Love Thy Everyone

[Insert cliche blogger sentence about how I’ve been thinking about blogging but haven’t written recently.]

I’ve been in the US for five-plus weeks, visiting with family and friends for the holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. Aside from the coincidence and wanting to be part of our traditional celebrations, I wanted to invest time and energy in our relationships. As my uncle aptly pointed out, gathering with fourteen people on Christmas Day doesn’t create space for much more than hi-merry-christmas-nice-to-see-you-have-a-good-year. So, between miscellaneous work projects, wrapping gifts, baking cookies and other treats, and maintaining good sleep, I’ve done my best to make time to be with my loved ones and reached out to friends who I don’t speak to often.

Brandon and I met in fifth grade. Over the course of school activities, Boy Scouts, working together at his parents’ South American-inspired fruit drink shop, and whatever teenage friends can imagine, we pursued countless adventures. My memory recalls lots of laughter, bouts of “what did we get ourselves into, and how do we get out?” scenarios, and the occasional harmless prank to see who amongst our crew was most gullible. It was an easy “yes” when I called Brandon to catch up, and he suggested that I join him for part of his roadtrip from Texas to DC. From Nashville, we could take a one-night, two-day drive to Dollywood and Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Though I’ve visited every United State and I’d explored the muddy mountains near Gatlinburg some 22-23 years ago, this adventure would bring me to changed turf with new memories and lessons to learn.

A few factors made me skeptically curious about this terrain: hearing the experiences of another high school friend living and working in rural West Virginia, the conclusions in the immediate aftermath of the 2016 US presidential election (the mainstream media, national polls, and social media dialogue forgot about a huge portion of America), the ongoing and multitudinous debates about the meaning and appropriateness of memorializing Confederate iconography (the Rebel flag, statues of Confederates, etc). With a rising trend in hate crimes and a legally unresolved growth in gun-deaths, the land of comfort-food correlates to the land where I don’t feel so comfortable. The south-east United States follows a philosophy I’ve long spoken about Nashville, where much of my family lives: it’s interesting to visit but I could never live there.

I hold no doubt that I carry an “outsider” mentality. As Appalachian writer Joshua Wilkey asserts, “the single worst mistake outsiders can make when attempting to interpret the actions of voters in Appalachia is to assume that they are simply too dumb to know any better. This is not the case.” I’m humbled to acknowledge that I fight “lesser” thoughts of people who don’t speak “proper” English, and I know I’m isolated from understanding most US-Americans’ way of life, their priorities, needs, and beliefs. While I will continue a life abroad, perhaps a goal for me in the lead-up to November 2020 would be to focus on gaining perspective of the diversity of the United States and challenging the pervasive privilege of caucasian men, of which I am one. I frequently think, “at least I’m not straight, so that I have some understanding of the minority identity.”

Realizing that we both did little research and set low expectations for Dollywood, I tuned Brandon’s car radio into the Dolly Parton’s America podcast, which chronicles national culture and modern dilemmas through the lens of Appalachia’s standout celebrity. Between interviews recounting Dolly’s “give God the glory, but I’ll take the cash” philosophy and local students explaining why they and their parents practiced speaking to eliminate their so-called Hill Billy accents, we exited I-40 in Knoxville and caught the first sign of perplexion. “Turn left on Whites School Road,” Google’s Map voice announced. “Did she say White Skull or White School?,” we simultaneously asked aloud. Either way – and unfortunately the Internet can’t legitimize or disprove my fear – I’m intimidated by a public endorsement that seems to honor the white race.

Scenes from the road:

Meanwhile, we queued more than an hour in a string of gas-guzzling vehicles to enter the Dollywood parking lot, then skipped the subsequent wait for a shuttle ride by opting to walk a meager mile to the ticket stands at the park entrance. I wondered what my mass-public-transit-minded European friends would think about this arrival… this whole experience. I noticed the orange-clad family of Tennessee Vols fans and their uncle with the confederate flag jacket pile out of a caution-yellow-hued Hummer, the Amish-appareled family, and the obvious prevalence (39.8% in 2016) of obesity that plagues the United States. I know that we humans see what we seek, but I can’t get the health epidemic out of my mind when I return from Europe and visit public places.

