mindset in motion

2012-01-24T21:54:00.001-05:00

"I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world."

— Mary Oliver, from “Lead” in New and Selected Poems, Volume Two

Using the concept of New Year's resolutions to get to know ourselves better

2012-01-02T23:17:00.001-05:00

This recent New Years night was simple and lovely: nice conversation with new friends, cheese fondue, a little wine, fireworks, bicycles and subway rides, and a kiss that I would not have traded even for the world's most elaborate fireworks display. I hope that evening set the tone for this new year and those to come.

As this new year settles in front of our feet, I feel very blessed for all I have right now. While I am not stimulated to the utmost in each aspect of my life, there are no gaping holes. Phew!

I don't have specific resolutions for the new year (I am already breaking one of the big new year's resolution no-nos!...they should be specific). However, here are some general ideas I have for this new year:
-Express the positive feelings I have about others more often
-Feel more relaxed at the office
-Get to bed earlier during the week (i.e. always before twelve!)'
-Visit Charleston at least once (it's looking like June will be the month)
-Complete the Zumba teacher training I signed up for later this month
-Spend less time when I go into the supermarket
-Ask, when possible, when I want to use something that's not mine
-Explore more options for post-Americorps

Here is a snip-it from an article from the Boston Globe on New Year's resolutions that I enjoyed, especially the sentences which I bolded:

"The month of January has resolving built right into its name: The ancient Romans named it after the two-faced god Janus, who, with one face looking backward and the other forward, symbolized the hope that we might learn from the past to improve ourselves in the future.

"Holton says that getting resolutions right means going beneath the surface, not just of your own behavior, but also of the mental processes behind keeping resolutions...it encourages you to look more carefully at the actual reasons you've failed to keep your promise. If you can't manage one phone call a week, there's a more serious reason you aren't calling your mom. Once you've started to scratch the surface, that's how change begins.

"Real freedom doesn't mean endless choices at all times--it means being able to choose the rules that will bind you..."

From Resolved! by Joshua Rothman, in the Boston Globe (1/1/12)

All of my hope for us all to make 2012 one of the most authentic, joyful, deep, loving, and exciting years of our lives.

The end of Occupy in Dewey Square as a jumping off point

2011-12-13T22:11:00.000-05:00

For 81 days, beginning on September 30 of this year, hundreds of people camped and thousands of people gathered in protest at Boston's Dewey Square, a rectangular grassy haven amidst financial powerhouses and other businesses involved in activities of consumption.

The people of Boston, a city with a comparatively deep history of supporting social justice, freedom of speech, and education, sparred back and forth during these past few months on the issue of the Occupy Boston movement; just as in other cities, people debated the effectiveness of the protests due to the lack of tangible, action-focused "asks," the character of the protesters (i.e. "Are the protesters simply people who are upset about actually having to work hard to make a decent living?") and other questions.

The protesters were kicked out of Dewey Square by the city government last week, and I must admit, that despite understanding the health risks and financial costs of the encampment, I was still a bit stung by the decision to kick the people out. Though I had not directly acknowledged it previously, I think I held the proud attitude that, regardless of its wealth and cool demeanor, Boston would be a beacon for all sectors of society, and that it would permit the protesters to stay for the "sake of freedom." I thought we'd be different than cities like New York that have forced protesters to abandon their camps.

I hope that the Occupy camp in Boston was just a warm-up for what might come in the future. I would like it to be bigger, to include more people, and to open up a wider, and more productive, discussion about where we all want this country to go in the near future: What are the values we wish to uphold? What do we believe about how we should treat the other members of society, no matter how wealthy or how financially-strapped they might be? I know that not everyone would bring the same ideas to the table. It would be wonderful, however, to come together in greater numbers to more clearly understand ourselves, the people who make up this patchwork nation.

Be gay in the grayzone

2011-11-27T23:08:00.001-05:00

Have you ever felt like something was wrong with you because you had a difficult time defining a fierce stance on an issue? If so, this piece I stumbled upon might make you question this feeling of inadequacy.

In the company of the confident, I had always envied their certainty. I imagined myself like some tiny sailboat, aimlessly tacking in whatever wind prevailed at the moment.

But in time, I came to accept, even embrace, what I called “my confusion,” and to recognize it as a friend and ally, no apologies needed. I preferred to listen rather than to speak; to inquire, not crusade. As a noncombatant, I was welcomed at the tables of even bitterly divided foes. I came to recognize that I had my own compass and my own convictions and if, at times, they took me in circles, at least they expanded outward. I had no wish for converts — where would I lead them?

An editor and mentor at the Post once told me I was “Wobbly.” I asked who else was in that category and drew comfort from its quirky ranks. They were good people all — open-minded, inquisitive, and yes, confused. We shared a common creed. Our articles of faith all ended with a question mark. I wouldn’t want a whole newsroom, hospital, platoon or — God forbid — a nation of us. But in periods of crisis, when passions are high and certainty runs rabid, it’s good to have a few of us on hand. In such times, I believe it falls to us Wobblies to try and hold the shrinking common ground.

-From "In Praise of the 'Wobblies,'" by Ted Gup, featured in This I Believe (2006)

Let's be in charge of our health

2011-11-09T22:22:00.000-05:00

Erin, an Americorps member who arrived at the clinic two months before me, is in charge of organizing my training schedule. She has me "shadowing" the practitioners; basically I sit beside the practitioner and observe his/her interaction with the patient to learn about the services at the clinic. I have done this four times in the last two days, and a few encounters already have my socio-economic wheels spinning.

#1: Yesterday, I was doing this shadowing of a personable male NP (nurse practitioner, who the patients refuse to call anything but "Doctor"), and he was checking over a petite Italian woman with diabetes. He got her up on the exam table and looked at her shins and feet. He saw enormous bunion-like callouses on her toes and asked her the last time she visited the foot doctor. "A long time ago," she said, "It cost $18 to go...I figure it's better to get a pedicure for $25." The NP played along and said, "Why? Because they'll also paint your nails all nice?" and then tried explaining that if she got cut at the pedicurist's, she could get a really horrible infection, especially because of her diabetes. In her Italian-stilted English, she shrugged off his suggestion.

#2: Today I was with sitting with a representative at Member Services, and a young man in a big baseball cap and jeans, with a tattoo on his wrist, walked in and said that he was unable to pay his co-pay for his medicine. The rep asked him how much it was, and the young man said, "$3." The rep apologized and said that she was the wrong person to speak with about this. When the guy left I expressed my shock that someone would be unable to come up with just a few dollars, and was told that people like him might actually be able to pay, even though they say they cannot. I am not sure which would be worse, someone pretending they are poor to save $3, or someone who really cannot come up with three dollars.

#3: An independent 95-year-old man came to Member Services yesterday to ask a question about his bill. I felt something sacred in his presence. And in such good form he was! The rep said after that of course the man, because of his age, qualifies for free medical care, but that he must be too proud to depend on the government. It was inspirational to see someone of his age taking full charge (not necessarily in the financial sense, but in the physical) of himself and his affairs. 95 years of being alive, and still so on point!

* * *

These instances (especially #1 and #2) make me feel confused and a bit sad about people, and why they don't do more in their power to take care of themselves. Maybe they are just misguided, I don't know. To me though it is hard to imagine choosing a pedicure over a professional foot doctor, or not doing everything I can to come with just 300 cents to cover but a fraction of the billed cost of one of my medicines. I know that I must have compassion for people, and not anger. I know that I am lucky to value taking care of myself.

I don't want to call it the "nine-to-five grind"

2011-11-06T23:30:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I will begin something which I have never done in my life, which is to follow a full-time schedule for an entire year. Yes, high school meant showing up from 8:30am to 2:30pm every day, but there were long vacations for the holidays and for the summer (i.e. lanterns in the distance, or something like that), and accountability was low. In college, actual in-class hours were dispersed throughout the week, the environment was more relaxed, and I had summers and two semesters to travel.

I have not been looking forward to "9 to 5" much, and always thought I'd do something non-traditional. Surprisingly, though, I actually am not as scared as I would expect to be about adapting to a typical workday at the clinic because I know I am going to be steeped in so much newness. I am also so happy to have the opportunity to speak Spanish on a daily basis. I do have some concerns about how I will continue my yoga and running regularly, and how I will incorporate creative activities in my life.

I would be amiss if I said I am no longer captivated by ideas of traveling through France and North Africa for months and being bombarded by color and culture and smell and new ways of living. However, I know that there will be more time for me to explore the world, and that this year will be a great opportunity to get to know myself as I function in my own birthplace. That said, I look forward to writing about aspects of community healthcare and the "immigrant experience" here in the future.

See you next time, New York City

2011-11-02T03:10:00.000-04:00

Two days before I was going to move to NYC, I got accepted into the Community HealthCorps program, with a site placement at the East Boston Neighborhood Health Center. I had interviewed with them a month or so prior, and since I had not made successful contact thereafter, I assumed that I was out of the running.

For the last two weeks, I had been telling people about my plans to move to NYC. I was not especially excited, but I did my best to get positive energy flowing. It was especially hard to look forward to moving to a monstro-city to do a program I only generally understood, but nonetheless I was ready to commit for a year.

But then my luck improved. I got the call, and all of a sudden things seemed just as I wanted: I had a job working in the Hispanic community, I was three and a half hours closer to a new loved one, I had a free subway pass, and I was close to the MBTA.

I don't believe things are "meant" to be a particular way. Certain things I can't control, like whether I happen to take the one subway car that gets stuck underground and arrive late to a crucial meeting, or whether someone reacts especially angrily to a attempt I make at being friendly. However, I know that I am in control of my most of my own circumstances from this point onward. This is an incredibly freeing state of mind.

It is November, but the joy that I started to feel last Spring is keeping me warm in the Boston chill.

My friend Alona and I make a pit-stop while we look for apartments in the Boston area

The Charles River Bike Path: the car-free key from suburb to city

2011-10-10T01:45:00.000-04:00

I fixed up my Dad's bicycle yesterday (it needed a new tube and tire, as well as cobweb removal!), and decided to take it for a ride today; after all, today's weather was predicted to break records.

After a six mile ride from my house in the suburbs, I found myself in Watertown near the Charles River Bike Path, which stretches all the way to Downtown Boston. If one wanted, he or she could hop on the bike path in the suburbs and check out Harvard University, the Museum of Science, Beacon Hill, the Bunker Hill Monument, Boston Harbor, and many more incredible sites, all in one day!

I have taken this path in the past, though not as far as I took it today. One fantastic thing I learned today is that a huge section of road (Memorial Drive, if you must know) and green space along the river in Cambridge near Harvard gets closed off to vehicles every Sunday. Though my pictures do not show it, so many people came out this afternoon to enjoy the peace; there were students using their laptops, families enjoying take-out, parents and kids learning to bike, couples, singles, the whole gamut.

Boston is quite the sporty city: today was the B.A.A. Half-Marathon (put on by the Marathon folks) and tomorrow will be the Tufts Health Plan 10k for Women.

One can drop in a kayak in Newton and paddle all the way out to the "Haabuh" (aka the Harbor)

One of Boston's characteristics that most resonates with me is the mix of modern and antique; notice the old-school bridge with the new cable-stayed suspension bridge in the background. The Zakim is the widest of its kind in the world.

The colors of the plants are so warm.

This is where Boston University keeps its sailboats. I love the graffiti-covered structure in the mid-ground, but I cannot discern its purpose (it's not a bridge-perhaps it was in the past).

If this post incites anyone out there to visit Boston, please let me know!

(see info about the features of the Charles River Reservation here)

Boston subway adventures with[out] Charlie, Part One

2011-10-07T00:32:00.002-04:00

Since my recently-confirmed gig with NYCCAH does not start until November 1st, I am trying to fill my time with activities. Yesterday I joined Boston Cares, but before I can begin volunteering with the organization, I had to attend a volunteer orientation session. Mine was today at 6:00PM in Roxbury, a section of Boston that is known/thought to be crime-ridden, poverty-stricken, and minority-inhabited. I love traveling to parts of the city like Roxbury, places that I never had reason to visit when I was a teeny-bopping suburbanite, places that now entice me as a wannabe city-slinger.

To get to the small library in Roxbury I took the Orange Line; in addition to the Orange Line, the Boston subway system also features the Red, Green, Blue, and Silver Lines. I most often take the Red Line to Cambridge, and the Green Line from my home in Newton to Downtown Boston. It is quite interesting to compare and contrast the experiences riding the different colored lines.

I saw striking variations between the Green and Orange Lines. First, people on the Orange are even more quiet than those on the Green, and perhaps even more tired-looking; as partial explanation, I should say that the Green Line passes by many colleges, including Northeastern, Suffolk, Berkeley College of Music, and Boston University. Second, people are darker on the Orange: definitely more black people and Hispanics. Thirdly, there are much fewer riders tapping their iphones on the Orange than on the Green.

While the above-noted variances are obvious in theory, given the economic and demographic disparities of the neighborhoods the trains travel through, I still find it pretty fascinating to see these differences so starkly in front of my own eyes.

Since I have some time on my hands before November 1st, I am thinking of carrying out my rust-ridden mission of riding all of the MBTA subway lines in a day, á la "Charlie on the MTA." There's really no reason why I shouldn't do it, besides the fear of being strange, and perhaps the fear of feeling like I am wasting my time; the truth is though that no one will be able to see me sitting there all day, and even if they were able to, they should think my plan funny...right?! And I won't be tired, but fresh and well-slept. ¿Qué piensan ustedes?

2011-10-04T14:44:00.001-04:00

"'But to be truly effective, especially internationally, you must root yourself more strongly in your home's own soil. It is time for you to know this country, as well. Only by knowing ourselves can we truly understand others--and knowing from where you come is an important part of knowing who you are.'

'Surely there are enough people interested in this country,' I told him. 'My contribution will come from focusing globally.'

He shook his head. 'You should focus on being more interested than interesting'--something I'd heard him say countless times [emphasis added]. 'What happens overseas is profoundly influenced by what happens here, especially now. And the reverse is true, as well.'"

Novogratz, Jacqueline. The Blue Sweater. New York: Rodale, 2009. Print.

2011-10-02T12:22:00.001-04:00

"Mr. Cassilly held onto his sense of childlike wonder, shunning some of the usual trappings of adulthood.

He never collected a regular wage and insisted that his many occupations...did not define him....

Perhaps his boldest vision was to create what he called Cementland, another tourist attraction, this one at the site of an abandoned cement factory in St. Louis next to the Mississippi River. He would sometimes go there on weekends alone to bulldoze dirt himself....

Cementland's planned attractions, however outlandish, were easier to grasp. Mr. Cassilly knew that children of all ages would relish throwing rocks from the plant's 225-foot-high smokestack, or riding in a boat from the top of a silo along a winding water chute four-fifths of a mile long before dropping into a lake.

