mecca(s)

every subculture has both its jargon and its mecca. i've mostly been about the jargons because jargons i can easily do. given what i will soon "profess" to do for a living, i suppose it only makes sense that entering into a strange, somewhat closed cultural space seems easiest to me via language. as i've confessed in other posts, i managed my initial discomfort in the hypermale rowing world by learning very quickly the necessary lexicon. it's difficult to disparage a woman's skill on the water when she's telling you that no, she's measured and set her outboards herself, thankyouverymuch, and then asking you to please pass the adjustable over here, 'cause the top nut on her oarlock needs tightening. the language of rowing, though the most familiar, is not my only jargon. as i embark on my next great musical adventure in the world of rock 'n roll, language has again proven the most comfortable entry point. i think G somehow sensed this (in one of those special wifi conversations ...) and thus helped mark my initiation into rock snob culture with my very own copy of the rock snob*s dictionary: an essential lexicon of rockiological knowledge (2005).

subculture meccas, at least for me, have been another story entirely. it's only recently that i've become somewhat obsessed with place and its relation to the various arcane little worlds that i inhabit. i chalk this up in part to being born and raised in the one of the few hotbeds of north american rowing. i passed the canadian henley course on my way to school almost every morning, and therefore it never seemed that special ... it was just there. even when i returned to that space with a more substantial knowledge of everything it stands for, it never really felt like a pilgrimage, but rather just another trip home. this sort of pilgrim's malaise extended to other areas of my life.

strangely enough, my first (recent) conscious pilgrimage was not to a rowing mecca, but rather to a place of primary import to a fledgling rock snob. during my recent visit to NYC i spent what seemed like hours wandering around central park, looking for strawberry fields. i had been toying with the idea, prior to my visit, of taking up a new, uhm, less classical instrument over the summer, and while much of nyc's rock scene was frighteningly impenetrable (hunting out the venue of the yeah yeah yeah's flashmob-type concert was just too intimidating for a newbie!), starting it all with a moment of contemplation at a flower-strewn memorial was both manageable and cliché in a way that i love.

i'm not sure if standing there, gazing down at the "imagine" pinwheel on a sunny may day was the singular cure for my jaded place perspective, but yesterday, when i stepped off the train in henley on thames (the first leg of my three-week uk research trip) and was quickly greeted by the sight of a lightening-fast 8+ tearing up the water, i wouldn't have been surprised one bit to hear a corny choir of angelic hosts belting out a chord or two. after establishing contacts at the archives of the museum i'm here to visit, i spent a couple of hours wandering around down by the course, snapping pictures, my mouth appropriately agape, behaving in every way like a pilgrim newly arrived at her destination. returning from a long run beside the river last night, i experienced not only that lovely feeling one has after an extended bout of cardio, but also something else. i'm not sure i can quite put it into words, however i think a couple of snapshots might do it justice.