My First...

My First Camping Trip (or Ode to Thom Yorke)

        The camping idea was one of the things someone put on my Forty By Forty list, but I weaseled my way out of it because I had a picture in my mind of what camping was like. And it wasn't a pretty picture. An army type tent and you struggle to pitch it...it takes hours and everyone is tired, cold and hungry. The kids cry, Dad swears and Mom pleads to go stay in a motel. The tent is tiny and it's freezing and raw outside and you have to sleep in your clothes, with double socks in a sleeping bag and under blankets, or you'll freeze to death. And you can't shower for days. 

        I realized that my view of camping is based on camping in Sweden, which is interesting because I've never camped there either. My parents weren't/aren't exactly outdoorsy, and I'm not sure if that's because we were Jewish and the word camp had a different meaning, or if they just preferred sunnier vacations where other people made the sleeping arrangements. Not surprising, camping was nothing like my picture, Swedish or otherwise. In a good way. 

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night...

        So, Coachella was coming up, and although I wasn't really sure what Coachella was either, someone had sent me a link of Radiohead playing there during the first Coachella weekend, and I had been mesmerized and transfixed to my computer for hours. Having recently discovered Radiohead, I decided I had to go see them.

        When I say recently discovered, I'm not kidding. I've only known about them for about a year and a half, since my friend Andrew had "From the Basement" on his TV while I was visiting him in New York. I couldn't look away, or leave the apartment for that matter. Before then, I even went to parties with Thom Yorke and I know I've asked friends more than once, "who's the guy with the weird eye everyone is fawning over?" Of course, the new me, the Radiohead me, wants to shoot the old me in the face for ever having asked that question. Ugh. 

        So, without really making too big a deal about it, I decided to go to Coachella for the second weekend, and upon finding out my dear friend Vincent was going, attached myself to him and his plans, which "lucky" for me, included camping. Vincent had already made camping arrangements, brought a tent, sleeping bags and even pillows, so all I had to do was show up, and walk in. Which proved to be quite difficult actually.  

        I arrived Saturday morning and when I got to the front of the line to get into the big Coachella area, I was asked to open my bag. I asked what they were searching for, and when the woman said "anything illegal... drugs...weapons," I froze. Now, I'm always concerned bringing up weed in these blogs, because not only does my Uncle Ulf read them, but the whole weed thing will so clearly come back to haunt me when I'm running for office. However, it's part of the weekend so I can't really skip it. And, as ridiculously naive as it might sound, I assumed a place like Coachella would be ok with people having weed, so I was now freaking out. Especially because there were two police officers up front.

        I took a deep breath and helped the woman get everything out of the bag, so my clothes and whatever else I had brought was now on a table. I had two small identical makeup cases in my bag, one with weed and one with sunscreen. So I felt around among the clothes and found the one with the sunscreen and handed it to her. She unzipped it and looked inside. All good.  Then I somehow did the old switcheroo, and managed to put the other one back in my bag, so when she opened the sunscreen one again, she said "oh, I saw this."

        With my heart racing, I saw Vincent coming towards me in his Burning Man gear, and quickly calmed down. We walked through some of the craziness and then he took me to the camp site, which was far away from where everyone else had set up their tents. Somehow, someone knew someone, and so Vincent had gotten a special spot for his tent, next to a man made lake, that was not for swimming, I was told sternly, several times.  

        

        Not only was it beautiful, but as luck would have it, just outside our tent, there was a pole with an outlet on it, so we could charge our iPhones. Score. And there was a public bathroom that had a sink about a hundred feet up, so I knew I'd be able to brush my teeth in running water. 

A lot of people nap at Coachella 

         It's hard to explain Coachella. Or, it's hard to explain Coachella and make it seem sophisticated. And I'm not sure why I'm feeling the need to class it up. Basically, there's a giant field. A bunch of stages. Food stands and beer tents. A charging station for your electronics. A weird "club" tent. And a strange mix of people of all ages who are drunk or stoned for the entire weekend, many of whom are just passed out on the ground. 