We paid the $88 park entrance fee and followed the throngs of adults and children who took advantage of an unseasonably warm weekend day between Christmas and New Years. From first sight, I was very impressed at the polish of the Dixie/country (and slightly more reasonably priced) version of Disney World, complete with musical and theatrical shows, roller coasters, restaurants with ridiculous wait times, and cultural exhibitions, such as the (Bald) Eagle Mountain Sanctuary. Yes, I guess this is my ignorance: believing that these people and this place would be “less,” because of whatever stereotypes I hold and because I’ve not heard anyone in my small social circle recommend Dollywood.

We waited 40 minutes for a $9 loaf of delicious cinnamon bread coated in Paula Deen’s richest butter. We encountered these people in line:

A middle-aged white female Dollywood expert, who explained that this was actually a short line for the famous cinnamon bread, and that there was an upstairs to this “gristmill” bakery, and that the cinnamon bread was also sold elsewhere in the amusement park
Another middle-aged white woman who brought her husband and kids on their annual holiday roadtrip, which she mandates must be more than a 12-hour drive from their home in Sioux Falls. She personified the eccentric pixie-cut, call-a-manager mom, who the New York Times calls Karen and I call Carol. By the end of our time in line, we knew her kids names (Brielle, Sam, and Yuria Dixon), the story of her last summer’s vacation (solo-driving – and breaking down – an RV from Amsterdam to Oslo to chase her heritage), and her medical challenges (a rare balance disorder that prevents her from enjoying boats or theme park rides). The only things I’m missing are her own name and the selfie that she took with Brandon and I to “thank” us for the conversation.
The older (also white) couple behind us in line who felt tired and overwhelmed by the crowd. The wife lovingly exaggerated: “I’m fit ta have a tantrum. The only thang cood be worse ‘s if it ‘s eighty er ninety degrees.”

In my typical tirading fashion, I could go on about our day at Dollywood. I don’t want to complain or critique. I want to elevate the perspective that I gained on the American identity, and I also want to highly recommend a visit to Dollywood, if you have the chance. In addition to celebrating the uniqueness of Dolly Parton’s identity and achievement (check out the Chasing Rainbows museum!), they’ve created an exceptional experience at a reasonable price, combining thrill, indulgent foods, artistic and musical culture, and a beautiful ensemble of Christmas decor. I can only imagine how well they execute their other seasonal festivals and exhibits.

I couldn’t not show you the cinnamon bread.

After overnighting in an ideally-outfitted Holiday Inn Express in Knoxville, we woke up early and passed a phone between the beds to discuss what trail we might hike before driving home. Without conclusion, we ventured back toward Dolly’s native Sevierville and on to Gatlinburg to ask for advice at the national park visitors center. After receiving generic advice in Gatlinburg’s tourist office, we dug deeper with a young park ranger and asked for a reasonable day hike with moderate challenge where we wouldn’t be plagued with crowded trails. She suggested driving an hour east to Mt. Sterling, and… we did!

I’m very grateful that we made the Robert-Frost choice. We blasted bluegrass as Brandon curved the Jeep into valleys. As we unknowingly crossed from Tennessee into North Carolina, we passed wooded lots and small country cabins, not ignoring the newly constructed mansions towering at the top of various hillsides, perhaps emblematic of the growing class-division. In our journey to Mt Sterling, two favorite experiences stand in my memory.

We spontaneously agreed to turn an extra bend and spent a few minutes exploring a Zion Church – see Google Maps location – a one-room building on a bald hillside with a cemetery in the rear and two outhouses (Women and Men) on the side. I was enamored by the thick moss and reading the names and ages of the cemetery markers, combined with imagining the intimacy of the religious community that would convene here. By 11 am, there seemed to be no trace of their Sunday services, or perhaps there were no parishioners at a quiet time of year. Maybe everyone was at Dollywood?

Notice the small white outhouse(s) just on the right side edge of the forest.

Once we reached the trailhead, we meandered on well-marked trails some 2.5 miles to Mt Sterling’s summit and discovered the fire tower that the ranger advised us to look for. What a … scary experience! to climb a series of stairs that decrease in width as the wind increases above the trees. At the top of the tower, we had immaculate views of the surrounding mountain ranges, painted a mix of soft emerald green where the sunlight cast itself and a deep violet-grey where shadows covered the mix of bare deciduous bark and evergreens bows. I was done (ie sufficiently anxious) after a few minutes of photographing, filming, and listening to the wind bang the hinged windows open and closed, with small shards of glass lingering on the rain-soaked, drooping plywood floor.

