April 30th, 2011%
 Highway 1, Northern California. 2010. When holiday tension breaks, there is an immediate abundance of brutal honesty for the whole family, enough to go around and come around, because we love each other. This past Christmas, the family split into teams and left the house to get some perspective.
My niece and I headed north on Highway 1 taking pictures with my iPhone and making up different versions of Jingle Bells as sung by animals. She took this first shot because she liked the way the sun reflected off the water. I was probably doing my make-up in the rearview mirror while she took it.
 Roadside Wave, Northern California. 2010. We watched the weather change from second to second and stopped occasionally to compare the light and colors in the current moment with a few minutes ago.
She took a new picture every few seconds and switched hipstamatic lenses constantly. We agreed to drive with the window down, even in the rain.
Some of the more heroic shots prompted a Socratic conversation on whose fault it would be if we had to drive back and hopefully retrieve my phone from a cliff or ditch. I figured it would be my fault since I said it was okay. She agreed and ran me through the logic which might have made it her fault.
In the second shot, she said it was an amazing chance that she caught the wave. It was a difficult shot because the turn was wide and required the phone to be held pretty far out the window at the last minute.
We grew up on Lake Michigan and my niece is growing up on the Pacific Ocean. I know how living near the water changed us in ways we’re still understanding by comparison. I wonder how the ocean will change her.
Photos by Autumn Ossello & Text by Judith Ossello
April 16th, 2011%
 Soccer on Cement, Mission District, San Francisco. 2011. San Francisco changes you rather than changes for you. It has a strong personality without being stubborn. If you abide the coolness and avoid resentment, the city will surround you.
You walk around editing your experience, but you don’t really notice what it is doing to you. Some parts were clearly as dull and necessary as margins, but you get that Baltimore pocket feeling when you hit a place that feels right.
 Gaucho at Amnesia, Mission District, San Francisco. 2011. I went to the Mission District several times over two weeks to meet friends for dinner and shows. I mostly stayed within Valencia between 16th-24th.
When you step out of public transit at either end, you’re not overwhelmed with an “oh, my I’m in the Mission” feeling. At least, I wasn’t. I was like, where is the Mission? Left or right?
I got conflicting directions as well as a sense that people really didn’t want to tell me. It’s a street with a bunch of restaurants, not the Godfather, but whatever. I’ll admit to being two Gin’s into the night when I needed directions.
Either you’re early or you’re late. Everyone seems to show up at once which seemed to be around 7pm or so.
Tourists who show up to San Fran like they’re playing the home team will eventually succumb to its influence. They might try to dress a little better or maybe get out of their head for a few minutes to notice other people.
You become more of yourself which is cool, but don’t get all Kardashian about it. I saw some of that in Union Square.
Photos & Text by Judith Ossello
March 5th, 2011%
 Ballynihinch Castle, Recess, Ireland. 2009. To get to Ireland from the West Coast, I took a short cut through Calgary, Canada and had a stop-over in Heathrow which brought me into the yellowing or grey intestinal corridors of customs, which duly digests the line into single-file travellers with appropriate documentation.
In December of 2009, Ireland experienced the worst flooding in decades. My best friend since 5th grade and I flew into Dublin just as it was starting. The flooding chased us towards Galway, swallowing most of the grounds outside our hotel in Athlone. We spent each morning strategizing on where to go next based on the weather reports and had the hotel desk call the next hotel to arrange for a room that night.
South didn’t seem like an option so we went North. Connemara had a castle and was near her relatives in Tuam (pronounced Choom). We did end up staying a night in Ashford Castle with a falconry lesson in the morning, but Ballynihinch Castle really is what you’d expect from staying in a castle.
I guess authentic might be a strange word. It didn’t feel like a hotel. The pace was chess. Only, chess while drinking Guinness. We borrowed Wellies and raincoats to walk around the grounds which was like walking around a painting. Everyone treated us like they couldn’t remember us not being there.
 Road Next to Doo Lough, Connemara, Ireland. 2009 We made our way to Westport via the Clifden loop to get a bit of city life after two nights in the oil painting, then decided to experience Ireland’s more sorrowful side.
After passing the Irish Famine memorial near Leenane, we were the only car on the road most of the time. In 1849 during the potato famine, 600 starving people marched 12 miles to the next town to ask for food and were refused. Over 200 people died on the walk back when a storm began and the winds swept many of them into the Doo Lough (lake).