        We headed into the concert area, in about 106 degree weather, and there was no shade to be found other than in the beer tent, but for someone of my size and with my alcohol tolerance level (close to zero) drinking beer wasn't really an option for staying cool. I knew if I drank or smoked anything at this point, I'd be passed out before any of the good bands started playing. So we walked around and found some cool bands to watch, had something to eat, and danced while being sprayed by giant water guns at the outdoor techno area. 

        The Saturday night lineup was amazing. The Shins, Bon Iver and then Radiohead. I was nervous I wouldn't be awake and alert for Radiohead after a whole day in the desert sun, so I paced myself with the illegals, mixing it up with a lot of snacks and water and rest. The Shins were great as expected and for Bon Iver, Vincent and I just sat in the grass with our eyes closed and listened. It was sweet and soulful and I would probably say that my evening would have been quite complete even without what came next.  

The glorious Thom Yorke...

         Because nothing could have prepared me for what came next. Radiohead was all I had hoped for and more. Thom Yorke was in rare form, shaking, twitching and spasming his heart out and I was deliriously happy for what seemed an eternity but was probably more like two hours. I was close to the stage for the first few songs but that's always tricky for someone of my height, so after the initial enthusistic jumping up and down, I found a little grassy spot off to the side where I just sat down and listened.

...twitching

        I had lost Vincent and whoever else we knew there and my phone had died so I couldn't meet up with the cute guy I had met earlier, but that was alright. It was all about Radiohead now, and it was glorious and heavenly, possibly because I was quite high at this point, but also because of how mesmerizing Thom Yorke is. It had been a while since I had been to a concert or show, so I had forgotten how moved I get by live music and how it stirs and opens my heart, and just makes me feel good. I wasn't anywhere but there and I could have stayed forever. 

        How I found my way back to the tent I have no idea. My phone was dead, and I was not exactly clear headed and sober, far from it actually, but after a long while of aimless walking, I saw the dirty little lake, unzipped the door to the tent and laid down. I remember thinking that perhaps this wasn't our tent at all, but I really needed to close my eyes and so it didn't seem that important. The confirmation came a few minutes or possibly a few hours later. I had no idea how long I had been lying there when I heard Vincent come in and exclaim to a friend, "Oh my God, NO WAY, she made it! She's here!!!" As impressed as I was with my internal GPS system, I guess Vincent was even more so. 

        Waking up the next morning, I was exhausted, hot, hungover, but happy. Pleased with myself for having survived a night in a tent without dying, although I hadn't been clear headed and conscious for the actual sleeping part. I do know that it never got cold and raw, in fact, it had gotten quite sweaty in there, so there were no need for the sleeping bags. It took everything I had, and more stellar warnings, not to jump into the lake when we got up. So instead I took a sink shower in the bathroom up the road.

     

        Soon it was time to pack up and this time I helped. Sort of. I zipped up the tent case. Thank you, Vincent, for making my first camping trip so awesome! 

My First Love

    

    I've been blessed to experience love in my life. A lot of love, and in fact, it started sort of early, so I wasn't sure who I'd write about until a few months ago, when I found a diary from 1986 which detailed my meeting and ultimately falling for the young, handsome and slightly dangerous Mr. Tony Zucker. 

    Finding the diary while packing up my apartment to move was thrilling at first, so I dove into it excitedly, curious to connect with a younger, less cynical Marika. Then, as I read more and more, I was struck by a nostalgic melancholia that I couldn't shake for days. I met Tony when I was 15, so the pages are filled with hopes and dreams, and excitment about love, for Tony in particular. Not necessarily sad, but I suppose I always gave myself a bit more credit when it came to men. That maybe I wasn't one of those girls who would give up wants, needs, opinions, and goals for some guy. But boy was I ever.  

