"Well, it's great to do a neighborhood concert..."

Tonight I went on my longest run yet, walked down to Sok to bring home five liters of water, and decided on the way back that I'd listen to Simon and Garfunkel during dinner. I enjoyed my pasta leftovers and other things on the balcony overlooking the woods.

I'll need to start work on [mother tongue in the foreign language learning classroom] research. But soon. Not now.

When I write about home, I've mostly referred to Seattle, Walla Walla and the Cascadia bioregion (you futbol fans, think of the Cascadia Cup towns). But I'd forgotten how deeply moved I have been-- and am-- by culture that is shared by all of the states.

Thirty years ago, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel gave a benefit concert in New York City's Central Park for the park and the city's other green spaces. I had been raised on the ensuing album, and I don't know that I heard many of their studio recordings except on the radio (and during my entire sophomore year in college, of course). It's incredible: the clarity and craftsmanship of this recording. I skip "Wake Up Little Suzie" because I hate it, even if it does have its musical merits. I let the remaining tracks move me as they will.

Tonight, it was "America". This isn't much of a surprise-- I've actually written about this song before, and it's definitely the entire reason I moved to Montana in the summer after my freshman year: I was looking for America, and I sought it working in Glacier National Park.

I had been compelled by this song with the same misunderstanding as the people who misunderstand the ending of "The Graduate" (yes, strangely connected, but I'm right here-- see (500) Days of Summer): I saw the promise without seeing the potential for hopelessness, boredom, and disconnection.

Yet one of the most poignant memories I have of that summer is the moment of indignation I felt when the price of gas went above $2.00. I was in a car full of other teenagers, and I think all of us felt betrayed by our government and by the system.

This was a summer of disillusion: I quit my job early, something I still regret (not for the money-- for the lost lesson in willpower) and hope I never do again. I decided that people who were looking for America were feeling nostalgic for something that has never existed-- or at least, has not existed in generations, probably since before the first World War.

But tonight, I all can hear is the promise. NPR's talking heads have been wondering for years why the youth and emerging adults of the States are disillusioned, we're in a desperate recession, we're in debt with degrees that can't get us jobs, Kim Kardashian's been allowed to date again, the election campaigns seem to rely on fear rather than hope.

I feel like I'm finding some of the best elements of the United States in the estadounidense folk that I've met here (I'm avoiding the use of the word "Americans" because not all who identify as "Americans" are U.S. citizens or residents-- I'm lookin' at you, Central and South Americans...).
It was our fifth night in Ankara when the Fulbright ETAs attended a reception held at an embassy member's home for past Peace Corps volunteers in Turkey. I bought a new dress, nursed a whiskey with one ice cube, inspected pictures from the 60s and early 70s, and suddenly found myself in the middle of an interview with two women who had been part of the first contingent of Peace Corps volunteers.
One of these women had met her husband here in Turkey. All of these volunteers had been addressed by (and, it seems, received benediction from) John F. Kennedy himself on the White House lawn before embarking for Turkey. And they had been here when he was assassinated. The stories of these people who were grown in the States-- I was called "American, home-made" the other day, by the way-- and who built a second home for themselves here, these stories were poignant and uncomfortable and filled with laughter.
When I was in Ankara, I didn't really know how to write about this reception-- it seemed so out of place in all the orientation proceedings and social absurdity, but now I am glad I have found a context for it.

Tonight, I see the problems as spaces of potential.

Thanks, Paul: "The guys who are selling loose joints are giving the city half of their income tonight."