. And the Tip Top. And the Diplomat. But no luck -- few managers were in, and those that were were not keen to be interviewed. So, the first story has been shelved until I can make a Karaoke Night at the Hidden Cove (a bar whose name says it all).
But what to do now? My deadline looming, I got desperate. Could I interview the little girls selling lemonade out of the red wagon on my street corner? Maybe a profile of a dog would be interesting...
This is when I know it's time to get out of my head and go for a walk.
And walk right into it, I did. It, in this case, being a little old Russian lady and her daughter picking berries from the bush by the tunnel under Lakeshore Drive. Forest stories! Mushroom soup recipes! Giant urban indoor cacti!
Falling in love with my subjects seems to be my biggest journalistic challenge. That is, until I start puking up poisonous berries tomorrow.
Stay tuned for the slideshow...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Postcards from Morocco
Back stateside, I’m battling jetlag and nostalgia.
A dear college friend had clinically diagnosed synesthesia – colors appeared to her when she read words and heard music – and I was always ineffably jealous. That jealousy, I think, has something to do with why I fell in love with Morocco. The country is a brilliant whirlwind of sound and image and hue and scent and none of it quite lines up.
In Marrakech the tiny streets are crowded with donkeys pulling carts and shiny new sports cars and grand taxis smushed full of villagers and zillions upon zillions of zipping mopeds. In the mountains the air is chilly and fresh and the light is misty and glimmering and the mountains are so close it feels like you could reach out and touch them. Everywhere there are walnuts and dates and smoking meats.
Muslims believe that only God can create perfection, and so every item is crafted w
ith some small imperfection. Door latches stick and hidden in the design of carpets is a slight asymmetry. Likewise, no picture of the country is entirely one thing or another: the hillside villages are all stone and wood with animals wandering about as they please and children chasing each other up the path – and then you notice that one of the children is wearing lime green crocks. Sitting at a café with white table cloths and Gucci-clad patrons, you could be in the south of France until a man cycles by with a live chicken under his arm. Nothing in life is ever all one thing or another, but Moroccans take pastiche to a whole new artform.
I won’t bore you with the play-by-play, but I will post a handful of snippets and say this: my explorer’s spirit has been renewed and I have a lot whole lot of tromping ahead of me!
A dear college friend had clinically diagnosed synesthesia – colors appeared to her when she read words and heard music – and I was always ineffably jealous. That jealousy, I think, has something to do with why I fell in love with Morocco. The country is a brilliant whirlwind of sound and image and hue and scent and none of it quite lines up.
In Marrakech the tiny streets are crowded with donkeys pulling carts and shiny new sports cars and grand taxis smushed full of villagers and zillions upon zillions of zipping mopeds. In the mountains the air is chilly and fresh and the light is misty and glimmering and the mountains are so close it feels like you could reach out and touch them. Everywhere there are walnuts and dates and smoking meats.
Muslims believe that only God can create perfection, and so every item is crafted w
ith some small imperfection. Door latches stick and hidden in the design of carpets is a slight asymmetry. Likewise, no picture of the country is entirely one thing or another: the hillside villages are all stone and wood with animals wandering about as they please and children chasing each other up the path – and then you notice that one of the children is wearing lime green crocks. Sitting at a café with white table cloths and Gucci-clad patrons, you could be in the south of France until a man cycles by with a live chicken under his arm. Nothing in life is ever all one thing or another, but Moroccans take pastiche to a whole new artform.I won’t bore you with the play-by-play, but I will post a handful of snippets and say this: my explorer’s spirit has been renewed and I have a lot whole lot of tromping ahead of me!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
T-18 hours to Marrakech
I'm beginning to believe that it's good for the health to do something that scares you every once in a while. When you get out of your comfort zone is when you see yourself most clearly. It's been some time since I've left my comfort zone, and now I'm going whole hog.
Starting with Morocco, tomorrow.
My friend Sara and I had been planning a trip for two years now, our destination requirement being simply this: a place with weepy-eyelashed camels and spice markets. Morocco seemed a fine choice but something always came up, and when her work schedule conflicted with my slot of pre-grad school time, I decided on a whim to go for it on my own.
As soon as I hung up the phone from booking my 8-day trekking trip through the Atlas Mountains my stomach turned. Was I insane? American girl in Middle Eastern country all by herself.
But then I thought of Sara's approach to international eating: if people can eat this, then so can I. And so I say: If people can do this, then so can I.
Besides, I rather like the thought of coming back a girl who has conquered Morocco on her own.
Starting with Morocco, tomorrow.
My friend Sara and I had been planning a trip for two years now, our destination requirement being simply this: a place with weepy-eyelashed camels and spice markets. Morocco seemed a fine choice but something always came up, and when her work schedule conflicted with my slot of pre-grad school time, I decided on a whim to go for it on my own.
As soon as I hung up the phone from booking my 8-day trekking trip through the Atlas Mountains my stomach turned. Was I insane? American girl in Middle Eastern country all by herself.