        The diary is quite something, because it's detailed in more than matters of teenage Marika's heart. I wrote about what I wore - a turqoise skirt with a zipper in the back, I wrote about his hairstyle - dark brown hair in a quiff, and how cool I felt wearing his beat-up leather jacket when I got cold. I also wrote about how handsome he was and about how much I wanted to kiss his fantastic lips. I drew hearts around his initials, and wrote my first name with his last name over and over, so I would be ready to sign my new name when the time came. Which of course, it didn't. 

       He was 17 and I think he had a girlfriend at the time. Let me rephrase that. He had a girlfriend. For sure. It was 26 years ago, and I'm trying to seem less of a home wrecker by fudging the truth. Emma, if I haven't apologized before, let me do so now. So, Tony and I met at a pub with mutual friends although I was way too young to be drinking. We talked and I found him mesmerizing beyond belief. I sat in Mike Newman's lap and he leaned over and said he was jealous. 

Tony & Marika, 1986

         At the end of the night, my friend Abigail said "Tony thinks you're horny," and I was offended and embarrassed, not understanding that "horny" was a term for "sexy" in British English at the time. I was flattered when it was explained to me. We saw each other at a party a couple of nights later, and my heart started beating faster, until I realized he was there with her. At some point, we both found ourselves in the kitchen just as someone dropped a bottle of wine on the floor.  We bent down to pick up chards at the same time and our heads bumped together. According to my diary, at this point, he said "I think you'd feel better if I kissed you, but you probably don't want that." He obviously didn't know me at all. 

    A day or two later Emma had gone on holiday, so we met at Golders Green station, the local meeting place at the time, and went to the cinema, but ended up not seeing much of the film. People smoked in the movie theatres in those days so there was a giant smoke cloud blocking the screen. That and the snogging. There was another night with a bottle of his parents' Bollinger and the Tracy Chapman record everyone listened to back then. Fast Car. And then it was time to go back to Sweden and start writing longing letters to Tony, at 46 Brim Hill. 

    Over the course of a few summers, I came to London and would spend time with Tony when he didn't have a girlfriend or was away at University. Or Richard. This is the part I don't know how to write about. Because there was also Richard, and it impossible to write about my summers in London without including Richard. Tony and Richard were best friends and although I met Tony first, I loved them equally and however things unfolded, there didn't seem to be a lot of jealousy in this "love triangle."

Richard & Marika, 1987

         Tony smoked, was arrogant, had a self-assurance that was dangerous, and he never replied to any of my letters, while Richard played the guitar, sang, and had a depth and a sweetness that made you never want to leave his side. I still have his letters from 18 Sheldon Avenue. It was a time of delirious happiness and fun beyond my wildest dreams, but like all stories of teenage love, this one - or both actually, had to fade at some point. When it did, Tony took off on some adventures while Richard and I settled into the sweetest of friendships. With a few of exceptions, I've seen Richard in London on my way to Stockholm every time I've gone back home, and have always felt at home with his family; his mum Susan, sister Kate and her Markus, and of course his son Sebastian, who is a beautiful, feisty mini-Richard. 

Tony, 90's

        As for Tony and I, we had a quick romance resurgence during a visit to London in the mid-nineties, which had Richard, who was now married, thinking Tony and I would end up together after all. But I was already in Los Angeles, and Tony was Tony, so it ended up just being a nice visit with someone I had loved since I was 15, with a bit of swoony email correspondence after I got back to LA. 

        This story of first love(s) came full circle this past March, just a few weeks after I had found my old diary, when I traveled to London for Richard's (second) wedding. Tony, who is now happily married with twin boys in Colombia, where he is an emerald dealer of all things, was of course there. He was just as arrogant, but with a lot less hair, and the cigarettes he used to suck on had been replaced by rechargeable electric ones. An emerald ring adorned his pinky finger, and to be diplomatic, he was just slightly less fit than he used to be. Still, when I looked at him, all I could see was my Tony at 17.  

