sioux falls travelogue, part III
J.L. Thomas
comfortably refreshed. We showered and dressed, then headed
downstairs to check out the breakfast buffet in the hotel
cafe. Dave went with the buffet, while I ordered oatmeal
and a couple of poached eggs. My oatmeal ended up being
very tasty, by the time I got done playing with it. David
enjoyed the buffet quite a bit, also.
Physical needs taken care of, Dave and I looked to doing
some sight-seeing. Having looked at the Sioux Falls
visitor's bureau info the night before, I had a pretty good
idea of what I wanted to see, all-told. Two of the
locations appeared to be within several blocks walking
distance from our hotel, so after coordinating with my
family regarding when to get picked up and where, Dave and I
set off.
First stop was the "river" that was visible from our 7th
floor hotel room. In Buffalo, we'd call that a "creek", but
I suppose in the mid-west, where water's more at a premium,
one's standards change a bit.
While standing on the bridge on 8th street, I looked
up-river at the next bridge over. To my surprise and
bemusement, the "bridge" was actually a 3-story parking
garage! What a novel and ingenious idea - to make use of
the only space available for extra parking in such a way,
regardless of the nature of that "space".
David and I read a few historical markers on our walk to the
Washington Arts and Sciences Pavillion. One was about cigar
making. After reading the double-sided cast-iron sign in
full, I commented to Dave: "Huh. Ya learn something useless
every day!" He obligingly laughed.
The second marker was about the Dakota Hotel that had
operated for about 80 years, which was the largest hotel in
the state for quite awhile. The sign referenced the
less-rigid divorce laws that South Dakota was famous for in
the late-1800s to early-1900s. Many a socialite weathered
many a month at that hotel while waiting to fulfill the
residency requirements for a speedy divorce. Being the avid
romance novel reader that I am, this information clicked in
with several other factoids I've acquired through the years,
and satisfied my sense of needing to know that I know more
useless things than others.
And thus, the trip wasn't a total waste.
As I said - ya learn something useless every day.
The Arts and Sciences Pavillion looked to be housed in a
1930s era high school, as noted by the quote on the
cornerstone of the building. It was placed there by the
high school class of 1934, to commemorate their years there.
I was struck by the dichotomy that in 1934 American high
school students valued their years in school, while 70 years
later, teens can't wait to shuck the scholastic system.
We had the option of paying to view the 80+ hands-on science
exhibits, or touring the 6 free art galleries. We went for
the art first, while leaving open the option of checking out
the science section later.
When I saw the first gallery, I nearly skipped the rest, as
it was a collection of area 3rd graders' artistic
masterpieces. I find these creations interesting, but not
nearly as much as I do the brushstrokes of a master. I was
denied those in the end, but did get to examine some
interesting pieces, largely from mid-western and/or Native
American artists.
One exhibit in particular was worth checking out. When I
view a body of work from a single artist, I feel as though I
am given the means through which to view their inner
make-up; to sense the ways in which this person is different
from me, despite any superficial similarities. I'm not able
to remember the artist's last name, but the first name was
Fatih. He's apparently from Turkey, and teaches art at some
mid-western university.
I found his work to be visually appealing, and - as so many
artworks do - to raise more questions than it answered.
Nevertheless, his bold use of color, and his deliberate
inclusion of the peculiarities of the medium employed (in
most cases acrylic paint) pleased my thirst for vividness
and depth in the world.
I was particularly taken by a painting called "Waiting",
which showed a woman seated on the edge of a neatly-made
bed. She was clothed, and staring into some middle-distance
that only she could see. Fatih enjoys using straight lines
to describe distinct areas of each painting, and there are
often geometric designs of these lines, in addition to
traditional grids.
In "Waiting", the geometric designs took the form of
diagonal lines from either side of the painting, such that
three full diamonds were created vertically down the middle
of the canvas. The woman's face was framed cleanly within
the upper diamond, while the middle showed the shadowy
juncture of her legs, guarded by a bent leg and casually
shielding arm. The third diamond was 90% bedspread - the
corner of the bed closest to the "front" of the painting,
from the top of the mattress to the floor. The other 10%,
off to the right, held just a part of her dangling leg,
ankle and foot, with the remainder on the other side of the
lines.