'It will be a place where we can do things that are normally illegal,' Mr. Cassilly said in a 2005 interview with The St. Louis Post-Dispatch.'"
---------------------------------------------------------
Martin, Douglas. "Bob Cassilly, kept whimsy, wonder of childhood alive." Boston Globe 2 Oct 2011. Print.

Yo-Yo

2011-09-29T00:49:00.000-04:00

Without doubt the world is full of the abominable: murder, hunger, adultery, thirst, exploitation, anger.

Without doubt the world is full of the incredible: empathy, ingenuity, laughter, growth, diversity, family.

Without doubt the world is full of confusion.

Without doubt the world is full of moments of certainty and unshakable clarity.

Without doubt the world is full of same.

Without doubt the world will never be the same.

2011-09-29T00:34:00.000-04:00

I see you crying, sitting on the bench next to me. I will use my ears and my heart for you tonight; when tomorrow comes, promise me you will do the same for someone else.

2011-09-29T00:20:00.002-04:00

It seems that when I start loving one thing better, I begin to better love everything else.

What you find when you pause the seeking

2011-08-30T16:35:00.000-04:00

While many people suffered negative consequences from Hurricane Irene, I was lucky to have found an opportunity to rejuvenate. It was strangely refreshing to stop worrying about my future and to focus primarily on the basic matters at hand, like how I would take a shower, prepare something to eat, and maneuver through my house. During the day, instead of jumping on the computer to craft cover letters and search my favorite job sites, I had to find activities that did not involve electricity (it was out for two days); I made a new journal using photographs from my trip to Colombia (and wrote my first entry), cleaned out stuff in my room that I had not seen since the last time I was here months ago, put out new photographs, hung up different wall art, dusted, and moved my furniture around. Forcibly powering down certainly was good for me! I'd like to hold this experience as a reminder as I do my best not to go insane as I rack my brain about what's next, and seriously contemplate taking the night train far, far away. Okay, please ignore the last sentence! For one time I'm not actually thinking of taking the night train, I just liked the rhyme; in fact, at the moment I'm trying to find opportunities in the Northeast. It sure is a strange, surprisingly beautiful time in my life. I'd like to write some more about the post's title, but perhaps I'll wait until a later time!

The beginning of my German-American roadtrip!

2011-08-20T03:25:00.001-04:00

I made the decision to leave San Francisco (thank you for being one of the best cities in the world!) for Austin, Texas. After two and a half marvelous days investigating the city by foot and kayak with Michelle I met up with two Germans, one of whom I met on the BART, which is San Francisco's version on the underground metro; Arvid had overheard a discussion my friends and I were having regarding vegetarianism, and after talking for ten minutes or so, he tentatively invited me to join his caravan back to Boston. After this encounter, we kept in touch for a couple of weeks, and it was starting to seem like I was not going to be able to coordinate my schedule to meet up with him and his friend Daniel, as they went off through New Mexico, while I was still in San Francisco.

Arvid and Daniel are 25 and 23 respectively, and are friends from their involvement in Germany's Green party, which is a progressive party with roots in environmentalism and social justice. Arvid has spent the last year studying for his Masters degree in Cambridge, MA, and Daniel is studying special education in Germany. They are similar, but different, with Arvid being more rational, and Daniel being a bit more radical. They have a strange fascination with American flags, and the white minivan we're riding already has five! They have matching high-quality suede cowboy hats, though Daniel wears his much more than Arvid does.

We drove from Austin to Houston, where we stayed in a newly-founded young professionals co-op. It was great to see such a ripe, respectful community, and to hear that they have people on their waiting list. After checking out a house in Houston that is tastefully decorated with beer cans (yes, believe it! - the owner spent 20 long years decorating his home), we drove off to New Orleans, aka N'awlins. We took the coastal roads, passing oil rigs and refineries, beaches and grasslands. We drove through lightening storms, and ate fried shrimp at Gigi's, as per the recommendation of the ferry operator.

It was so comforting to arrive at my brother Frank's new place in New Orleans. He just moved here a few weeks ago to begin medical school, and his apartment is so clean and welcoming. We had not seen each other for three and a half months, so it was great to see him doing well in his new city.

Today the Germans and I took a trolley Downtown, and toured Bourbon Street (trashy!), the French Quarter, and a few other parts. We visited the Superdome, which is where the survivors of Katrina stayed soon after the disaster. Later in the evening, we met up with my brother, and went to a creole restaurant, which was not as good as Frank remembered it, though the Fried Alligator was actually tasty, not much different from fried calamari. We then stepped into a few of NOLA's famous music establishments to hear some bands play; though we did not know any of the bands, a couple of them blew us away with their energy and skill.

Unfortunately, we have to leave New Orleans for Birmingham in the morning, since Arvid needs to return to Boston for the start of his classes. I wish we could have more time to explore these incredible locations, but to be positive, I reckon that a taste is better than never tasting at all. I have the option to stay behind at my brother's for as long as I want in New Orleans, but I think I'd feel a bit too much solitude without any company during the day, even though I very much need to make decisions regarding Spain and my next steps. Despite this serious source of stress, I will try to enjoy each day, regardless of what happens next. A la prochaine!

Some perks of being a young traveler

2011-08-14T04:07:00.000-04:00

About four weeks have passed since my Jewish studies program near Los Angeles ended. Since then, I have spent two weeks in Zion, Bryce Canyon, and Yosemite National Parks, as well as two weeks in San Francisco. In just this short time, I have encountered so many people who have given to me for no "rational" reason.

Let me start near the beginning. While I was on the second half of The Narrows, a famous water trail in Zion National Park, with my friends Andrew, Liron, and Shimri, we started talking with a middle-aged guy, Marc, and his teenage son. Marc took particular interest in Liron and Shimri, since they come from Israel, which is where Marc, a Mormon, spent some fond childhood years. After a bit of chat, we learned that Marc, in addition to owning a multi-million-dollar business, is a record-setting pilot (for his transcontinental flight across the USA). By the end of the hike, we had received an invitation to come later in the week to ride in his helicopter. The Israelis were practically jumping with joy at this opportunity, while Andrew and I, the two skeptical Americans, were just a tad more ambivalent (though excited, too, of course!). We told Marc that we'd figure out the details and contact him in a few days. Later that day, when it was just the four of us, we decided that we just had to take this opportunity; after all, how often do search-and-rescue pilots offer near-strangers free helicopter rides?

Though it was out of "our way" by about six hours roundtrip, we drove to visit Marc and his family later that week. Marc's father, who was a Mormon missionary in Israel, gave us each a beautiful Prayer for the Traveler. While my friends were up in the helicopter (the second ride, which I opted out of to give one of my Israeli friends a second turn), the father delighted me with ticklish stories of his time in the Middle East. Marc's mother and wife were equally as endearing. When we finished with the helicopter rides, they took us to a nice Mexican lunch spot and refused to let us pay. When we parted, I told Marc and his wife that I aspired to be generous like them; they told me that I would be.

And then there was the cashier at the supermarket in Yosemite National Park who was so happy to have a Ukrainian Jew (my friend Yuliy) come through her lane that she invited all of us to come receive her hospitality in the employee village when she got off of her shift at 10PM. We had not showered in about a week, so her offer was enthusiastically received by us. After waiting outside for Lauren (that was her name), we got to take some of the most delicious showers of our lives! Then a bit later, her boyfriend and a friend took us to explore the "Indian Caves." Though we were exhausted from a ten mile hike that day, it was incredible to be with such warm-hearted people at 2am in such a chilly, tiny rock space. In this space, we each got to sign the notebook, which lists all of the people who have squeezed their bodies through the rocks to make it there. When we climbed out of the caves, the three of them helped us find a safe place by the rocks to sleep; snuggling in my sleeping bag in a cozy rock space under the stars was one of the most perfect spots to sleep.

And I can't forget Dawn, the cherubic mid-20s woman we asked directions from upon arriving in Berkeley (an enclave over the Bay Bridge from San Francisco) who decided to not only find us a cab, but to pay the fare as well! "It's cheaper than having you all pay for the bus," she insisted before running off.

And then today there were Medina and Anton, two Kyrgyzstanis who are friends with Yuliy, the Ukrainian peep I mentioned above. Though I just met them today, they insisted on taking Yuliy and me to dinner. And let me tell you, it was not "just dinner"! It was the Gold Boat (sushi), complimented by a bottle of white wine.

There are other instances of generosity I could cite, but hopefully I got my point across. People have been just incredible to us without expecting anything in return.

I try to take moments in the day to forget about what I am expecting to happen next, and to look up at the sky and acknowledge the abundance in my life. But sometimes it feels like this is just part of what I need to be doing, like what I must really do if I am grateful is stand on the other side and give to others. And the important thing is that giving does not necessarily have to involve rides in fancy vehicles or $80 meals, but rather an unexpected gift to surprised recipients that keeps people believing in human goodness.

More reflections on BCI (and therefore on each one of us)

2011-07-29T19:36:00.000-04:00

BCI was more than a Californian kibbutz. It was intense, intentional, international, and incredible. It was 72 young Jews looking to connect, to themselves and to our shared histories, both to the Jewish and to the human.

We freed ourselves from the weight of the past, sharing intimate and difficult parts of our histories, and came to see that each one of us, no matter how pretty or dull-seeming, is so much more than he seems. So much more. We talked of depressions and Tourette syndrome, emotional abuse from parents, the deaths of loved ones, unrequited loves, social anxiety, and other issues in our Avodat Halevs, or Services From the Heart, a ritual in which two of the participants would stand up in front of the group after either flag raising or lowering, and share a part of themselves.

***

This is Kyle, one of my best friends from BCI. I took this photo of her on an afternoon walk to the House of the Book, a library/event hall that overlooks the Brandeis hills. Kyle was also in my music workshop. She left for Israel on Wednesday to begin a yearlong period of study at Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem. Her ability to stay true to herself is an amazing example for me.

This photo was taken on the last morning of BCI; we had circled up for a closing ceremony, and as you can see, many of us were donning our BCI shirts designed by one of our own. Next to me is Brianna, a Los Angelan who goes to San Francisco State. One outstanding memory I have of us is practicing, and then performing, a dance set to "Let Me Go" by Sonya Kitchell, at one of the Saturday, post-Shabbat creative exhibitions.

***

Tonight, another Shabbat will begin. At BCI, Shabbat was one of the most precious times. We sang, danced, ate, sang some more, played, and performed. This evening I will likely be with a couple participants from the program, but it will be so different, so much less full than the other Shabbatot we experienced just a few weeks ago. I am frightened by this, but I know from BCI of the uncharted potential for Shabbatot in the future. Though I am, undeniably, a bit sad, I am hopeful, for through actualizing, I have discovered potential.

"Hi, I'm Lauren, nice to meet you"

2011-07-25T14:02:00.000-04:00

At BCI, there was this smaller Hungarian man in my music workshop. In this workshop, there were only twelve of us, but each day, when we'd start off our one-and-a-half hour sessions by passing a hand drum around and sharing how we were feeling at that moment, he'd say in his adorable accent, "Hello, my name is Daniel, so nice to meet you!" After a couple of days it became a routine, comical part of the circle that never failed in causing at least two of us to chuckle.

I have a whole trunk full of memories from BCI; it was honestly the best community experience I've had in my life. And not only that, but it was a place for cultivating my unique Jewish identity in which I felt no judgment, no expectations to adhere to any religious codes or beliefs, only the hands on my shoulders from the Education Fellows that told me I was okay where I was, that they understood my concerns about various aspects of Jewish tradition and practice.

* * *

I am now in San Francisco (Berkeley, to be true to the moment). There is much to write about how I got here, the people I've gotten to know, the connection I've felt, the generosity I've witnessed, and more, from the time I started BCI until now. Now that I am settled, at least for a few days in a place with reliable internet, I hope to excavate and unpack at least some of it.

I'd like to take a nap, but nothing longer, in a graveyard

2011-06-12T18:20:00.000-04:00

"I could sit there for hours. It's one of the most beautiful places in Charleston" -

a friend+ of mine, in reference to the Unitarian Universalist graveyard off of King Street

-----

I have never felt much life in cemeteries, especially the sterile ones I've seen in the suburbs. In Charleston, though, much as in Boston, quite a few of the church graveyards are chaotic, asymmetrical, and wild, just like life. The more unkempt cemeteries are comforting, blending right in to the environment, unlike the perfectly-mowed landscapes of other burial grounds.

I told this friend that I was walking over there this afternoon, and he responded umphatically (feel free to use my newphemism!), "See if you can spot my favorite gravestone, the one being swallowed up by the crepe myrtle." Some people might find this correspondence disturbing, but I was enthralled by it, to describe my reaction innocuously.

The following are a few of my favorite photographs from my visit:

Short story, in progress, in ode to my bike

2011-06-11T17:10:00.000-04:00

The shelter did not call me back as promised, so I hesitantly put Emmy up for adoption yesterday evening. I really did not want to; she's rolled over glass for me without popping, gotten me to my Doctors' appointments on time (all right, sometimes a few minutes late, but she and I are in our Golden years), and helped me feel young again, my formerly Pantene-worthy coffee-colored curl coat now streaked with gray flying behind me, as we peddled along bumpy Charleston streets as eager as ten-year-old boys racing each other home down dirt roads in the country.

Though I'm sentimental, I'm old enough to realize that there's a time for enjoying, and a time for letting go, for giving. If I had given myself that advice forty-five years ago, I probably would have rolled my eyes, and perhaps even pinched, that "know-at-all," one of those tanned, gray-haired old ladies who "practices" yoga on the beach around dusk, steady eyes and relaxed lips surrounded by slight wrinkles from having smiled in admiration of her children, now all grown with lives of their own, and in awe, day in and day out, of her now-deceased husband who used to love her more deeply with each new day. And let me tell you, that time flew by, almost as quickly as it takes to burn a batch of chocolate chip cookies you turn your attention away from for a mere one minute in order to grab the cordless ringing in the bedroom.

A young man responded in a mere hour or two after I posted the advertisement for Emmy. I was both relieved and sorry. He came today to pick her up, a smiley guy in a navy shirt and khaki shorts, average build, with colorful tattoos on his arms. "She's a little rusty, but I guess she'll be okay," I said of the bike, hoping he'd be put off by her.

"Oh, that's alright," he responded, unperturbed. He lifted up the front, and then the back, of the bike to make sure the wheels spun.

"If you want you can take her for a spin," I mildly suggested. He jumped on and began peddling.

"I hope I'm not taking us down some random person's driveway."

"No, don't worry, I live here," I responded.

He got off, and I wasn't sure at that point if he wanted her or not.

"But what about the rust? You don't think your fiance will mind?" I asked, testing his motivations.

"Oh no, not at all. We live in a quiet neighborhood in West Ashley. And besides, if we wanted a bike that looks brand new, we could have gone right over to Wal-Mart and spent just a little bit more, but we wanted something that had soul."