Seriously, no one was around. Just some sheep.
This area was more resiliant than a desert, filled with that last bit of energy that prevents people from giving up too quickly.
Photos & Text by Judith Ossello
February 27th, 2011%
 Gokoku Shrine Wedding, Nagoya, Japan. 2008. Gokoku Shrine entry gates have branches and cut paper to ward off evil spirits. To pray at the shrine, you must step up, bow twice, throw a coin into the donation box, clap twice, put your hands together in prayer, make your prayer, and bow twice. Two weddings and several babies were carried to the Shrine on this auspicious day.
Then I had the worst soft drink I’ve ever tasted at Nagoya Castle. Sweat and green tea and unwashed dishes. I can’t even describe it. The castle’s mixture of old and new architecture made it feel like we were visiting a museum rather than a historical place until the Samurai marks were pointed out on the rocks. They were given a deadline of 3 months to build the wall or be killed. A few of us lounged in a city street exhibit with lighting that turned from day to night.
Lunch at the castle was certainly a challenge as we had to use a vending machine to make our orders, and there weren’t pictures for everything. I got cold soba noodles with seaweed, which kept up the lingering fish theme from breakfast. The hotel breakfast combines cereal and salads with cold fishes and lunch/dinner selections so that you are completely confused on what to eat.
 Toyota Museum, Nagoya, Japan. 2008. We ended the itinerary with a visit to the Toyota Auto Museum which impressed upon us the heyday of 1970’s Japan when they became the technological leaders in cameras and cars. It was nice to see the emergence of the automobile in Japan within the context of history, starting from the American GI’s stationed in Japan after WWII who had such an abundance of goods to support them and their families.
The Welcome dinner at the hotel was very formal and very Japanese. We had no idea that there would be more food after we finished our sample plate with 16 different combinations of fish, tofu, and vegetables many of which we had never known were part of Japan’s cuisine. Soup and sushi rounded out the meal which would’ve been rather lite fare due to several of the 16 portions being a little too adventurous for my taste. The crawfish just wasn’t worth the effort after the sushi came.
I walked around Nagoya with friends from China and Indonesia. One of them wanted to explore the various convenience stores so we went to Mitchells, Circle K, and another one whose name I can’t remember. They all had slightly different selections, some had more paper goods or snacks. All had single jar servings of Saki for the businessman who needs one more glass on his way home from partying with his co-workers until 10pm. I was also a little surprised at the non-refrigerated hamburgers and hotdogs sold with the bread. In general, there were a lot of ready-made meals at these stores compared to the usual snacks in the US stores. We also walked by a few loud and smoky Pachinko parlors. Men and women walked the streets in their business clothes or interesting outfits with uncomfortable shoes.
Photos & Text by Judith Ossello
February 12th, 2011%
 Abdali Bus Station, Amman, Jordan. 2000. In this special Valentine’s Day edition of the Saturday Section, I wanted to salute the men of Jordan who made public transportation so interesting for a young foreign woman such as myself.
In 2000, I had a dozen Valentine’s Day roses from a special someone stuffed in a shopping bag as I walked to the Abdali bus station to return to Al Mafraq. I asked to be dropped off around the corner to avoid looking trampy while getting out of the car since we were clearly unrelated and unaccompanied. Perhaps a bit over-the-top, but one cannot be too careful with one’s honour.
 Somewhere Near Kerak, Jordan. 1999. Riding the bus as a single woman in Jordan is strategic. When waiting, be sure to stand next to another woman and make zero eye contact with any member of the opposite sex above six or seven years old. When getting on the bus, elicit help from the bus driver if you do not have an open seat next to another woman or a single row seat next to the window. To indicate you want help, stand next to the bus driver and wait patiently with your head down. If getting a preferred seat is strategically impossible due to the number of men and women distributed on the bus, place a large handbag between you and the man next to you and sit down. Do not talk. Move to a preferred seat when it becomes available.
Due to the intense sun and a flair for tassels and velvet, you can also count on the interior of most buses to resemble Miss Havisham dressed as a belly dancer; however, most buses leaving the city deliver the kind of ride you’d expect from a seventeen year old driving a Suzuki Samurai to beat a curfew. I mostly look out the window and ignore the rest.
Photos & Text by Judith Ossello
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Writer Loop Official Photographer Jenny Hoover currently lives in Bellingham, WA.
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