Her face seemed to me to embody the softer feminine traits -
gentleness, compassion, a mother's love, within
porcelain-lovely features delicately portrayed. She was at
once everything that defines "feminine" as separate from
"masculine". I enjoyed seeing this through the artist's
brush, as his perspective must be different from mine; being
female, I often wonder how (straight) men see women, when
not focused on things s*xual.
The middle diamond, as mentioned, was shadowed and somehow
mysterious, and seemed to me to be what men "really" want
from women, in my jaundiced view.
The bottom diamond intrigued me the most, and in the end
filled me with a sense of loss: it was empty of all but the
most superficial part of the woman. I felt as though, in
allowing myself to be distracted for however a brief a time
from the face's diamond by the darker middle diamond, I lost
the pure essence of the woman, and was left with nothing.
I have no idea whether the artist "intended" anything of the
sort, and it's immaterial. What does matter to me is that
the painting got me to think, and for this I am always
grateful.
Despite my best efforts to marshal my strength, I left it a
bit too late, and was in serious pain by the time I walked
down the steps of the building to the sidewalk. I didn't
relish the walk back to the hotel, a "mere" 3 blocks away,
but knew that I could manage it still. David and I did try
to get a cab, but he'd been called there for someone else.
He offered to call another cab for us, but we declined.
Standing around would have been more painful than walking,
and sitting would end up with me feeling "stupid and
useless", resulting in me beginning the walk back to the
hotel, or staying to wait while getting more and more surly.
So we walked back, taking time to check out one science
exhibit located outside: a car on the short end of a long
lever, with a rope affixed to the other end. A moderate
pull on the rope raised the car several inches from its
resting place. It was worth the extra time/pain.
For those who don't know, I weigh around 400 lbs at 5'3"
tall, and any type of exertion can quickly lead me to a
state of painful exhaustion. I noted on the walk back,
having nothing to do but catalogue my discomfort, that most
of the pain I experienced seemed to be in the connective
tissue on the 'front' of my stomach - that part that rests
against the front of my thighs. I suppose this makes sense,
but I've always just called identified that pain as being my
hips or back or legs. Defining it more specifically may
help me to find ways to alleviate it, though something like
a girdle would just move the pain from front to back.
The best that can be said for the trek to the hotel is that
I made it back under my own steam, and collapsed gratefully
upon the bed. I must have switched considerably, or merely
dissociated quite thoroughly for awhile, because I cannot
remember exactly what I did for the next hour or so.
I do remember that yet more wackiness ensued because my
father heard what he wanted to hear in our earlier
conversation, and came looking for us at the Pavillion,
rather than waiting for me to call him after returning to
the hotel, as I'd arranged. This was frustrating more
because I'd *specifically* made the plan as simple and
fool-proof as possible so that he *didn't* end up with some
grievance against me. It helped to know that I had done
everything I could, short of demanding that I make the
arrangements with my mother instead of him, when he did show
up bearing a grudge.
After a satisfactory steak dinner in the hotel cafe, Dave
and I prepared for the 7pm wedding. I layered myself in the
large variety of contraptions that women wear to appear to
be shaped differently than they are, then topped it with my
favorite dress, which I'd ironed at great expense to my
back. To my further dismay, my favorite necklace broke en
route to South Dakota, and so I wore no ornamentation.
My parents and sister arrived somewhat later than one might
hope to pick us up, but as we were just then emerging from
the hotel, one assumes that the timing was ideal. My sister
and I endured the nightmare of navigating for my irate and
mostly-deaf father, and we arrived at the church a scant 4
minutes before 7 PM.
Mind you, the wedding didn't start until about 20 to 8, but,
had we been late for the supposed start time, my father
would never have let us live it down.
The wedding service was...interesting. I was one of only 7
non-hispanics in the church, and one of maybe 12 people who
speak English with any degree of comfort. The other
non-hispanics were: my husband, my father, my mother, my
sister, my aunt, and my cousin Mario's wife, also named
Jennifer.
Apparently this church has an in-house spanish language xian
rock band, and I found their sound check to be alarming. My
fears were proved well-founded when the m1n1ster began
preaching, because he escalated to a shout that hurt my
ears. This shout went on for about 5 minutes. I have no
idea what he said.