"Yes, that's true," I admitted. "She's always been good to me; we've been up and down East Bay, the Market, the Battery, Hampton Park, never a problem," I said, starting to brag of my friend, neglecting to recount the more trying parts of our friendship, like when her tubes popped three times within thirteen days for no apparent reason, though she never popped again, perhaps assured that I loved her enough not to let that deter me from riding her.

This Andrew character smiled. "Does she have a name?"

"Emmy. I'm going to miss her."

"Emmy, got it. That's her name, that's what we'll call her."

I nodded, and shook his hand. He turned her away from me and jumped on. They rolled off together down the street, as one-way traffic zoomed along beside them.

words from film

2011-06-10T23:34:00.000-04:00

"But I fear for him...the Afghanistan of our youth is long dead, kindness is gone from the land, and you cannot escape the killings, always the killings. I dream that God will guide us to a better day. I dream that my Son will grow up to be a good person, a free person, an important person. I dream that flowers will bloom in the streets of Kabul again, and music will play inside of our houses, and kites will fly in the skies. And I dream that some day you will return to Kabul, to revisit the land of our childhood. If you do, you'll find an old faithful friend waiting for you. May God be with You Always, Hassan"

(emphasis added, The Kite Runner, film, 1:25:05-1:25:53)

thoughts of 3: Three garden treats I'm blessed with

2011-06-09T21:25:00.001-04:00

1. My first sunflower! Now most of my plants have not fared well, since I restricted their growth to too-small pots (sorry, little ones!). However, the sunflowers, planted right in the Earth, seem to be happy, albeit a bit droopy.

2. Yummy nummy sweet grape tomatees from the Women and Gender Studies garden, the Bogarden, and my CSA from Thackery Farms.

3. Fresh-picked blueberries from McClellanville.

thoughts of three...just enough, not too much! (merci Sanaz)

We are Now

2011-06-06T03:28:00.000-04:00

"Ask yourself: "Who am I?" Invariably the internal answer will be autobiographical - an identity based on the past. It will be a description of a continuity from childhood through adolescence to adulthood which is all past memories and no longer exists. Memory is the mirror and we live on the wrong side. Seldom will anyone answer the question of "Who am I?" with: "I appear to be the process of reading this page."- Yatri, Unknown Man (via Whiskey River)

----

I think this quotation expresses the harm in overly associating our past lives with our present ones. Though the past is not meaningless (after all, it has brought us to our current state), too much association with what was prevents the present from really existing. Each day brings so much possibility that we should not allow to be threatened by past negative outcomes.

Winding up in Charleston

2011-06-06T03:15:00.001-04:00

I've been trying to relish in these past days here in Charleston, as there are so many fabulous aspects of the city. I've visited a few places I never managed to see before, like Kiawah Beach, Francis Marion State Park, Mepkin Abbey, and Charles Towne Landing.

Charles Towne Landing: one of the first British settlements in the New World (founded in the 1600s, a little while after the founding of Jamestown). I can't imagine how exalted the settlers must have been upon reaching such a paradise after so many days on the rough sea

Church ladies as singing entertainment for visitors at St. Matthews's Annual Fundraising Tea. I think they are just so sunny-looking, and I love how there's a wide age range among the singers

Sanaz-joon and I having fun while selling pasta at the Farmers' Market; so bronzed! I worry that quick beach access may not be a feature of the next places we reside in

more to come...

Is it possible to communicate too loudly?

2011-06-06T02:51:00.000-04:00

The above building is just one of the handful of structures in Charleston which feature this commanding statement; now, if I had no idea about the Christian idea of being saved from Hell, I might think that these two words mean that Jesus saves money by, who knows, shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, or biking to work instead of driving a vehicle. The truth is that in my 22 years, I've learned that this phrase, "Jesus Saves," communicates the idea that Jesus sacrificed himself in order to save the sinners, and that if I go to church and express my belief in Jesus, I will narrowly escape the heat.

I don't want to write about the existence of the world beyond, rather about the urge to announce a belief in big, bold lettering. Some people are pretty quickly turned off to this sort of in-your-face announcement, and maybe, just maybe, I was skeptical of such people in the past; I wondered why people like the zealous preachers didn't just live out their beliefs in a non-obtrusive way? On the other hand, I've realized why some people might want to shout-all-about-it; after all, each of us feels the need to share his experience, even when it comes to a small issue, like expressing distaste with a new hamburger joint, or fuming about administration within this institution or another. It's understandable to want to communicate our feelings, but how much is too much? And is one way "more honorable" and/or more effective than another?

I've heard that the best way to lead is to lead by example, but would people notice our intentions more if we fulfilled them, and even talked about them? For example, if we want to get people to start caring about the cleanliness of their neighborhoods, would it be more effective to quietly pick up trash when passing through?, or to actively try to round people up to help them with the endeavor? It is true that sometimes people need a little nudging to actuate changes in their behavior, though these nudges might appear, once again, intrusive.

If we want something badly enough, I think it is necessary to make a little noise, even though this may cause a few to cover their ears. A life led by example is beautiful, meaningful, and nothing to scoff at, but if we want to affect change in others, this strategy may not be the best in doing so swiftly.

Memorial Day 2011

2011-05-30T14:15:00.000-04:00

Some national holidays, including Memorial Day, are touchy for me; while it is hard to find fault with a holiday like Independence Day, since gaining freedom from the British was pretty positive overall, holidays like Memorial Day are much more complex.

On Memorial Day, we memorialize,"commemorate," or "call to remembrance" (thank you, M. Webster!) those whom have died while serving in the U.S. military. As someone who does not support war, and even more so the U.S. hand that is so quick to place itself in frays, I find Memorial Day a great opportunity to rehash discussions about issues surrounding war, such as the value of individual life versus the strength of a nation, the layers and layers of "history" on which conflict is often instigated by and rationalized with, and the importance of remembering.

Memorializing, or remembering, does not imply a value perception; I mean that we can remember, without attaching a thumbs-up or thumbs-down judgment. But when we add the action of "respecting" to holidays, we are changing things somehow. When we treat the men and women who died on the line of service with respect, what are we doing? By respecting their actions, aren't we admiring them? And by admiring their courage of putting their lives on the line, how can we separate this from the larger issue of supporting violence? Unfortunately, and I say unfortunately because I don't like to criticize people who may have had well-placed, albeit ignorant or naïve, intentions, I don't think this is possible.

I don't think we should praise or admire people who died on the line of duty; putting oneself under the risk of harm may seem brave, and bravery is typically a quality that is admired, but I tell you that there are actions even more laudable, such as deciding to not fight because one feels that maybe one of the benefits of being human is the awareness of the sanctity of individual life.

Now people might counter that in some cases, war is necessary in self-defense. I'm not much for letting people "step on me," but I think that this life-or-death circumstance is rarely the norm. I think that more often, the public is led to believe that it is at dire risk, though in fact it is not.

"Remembering" Day 2011: What is bravery? When, if ever, should people resort to physical violence? Why do people so often resort to life-risking behavior?, and what should be done to stimy this tendency?

(As a post-note, I'd like to say that now I'm even starting to rethink Independence Day; after all, thousands died in the Revolution. I think I may just need to talk this one out with someone!)

Promise me that there will be high-fives all around, tonight, tomorrow, and the day after

2011-05-05T00:06:00.000-04:00

Holy mother of canolis! Today I turned in my final two essays of my undergraduate career, and I feel lighter and shakier. I did not foresee feeling this strange until a few days after graduation, when my family had retreated, and my friends starting leaving, one by one, off to open new doors with eskimo kisses. There was something odd about today, printing out my last papers in the library, saying conditional goodbyes to a couple of my teachers, and discussing summer plans with those people who are more than acquaintances, but not really friends.

Luckily, though, tonight I went to my friend's family's home out on Sullivan's Island, and as the reds and blues sandwiched together behind the Ravenel Bridge around 7:30pm, and we tore at spicy crayfish like each next one might contain the Golden Ticket, I felt alright about the future being undefined for me.

When you are surrounded by warmth, anxiety about the unknown tiptoes away. Some people are uncomfortable and nervous when you tell them you don't know what you will be "doing" in three months, but there are a few inspiring people who give you a real high-five when you tell them you don't have a return ticket from the West Coast. These people are the ones we need: they spread us open and share their hope with us.

Does he resonante within you, too?

2011-04-17T17:02:00.000-04:00

Bruce Chatwin was always attracted to border countries: to places on the rim of the world, sandwiched ambiguously between cultures, neither one thing nor another. In South Africa, I met a poet who said that Chatwin wrote as if he was in exile from a country that didn't exist. 'He was in exile from everywhere,' says his wife Elizabeth....

The following month a letter arrived on his editor's desk in London postmarked Lima: 'I have done what I threatened / I suddenly got fed up with N.Y. and ran away to South America / I have been staying with a cousin in Lima for the past week and am going tonight to Buenos Aires. I intend to spend Christmas in the middle of Patagonia / I am doing a story there for myself, something I have always wanted to write up.'

The story, he went on, 'could be marvellous[sp], but I'll have to do it in my own way.'

-from the Introduction to Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia, written by Nicolas Shakespeare

2011-04-12T23:12:00.000-04:00

Most of us have been programmed in exactly the WRONG way to deal with fear and instead find ourselves completely debilitated. Most people think fear means fu*k everything and run....it's not about getting over your fear, it's about getting into your fear...experience it as a sensation in your body without going into the mental drama of 'Oh my god, am I gonna fail?' - Marie Forleo

Marie Forleo is a motivating person and a bona-fide goofball! She's hot, smart, and accessible, and she writes books and records videos to help people reconnect with their passions and goals. Even people who may be skeptical of "self-help" authors should check Marie's website out; if nothing else, her videos will make you laugh!

2011-04-06T23:01:00.002-04:00

Sincere forgiveness isn’t colored with expectation that the other person apologize or change. Don’t worry whether or not they finally understand you. Love them and release them.
—
Sara Paddison

Comm 104 (aka Risk-Taking 101)

2011-04-05T23:38:00.002-04:00

I was prepared to give a 2-3 minute speech today in Public Speaking class on my great-grandfather Ben, a Russian immigrant who refused to collect social security until he was 80 years old because he was convinced it was welfare. However, all of a sudden I thought, 'I don't actually know this story about Ben. I mean, I know the details, but it means little to me since I heard about it this weekend for the sole purpose of telling the class about it. So, come on, why don't I just get up there and talk about what I do know, about Dad, of course!'

In my head I was debating whether I should tell the story of my Dad in the porta-potty that up and left while he was in it, or the story of how he got his butterfly tattoo. Even though I had not practiced telling these stories, I thought I would be fine once I got up there. I was number 18 out of 20, and let's just say I was hoping that everyone ahead of me would go over in time, but alas!, there was time for everyone, and I had the awful luck of having to follow the cute Brazilian exchange student who told us some humurous account of a famous prostitute in his village that everyone was either jealous or in love with; unfortunately I could not catch the important details since I was in my head figuring out how I would tell everyone about my dad's ink.

When I got up there at the lectern, I announced, "I was prepared to tell you all a story about my great-grandfather, but I think I will actually tell you about someone I know better, my Dad." I could hear people breathe in upon hearing me say this, and I'm guessing they thought to themselves, 'Woah! Is she nuts? Will she actually be able to pull off impromptu speaking?!'

In the beginning, I painted a picture of my Dad as a normal, middle-aged guy who walks white, fluffy Lucky twice a day, plays golf, and does other repetitive things that make up his mundane routine (sorry, Dad, I swear I love you!). I then talked about how as kids, my brothers and I would try to get him to open up about his past, but he was tight-lipped. After a few years, we started to wear down his patience, and little-by-little he confided to us about his tumultuous, disobedient youthhood which included motorcycles, impromptu trips down the eastern coast, and other daliances. We noticed how he had this tattoo that he'd try to cover up with polo shirt-sleeves, and we knew that in Judaism it is not widely accepted to tamper with the body. Finally, we learned that his parents had sent him to a remedial boarding school in New Hampshire, and one night, he got a little too wet at the bar or in a parking lot somewhere, and in the morning, he woke up with a tattoo of a colorful butterfly on his arm. The moral of the story, which I came up with on the spot, had to do with how our parents aren't as boring as we take them for.

At the end of my speech, I knew I had probably surprised most of the class, since I had done pretty well on the other three speeches we've delivered thus far, and though this speech had interesting content, the delivery was just plain ol' poor. On one hand, I felt irresponsible for going up to deliver a speech that I knew would be sub-par, but on the other side, I felt so proud that I could actually take the risk for the sake of improving the passion driving the story, even though I was uncertain of how the delivery would be.

I was shaken, but pleased. Don't you know those situations where you have a smile on your face that might seem inappropriate to those who don't understand? I suppose I could have avoided the sudden urge to change my topic to something more exciting had I been more honest with myself when brainstorming ideas, rather than 'giving in' to something I didn't really believe in. Even though I wish I hadn't had to do what I did today, I realized that sometimes it just feels so damn invigorating to be unsure, even in Public Speaking class.

2011-04-02T01:05:00.000-04:00

"It's a blessing when rain falls on my head!" - Otis, a nearly-68-year-old metal-scavenger from Chicago featured in Scrappers.

2011-03-28T23:57:00.000-04:00

"Remember, people are always a little bit better than they appear to be."

These were the words of Rabbi Beni. We were sitting in Starbucks on King (and Beaufain, not Calhoun, for you Charlestonians) last week, studying a book called the Pirkei Avot, or the "Ethics of the Fathers." These ethics are the oral teachings of well-known rabbis from the past (from as far back as 2,000 years!). Beni thought I'd enjoy reading them because they deal much with how people should treat each other.

We came upon a teaching that said something like, "and, you should judge men favorably." Let me just tell you that I could drink a whole cup of coffee in the time it takes to decipher a line as seemingly simple as this one. Questions arise like: Which men are they referring to? Why is the word "judged" used? In the original Hebrew version, what word is actually used? When is it okay (or not okay) to judge? What do they mean by "favorably?" Anyway, y'all get the picture of how much of a critical mind we are forced to use!

We came to the conclusion that "judging someone favorably" might mean giving someone the benefit of the doubt. Such a good proposition, right?!

Now as pretty and peaceful as non-judging sounds, it is unrealistic. We need to form opinions of people in order for us to decide who we wish to become closer to; however, these opinions should be well-formed, and not spread around! (Okay, I know it's tempting to do so when we're with our best friends, but it really isn't a good thing!).

That being said, I think it behooves us all to give people the benefit of the doubt; if we don't, we might be miscalculating them, and then we'd both be missing out on what could be a fruitful, meaningful connection.

new name, soul plane

2011-03-24T00:56:00.005-04:00

I still bring up India in my day-to-day excursions: at least once or twice when I am hanging out with my friends, and usually when I'm getting to know someone new, since this usually entails exchanging experiences that have deeply impacted ("shaped") us. However, all qualifications and explanations aside, I have decided to rename and redirect my blog, since much of the thoughts and findings I'd like to talk about aren't necessarily related to my foray in India. While closing the official, written chapter on India is bittersweet (shout-out to my favorite chocolate morsel!), I feel confident that I won't forget the lessons I learned while there.

