sea salt

I walked into our bedroom and the bags were packed. Suitcases bulging with t-shirts and socks covered the bed, and trash bags filled with old clothes lined the wall, waiting for their trip to Goodwill. I burst into tears. Heavy sobs and an intense panic took over my body: what will I do now? My husband is not leaving me. In fact, I knew that today, while I was at work, he was at home packing, preparing for our trip tomorrow from Nashville to Boston. His new job starts on Monday, and so he is going first, to settle back in, to find us an apartment, to prepare for my arrival a month later. We joked about how the time would fly, how we would Skype everyday as we did during our engagement, half of which we spent in different states. I know I will be fine, and I know this is the most practical way to move, and I know that in one month, when we are reunited, it will seem that no time has passed at all. But that didn't make the sight of packed suitcases any easier to bear. I t...

Last night I peeled a pound of shrimp. It was a slimy task, tedious, and smelly. And I had to continually shoo the cats away, since the smell of fresh seafood drove them crazy. Standing over the pile of shrimp, peeling off their tails and legs, I had a bizarre feeling of power. I thought, "How pathetic that the part I'm peeling away is the shrimp's armor - its protection - and I'm just standing here, unaffected, peeling it away. Why even bother having a shell when it's this easy to take off?" And then I pulled too hard on the end of one and the whole tail came off, shell and shrimp. And the next one I squeezed too hard while peeling away the legs and I all but flattened the shrimp. And then I realized it wasn't an easy task at all. The shell has to come off - there's no way around it. But it has to be removed slowly, carefully, and gently. A tug too hard in one direction will bisect the shrimp; holding the shrimp too firmly while peeling causes ...

I am currently reading Brunelleschi's Dome by Ross King, an historical narrative about the building of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore (known as the Duomo) in Florence, Italy.  It tells the complicated, inventive, and seemingly impossible story of how Filippo Brunelleschi designed, engineered, and created one of the most significant architectural wonders of the world. Throughout construction of the dome, Brunelleschi was forced to invent new machinery for hoisting, placing, and transporting massive amounts of brick, sandstone, marble, and mortar.  It was the 15th century, and by today's standards, these inventions seem primitive (for an example, conduct a Google image search for "ox-hoist").  Most of Brunelleschi's inventions worked perfectly, and he continued to astound the people of Florence with his ingenuity.  However, one invention failed.  It functioned like a 15th-century duck boat, designed to transport marble across land, ...

For the second time in my city life, I am living in a third floor apartment.  For the first time, however, I live above an accordion player.  She is friendly, helpful, and currently practicing her scales while I write.  Also, she sings Italian ballads while she plays. Many people might be turned off by the idea of living above the owner of Gondola di Venezia ( http://www.bostongondolas.com/ ), but I was thrilled to move in.  She plays, she sings, she stores gondolas in the basement of the house, and she has a parakeet so vocal that I first mistook it for ten parakeets.  But hearing her play the accordion makes me turn off my music, stop what I'm doing, and remain as still as possible so I don't miss a note. I love Italy.  I spent five months studying abroad in Florence in 2004 ("Firenze" to the Italian speaker), and every day I wish I were still there.  The smallest reminder takes me back: a piece of dried fruit, the smell ...