From the top of Mt Sterling’s wind-whipped fire tower

We enjoyed a late lunch of black bean burgers, which we had bought two hours before at a gas station-restaurant counter in nearby Hartford, Tenn. This, too, felt like a proper perspective of America: two middle-aged women with red-tinged hair prepared styrofoam takeout boxes with sandwiches (burgers or catfish… ham and turkey were out of stock today), fried sides, and coleslaw and graciously commanded guests to hurry and retrieve their orders. The Indian owner took payments at the cash register, adding his own four items (Samosa, Vada Pau, Dabeli, Parotha) to the menu, distributed lottery tickets, and patrolled the Godly prohibition of selling alcohol on Sundays. The shelves stocked Frito-Lay snacks, essential pantry ingredients, sugar-loaded drinks, confederate flag blankets, and an assortment of MAGA/Trump apparel.

Just when I thought I was afraid enough, wondering whether I’d be harassed if I came here as an openly gay men, I spotted a hand-scribed note in Sharpie above the bathroom door: LOVE THY EVERYONE.

Brandon and I scratched the surface of meeting the people of Appalachia. While I’d love to sit for hours and days to live amongst this culture, I admit that I’m afraid to know their beliefs. My fear is probably undue. At least I’ve glimpsed the lives that are invisible to my perspective. These are the people I’ll have in mind as I hear and read politicians debate for the presidency over the coming ten months, and I hope my curiosity can teach me more. These are the people I might learn to love, as I remember that listening is an act of love.

More Human, Less Tech

Imagine: a tech conference where the hardware is a human handshake, where the user interface is face-to-face, where low battery means “I need to eat some fruit,” where networking is discussing personal perspectives instead of troubleshooting guest Wi-Fi, and where API might as well mean All People Interfacing. On the tail of participating in Copenhagen’s Techfestival, I hold reverence for the organizers’ success in organizing a conference focused on humans, not users.

Techfestival’s delivery met their marketing, which challenged conventional language of the technology sector: Care, or Die (rather than Disrupt, or Die); Humans, not Users; *Trust*.

I returned to Copenhagen, because Louise Beck Brønnum invited me to join her summit workshop on food tech after her June presentation on her work at Alchemist Restaurant’s Taste Lab and with teaching gastronomy to children. Following my ever-growing interest in food, I felt fortunate to sign-up for multiple sessions related to food at Techfestival. Food isn’t always recognized as a sector within tech, and I appreciated the diversity of their program. My schedule included two six-hour workshops and a two hour lecture, all focused on food, as well as time to attend a session on brain science and mental health and an evening workshop about the future of leadership in work. I wished I could have also joined the Endings summit, where the participants explored “how to design endings in four main areas: Products ; Services ; Relationships ; Life.”

Surprisingly to me, all of the sessions challenged the traditional notion of conference presentations, measuring up to the namesake and leaving me grateful that I packed shoes comfortable for standing and walking. This wasn’t a take-your-seat-and-listen event. With hundreds of topics to explore hands-on, Techfestival is much more an interactive festival than a conference.

In every session, the agenda encouraged me to meet multiple other participants, layering the agenda with time to share answers to: “what do you think will be the challenges and opportunities of participating today?,” “why did you attend this session?,” “what are you taking home from this session?,” and “ask why twenty times”. Thankfully, none of the presenters asked us to introduce ourselves by answering the ubiquitously deflating (and meaningless) question: “what do you do?”. (I’m still working on being, not doing.)

Many presenters presented brief introductions, then handed the majority of the time to other speakers and participants to collaborate – or more specifically, to co-create – on the topics at hand. Flipping away from the lecture method lent a depth of learning that’s not often found in conferences and workshops. Some formats that were new to me:

Workz prepared four topics from their research on the future of work. In groups of three, we identified potential challenges for one topic, then placed their Solution Map cards adjacent to the challenges to indicate subsequent solutions, questions, answers, and additional information.
Basque Culinary Center’s Innovation team demonstrated backcasting, a method where groups of 6-7 people imagined a future (in this case, via a potential news headline for the year 2050), then deconstructed the steps and decisions that might lead to the future vision.
To conceptualize a shared understanding of food systems, each team member placed diverse board-game-like pieces, one at a time in a round-robin format, to create a visual and tactile representation of how we see food systems. Once we constructed the present version, the team adjusted the pieces to represent the possible-future state – this time in silence! We also utilized backcasting in Louise and Frederik’s workshop, facilitated by chaospilot Eirik Haddal.
To literally breathe life into the topic of mental health and bodily awareness, a Kundalini yoga instructor Amanda Nørgaard taught an intermission: a thirty-minute class, introducing pranayama, mantra, meditation, and seated asanas.