So why "mindset in motion?" I'm a Senior in college, and I'm six weeks away from graduating. While there will still be classes, lectures and talks to fill the next years of my life, I know what's next is going to be much more about trial and error, as well as about risks and gains.

That being said, while I like to consider myself open-minded, when push comes to shove, am I really? Am I too quick to judge something "not for me," without giving it a fair shot? Do I reject ideas because they seem unrealistic? Do I say "no" because I am afraid to fail?

At this point, I am truly afraid and invigorated, but as long as my mind is open to motion, challenge, and change, I know I got nothin' to worry about.

Sometimes it's what's in between that matters most

2011-03-22T01:43:00.001-04:00

Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

Victor Frankl

by ren floyd: himachal pradesh, india

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

BY REN FLOYD: HIMACHAL PRADESH, INDIA

CELEBRATING DIWALI, "FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS," IN BANGALORE, INDIA

Print photos from my trip

2011-02-23T01:19:00.000-05:00

Before I left for India, I had to figure out what I was going to bring, besides my brain, to capture some of the images of my trip. Aunt Esther was generous enough to help me buy a snazzy Sony digital camera, but I also stocked up on color film to load into my old-school Nikon FM10 35mm camera. When I got to India, I found digital to be much more convenient, so I only ended up taking a couple of rolls of film. I just got them developed at CVS (I don't know how to develop color chemistry myself), and I was so impressed by a few of the prints. Print photography somehow captures a feeling that basic digital doesn't (though knowing how to use the manual settings on your digital camera helps a little in achieving certain visual techniques).

DJ submerged himself in Mumbai's Thieves' Market; I took a seat in this motorcycle side-car and relaxed, surprising Deej when he walked past me!

We woke up at maybe 5am to meet, along with two new Aussie friends, our taxi that took us to Tiger Hill, in Darjeeling, to watch the sunrise over the world's 3rd highest peak, Kanchenjunga. We could see a faint trace of Everest, too!

We took a guided walk around the periphery of Darjeeling; when we stopped for tea, this lady was sitting outside, washing clothes with some other women. She attracted me, maybe because of her smallness, apparent simplicity, or sure expression. It was a warm day, but I can't recall if she put that blanket over her just for the photograph.

DJ got schemed by two balloon-wallas at Mumbai's Gateway, but he looks amused by the set-up. This "laugh because I may as well" attitude ingratiated him with many we met along the way.

I saw this woman at Mumbai's Gateway to India, and I could not resist asking her for her photo; it was really common for the Indians to ask for our picture, so I thought I could do the same!

Dejah Devereaux, from Boise, Idaho. She was 27, and just finishing up her college degree. Her age and experience endowed her with a special perspective, but she really was not all removed from the rest of the study abroad group. Look at her smile! It always gave me a good feeling.

¡Tantas pulseras tienes! (So many bracelets you have!)

2011-02-17T00:53:00.000-05:00

That's what one of my Spanish professors said to me a few weeks ago as he stopped to observe my partner and I during a group activity. Since high school, I've always worn bracelets, whether they be the colorful embroidery floss ones I learned to make, or the ones I gathered as souvenirs from other countries. Though I do like how they look, the bracelets are more than mere decorations for my wrists. They often represent incredible experiences I have had, or beliefs I have battled with. These are the two bracelets I am currently rockin':

"Om Namah Shivaya." The story around this Sanskrit phrase began before India. I had been having off-and-on bouts of self-doubt (no explanation needed really; I've seen some of my friends in this same frame of mind, and it's such a bummer because it weakens our self-worth and trust in our own strength). In the past year or so, I have become less harsh on myself, and more ready to give myself more chances when I let myself down.

Last Spring, I met Stella Maris, a jewelry-maker who had recently moved to Charleston, at Hope and Union, and through etsy, I asked her to make this copper bracelet for me, but she got sidetracked. While in India, we caught up every so often by email, and finally, when I saw her at last week's Eye Level Art artist flea market, she presented me with this beautiful bracelet. Right now it serves as a reminder for me to look inward when I feel my footing become shaky. Thank you Stella!

And this red stringy? No, it doesn't serve as a reminder for me to go and buy some of my favorite String Things from the supermarket. It actually comes from the wedding I went to in Punjab over Fall Break; during one of the ceremonies in the days before the main ceremony, one of the older women went around with a spool of red string and tied off women's wrists, using her strength, and not scissors, to break the thread after each bracelet was tied on. The color is fading, and each day I fear that string will break, that I will no longer have this physical tie to my unique experience in India.

As much as I try to distance myself from objects, I feel so connected to some of my jewelry. And you? What purpose does your jewelry serve? As decoration, reminders, status symbols?

Yet this felt like family.

2011-02-07T23:46:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back, I decided to "follow" this blog, "kind over matter," that discusses community, local businesses, mindfulness, inspiration, creativity, and other yummy, feel-good issues. This blog pumps out posts faster than I can eat Werther's candies, and about a week ago it published, "Discovering Kindness in the Backstreets of India with Raam Dev," an article in which Dev explores the relationship between traveler and local resident through an experience he had as a journeyman in India.

He writes about a feeling I can remember quite precisely, that of feeling like you're seen merely as a customer, and not as a traveler who might have goals besides shopping for colorful crafts at the market. As travelers, we mostly want to be treated with respect and curiosity, and initially he felt these needs were unsatisfied. Then he finds out that love between travelers and townspeople still runs as fiercely as...hot water in my shower now that we have a new water heater?!...when one never resigns him/herself to a certain negative outlook:

All the main streets were overflowing with vendors hawking their wares and catering to tourists. Every single one seemed to assume that anyone who looked out of place was interested in spending money and filling their bags with souvenirs.

Out of frustration, I stepped off the main street into a very narrow alley. I had no idea where it led, but I was getting desperate for an authentic connection and I was ready to look anywhere.

Before I could finish that thought, I heard someone yell out to me. My well-developed street hawker guard went up and I ignored the voice, keeping my eyes looking forward and pretending that I didn't hear anything.

He called out again. This time I looked in his direction. Something felt different. I didn't feel intimidated or pressured. When he waved me over, his gesture felt sincere.

The store behind him was filled with fabrics of varying colors. A sewing machine sat just inside the door. A young tailor in his mid-20s, he spoke in broken English with a soft, leisurely voice. His smile came and went as he spoke, not permanently glued to his face like a stranger trying to sell me something.

We started chatting and within a few minutes I found myself sitting on the stairs to his shop exchanging stories of my travels and listening to him tell stories from his childhood. Between topics we would both stop and quietly look around, sharing silence, watching people walk by, and soaking in the moment.

An hour passed and a few of his friends arrived. They all invited me inside to join them for an afternoon cup of tea. Sitting on small wooden crates, we chatted, exchanged smiles, and laughed. I knew none of these people and none of them knew me, yet this felt like family.

I walked by that shop an absolute stranger, suspicious and on edge, feeling overwhelmed and alone in a foreign country and in an unfamiliar city. But all of that changed in the span of a few hours through the kindness of one individual.

That one person reached out to me not as a tourist, not as an American, and not even a male. He reached out to me as a human being, satisfied to simply share the company of another soul, exchanging smiles, stories, and a piece of the short time we both have on this planet Earth.

That day his kindness changed everything. I began viewing travel from a different perspective, more aware of my own stubbornness and wrongly-placed assumptions about the world and the people around me.

When we stop being self-centered and stubborn, kindness flows naturally. When we open our hearts and give of ourselves freely from a place of compassion, curiosity, and with an awareness that we are all connected, kindness will envelope the moment and flow into our lives.

[phrases in bold are my emphases, not those of Dev.]

When my little ole sally of a self was in India, I frequently wanted to get away from the main streets, the mundane, in order to stumble upon something unique, something my own. Like when I was in Jalandhar over Fall Break with my friends, and felt the need to diverge from the central market we were supposed to hang around for a couple of hours, to get away from commerce, and to see the "secret lives" of those who inhabited the homes whose artifices created the sinuous alleyways outside of the shuk.

I meandered like a more youthful Carmen Sandiego, and caught upon some folks working in a makeshift workshop in a residence; I stopped, and they noticed me, and soon I was inside their place drinking tea, meeting babies, and watching men pound insoles to be sold to a company for distribution. Like Dev, I found a way to connect because my heart and mind were "open."

One of the old-school alleyways I made my way through to see something beyond the tourist spots

Look who I met! Notice the aqua color inside the house; I saw this color on houses in Punjab

For all of you all travelers out there (and I might even extend this to everyone out there), just make sure to take stock of your perceptions of people and places you visit. And when ship frustrates you, maybe you even feel ignored, remember to let the real reason you left to explore new places shine through you; people will sense your enthusiasm and love, and those can make bridges out of the most stubborn of materials.

You can't go at it alone: appreciating others' help

2011-01-22T21:44:00.000-05:00

There is no good way that I know at the moment to close up the India chapter of my blog, and to begin a new one that's not as travel/culture-focused. I think it can be hard to put the final touches on anything, because you are afraid you are going to forget something. I'll never "do justice" to the "How was India?" question, but I'm going to keep trying until I feel it's time to stop.

Anyways, I never took time to sit down and write about the last two weeks I was "away," so maybe doing so now will help me to figure out how to wrap things up.

My brother DJ, who's 23, took two weeks off from work over his Winter Break to travel through India with me. Before he arrived, I felt tired of traveling, yet knew that the two weeks would be one of the most spectacular periods I'd ever get to spend with my brother, the middle child who adds so much joie de vivre to everyone who interacts with him. On December 18, I arrived at our hotel near the southern tip of India after a long night's train ride to find Deej as peppy as ever with a coconut the size of a soccer ball in his hands. Any remaining doubt of our trip fell to the wayside upon seeing this goofy clownboy.

Slowly, but steadily (we had to get to Mumbai by a specific date to make our flight to West Bengal), we made our way up the Arabian coast by bus and train; oh!, now did we have some fun using those low-cost transport methods! (If you know DJ, just say the words "cockroach" and "train" next time you see him, and see what you get.)

One instance, we were trying to move from northern Kerala to Goa, and the son of the hotel owner assured us that when we got to the station, we would find that our train ticket would be moved from "wait list" status to "confirmed" status, that we would, no-questions-asked, have places assigned to us for sleeping. At the station, so small and aged it could have come out of the Colonial times, the manager said there was "no way" we could be confirmed, and sold us tickets in the common car, which no one I know has ever taken on an overnight journey, as people are squished. My bro tried to warm up the station manager with a little green stuff, but the man refused (maybe that sign in the office saying something like "people with integrity are not corrupt" rubbed off on him), though he hinted that the "TT's" (the ticket-takers) might be able to help us. So we jumped on a random sleeper car, and sought out TT after TT, lugging our baggage through the narrow aisles, racking up looks of annoyance and confusion. DJ was getting pretty pissy, as he had a terrible stomach ache caused by the seafood at the theme village we stayed at the previous night (though we enjoyed joking that the real cause of the ailment was overindulgence, as was the staunch belief of the hotel owner, who said "bedrest" was the best remediation). We had nearly exhausted the options for TT-fleecing (something I am normally opposed to, though I guess my true nature came out when the situation was uncomfortable!), when the last blue-blazered guy with a clipboard came through. Oddly, he gave us the one sleeper berth he had for himself, and would not accept any money (though he told us the other TT might like some), saying that what he was doing for us was a "service" (what that means, I still don't know). This honestly was a type of miracle, as the TT could have ordered us straight to the common car. Anyways, the bro had worked his wonder, and had stretched out on what was supposed to be our slab of leather-covered metal in the five minutes I took to complete my bedtime routine.

As I was trying in vain to find a position I could fall asleep in on the edge of the berth, one of the Indian guys sleeping on the adjacent berth offered me his berth; can you imagine?, giving out your bed and forgoing an entire night's sleep so a stranger could sleep comfortably?

Perhaps I am not properly developing the point of this story; what I want to get across is how affected we were by the some of the Indians we came across, those selfless, giving, people who felt obliged to make foreigners comfortable and safe. As another example, on one of the other train rides we took, I had introduced myself to a couple of people (one lady who spoke impeccable English and who was married to the postmaster general, and a young professional man), and when I cut it close getting back on the train after a quick stop at a station, they confided to me how they had rushed to the window to make sure I had gotten back on the train! I had just met them, yet they were worried about me. (I know that in one of my past entries I expressed feeling overlooked by some of the students at school when they pushed me aside at the sandwich/smoothie bar (it sounds trivial now), but that was but one piece of my experience with Indians in four months.)

Anyways, back to the first train...I discovered a berth in the same car that only had someone's

In one of our other adventures, Deej drove us from south-central Goa to north Goa on a rented motorcycle to check out the famous beach party scene. DJ had learned to drive a motorcycle the previous day, and there we were, traipsing around a new place with no cell phone on Indian roads! After stopping for the best Chinese food in the Portuguese-infused state capital of Panaji, we headed farther north, only to find an Indian parallel of Cancún or San Padre Island. I found a couple of Indians who invited me into their crazy little dance circle, but Deej had to remain grounded due to his continuing stomach issue. On the way back to our hotel in the south, DJ made a little comment about not realizing the gas gauge was so low. It was really early in the morning, and we could not find a gas station; finally, about five km from the hotel, the bike shakes. Coming to a stop in front of a budget hotel, the night watchman asked us what happened, and we tell him. He got the owner out from the hotel, and they kindly agree on our stupidity ("there was a gas station just up the road, didn't you see it?"). The owner, however, proceeds to suck gas out of his own vehicle with plastic tubing and transport it to a water bottle, which he then hands us, before making sure we understand how to get to the closest gas station. My bro offered money (which was refused), and "thanks" after "thanks," after which the dude told him to stop thanking him. "Enough thanks. This is the Goan way," he said. Back at the hotel, DJ and I could not believe we had made it back uninjured. We went to sleep so happy, but in just a few hours, I would find DJ face-down on the marble bathroom floor, begging me to go find him a doctor...

On returning from our Goan motorcycle adventure; don't think I've ever felt more relieved to have made it back unscathed from a nighttime escapade.

Coming back to a different place

2011-01-11T01:10:00.000-05:00

So you travel somewhere really far away and see (and perhaps in some respects even begin to become a part of) families, communities, and societies far from your ordinary, only to return to the place you left eight months back. Your soul feels more dimensional; come on now, the eight months were for more than just sight-seeing! What was it though that you left behind, either to rot with the garbage marinating in cow dung on the side of the road, or to remain in the archives of interactions of strangers you came to know closely, or simply in the memory banks of the folks you exchanged spirits with as you walked to school and they remained outside of their bright, connected, humble quarters banging clothes on the ground or soaking grains for the day's meals?