Rachel & Richard Zamet        

        Richard and Rachel's wedding was undoubtetedly the most fun wedding I've ever been to. Held at The Landmark London, the food was kosher AND incredible, the band soooo good, and Rachel was a stunning bride. Most of all though, it was being with Rachel, Richard, the rest of the Zamets, and the old "Golders Green" gang from my summers in London that made it so special. I sat with Tony, Julian, Mike Newman - whose lap I sat on that night 26 years ago, his lovely wife Lucy, The Solomons - Dan & fun, fantastic Tara, and Paolo & Karen Rodrigues, who put us all to shame with their dance moves.

The drunk Zees the night before the wedding

        Even with that, I have to say that the night before the wedding is the night that will go down in history as a night of fun by epic proportions, as well as heart warmth. How I got to be the lucky (and only) girl to spend the night before Richard's wedding with Richard and Tony, I have no idea. We drank 8 bottles of champagne between the three of us at Richard's local pub, and stories from the good old days were pouring out of us with each glass being refilled. And refilled. And refilled. Anyone who knows me at all, knows how drunk I get on just one glass of champagne, and given I probably had two bottles, well you can probably begin to understand my demeanor towards the end of the night. And inability to speak clearly or stand up. The hangover was definitely in proportion to the alcohol and fun intake. But if there's anything that warrants that sort of indulgence it is a solo night with The Zees (Zucker and Zamet.) 

Tony & Marika 2012

        When I told Tony that I had found my diary from the summer of 1986, and started to tell him that I had even written down what I wore the night we met, he looked at me and without missing a beat, exclaimed "a bluish skirt with a zipper in the back!" My heart skipped a beat. 

My First Time Being Published

 

        I had an internship at The Jewish Journal while I was in college. I was majoring in Political Science because I was fascinated with American politics, but I had always been a writer at heart, and wanted to see if I could minor in Journalism. An internship at a paper was a step in the right direction, and interning at a Jewish paper seemed appropriate since I was attending the University of Judaism. The staff was a mix of quirky, brainy and fun Jewish writers, lead by Editor-in-Chief Gene Lichtenstein, who was also the founding editor of The Jewish Journal.

Monsieur Bob Sagét

        I suppose Gene was your typical editor-in-chief; part curmudgeon, part intellectual, interesting, funny, and a bit of a Francophile, if I remember correctly. My fondest memory of Gene is when during a staff meeting, we were discussing a Jewish themed event that Bob Saget was hosting. Gene wouldn't stop referring to him at Bob Sagét, as if he wasn't a douchey comedian making sexual jokes about the Olsen twins, but a sophisticated, historically significant French literary figure. "Who is this Bob Sagét?" he said, and scratched his beard, while a few of us burst out laughing. 

        The internship was a great learning experience, and I must have done well because I landed a part-time job there, after graduating from college in 1996. I wrote mostly obituaries and calendar items but from time to time, I would be sent out to cover some local Jewish event, and that always made me feel like a legitimate reporter. If the Macabee Youth Games were the Olympics, that is.

        In digging around my files, I found an article that I believe is my first official non-obituary published item. I was sent to cover an event called "Challahpalooza," which was sponsored by Davka magazine, and held at Canter's Deli. I'll let the work of 25-year-old Marika speak for itself. 

The note outside the door says "Mira, this sucks. I'm next door ordering a shake. Come by, Linda"

        It's pretty funny, it sort of reads like my writing, just a bit rougher, and slightly harsh. If I had written it today, I may have been a bit more subtle in getting my point across, but it's definitely me. I guess I have a style of writing, and I guess it's been around for a while. That's cool. I remember getting into the office in the morning and opening the paper eager to see it. And the title. Contributing Writer. I loved it. 

        Best of all was the letter Gene Lichtenstein received in the mail a couple of weeks after my review was published. Gene called me into his office, and handed me an angry letter from a Jewish Journal reader. At first, I was embarrassed and concerned. I looked up at Gene, worried I'd be in trouble, but he just smiled. I suppose you're not a real writer until someone gets so riled up about what you've written, that they take time out of their day, sit down at their type writer, and bitch about you. I handed it back to him, but he told me to keep it. I'm glad I did.