Then the rock band took the stage. I endured the first song
with pained equanimity: for some reason we were all supposed
to remain standing. Standing in a pew is uncomfortable at
my size, particularly when most of it is in my stomach,
rather than hips and thighs. I quickly chose to shuck my
dress shoes, since I'm not able to wear my arch supports
with them, and would need to walk a considerable distance
the next day.
When the band started into a second song, I debated with
myself for a moment, then asked around for a tissue. Noted
mega-bawler Pat Thomas, my mother, was curiously lacking in
tissues at a wedding. This was most strange. However, my
sister came up with a pack from her voluminous purse, and I
was able to fashion ear plugs which served me well
throughout the rest of the ***TWO HOUR SERVICE***.
Ok, we were only in the church for 2 hours. The service was
only an hour and 40 minutes. It just felt longer.
My cousin had kindly arranged for an interpreter for the
wedding ceremony itself. Oh, the band played for over half
an hour, by the by. When the interpreter repeated that the
wife was to "submit to her husband's authority", I looked at
my husband and said "Don't bet on it." My sister's comment
on that, later the next day, was that the interpreter could
have left that part out of the interpretation.
All in all, the wedding service was an experience in a
culture that was totally alien to me. I approached it more
from the viewpoint of an anthropologist than anything else,
when I wasn't fervently pr*ying that this be what my cousin
truly needs to be happy. Mind you, for some reason I felt
compelled to do that through most of the service.
The rest of my attention was spent on the family members
next to and behind me whom I get to see so rarely. I am
happy to report that my newest cousin-once-removed isn't
nearly as ugly as he was as a newborn. He's still the
spitting image of his father, though, a thought which never
fails to make me smile and bring a tear to my eye.
Ethan's older sister is just as adorably precocious as she's
been every other time I've seen her. Both children show
obvious signs of good parenting, combined with showers of
love from close-by extended families. Watching my Tio Mario
with his grandbabies is a joy: he takes such unselfconscious
delight in them.
When I saw my Tio Mario for the first time that trip, I gave
him a hug, and called him Tio Mario. This, also, never
fails to make him smile, that I would greet him in Spanish.
He's from Mexico, if I haven't made that clear previously.
As he hugged me and thumped me on the back, exclaiming his
delight at seeing me again, I leaned up and whispered "Te
amo".
He threw his hands up in a grand gesture, while stepping
back a space and exclaiming "Oh! I know, I know!"
It was precious to me.
At the reception, which took place in the church's hall, I
was able to eat the mexican rice and peas, as well as the
pulled pork that my Tio Mario had cooked for everyone. I
had been told of the special effort that my aunt and tio had
gone to to ensure that the food would be safe for David and
myself. I was truly touched by this gesture. However, I
let David eat my pork and beans: I just wasn't in the mood
for them.
I smiled and nodded a lot as I was introduced to my cousin's
new in-laws. They smiled and nodded a lot, as well.
Occasionally one would haltingly apologize for not speaking
English very well. The others apparently didn't know enough
English to do so.
Despite the cultural and language barriers, I enjoyed the
evening overall. It was worth every penny and inconvenience
of the trip to see my cousin pledge himself to another, and
vow to be a good husband to her.
The drive back to the hotel was accomplished with a blessed
lack of wackiness unusual to my family, and David and I once
again drifted off to oblivion.
Part IV to follow.
Luc (jt)
--
"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent
people and the affection of children. To leave the world a
bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a
redeemed social condition. To know that even one life has
breathed easier because you have lived, this is to have
succeeded." - Author Unknown
michaela
Baba Yaga Boney Legs
alt.support.dissociation:
>While standing on the bridge on 8th street, I looked
>up-river at the next bridge over. To my surprise and
>bemusement, the "bridge" was actually a 3-story parking
>garage! What a novel and ingenious idea - to make use of
>the only space available for extra parking in such a way,
>regardless of the nature of that "space".
if ever you come to Edinburgh, go on the underground city tour. [the
non-ghost version - which also has some ghosts in it, per obligato [!]
- being much more worth while.] it wasn't cars, then, but there's
nothing new under the sun, and it gives enquiring minds a notion of
how the Enlightenment centred on Edinburgh.
baba /yaga
enjoying reading
--
a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the
right way
- Bill Bryson on cricket