I see you, you see me. Whether or not we feel like smiling matters little right now; we have thoughts churning in our minds. I choose to walk here because I prefer this route to the one with the big-box stores and fast-food chains. I admire and perhaps envy the attention you devote to each "chore," like when you alternate combing out each others' long manes on the steps, mere inches from passerby, and when you tediously construct your cooking stoves right there too from shmutz you've cautiously collected.

Remember though: you are back now, in an apartment in which you'll never need to worry about heating, or about washing your dishes, clothes, and bodies with only a few gallons of water. You're grateful, that's one thing you've come to be; you address thanks to the Universe before eating! How are your patience and gracefulness levels? Higher, plausibly. But what's up with those paradoxical feelings of insignificance and urgency you've started to host? I told you this whole leave-live-return thing wouldn't be easy! I'll tell you something though, buddy, it was not for nothing...

Next Stop: Charleston!

2011-01-01T11:25:00.000-05:00

About a week or so left until I go back to Charleston for my last semester as an undergrad. The last few months, especially the last two weeks, have been a whirlwind of new colors, smells, and experiences in being human. I am looking forward to decompressing some of these in the next week or so that I'll spend in Boston. Right now I'm in Dubai, a place I never ever thought I'd end up in, waiting for my flight to NYC, which has already been delayed 12 hours.

Though I'm physically leaving the area where I spent the last 1/3 of 2010, India will not leave me. Ever.

Cultural norms for ladies (+foreigners) playing out beyond the classroom

2010-12-05T18:43:00.001-05:00

It is about 4am now on Monday, and I'm sitting on my couch with the laptop aptly sitting on my lap; there is a reddish-brown cockroach on its back ten feet in front of me (it looks lifeless), and I have a soothing glass of tea on the table. Feeling cold is atypical in Bangalore, except perhaps when you are riding on the back of a motorcycle at night, or when you are standing outside with the police at night as the wind nips at your neck, because in this case you can't use the driver to help shield you from the chill.

Shailesh is the closest Indian friend I have. A few years older than me and a computer engineer, he is a relaxed and respectful dude. His living in the States for two years has made it easier to get to know each other. Anyways, last evening, he picked me up to see a play called "Dancing on Glass," a dramedy (drama-comedy) based on a relationship of two people who work in the IT industry. It was the first play we had seen at the Ranga Shankara, a lovely theater that puts on affordable plays every day of the week besides Mondays. It was fascinating to observe how the Indian audience responded to the comedy.

Anyways, post-show we dined, grabbed a cone of chocolate walnut brownie gelato, and headed to his place to watch one of the warmest movies I can recall watching. "Life is Beautiful" is a reminder of how the mind can help turn a gruesome situation (life in the concentration camps) into one of the most beautiful things (a game between a father and his young son). If you have not seen the movie, you need to; you will be better for it. After the film, I decided it best to go home, so we hopped on his bike. After stopping for him to tinkle, we jumped back on the bike, and then we got the signal by two policemen on a motorcycle to pull over.

They asked for my friend's ID, and then questioned him about me. What was he doing outside with a foreigner, a lady foreigner, at three in the morning? (They thought something unkosher was happening.) I furnished copies of my residency permit, passport, and visa. The cops were still skeptical; they tested my friend on my basic information, asked how we knew each other, and then repeated the question of what we were doing out so late, because didn't he know that ladies should not be out at this time?!? The cops spoke in Kannada (the local tongue) and in English. I wanted to tell the men in tan that I was doing nothing illegal by riding with a friend at night, but I didn't want "to be fresh." They asked my friend about his college degree, and then told him that, "as an educated man, he should know better than to travel around with a foreigner at such an hour." Shailesh acquiesced, providing the "yes, Sirs" that they expected. They nearly dragged him to the station to demand bribes, but let us go, probably because Shailesh was so polite.

It truly astonished me to have been questioned for twenty minutes in the cold after both my friend and I had furnished the proper documents. There was no evidence of having broken any laws, so we should have been free to leave after a few minutes. This exemplified the strange role of many police in India; they do not necessarily have to follow procedure, as do cops in the U.S., and can easily demand bribes that are difficult to deny. If you don't pay them the bribes, they will just create more trouble for you. While saying "no" to the corrupt cops is the best way to get rid of this behavior, it is quite impractical. Though no bribes were demanded, I still felt stifled to have been questioned at length about riding with my friend, especially because I got the feeling they thought there may have been a business exchange, rather than a friendship, between the two of us. It was also the lack of dignity the police had for us that made me feel mistreated, and the fact that Shailesh had to pretend to agree with them when they were telling us our behavior was inappropriate.

A delightful contrast discovered in Hyderabad

2010-12-02T14:05:00.000-05:00

A month or two ago, at least five of my American cronies were amped to travel to Hyderabad to run in the 10K race. However, by last week, the number of interested parties had reached a low of two, one of whom (not me!) was wavering. (I'm sure you've been in situation like this...people are all "Yeahs!" but then slowly seem to retract.) Anyways, good thing Ren decided he was still a 'yes,' as I don't know if I would have gone alone.

We took an overnight train to cover the 650 or so kilometers from the state of Karnataka to the state of Andhra Pradesh. When we got off of the train in Hyderabad, we encountered a mass of Indians gathered around a makeshift film site. Indians love their movies, and love their film stars even more; we asked a bystander who the actors were, but we did not recognize their names.

We checked in at the youth hostel, which was a novelty for Ren. It cost 80 rupees per night (less than $2), which was a steal, but I seem to have developed five reddish/purple marks bigger than the size of golf balls on my legs, either reactions from spider bites or bed bugs, as souvenirs from the place. Luckily, I had an emergency pack of antibiotics left over from Argentina!

After checking in the hostel, we went to register for the race, but not before stopping to eat some famous Hyderabadi Biryani, a pseudo-fried rice dish, complemented by fish. After registering for the race by the lake, which was excavated in the 16th century, we took a boat ride to the Buddha statue, which actually has a tumultuous history: it took five years to carve, but then fell off the barge it was being shipped off of, killing a couple engineers; it was later recovered from the water. In the evening, we bought tickets to Alice in Wonderland from two lovely Persian scalpers. The entertainment complex was massive (they had a strange indoor ice skating rink inside), and the movie was in both 3-D and IMAX! I was so tired (bored?) that I fell asleep in the middle of the film.

The next day my alarm clock rang at 5:45am, and still in bed, I yelled "Ren!" through the wall (there was a huge section missing from the wall) to start the rise-n'-shine process which I dreaded. I was worried about waking up the people in the other rooms; folks in India are well-accustomed to sleeping through yelling and other nuisances, though. Ren communicated that we had more time to sleep, as our Fun Run started an hour and a half after the competitive race (we had decided to downgrade in seriousness).

The race start was unorganized, just like most events I've attended in India, but perhaps the competitive race was more strict. It looked more like a parade than a race: no one was stretching; there were no ipods; there were social organizations, like Special Olympics, 350 (an international group trying to bring carbon dioxide levels down to 350partspermillion), and Heart Health, chanting and holding up signs; and hardly anyone was wearing shorts!

We were two of the only folks who ran the whole way; people looked at us like were giraffes among masses of cherubic piglets. Unlike races in the U.S. where supporters line the sidelines, the only supporters were the race officials, who yelled things like, "Yes, Madam! Sir, keep going, great job!" We were taking it easy, though, just enjoying the scenery and the strangeness of it all.

The mass of Heart Health people; I think they were sponsored by the government, as India has a high incidence of various heart diseases.

Post-race

After showering, we ventured to the Old City, which was full of Indians shopping for pearls, fruits, plastic combs, scarfs, saris, fake jewels, etc. "Now this is the India I know," Ren said, as the cleanliness and order of the other part of Hyderabad, where we ran our race and slept, had surprised him. To join in the culture, we followed the masses shuffling into the coffee shops; it doesn't matter how hot or cold it is outside, Indians are eternal servants of chai and coffee.

The Charminar, or "Mosque of the Four Minarets," a structure built to honor the founding of the city in 1591, after it had moved from another place that had suffered an epidemic

Ren and I got separated from each other, but met up again at the Baptist church across the street from the hostel. He had told me he'd be there, and I thought I'd accompany him to learn about what he's interested in. The choir had it going on (there was even a rad drummer), and the preacher/pastor had me laughing because of his unique oration style. Those pastors are dramatic, I tell you. He almost made me feel like standing along with the other folks who stood up one by one when he getting to the peak of his speech, asking folks to show themselves if they needed revival: 'There's no time to waste, people, the time is now for revival...don't be scared...thank you, Sir in the rear, I see you," etc.

After picking up our stuff, we walked to the train station to begin our trip back to Bangalore. I have two weeks left here, and then I am meeting my brother in Kerala to begin our two week adventure together.

Thank goodness for Thanksgiving (and trains, and paratha, and 10Ks)

2010-11-26T11:37:00.000-05:00

On Thursday night, 13 of my American people and I went to The Only Place to celebrate an as-traditional-as-can-be-bought-in-India Thanksgiving. Though I was nervous about a potentially over-enthusiastic reaction to the buffet, I looked forward to an evening with friends and food, as per U.S. tradition; needless to say, I made sure I had a rumbly tummy by the 8:00PM commencement.

After working on a paper at the most impressive coffee shop I had come upon thus far in the city, I arrived to find light-skinned adults with blue-eyed babies and groups of American colleagues. It was the one time I had been in the presence of more whiteys than Indian (even the last Harry Potter screening was majority Indian).

Opting out of the turkey add-on suited me fine, since my friends gave me some of their stuffing. And we had bakery-style wheat bread, not the Indian chapati which has gained such prominence in my diet. I welcomed the simply-cooked veggies, mashed potatoes, and Diet Coke (it's difficult to come by here, despite the proliferation of heart disease and diabetes among the populace). As we each savored a slice of pumpkin pie (arguably the best part of the meal), we went around the table talking about what we were thankful for (a provoking mix of material and non-material). Soon the discussion splintered, and I became a part of the "what I'll bring back from India to the U.S." huddle; we weren't talking about tactile things, but discoveries of the interior and exterior.

This evening, I had a mini Thanksgiving with my two flatmates, though tonight's menu was Indian-style. While every night can be full of thanks, friendship, and camaraderie, it's nearly futile to expect an American Thanksgiving on any day besides the last Thursday of November.

Pardon the simplified Thanksgiving report. I gotta jump in the shower because I'm leaving in a half-hour to catch an overnight train to Hyderabad, where Ren and I will run in a 10K race on Sunday morning; I can't wait!

The race will take place around Hussain Sagar lake

Money talks

2010-11-20T04:46:00.001-05:00

Deepika is a good friend of mine, not because we hang out all of the time, or share endless secrets, but because she is truthful about how she sees me. It was around 12:30am a couple of weeks back, and her and I were sitting at the glass dining room table with cups of tea in front of us. She asked me something like, "Who would you consider your closest friend here?" I was a little surprised at her heavy question, as she usually makes small talk over chai, but I answered that I felt closest to one of the guys, a good Christian guy who is both joyful and thoughtful.

Then Deep and I started talking about our friendship, and she said we did not understand each other well; I was a little stunned because I felt close to her. Of course I inquired about why she felt this way, and Deepika starts telling me in a frank way about all the things she cannot understand about me, beginning with what she sees as a preoccupation with money. What began as a nice chat over chai was turning into an impromptu counseling session, and I was not going to leave until it was over.

I don't recall all the details about the conversation, but by the end, I felt like I needed to do some shuffling of my cards. After we were talking about all of these things she saw in me (I was asking her too, it wasn't like she was just reading off an endless list of bad things she noticed), she could read my face, she could tell I was a little bummed. "Oh, shoot, I'm sorry. Should I not have said those things?" she asked. She said she didn't mean to upset me, she thought I was a "strong girl," and I told her that I appreciated her honesty and bluntness, though I was just a little deflated after hearing these things from someone who I want to like me, someone who I admire very much. She said sometimes she has trouble holding her tongue, and I told her she needs to continue being honest, though maybe in the future it could help to make her criticism more positive, especially when dealing with people who might not understand she was merely trying to help.

For the past couple of years, I have been the butt of countless jokes by my brothers and Dad about my cheapness, but I have never heard these things said by friends. When I did, I realized that something serious was up, not because I don't respect my family, but because there's something different about friends' criticism, especially when it's that of a petite Indian girl whom I respect a great deal. I now realize that there's no use in putting stress on a friendship because of a small amount of money, or making a big deal out of 200 rupees.

While I still catch myself in exasperation responding, "50 rupees!," like yesterday at the concessions stand before seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I, when I had to pay 50 rupees for a normally 25 rupee can of diet Pepsi, I do my best to joke about this strange phenomenon with friends; in fact, I am not the only one of us Americans who has become so accustomed to Indian prices that s/he becomes shocked when the rupee price is much more than expected, even though the price difference actually comes out to be very little in American money!

Deepika, Ren, Stevie, Liz, and I behind the Taj Mahal during Fall Break

I guess that's the best way to do it, to turn individual weaknesses into group issues so that people can help each other see themselves better. This is one of the essential reasons why we need good friends, to point out those things about ourselves which we have conditioned ourselves to overlook, and to help us laugh out our old moldy parts to make room for the light.

Stevie, Deepika, and I trying to make one of those silly jumping pictures in front of the Taj Mahal!

Signs in India & the Indian Head-bob

2010-11-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

Indian advertisements and propaganda lack tact and subtlety. Typically, they aren't clever, and those which attempt cleverness often come off as cheesy and funny. For example, outside of a police station in a congested area of the city, there was a sign with an acrostic poem warning passerby of the myriad of potential dangers that awaited them; I forgot each of the letters, but one line instructed drivers and passengers to be careful when stepping out of vehicles, "lest they fall into the lair" (i.e. they step down onto the street and get hit). I wish I had a photo of that odd sign. And then there was the sign advertising the Hotel Hilltone in the Himalayas.

Here are some other striking ads and signs I've come across:

Modern? Really?!

Not sure this would be the first place I'd go to if I broke my arm. Perhaps going to these smaller outlets is cheaper than seeking treatment in hospital. There were actually a few folks inside here when I passed by.

I wonder who financed or created this. Smoking and chewing tobacco or betel leaves is a significant issue in Bangalore, especially among the poorer folks. It is often clear who smokes/chews because the resulting teeth stains are pretty awful and noticeable.

I guess the owner felt it unnecessary to name this hotel near the mountains; sometimes all you need to say is the basic information, especially when catering to low-budget travelers!

The government is trying at least!

Water issues are complex in India; the poor especially face the brunt of water shortages.

Tomorrow morning our group is going to a rural village about an hour away as part of our mandatory Service Learning class. Like many aspects and expectations of our classes, what we'll actually be doing is a bit fuzzy, though we know we'll be spending the night; regardless, it is always a plus to go somewhere new and experience how others live.