Physically modeling the future food system with a team
Before backcasting with BCC, we brainstormed necessary steps for change in technology, society, politics, environment, and economics.
The backcasting technique helped us work toward answering: how might we create a future food system that is healthy, sustainable, and delicious for everyone?
Workz’s Solution Map cards helped my team and I more deeply understand the implications of a future gig economy.

All this talk of food and the body made me hungry at times. Fortunately, Techfestival’s organizers coordinated affordable (yes, even for Copenhagen’s high prices!) options for food at lunch and dinner, as well as making fresh fruit available during every session. On top of their foresight with fuel, all the volunteers I spoke to were friendly and competent. I find it so validating when I need directions or guidance at an event, and a volunteer responds “yes, I can help with that” instead of “sorry, they didn’t give us that information.” Techfestival is an exception to the monotony that plagues conventional conferences.

Above all, the absence or obscurity of tech itself impressed me at Techfestival. While I carried a laptop in my bag, I never once needed it, nor my phone. From my program, none of the sessions required participants to use any digital or electronic technology. None. And, get this? The technology worked seamlessly for the presenters. Yep. Not a single instance of “which dongle do I need to project?” nor “why isn’t the audio in this video working?” One session included a live tele-presentation. The screen displayed the presenter’s video feed, as well as his slides. Three microphones synced to the presentation, for the facilitator and audience to have seamless conversation with our video guest. If that’s not how to spell mic drop, then have you tried restarting?

Without doubt, Techfestival utilized technology in impressive and discreet ways, leaving the human participants to focus on the human dialog. Where technology plays a role in evolving the future of our lives, humans are the ones that live the experiences. In the words of presenter Emily Whyman, “we’ve created technologies that isolate us.” We. Us. It’s up to us to do the work, to co-create the world we need, and Techfestival is leading the way.

The Circle Stage hosted Friday night keynotes with Chris Messina, Payal Arora, and Jimmy Wales.

Obrigado, Lisboa

I left Berlin in a rush and arrived in Lisbon in a calm state of mind. That’s me in a nutshell: balancing chaos and calm.

After a delayed arrival – no worries! calm mind – I took the metro to my Airbnb and then meandered into the city, where I knew no Portuguese. I didn’t have any problem, but I like to know simple things like “ola” (hello), “fala ingles?” (do you speak English?), and “obrigado” (thank you). Almost everyone speaks English, so once I learned these quick phrases, all parties seemed comfortable in the rest of my interactions.

…

I wrote this much (above) on April 26, then abandoned the draft post while I began my yoga teacher training. Rather than try to recall thoughts from a month ago, I’ll close with some notes out of my notebook and photos of Lisboa.

Beautiful buildings. City blends well into the landscape.
Not much nature. Monsanto was beautiful.
Friendly people. Wonder if they’re hiding a struggle. My tour guide described post-Fascism fear of authority and recommended a book, Dancing Bear.
Tons of sunlight. Fast rainstorms.
Affordable, but not cheap. Suffering economically.
Wonder if they can preserve their culture while welcoming tourists:
— overemphasis of pasteis de nata
— farce of selling tinned fish
— tiles are functional (insulating) as much as decorative

Wednesday

Train from airport
Walked through Bairro Alto, Baija, and Chiado neighborhoods
Rainstorm
Smoothie made by pedaling a bicycle
Rainbow and concert rehearsal almost made me cry
Walked along coast in the sunlight
Into Bairro Alto for dinner, bacalhao (salted cod)

Thursday

Run in Parque du Eduardo to Monsanto
Breakfast at the mill
Walked to Santa Catarinha Miradouro and into Santos, another fast rainstorm
Read my yoga anatomy book on a park bench, annoyed by a senile homeless person
Walked to Praça de Camoes for Sandemann’s walking tour

Important dates: 1 Nov 1755, an earthquake killed 2/3 of the population (est. 90k people), mostly Arabs and Jews survived in the Alfama neighborhood; 25 April 1974, peaceful revolution ends dictatorship, my tour was the holiday they celebrated 45 years of freedom

My tour guide, Pascal, took me to a tiny restaurant where he knows the owners, Davíd and Bella. Great food, some from their farm. They struggle to stay open. She’s illiterate. It’s not a well-known place.
Walked to Alfama. Beautiful live music at the miraduoros, ice cream, poked into shops in Chiado and read my yoga book at a pastelaria
More live music in the streets by a university “fraternity”