But then I thought of Sara's approach to international eating: if people can eat this, then so can I. And so I say: If people can do this, then so can I.
Besides, I rather like the thought of coming back a girl who has conquered Morocco on her own.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The adventure begins
My picture of a swashbuckling journalist is distinct, to say the least.
He is a man in his mid-thirties with slightly tousled light brown hair. His shirt is an airy white button-down, hanging loose over his belted jeans. He is walking from a tiny plane at the edge of a desert, a beat-up leather satchel over his shoulder and a carpetbag in his hand. Arriving in town, he drops his bag at a boarding house where, with a wink of the eye and a witty bit of flattery, he charms the grumpy old-maid proprietor into letting him leave his things before check-in. Then he heads straight for a bar in the French quarter – a dark, cool spot where the patrons are occasionally blinded by a piercing swing of light let in through the door – and orders a scotch on the rocks. The bartender takes him in as a pensive, weathered sort of a fellow, but doesn’t look twice.
As the man he is watching for arrives and takes a seat at a corner table across the room, the journalist orders another scotch. When a second man arrives and joins the first, the journalist turns to his right and strikes up a conversation with an old man sitting a few seats down. By the third drink, he’s seen what he came for and he’s got a source.
From there ensues an endless night of digging and persuading and piecing together, which tapers only with the soft edges of dawn. As the last of the night’s stars fade, our man navigates the barren streets and slips silently into the boarding house, only to feel a hand on his shoulder just after pulling the door shut.
“Up so early?” the proprietor asks. She pulls her robe tighter, surprised by her embarrassment.
“Yes, I thought I’d catch the vendors setting up at the market,” he says without missing a beat.
Smiling back at her as he steps out the door, he walks the three blocks to the Cathedral and joins the gypsies groggily sprawled on the steps until the sun is up and his deadline is upon him.
~~~
My question is this: what does this look like for a female journalist? Despite its Indiana Jones intonations, there are working journalists today who live this picture – Sebastian Junger, Bill Buford… — but although there are plenty of amazing female journalists, there is no comparable model. The women report, and report well, but their personalities rarely shine through. Where’s the adventure, the risk, the fun?
I believe that it is possible to have all of these things. There is an unclaimed space out there – separate from the impersonal genderless standard and the male adventure model and the maternal inflections of soft reporting – and I am determined to find it.
This blog is intended to chronicle that search. A compendium of the thoughts and stories and adventures I come across as I leave behind my comfortable little life in New York City and head west with my passion and ambition and whatever else I can fit in my parents’ station wagon. I hope you’ll join me!
He is a man in his mid-thirties with slightly tousled light brown hair. His shirt is an airy white button-down, hanging loose over his belted jeans. He is walking from a tiny plane at the edge of a desert, a beat-up leather satchel over his shoulder and a carpetbag in his hand. Arriving in town, he drops his bag at a boarding house where, with a wink of the eye and a witty bit of flattery, he charms the grumpy old-maid proprietor into letting him leave his things before check-in. Then he heads straight for a bar in the French quarter – a dark, cool spot where the patrons are occasionally blinded by a piercing swing of light let in through the door – and orders a scotch on the rocks. The bartender takes him in as a pensive, weathered sort of a fellow, but doesn’t look twice.
As the man he is watching for arrives and takes a seat at a corner table across the room, the journalist orders another scotch. When a second man arrives and joins the first, the journalist turns to his right and strikes up a conversation with an old man sitting a few seats down. By the third drink, he’s seen what he came for and he’s got a source.
From there ensues an endless night of digging and persuading and piecing together, which tapers only with the soft edges of dawn. As the last of the night’s stars fade, our man navigates the barren streets and slips silently into the boarding house, only to feel a hand on his shoulder just after pulling the door shut.
“Up so early?” the proprietor asks. She pulls her robe tighter, surprised by her embarrassment.
“Yes, I thought I’d catch the vendors setting up at the market,” he says without missing a beat.
Smiling back at her as he steps out the door, he walks the three blocks to the Cathedral and joins the gypsies groggily sprawled on the steps until the sun is up and his deadline is upon him.
~~~
My question is this: what does this look like for a female journalist? Despite its Indiana Jones intonations, there are working journalists today who live this picture – Sebastian Junger, Bill Buford… — but although there are plenty of amazing female journalists, there is no comparable model. The women report, and report well, but their personalities rarely shine through. Where’s the adventure, the risk, the fun?
I believe that it is possible to have all of these things. There is an unclaimed space out there – separate from the impersonal genderless standard and the male adventure model and the maternal inflections of soft reporting – and I am determined to find it.
This blog is intended to chronicle that search. A compendium of the thoughts and stories and adventures I come across as I leave behind my comfortable little life in New York City and head west with my passion and ambition and whatever else I can fit in my parents’ station wagon. I hope you’ll join me!
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