On another note, today I had to take a mid-semester viva voce exam (oral exam) for my Indian Cultures and Traditions class. All of the material covered in the course was fair game, so the class was nervous with anticipation of the questions we'd each have to field. I got the questions, "How does Indian dance reflect Indian culture?," " Can you tell me about the Indian political structure?," "Indian literature?" "Indian geography?" I knew a fair amount about all four questions, minus the one about Indian dance (I could only talk about three dance forms...). The funny thing about Indians, which I never knew before I came to India, was that they use a head-bob not seen elsewhere; in the U.S. we have the nod (yes) and the shake (no), but here they have a combination of the two movements which consists of moving their heads from side to side by controlling their necks. The problem with the head-bob is that it can mean "yes" or "no," depending on the situation, so when the teacher was doing it during the oral exam I had no idea if he was giving me positive affirmation or showing me that I was on the wrong track. When I asked him, he just did more head-bobbing!

I got hitched in Punjab

2010-11-10T15:12:00.000-05:00

Don't worry, I'm just kidding. But if I weren't, and actually had a wedding, my wedding would bear practically no resemblance to the Sikh wedding which I attended, along with four of my friends, over Fall Break. The lucky lady? Karin, a 32-year-old Punjabi who has spent more than 12 years living in the U.S.; my Indian-American friend Deepika grew up in the same apartment building as Kiran in Cincinnati. When Kiran's original plan to marry her Love in America fell through (her Indian family would not condone the love marriage), she finally agreed to return to Punjab for an arranged marriage with the Indian called Mandeep.

Though I was looking forward to the wedding, I was half-dreading it as I knew it would carry on for days and would therefore impede my independence that I treasure. We were going to be guests in Kiran's home, so I knew (correctly, as it turned out) that we would have to attend pretty much every instant of the festivities. Despite my anxieties, I was one of the five travelers, and as a guest, would have to learn how to adjust to others' schedules and needs.

Okay, let me sum up the wedding, if I may:
1. FOUR DAYS
2. FOUR DAYS
3. Excessive food, dress, and stress

4. Intrusive cameramen recording every instant of these four days
5. An actual wedding ceremony which lasts less than two hours

"Casual." Really?!

Dancing: only the good friends and close family took part each night for three days straight. Some
dancing was mixed, some was gender-specific. Very catchy Punjabi bhangra music! It was so much fun, but a smidgen repetitive.

The bride got her arms, legs, and feet hennaed. The other females had the option of getting their hands done, as my friends and I did.

Can anyone guess which hand is mine?!

In one of the larger ceremonies, the groom is weighed down with rupee notes; he looked nervous. He gets to keep the money.

Just a funny picture of a traditionally-dressed Sikh helping himself to Indian sweets at one of the mixers, where the bride's family went to meet the groom's.

The bride's family schleps gifts (heavy blankets, gold jewelry) to the groom's family; a type of dowry.

Me in the sari! We had no idea how to put it on, so we had to go to a beauty parlor and pay the ladies to help us (it took a bit of finagling, pinning, rolling, etc.) Glad I finally got to rock it, even though I was not wearing the proper footwear and had not showered that day. People were really shocked/excited to see Westerners dressed like this, and some young girls asked to take our photos and email addresses.

By Day 3, my friends pretty much wanted to skiddadle from the festivities. Somehow Deepika convinced Karin that we had to leave to go visit with some of her family (partially true), so we were liberated to continue on our journey to the rest of northern India. We left pretty much directly after the actual wedding ceremony, which only close friends and family (including us) witnessed.

People, when it comes to weddings, keep it classy and simple, alright?! The best stuff should come after the wedding!

Forgive me, Reader, for I have sinned.

2010-10-31T09:55:00.001-04:00

For all of you who think I have fallen gravely ill with dysentery, or have checked myself into a Tibetan
monastery in the Himalayas: I am traveling around northern India during my Fall Break, and have pretty limited Internet access. With my four American companions (including one Indian-American!), I have done some of the following thus far:

-attended a four-day-long Sikh wedding, while donning the infamous Sari mentioned in one of my former posts
-wandered off amid entrancing alleyways in Jalandhar, and drank tea with some Punjabi-speaking residents who wondered what on Earth brought one lone white girl to express interest in their home
-climbed up 130 stairs of a tower at the largest mosque in India and viewed 360 degree views of Delhi (I think I got to feel a little bit like how a bird must feel, so high up and all!)
-nearly got blown away in a monsoon in Delhi, right near the Presidential Grounds, and actually had a good time; somehow my camera was unscathed, and I got to catch the female President as she left her place for a function! Then Ren and I recuperated from the monsoon later that day at a grungy tea stall which was tinged with a mesmerizing pink glow
-ridden on a long-distance train amid regular Indian folks
-experienced the gorgeousness and peace of the Himalayas (yes, THE real Himalayas!)

We have about six days left in our Fall Break; our intention is to spend two more days in the Himalayas (in Manali, specifically), and then visit the Taj Mahal before taking the train back to Bangalore. I promise photos and more when I do make it back to my home base. All my love until then.

Smile games

2010-10-14T14:54:00.000-04:00

I can't remember exactly how old I was when I first learned the game; all I remember is that at my all-girls overnight camp we sometimes played it. The goal of that game was to keep a straight face in response to your friend saying, "Baby, I love you, won't you give me a smile?" Of course it's darn difficult to keep a smile from creeping across your visage upon hearing this.

I was riding with two of my American friends in an auto-rickshaw to the train station a month or so ago, when the game suddenly popped through my mind after years of hibernation. I have to admit that my skills at facial muscle control were still weak, while those of my friends were not all that shabby! Needless to say, it was still a fun game.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago, and then to today, and I'm still playing smile games, though now I've upped the anti and started to see how strangers respond to my smiles. Of course this is not a game in the same sense as the one I was playing with my friends in the rickshaw; this is a legitimate attempt at connection, and involves risk of rejection.

Sometimes I get super-enthusiastic when a smile gets returned, as was the case earlier today, when I smiled at a middle-aged man whose face was blank. While his smile was perhaps mini-sized, it was there, I tell you! I made a positive exclamation around the group I was with, and my friend Eric said something like, "Wow, I can't believe it still makes you that happy when someone smiles back." Then he tried smiling a couple of random folks, and realized that it's not all the time that smiles are requited. Then we smiled at each other without having to ask.

Last Thursday: A well-milked day off from school

2010-10-12T01:45:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday we had a holiday from school to observe Mahalaya Amavasya, a day on which Indians are supposed to offer oblations and appreciation to their ancestors. Of course I knew nothing of the specifics until just now, when I googled "October 7 holiday in Karnataka," but who's to blame me when there are so many holidays in India! (Okay, I should be more on top of things, you can say it!). We tried to go to the Modern Art Gallery, but the rickshaw driver attempted to take us on a shopping tour of stores at which he had arranged commission fees with the owners, and then dropped us off at the wrong museum when we refused to take part in the scheme.

This is the monumental, European-looking government museum he dropped us off at. It was closed, but outside our friends Eric and Matt found a sturdy chain to use to practice slacklining. Next door was the science museum, which we entered for a mere 20 rupees ($.50). There was a whole space filled with interactive activities that allowed us to nonchalantly interact with Indians; it was impressive how so many of them, even the older folks, really got into the games and tricks, as if they had never forgotten how to play! I also learned some cool facts in the non-interactive areas.

Sunita Williams is the second woman of Indian origin to go up into outer space. The first was a passenger on the Columbia, the ship which exploded upon re-entering the atmosphere in 2003. Interesting to y'all Bostonians is that Williams spent some of her childhood in Needham. I wonder how strange it must have felt to run 26.2 miles in outer space. After the museum, a bunch of us walked to nearby Cubbon Park, the best kept park in Bangalore, to play games and stroll. It was a refreshing, little seen site, this couple with draped arms by this of the tree.

On the bus ride to the museum, I snapped a photo of a coiffed woman in front of me (she had no idea). Indian women, regardless of their economic levels, all seem to put great amounts of work into maintaining their hair and dress. Those in south India are especially fond of accumulating gold, too.

On the walk home, I saw this adorable dog on the street, and he looked like he wanted me to take his photo. He is so dignified, gosh! (Sorry, Lucky, he might have one-upped you in this area.) "Wild" canines are a commonality on Indian streets, and most are harmless, even playful with us humans, but not all are as well-behaved as this gentleman. Behind him people are standing at one of the numerous stalls which line the main streets; this one is either a chat stall (a snack stall that doles out little dishes of peas, masala sauce, and crunchy potato bits in a bowl), or a religious offering spot. The religious offering spots are not usually open in the evenings, but maybe it is a happening spot because of the holiday.

"So, how's India?"

2010-10-04T16:23:00.000-04:00

Anyone who has traveled outside of the country is familiar with the question, "How is [specific place]?" When I am asked this question, I sometimes respond truthfully, yet overly simply, "It's amazing," but most often I launch into a little speech about how I cannot honestly describe my experience in India in a few phrases, as India has 1.2+ billion people, and is westernizing and clutching onto tradition simultaneously. There's city life v. village life, upper caste v. lower caste, western values v. traditional values, women v. men, old v. young, North India v. South India, the Seven Sisters of the northeast, etc. Told you there are too many aspects of India to summarize quickly!

To give you a more vibrant explanation of my time here so far, I'll show you some photos, and describe a little bit the circumstances which surrounded that which they capture.

These first three photos were taken this past weekend on my trip to Hampi, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where the Vijayanagar Empire thrived from the 14th to the 16th centuries. The first photo shows my half-Mexican friend Ren in front of some ruins. Even though there was too much history to really absorb in a short time, we had buckets of fun jumping along the boulders that literally envelope the city. In Hampi, there were more Indian tourists than foreigners, and quite a few of the Indians wanted photos with us! I felt kind of special, actually, especially when they shook our hands and thanked us for the photo, as if we were actually doing something, rather than just standing there like one of the mammoth rocks. Especially precious in Hampi were the young kiddos we met down by the Tungabhadra River on the second day who would yell, "Foto! Foto!" before performing fancy circus-worthy jumps into the water in hopes they'd be captured on our cameras. Some of the boys were only wearing a thin red string around their hips when they swam, while the girls generally wore beautiful little dresses, even in the water! Nearby, their mothers were working hard to wash their clothes.

These two pictures were taken the weekend before last on our trip to Jog Falls and the coastal town of Gokarna. One thing I've noticed is that even the places that are supposedly huge tourist sites are actually not well organized; seriously, India could make a lot of money from tourists if it bothered to make some professional-looking signage and such. Here is a picture of one of the highest falls in India; there was no fencing or anything on top, so we were able to slide near the edge of the fall and feel the sheer height in our guts! Awesome, but frightening (what if someone decided to venture there at night?).

Gokarna was a much more enjoyable place than Pondicherry in terms of how comfortable I felt prancing around the beach in a bathing suit. After spending two nights and two days on the Arabian Sea (for $5 a night, mind you), taking midnight swims, meeting friendly Indians, Swedes, and Englishmen, and hiking along the cliffs with cows and silver crabs alongside us, we took the basic bus back to Bangalore. In the picture you can notice the rigid plastic seats which we sat in for nine hours. No biggy though: Becca and I met this young woman, Asfiyah, a 23-year-old married muslim mother of two, who conversed with us rather comfortably in English (she spoke only Urdu fluently) and even invited us back to her home! Her husband was very friendly, too. The last picture in the trio shows how despite having some of the finest technology, India is still pretty basic in terms of infrastructure in the rural areas. Our bus came upon a huge fallen tree in the road (no, the driver did have access to a radio in order to be pre-warned about the obstruction), and we found the local men with their machetes in hand, hoping to cut the tree apart (with little success, of course). No Lowe's for them, I reckon.

Oh gosh, now to to city, that machine that sleeps for about five hours every day in order to recoup just enough energy to power itself for the next day. Look at the trash right behind the bus stand I wait at to go to school every day? And this is not an anomaly, there are literally sewage canals and street corners piled with trash (I am likely using this as my research subject in my Population and Poverty course). The trash is mostly plastic and paper packaging, a recent addiction here in India. And then we have the local KFC, which is often filled with Indians eager for food that could not look more appetizing to me, even if it were served on a ruby-encrusted gold plate. I prefer the Indian fast food joints, the Sagars, where you can get a piping hot gourd of cashew tikka masala and fresh garlic-stuffed naan for less than $2. You might notice how most everyone eating there is standing, and that most of the customers are male. Where are the females, you ask? My guess is that they are in the home, or with children.

Yar, that's all for now. I hope this post satisfies your pesky question!
Love and masala!

"Proper Indian attire?" Better get some soon!

2010-09-29T13:40:00.000-04:00

At the christian college I go to in Bangalore, the dress code for girls says ankles and chests must be covered. Most of the other girls in the group have picked up many of these Indian shirts which cost anywhere from 100-300 rupees on the street (like $2-$7), and I have perused a bit, but none of the clothing has truly made me want to own it, so I have held off. For the most part, I follow the dress code by draping a shawl over a modest shirt from the U.S. and wearing jeans or other pants. However, yesterday I came to school directly from wall climbing, and I was wearing a shirt, extremely loose exercise capris, and gym sneakers; trust me, I did not look cute, but still, one of the security guards dressed in his army green suit and beret stopped me and said I was not adhering to the university dress code (I guess because of the capris). Aw, man! I knew I was becoming a bit too lax in terms of my dressage. I really would like to find an Indian shirt that I like enough to wear back at home, but such are hard to come by. They are often boxy, hard to move around in, and of poor quality.

My friend Stevie (on the right, eating her own birthday cake at school) has already bought five Indian shirts. I eventually want to get fitted for one of the gorgeous Indian saris, which women "of age" mostly wear, but I need someone to come with me who really knows what is what; one of my professors offered to take me, so we'll see. All of the women who work at school wear saris, even the ones who use the coconut fronds to clean the ground.

Here are some different saris; they come in silk, cotton, and all colors of the rainbow:

"New Vision": A psychedelic name, perhaps.....Part II

2010-09-20T12:31:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, Eric could not pull together enough players for a volleyball game, so we continued on the way to Navadarshanam, surrounded by decaying banyan trees, lush grasses, and a lightly-blowing wind. In the small village we passed through, a few children sneakily approached us, introduced themselves, and then ran away when we started asking them questions! I think their English studies had not progressed too far in their few years.

Finally we made it to Navadarshanam, where we were introduced to a few of the founders, one of whom attended Stanford for his engineering degree, and another who taught at Colgate. Exhausted, we retired to the guest house, where we browsed the literature on the shelf (including The Alchemist, and little books of various Gurus' teachings) before falling asleep for two hours, despite the sunlight gushing through the skylights. When we woke up, we went to the dining room for lunch, which like all of the other meals, was a communal affair; it was a treat to have Indian food prepared in community, and to have food that was fresh, but not heavy.

