Lost in the deep space of the internet, I was somehow reminded of the summer I lived in Chicago and made pitchers of sangria from juicy, overripe peaches. Yummm.

Seattle reminds me quite a bit of Chicago. Something about the neighborhoods and riding the bus, I think. When it rains, the city is like London. Strange, pollarded trees and Victorian apartment buildings. These recent days make me think of spring in Paris. The air has an excitability, freshness and aroma, as if my senses have just woken from a deep hibernation. Steaming espresso, wet dog poo and the fabulous avenues of cherry blossoms.

It tickles me to see that spammers have found my blog. At least somebody is putting it to good use. I have had a busy, busy week. In addition to my part-time retail gig, I have committed to a three-month stint with Square Tomato, an advertising agency based here in Seattle. I am having quite a blast with it. My biggest deficiency is my familiarity with television spots. That is what I get for choosing not to own an idiot box. The only times I even watch it is when I make deposits at the bank, wait for my departing flight at the airport or visit my mother's house. Who would have thought this absence above all would obstruct my expertise?

It is my personal belief that it takes two full months to become acclimated to a new environment. As of this date, Seattle has been my home for 1.5 times that long, although our apartment is still technically in its trial stage. My conclusion thus far? I think I like it. I still feel like an outcast. In fact, it seems to be a town of outcasts. As a city, Seattle definitely allows itself to be modeled to suit the needs of its inhabitants. And they, the individuals and their needs, are diverse.

I catch myself on the bus, playing the well-groomed young woman with important places to go, turning a blind eye to the goons, drunks, gutter punks who pick fights and dismiss the bus driver's orders. Other days I am the eccentric, dashing in front of traffic to make the bus, chatting up the driver, catching a free ride.

Outcast. To fit in. Does not every thinking man, whose existence is defined by his self-consciousness, feel apart from the masses? Most of my life I have felt, to some degree, an outcast. In elementary school, attending speech class made me feel different than the rest of my class. As I grew a little older and become too preoccupied with adult matters, I spent a lot of time hanging around my teachers and reading novels that should not be given to children. Every other weekend, the slight social life I had cultivated was disrupted to spend time with my dad in Traverse City. In high school I spent most of my time working on different extracurricular projects, and my social life was principally conducted online. I remember several Friday nights from my junior year spent hanging out alone at Borders, hoping to meet someone new. In Chicago, I was too busy working and going to school to drink and do the sorts of things many other college freshmen do. The first time I felt that I had truly found my place was, ironically, as a foreigner abroad. The expatriate community was one I could claim as my own. That gusto for self-assertion travelled back with me to Ann Arbor, and together we found happiness and home -- or at least, a sense of belonging. Somehow over the course of these past few moves it has become detached and has lost its way.

Anonymity. The plight (or pleasure) of every city dweller.

Most likely, society did not reject me at all, but rather I unwittingly withdrew myself.

How do adults make friends? Why do we need friends? Is it an instinctual, animalistic need to feel a part of a community? Apart, a part. Why do some people need more interaction than others? A simple chat over breakfast completes M's social needs, but I am not content to write my thoughts to myself. Happiness is a sunshine-infused cocktail and banter shared with a friend or two.

Do performers -- when they perform -- feel separate from the audience? Or is the urge to put themselves on display a way of connecting with others? When actors raise their eyes to meet the audience, do both sides not feel an almost awe-inspiring sense of solidarity?

Is it by becoming one with the crowd that the individual pulls away the most? By forgoing an exchange and forfeiting a contribution of independent thought, he is not working to benefit the collective.

What drives people to perform? How do they benefit from minimizing the distance between reality and imagination? Why is this lack of distinction between the two defined as psychosis?

After weeks of checking the movie listings of every independent theater in Seattle, I finally tracked down and saw North Face (Nordwand, 2008). The promotional material for the film described it as being about two German mountaineers who, in anticipation of the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, are provoked to climb the north face of the Eiger in order to further prove the supremacy of the Aryan race.

The Eiger is a danger out of this world. The formidable north face juts 1,800 meters out of the Bernese Alps and has earned the name of the "murder wall" on account of the great number of climbers dying in attempt to scale its rugged and icy ascent.

During their climb, Tony and Andi, the film's central characters, are joined by a competing Austrian team. While I anticipated a story full of adventure and foreign politics, the film also contains a romantic subplot that many find unbelievable and unnecessary. I accepted it as a much-needed stress reliever. The drama and suspense of the action sequences themselves left me shaky, sweaty and moderately nauseated. (No, boyfriend, you will have to reconsider this cockamamie plan of yours to climb Mt. Rainier.) It doesn't take a check on the Wikipedia entry to know that the climb does not end well. The movie is built on a true story, though it appears that it incorporates elements from actual climbs in 1938 and 1957 (one successful and, the other, not so). Also, many of the details must be imagined due to the fact that foggy weather obscured the face from hotel-deck spectators, so no one can truly know what happened to the group.

As Matt pointed out to me, the movie is built on "what-ifs" and "if-onlys." Each step the climbers make represents, both literally and figuratively, a decision made -- or not made -- and a path not taken. Leave it to the Germans to make a film so gut-wrenching, so horrific and so delicate in its relation to everyday life (for us non-Alpinists, at least).

And for those who are avid mountaineers, you will find it an interesting study of how drastically sports equipment and technology have since advanced. These men sleep in canvas sacks and climb in what appear to be Alpaca fleece mittens.



North Face will be coming to the Detroit Institute of Arts on March 12-14, 2010.



Note: Don't get me wrong, I found it to be a wonderful film. If you take delight in films of physical and emotional hardships that you will (hopefully) never have to face yourself, then I can promise you that you will enjoy this one.

Perhaps they are a teensy bit late, but I finally posted some pictures on my Flickr from our last month in Berlin. These pictures also include a few from our camping trip to Ruegen! Enjoy.