I quote, from the end matter of the hard print version of Orhan Pamuk's My Name Is Red:
This book was set in Fairfield Light, the first typeface from the hand of the distinguished American artist and engraver Rudolph Ruzicka (1883–1978). In its structure Fairfield displays the sober and sane qualities of this master craftsman, whose talent had long been dedicated to clarity. It is this trait that accounts for the trim grace and vigor, the spirited design and sensitive balance of this original typeface.
Unquote.
One can almost drink it, this Fairfield Light.
30 June 2007
27 June 2007
a daily feast
One of the pleasures of staying home is watching my dad eat. When I used to work and come home in the evenings, I would worry about him because he worked so hard but ate so little (and it would take at least two hours for him to finish dinner). Now that I am home also during the day, I am privy to a different aspect of his daily routine.
It is a few minutes past 1 p.m. and my dad is already eating his third meal of the day. There will be at least two more to come later today. The meals are small: coffee and crackers for breakfast, noodles or rice at mid-morning, beer and sundry dishes for lunch; then the same, except with sake, later in the afternoon and, finally, dinner which includes beer, sake, rice, various dishes, and fruit.
It is a few minutes past 1 p.m. and my dad is already eating his third meal of the day. There will be at least two more to come later today. The meals are small: coffee and crackers for breakfast, noodles or rice at mid-morning, beer and sundry dishes for lunch; then the same, except with sake, later in the afternoon and, finally, dinner which includes beer, sake, rice, various dishes, and fruit.
26 June 2007
about my flight
At 19:30 on 20 June I stepped into a taxi to Jorge Chavez International. My flight home, scheduled for 22:50, was delayed one hour and we wouldn't take off until almost two hours later.
I was vaguely informed about the ban on liquids on US-bound flights. However, I didn't know that it extended to dulce de leche. I watched in horror as the security agent opened the factory-sealed can and fed the best caramelized milk in the world to a giant trash can. A trash can with a wide mouth and no teeth, that gorged but couldn't digest. It would be constipated with the sweet creams and savory liquids I wanted to share with family and friends, to communicate a little of what my life was like, a little of what I love and admire and will desperately miss about South America.
The security agent did the same to the lucuma jam, to the algorrobina. With all his manly strength, he couldn't open the two jars of onion and passion fruit delicacies. After 5 minutes, he discarded them whole into a bin already piled high with other terrorist-friendly contraband, like capers, toothpaste, and pisco. When he tried to discard the anchovies, the fish got stuck in the neck of the bottle and only the oil drizzled out. He took pity and let me keep the remaining fish since the jar was drained of its liquids.
I was traumatized, but not angry. The flight eventually boarded and took off. The two women who sat next to me talked too much. By then I was already numb and exhausted. I wanted to leave Peru, I already missed Peru, I wanted to come home, I didn't know where home was.
I was vaguely informed about the ban on liquids on US-bound flights. However, I didn't know that it extended to dulce de leche. I watched in horror as the security agent opened the factory-sealed can and fed the best caramelized milk in the world to a giant trash can. A trash can with a wide mouth and no teeth, that gorged but couldn't digest. It would be constipated with the sweet creams and savory liquids I wanted to share with family and friends, to communicate a little of what my life was like, a little of what I love and admire and will desperately miss about South America.
The security agent did the same to the lucuma jam, to the algorrobina. With all his manly strength, he couldn't open the two jars of onion and passion fruit delicacies. After 5 minutes, he discarded them whole into a bin already piled high with other terrorist-friendly contraband, like capers, toothpaste, and pisco. When he tried to discard the anchovies, the fish got stuck in the neck of the bottle and only the oil drizzled out. He took pity and let me keep the remaining fish since the jar was drained of its liquids.
I was traumatized, but not angry. The flight eventually boarded and took off. The two women who sat next to me talked too much. By then I was already numb and exhausted. I wanted to leave Peru, I already missed Peru, I wanted to come home, I didn't know where home was.
25 June 2007
estival ether
I do miss the smell of summer in Raleigh, when the trees sweat and the humid air carries the scent of their sweet sap in the languid breeze.
24 June 2007
he vuelto
After almost nine months of living and traveling in South America, I'm home. Other than the shock that my already obese cats have doubled in size, everything is as I left it.
My dad has yet to ask me anything about my adventures. When the shuttle from Newark dropped me off at our house, he helped me with my luggage, urged me to eat the 2 lbs. of cherries he has bought and washed, and reminded me that there was also watermelon in the refrigerator. Then he turned to watch the Chinese knockoff version of Larry King Live on satellite TV.
It is not that my dad doesn't care about me or what I do. Nor is it because he is an incurious person. I think it is just that what is important to him is that I am safe and that I am home. The details of how I spent the past 9 months are irrelevant—I am his daughter and there is nothing more he needs to know.
For my mom, a cactus in the desert, I am the rain. Because I am her daughter, she wants to know everything, most of all what I will do with my future and when I am getting married. I deftly dodged both questions.
I loved that I arrived on the longest day of the year. The sun rises at 5:24 and doesn't set until 20:31 and twilight lingers well past 21.
I still love my library. I visited it the first day I got back and checked out four books. It turned out that I had a fine of $1.40 from last September. When I tried to pay it, the librarian waved his hand, said "pfff" and "don't worry about it," and asked me wait at the counter just long enough so he can confirm that my record has been cleared, which took 2 seconds.
Everything else is strange. No one greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Everyone communicates in English. Cars aren't trying to run pedestrians down. I miss the music of Spanish being spoken, laughed, and sung. I'm trying to let go of the tension in my muscles when I walk in Greenwich Village after midnight carrying my laptop; I have to remind myself that I'm not in Peru anymore.
Indeed, I am not.
My dad has yet to ask me anything about my adventures. When the shuttle from Newark dropped me off at our house, he helped me with my luggage, urged me to eat the 2 lbs. of cherries he has bought and washed, and reminded me that there was also watermelon in the refrigerator. Then he turned to watch the Chinese knockoff version of Larry King Live on satellite TV.
It is not that my dad doesn't care about me or what I do. Nor is it because he is an incurious person. I think it is just that what is important to him is that I am safe and that I am home. The details of how I spent the past 9 months are irrelevant—I am his daughter and there is nothing more he needs to know.
For my mom, a cactus in the desert, I am the rain. Because I am her daughter, she wants to know everything, most of all what I will do with my future and when I am getting married. I deftly dodged both questions.
I loved that I arrived on the longest day of the year. The sun rises at 5:24 and doesn't set until 20:31 and twilight lingers well past 21.
I still love my library. I visited it the first day I got back and checked out four books. It turned out that I had a fine of $1.40 from last September. When I tried to pay it, the librarian waved his hand, said "pfff" and "don't worry about it," and asked me wait at the counter just long enough so he can confirm that my record has been cleared, which took 2 seconds.
Everything else is strange. No one greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Everyone communicates in English. Cars aren't trying to run pedestrians down. I miss the music of Spanish being spoken, laughed, and sung. I'm trying to let go of the tension in my muscles when I walk in Greenwich Village after midnight carrying my laptop; I have to remind myself that I'm not in Peru anymore.
Indeed, I am not.
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