At Navadarshanam, there is a women's group that prepares and packages natural and organic products that go for sale in Bangalore supermarkets. I was able to observe the women as they sat on the wooden floor of their workroom, decked in their colorful sarees, connected in their shared endeavor of making enough money to better support their families. Before departing on Sunday, Eric and I made a stop in there to pick up local, forest-procured honey, dried fruit & nut logs, unpolished rice (polished rice, e.g. normal, white rice, is rice stripped of the nutrients, which are sold to pharmaceutical companies), homemade tomato sauce (Indian ketchup), non-detergent soap, organic tea, and more.

I won't go into every detail, but some of the highlights of the weekend were helping to roll the chapati (the Indian version of the tortilla) for Saturday's dinner, making one of my colorful salads using lettuce I had cut from the fields early on Sunday morning, and taking a late-night stroll on Saturday with Eric down to fields, from where we could actually see stars, and then swinging on the swing set near the guest house. In the peaceful environment in which a dedicated group of individuals had taken the time to design a fulfilling life for themselves without harming the land, I was able to reconnect with a sense of calm that I had lost in the city.

On the way back to Bangalore on Sunday, Eric and I squeezed in a small, white sedan alongside a middle-aged gentleman and a couple from the city (they had studied at Carnegie Mellon); we talked of inspirational authors, backyard gardens, organics, and other subjects I had not heard people in India talking much of until this point. I discovered that people everywhere share common concerns about sustainability, and though it was just talk, talk can turn into action, and multiple actions can = sweeping changes. The wife gave me her phone number and told me that anytime I need a taste of home I can call her to stay at her place, and then we were dropped us off in a part of the city we had never been in. The last bit of fun for the weekend was figuring out how to get home!

Note: The lack of photographs is not because I forgot my camera; no moments seemed right to whip my sleek Sony out. The space was not necessarily too sacred, I just wanted to be completely there. Perhaps if we had been there longer, we would have snapped some more pictures.

"New Vision": A psychedelic name, perhaps, but a gem just a $.13 ride from Bangalore, Part I

2010-09-19T14:28:00.000-04:00

At the end of my walk home from college, I usually stop in at Namdhari's Fresh, a small supermarket chain that carries both hyperlocal and international products. This is where I bought a jar of Nutella for 180 rupees (about $4), and also where I stumbled upon a curious-looking jar whose label read, "Handmade Peanut Butter; No preservative or hydrogenated oil added." On the back of the attractive green and white label it says that it was packed on "06 SEP 2010." Can you imagine that? Indian peanut butter packed less than two weeks ago? Even better is this: the peanut butter was produced by local village workers at the Navadarshanam Trust Self Help Group, a mere 50km away from the city.

The internet helped me conveniently log onto Navadarshanam's meticulous website last week; I contacted one of the founders by phone, and after a couple of emails, he offered for me to come down for a visit from Saturday to Sunday. Talk about speedy!

The group of Americans I am with tends to plan weekends with little time to spare. Originally, two other women, Dejah and Liz, said they'd like to come, but then ended up committing to a Saturday hike with the Bangalore Mountaineering Club, along with two of the guys. So, I figured I'd be going on this adventure alone, but the third guy in the group decided to substitute for one of the other two guys who had signed up for the trek, Eric, an intelligent, sincere, and honest 20-year-old who attends Cal Poly. My luck! I had a companion, and a funny and curious one, besides.

Friday night was a strange evening in the guys' apartment, filled with banana-strawberry-nutella multiwheat crepes (the wheat happened to be from Navadarshanam), pillsbury chocolate pancakes (I know, so much for soaking in the Indian cuisine that night), and djembe and guitar-driven beats, and I didn't sleep until about 2am. At 6:30am I was at Eric's door, and soon we were in the auto-rickshaw headed to the train station. When we got there, we could not find the electronic ticketing machine we innocently anticipated, so Eric waited in the long queue, while I went to ascertain the next best step. There were no other tourists visible, so I took my best pick at an Indian whose English I might easily understand. I found a young gentleman near the front of the queue, dressed in jeans with a tucked in sweater vest and longsleeve shirt; he told me not to worry, that the line would move quickly, and that he would instruct me further if I were confused. I was lucky that the line moved quickly, and that my train would not depart for another 20 minutes, but some other folks in line were not so fortunate; one guy's train sped away, just as the teller handed him his ticket, and he didn't even try running alongside it and jumping on, as other laggers did.

Eric and I were exhausted from our lack of sleep, but perhaps that made the morning more fun; we were bantering about the timeline of human and ape evolution, making half-educated speculations, when Eric exclaimed that he had the primate timeline in his possession (hilariously coincidental, since he brought but a light backpack with him)! For awhile later I joked about what other random information he had tucked somewhere on his personage.

After 45 minutes on the train, we ended up at the Anekal Road station (a man on the train in headphones pointed it out for us), and all of a sudden, David, the man in the argyle sweater vest, popped up! He is a social worker, and was going to visit an organic farm nearby. We walked to the main road, and then he seamlessly arranged for a driver passing by to give us a ride into town! I could swear he said but seven words in Kannada, the local Indian language, to the driver, before he opened the sedan's back door for us. We could understand David explaining our situation to the driver, as it's not too hard to recognize the words "Christ College, Bengaluru, and Navadarshanam." In town, David helped us find the right bus to take us to Gumalapuram, and gave us his phone number; later he called us to quickly make sure we had made it. What a selfless guy.

On arriving in Gumalapuram, a group of rambunctious young men handed Eric and I each a small, white plastic bowl filled with a sweet, light orange-colored porridge. I think it was a Hindu custom, part of their Puja, or religious offering, since we have received little bowls of food at Hindu temples and shrines before. It's a bit rude to refuse these customs, even for the right reasons (not wanting to waste the food), so Eric and I thanked them, but guiltily dumped the strange edible in the bushes when we got out of view, and began the 2km walk to New Vision [aka Navadarshanam]. Along the way, a young woman with short hair rode past us on her motorbike, ascertained whether we were the visitors from Bangalore, and took my backpack with her to lighten my load.

En route, a volleyball net appeared. The only players available on the bench were these hearty bovines. An avid volleyball player, E asked me to take a photo of him with his new teammates.

To be continued tomorrow! Thanks for reading this far.

Puducherry: A French-Indian ville in eastern India

2010-09-14T12:44:00.000-04:00

On Friday evening, ten of the 13 in the group took a ten hour journey on a real, spitting, chugging, train to get to Pondicherry. Since we were in the nice, 3AC cars, we did not experience a hectic evening; nonetheless, we stayed up for a bit and had a good time between ourselves. Here's a picture of my friend, Dejah, being goofy on the train:

The train is a whole story in itself, but can't anything be, really?

I had heard about Pondicherry (aka Puducherry or Pondicherié) before coming to India, and I had fantasies of crépe stands and smooth French music rolling through streets in the heart of India. However, the Lonely Planet travel book tells a different story: "Let's get something clear: If you came to Puducherry expecting a Provencal village in South India, you're in for some sore disappointment, mon ami." However, that's kind of an exaggeration of the lack of French in the place; despite most of the city being like the rest of India, there is a section of the city, about 1 mile by .5 mile, which is French, with tidy streets, crumbling European-style homes, and quietude.

On Saturday, I spent the day with three other girls from the program. They were super enthused by the prospect of going to the beach, so we got on a rickshaw with little real understanding of where we were going, having just arrived a half-hour before. The beach ended up being not as glamorous as we had hoped: we were one of like seven females encompassed by hordes of men in speedos. I did not feel good about going in the water because of the strange circumstances, so I stayed on the sand with our stuff. Kind of a buzz kill, but perhaps that happens once in a while when planning lacks. Perhaps my poor mood showed, so we all decided to take a rickshaw back into the center of the town to hit up a musical performance near the city beach. We enjoyed a lovely, if not pricey, spread of coffee beverages overlooking the Bay of Bengal, and ended up meeting a group of young men in town on business from Delhi. They were friendly, without being creepy, and we ended up passing the evening on the rocks overlooking the sea, and eating at Pizza Hut, which happens to be 1000x nicer than its U.S. counterpart (it was getting late, and we could not locate an open French restaurant), before heading back to our hotel near the unpleasant beach. We capped off the night in a comical circumstance, since the auto-rickshaw ran out of gas sort of close to our hotel. We had forgotten the exact name of our refuge, but we eventually located it in the pouring rain! It was frightening, but oh-so-adventurous, not knowing if we would find our hotel. After midnight, the hotel staff would not let us leave the hotel to go play on the nearby beach; they thought us females needed to be kept safe (another topic I would like to muse on in the future). My NRI (non-Resident Indian) friend Deepika was displeased at our lack of mobility, but I was exhausted, and therefore less miffed, after our long train ride and the day's adventures.

On Sunday I spent much of the day perusing the French side of town, solo.

The turquoise color of this home attracted me.

A park in the White Quarter (the French part of town) at which Indians and non-Indians intermingle. On Sunday, I was laying down on the grass, and there were many Indian families who came to pass the afternoon, some with young children, and some without. It's a common activity for families to go and bring these strange potato chip snacks to munch on! I was offered some by a family sitting near where I was laying. Their 19-year-old and I got to communicating (I don't know if I could possibly call it talking, since she spoke little English). She wondered what I was doing there, and I showed her my university ID card.

The French government withdrew power from Pondicherry around 1954, but there is still a French consulate in town, since around 10,000 French citizens remain here.

Despite it seeming removed from the hubbub of the "regular" India, the French part of town was still cursed with a homeless person, here and there. I wonder if the police typically try to kick people out of the "nice" part of town.

Storm's a brewin'!

I saw a spectacular lightning storm over the Bay of Bengal, and I ended up feeling like an action hero while riding on a motorcycle through the rain to the bus station behind a sympathetic gentleman!

Now, the journey home was the opposite of the journey to Pondicherry; while getting to Pondicherry was a plush, comfortable experience, leaving to go back to Bangalore was a nightmare, albeit a fun one, in the end. Since the trains were booked, we had to book tickets on a traditional city bus. The seats were pretty hard and did not recline, and the vehicle was filled to the max! It was pouring outside, so we had to keep the windows closed, creating a stuffy atmosphere inside. When the bus finally departed before 11:00PM, we were pretty exhausted, and practically in shock at the site of our comparatively ramshackle transportation method we'd be using for the next eight hours. The funny part was that each time the bus hit a pothole or bump (and the frequency of that ranged from every 2 minutes to every half-hour), the folks in the back would be propelled a couple of inches in the air. When that happened, one of my American buddies would expel a quick screech, and then another American would shrink back in embarrassment! And then my friend Ren who was sitting next to me would look at me, and we'd laugh at the situation we had signed up for (albeit it for $6.00 for the entire eight-hour journey). Ren and I tried to arrange my fleece blanket to give both of us a semblance of a comfortable arrangement, yet each time, we'd try to make it work for a couple of minutes, only to be propelled in the air again!

Can I adapt to the disorder?

2010-09-09T15:20:00.000-04:00

Before arriving, the participants in my program got a letter from the program director telling us to "bring our patience with us," as things in India happen much more circuitously (and therefore slower) than in the United States. Later, during orientation, we watched a Powerpoint presentation on generalities of India which said that Americans know how to form a direct argument, whereas Indians talk themselves in circles in order to express a semi-understandable argument. This disorganization, maze-like quality is manifested in various realms of Indian society, especially in the

Waiting in "line" in order to pick up our Residential Permits. You can see the papers piled on top of workers' desks. And the guy with the umbrella?

legal system and in transportation.

When our tourist van got stopped for speeding on our trip to Mysore, the driver asked if any of us had some small bills to give to the police to let us go! When we found the gate around a local lake/reservoir to be locked during the Orientation City Tour, our Program Director slipped the guard some rupees, and we got to go in. When my friends were in the Mysore Palace, the police stopped them, asked them where they were from, and then showed them to a special spot where westerners were impelled to buy camel and elephant rides! And the roads....oh, gosh....I have no idea how a blind person could possibly survive in this city. The auto-rickshaw drivers, motorcyclists, bus drivers, car drivers, and bicyclists barely co-exist; I was riding on Florence's motorbike during rush hour, and when traffic stopped, she looked behind at me and said, "I rarely use my signal, there's no point!" and then she laughed, and I did, too, at the mania I was allowing myself to be swept away in.

Today at school I found myself with a low supply of patience. My stomach was feeling better, yet not quite well enough for Indian food, so I went to the health foods snack bar near the basketball court for lunch. There were 13 or so Indian students shoving rupee notes at the cashier in order to get delicious goodies like papaya juice, cold coffee, veggie sandwiches, etc., and there were four workers trying to get everyone's orders taken care of. But the concept of a line does not exist in India; rather, people believe in the Hoard. There is little pity for patient people: if you've been waiting, it's as if you're a ninny! (S/he must have missed the memo, they'd guess.) At the kiosk, I got my cold coffee with ease, but for some reason, my sandwich was not going to be covered under any "Five Minutes or Less During Lunch Hour!" guarantee. (I actually did see one of those when I went with my friend to get her chicken nuggets at McDonald's.) The Indian students were crowding, pushing money at the cashier and rolling off orders, and I was just trying to be patient, and it felt like everyone else was being so self-righteous and ruthless. I was getting exhausted just being there, so much that I was even contemplating relinquishing my order. After 12 minutes or so, I did get my sandwich (veggies and cheese, melted on toasted wheat bread!). I don't know if I will soon embrace the "get-in, or get-out" attitude and be loud about my next silly sandwich, or if I will try to find a more peaceful alternative. When is something really worth the discomfort?

Monkey time....

2010-09-08T14:17:00.001-04:00

I have ten minutes 'til my laptop battery goes baboom!, but I wanted to get something quick up here.

I had a fantastic weekend: a visit to Banerghatta National Park and a trip to Mysore, and got up n' close to monkeys! I never knew how much I liked the little guys and girls until I got to hang around with them. They are too quick for me when it comes to trees, though.

Visual stimulation

2010-09-01T07:19:00.000-04:00

The other day I had a couple of hours in between classes, and decided to explore outside of campus; to get home, we take a right out of campus, so when I told my plan to another student in the exchange program, she said, "Oooh, left! That sounds exciting." After taking a left, and then a right, I came upon this street, where marble and stone shops intermingle with kiosks offering tiny cups of milky tea. These three women walked in front of me much of the time, and I loved having them there on what felt like the female team. (I still have not gotten used to being looked at as a foreigner by people on the street, clearly.) Once and awhile I exchanged knowing looks with one of the burqa-clad ladies.

Returning to school on the same street I came upon this muscular gentleman cutting stone; something about his body language, his countenance, struck me. Can't you kind of just feel the force that he carries from head to toe?

The main streets in this city are extremely busy, and drivers are not afraid to come so close to you in order to scare you from crossing the street. However, this lady looks pretty calm to me! (Forgive me the poor picture quality, I had to snap it fast!)

We found these two sitting on the rocks at a city reservoir/lake during our City Tour last Friday; in order to get in, the program leader had to slip the watchman at the gate some sum of rupees. The little one is happy, and the older man is more serious. Later we saw them catch a water ride, possibly to the other side of the lake?

There are more photos to show, but I am afraid I am being politely removed from the computer lab at school!

Alive and well

2010-08-28T05:35:00.000-04:00

I don't have too much time to write much of anything right now, but I thought I'd take a moment to say that I am safe, well, and experiencing culture shock! And I thought I'd be prepared for anything...ha! It took some time to get used to the time difference (+9.5), but now I can officially say that I am on schedule! People here go to bed and get up early; typically they are in bed by 10PM, and are up by 6AM. We will see how well I adjust to that cultural tendency. So far, I have seen quite a disparity in wealth, and I have barely touched the surface on this city, Bengaluru. I have pictures, but I am sitting in a coffee shop and unexpectedly found computers. Despite this being an IT hub, wireless service is extremely rare. Anyways, I will write more soon, but I must go, as my credit here is approaching empty. Much love to all!

What? Off so soon, again?

2010-08-22T00:43:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow at 10:00PM I will take Lufthansa flight 421 to Frankfurt, Germany, and then but nine hours later, take flight 754 to Bengaluru, India. It's unbelievable the way so many of us move from one place to another with such ease and rapidity. I am so, so blessed to be embarking on the trip of a lifetime, and I'm even slightly ready, yet I feel a bit unsure of what in the name of Mary I'm stepping into, sort of like being prepped for an operation: you've done some research, you think you'll feel better when the experience is over, you've talked yourself into it, yet you are still a titch nervous, and you can't do a darn thing about it besides show up for the procedure. I just got home for the summer from working at overnight camp on Wednesday, so the transition feels so sudden, too.

Anyways, in order to understand the significance of this journey to the other side of the planet, I think it would be interesting to start off where I'm coming from, a place so starkly contrasting to where I'll be going:

Downtown Boston: The streets are nearly impeccable, drivers pretty much respect traffic laws, and I feel safe. This man approached people seeking donations in exchange for a book on meditation from India! What a coincidence.

Society where people have successfully demanded social responsibility from corporations, on some levels.

Financial comfort: Yesterday my brother picked me up in his Land Rover and we drove from Boston to Cape Cod with the clean air blowing through the window (someone broke in a day prior); he filled up the gas tank without having to worry. We picked Grams and Chris up, and went out to eat a meal upwards of $350, or five months of the average Indian's income.

Leisure: We can go to yard sales and pick out stuff that we like, not because we really need it. This is my incredible brother Frank, and my family friend Chris, the estate sale/thrift shop/yard sale extraordinaire.

Anyways, I could go on and on about how many treasures, physical and otherwise, that I have. I think you understand, perhaps you have them too. So why aren't I yelping at the edge of my chair in happiness? I am grateful, but I don't have anything to attribute my fortune to other than dumb luck. Not sure what I'm getting at here, perhaps some of the feelings that are bouncing around me in the hours before my departure. I know I'm going to be changed by India, but how? Will I be more optimistic, more content, more disappointed by the gross inequality?

Goodbye farm life, hello summer camp!

2010-06-19T23:22:00.003-04:00

Friday was my last day WWOOFing at Silvermine Farm; it was scorching outside, but my morale was high. I planted brussel sprouts, broccoli, and kolrabi, I watered a greenhouse full of tomatoes we had planted earlier in the week, and I weeded one of the farm's endless onion beds. Best of all, I hopped more eagerly than a bunny through the strawberry patches to collect sweet red treasures to take home with me (and to taste on the spot, too), and I caressed the three goats that I had so rapidly taken close to my heart. Mila, the most petite of the three, supported herself on her hind legs and propped her front legs on the wooden door so that was able to rub her stub-like ears, bony back, and curved neck.

So after seven working days on the farm, I have seen how much effort goes into cultivating organic veggies and produce. At Silvermine, some of the work probably could have been avoided with proper foresight (e.g. weeds might not be so difficult to get rid of if they were not allowed to build up and compact), but still I noticed the care that goes into responsible growing. For example, to protect the potato crop, workers like myself first went through the rows collecting the mature beetles from the plants and destroying by hand the tiny eggs that the beetles lay on the underside of the leaves. Then we sifted an organic powder made from the shells of dead insects onto the plants. A few days later, Martha saw that there were still many eggs remaining on the plants, so she had to buy another organic chemical to spray on the plants that would stunt the development of the eggs. So, it can be a lengthy and stressful battle growing organically, one that warrants an often significantly higher price tag in the supermarket.

I wish I had more time to finish this post and to tell more about my experience, but I am off to summer camp in Maine in about an hour! Happy Summertime!

WWOOFing at Silvermine Farm in Sutton, Massachusetts

2010-06-11T22:20:00.005-04:00

My job as an overnight camp counselor in Maine begins the 22nd of June, so I contacted Martha Cole at Silvermine Farm to ascertain whether she would like to have me on board as a WWOOFer (an organic farmworker) until then. She had never hosted a WWOOFer, I had never WWOOFed, so voila! In our phone conversations prior to my arrival, her bubbles were floating all over the place, and after getting to know Martha these last two days, I have become even more enthralled with her.

I didn't have a conscious image in my head of what Martha might look like, but for some strange reason I was surprised when I saw her in her baggy dirt-and-grass-stained jeans and kelly green tee with her frazzled gray-and-black waist-length hair braided and hanging over her right shoulder. However, perhaps her most striking feature is her way of leaking out words with no apparent foresight or concern; for example, during that first car ride from the commuter rail station, she told me about her daughter Rachael's long-term relationships (a seven year one with a German that ended in the termination of their engagement [a little too late, however: his parents could not get their plane tickets refunded, so they came nonetheless and stayed at Martha's/Rachael's farm! How awkward!] and the ensuing one year love affair that will be consummated in marriage at a pig roast on the farm this July).

Let's review some of the key characters at Silvermine Farm, as Martha is only the first of numerous fantastic folks here:

-Martha: head honcho, mom of five (two men and three women), organic farmer, attended Bates in Maine for a year and a half (left because she wanted to apply what she was learning), makes killer biscuits

-Jeff: Martha's ex-farmer hubby, directs the Mass Farmers' Markets Council, has a degree in economics from Bates, as well as an impressive puffy black beard and a little thickness under the jean shirt, steady dark eyes, and spectacles

-Rachael: The eldest of their three daughters, 26 years old, learned German and studied in Germany for 7 years, has dark brown wavy hair down to her butt, brought Chardonnay and Bud Light to her parents when she arrived from out of town. And the best part, that which I was not expecting: she brought numerous pieces of her gun collection to the farmhouse last night when she came here for a wedding! This Rachael is the strong, but petite daughter who broke up with her German beau and fell in love with the Chinese/Estonian working on her mother's farm last Summer.

-Maddy: a 15-year-old from RI who works on the farm during the week, a family friend, with a short, spiked hairdo (her hair is dyed black and highlighted with blue), fair skin, and the habit of smoking [an herb I will not name!] on a nightly basis for the past couple of years. She calls the education she receives "unschooling," so it's like homeschooling, but not as curriculum-focused.

-Copek and Sirius: the two field dogs that go wherever they please. Copek has a gold coat; when I stroked her head, she immediately laid on her back in expectation of a belly scratch. Sirius is black and white.

-Faith is 19, a high school graduate who has no idea what her next step is. She was homeschooled, and has a beautiful smile, and thick, shiny brown hair and a curvy physique. She had Maddy do a henna mustache on her during mealtime my first night; didn't seem too upset at the mustache traces that remained on her upper lip as she left for a wedding rehearsal dinner tonight.

-Ashley: a 26-ish woman who graduated from University of Vermont with a degree in something agriculture-related. She volunteered for six months on a permaculture ranch in Nicaragua, where she met her soon-to-be husband Roylin. Ashley lives in an in-law suite on the side of the house, and is supposed to put in 40 hours a week on the farm. I sleep on her living room couch, and she lets me hop rides on the tractor!

Alright, hopefully that kept your attention! There is so so so much more to write, but I don't want to load too much on you. For now just know that I am pleased I came to stay here with the Coles on their family farm that's a mere 45 minutes from my house; so far I have gotten to know the cutest goats in Massachusetts (they are not being milked yet since they have not mated), scooped caked chicken shit from the coops and put new woodchips down, weeded around onion and carrot plants, collected eggs just laid by the hens earlier in the day, baked ginger molasses cookies, picked and eaten strawberries, gotten a light shock from the gooses' electric fence, etc. etc. What's to come in the next week, no one knows....

Reflections on a Boston Red Sox game

2010-06-03T00:09:00.003-04:00

Alright, I'll state up front that I am neither a die-hard Red Sox fan, nor a fair-weather fan. Born in Boston, I have been enjoying Fenway Park since I was a babe, most usually with my dad, though sometimes with my brothers if the family somehow got its grubby-for-any-Boston-sports-tickets grip on enough of those precious rectangular paper stubs.

My brother took me to a game to celebrate my high school graduation in 2007

When I was young, I was mostly concerned with "the wave," (why did it take so many tries to finally succeed?) "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," (the song which we started learning in preschool as part of our requisite sports culture education) and the soft-serve ice cream in the plastic helmet. A bit older now, I am more aware of sociological implications of mass public spectacles; tonight's game against the Oakland Athletics (which we won!) left me with a few questions:

• Despite the Red Sox having so many black and Hispanic players, why did I have so much difficulty spotting any dark-colored people in the stands? Do they not enjoy baseball as much?, or do they have trouble affording the expensive tickets (once again, Fenway Park is the most expensive ballpark at which to see a game)?

• Why were so many young women purchasing $7.25 draft beers? Do they really enjoy the taste of it?, or do they just buy it because they think that is what's expected of them?

• How do people rationalize spending $50 on parking their cars in nearby lots? (Alright, this question is only vaguely puzzling.)

Regardless of these semi-troubling questions, I did enjoy myself tremendously. My Dad kept singing Beyonce's "Put a Ring on It" in a strange key, and security let me bring my water bottle in so I did not have to buy a bottle for $3.25. Boston's opening pitcher, Dice-K, exceeded expectations, and I nearly got the chills when the wave succeeded on the first attempt, and even made it around the park a second time.

At this point in my life, my "'ridiculous' aspects of life in Western society radar" is quite active. Too many situations are inflicted with excess consumption, waste, group-influenced behavior, and other unhealthy tendencies. I am not, and hope never to be, a Donald Downer, someone who spreads his/her negativity. But I do insist that it's responsible, and even beneficial, to take moments here and there to ponder the effects of our individual actions (and ask, "Should I really spend my hard-earned money on that?) and the flapdoodles of our modern lifestyles.

[Learning about] India, one day at a time

2010-05-20T23:26:00.009-04:00

Some of my loyal followers know that I will spend the Fall semester of my senior year in India. I often hear, "Why India?" when I tell people my plans, and I understand their confusion; see, India has always been one of those places I've carried in my heart, but never really talked about. I only need to take three Spanish classes to get my degree, so heck, why not spend three months in a place I've dreamed about these past few years? I won't lie, France, Italy, and Spain, were also at my list of potential places to study in, as were Mali and Morocco, but the program in India features great courses at a fraction of the price of the other programs (think 1/2 to 2/3 less). Extraneous costs are much less, too. For example, a beverage can cost upwards of $5 in Europe, while in India it will run you less than fifty cents.

My program begins in Bengaluru (in English: Bangalore) around August 26th, but since I do not have a plane ticket yet (nevermind a job!), I may get my booty over the sea much earlier. Bengaluru is in southern India, in the state of Karnataka, where the language most commonly spoken is not Hindi, nor English, but Kannada.

Bengaluru is the third largest Indian city by population, and is known for IT (info tech). As a result, there's quite a bit of money there, and in some respects, it is not as traditional as other cities. While it is not the first place in India I'd choose to live in for three months, it is where the program is, and that's fine with me as long as I find time to get to know the less cosmopolitan parts of the city and region.

That's all I have today (I don't want to overwhelm), but let me post a few pictures I've scouted out that were taken in Bengaluru. Please come along with me as I learn about this incredible place!

Hebbal Lake

Russel Market

Handicapped artist (on the street?)

Only one tough assignment left in this school year!

2010-04-18T11:46:00.004-04:00

The Anonymous groups say that a crucial step in overcoming addiction is admitting the problem. However, there are others who say that the best way to get away from old habits is to see yourself as how you wish to be, rather than dwelling on what had been; for example, if you constantly push yourself to get up and exercise, and perhaps even view yourself as a lazy person, you might try telling yourself (note the use of the present tense), "I exercise, I honor myself," in order to change dusty thought patterns. Now I'm not much for doing what some might call "skirting around problems," but I am also familiar with the great possibilities that come along with changing outlooks on things. But such enters into the discussion of the meaning of reality, and it's barely Sunday afternoon, so I'll leave that stone untouched for now.

So the real reason I'm writing this is because I myself feel like a Procrastination Station: I have a 6-page Spanish paper due on Friday, and I'm only in the preparation stage. I have no problems finishing my more "predictable" homework, but when it comes to writing assignments where I must produce something substantial of my own, I sometimes encounter sluggishness. I've admitted it, and I'm going to try to get something, at least an outline, completed by the end of the day.

If only this was all that mattered

2010-04-17T21:44:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow I will facilitate my first Awakening the Dreamer symposium in nearly eight months, but standing here, on the edge of the peninsula, river in front of me, there are no problems on Earth. The sun is a tangerine half-way set, the sky a napoleon layer cake of pastels. I tilt my head upwards, and see black wings flapping in near-perfect synchrony. An animal in the sweetgrass caws, another responds, "I hear you! I'll be ready for take off in five." Perhaps they too are soaking in the richness of existence. I am so fortunate, for I am free from worry, I am a child. I don't want to leave, but I can't stay here; I already know.

"I will never ______" is not such a good idea

2010-02-11T00:12:00.003-05:00

I am always interested in how people develop their sense of self and their understanding of how they fit into the "greater picture." Following this interest, I just finished "Blue Like Jazz...Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality," by Donald Miller. Miller's book was an honest, concise, and humorous way for me to learn about how a "reasonable" man (relative to me, obviously, and by which I mean someone who recognizes various viewpoints) developed his love for Jesus. In one chapter, he describes his rough transition from living a solitary life in the woods to residing in a house with a bunch of guys in a city; in his new living arrangement, he felt entitled. He writes:

"Living in community made me realize one of my faults: I was addicted to myself...I did not understand the exchange that takes place in meaningful dialogue...it must have been painful for Tuck to try so desperately to catch my station, and for me to brush him off...I wanted efficiency in personal interaction...he felt unvalued any time he was around me. The most difficult lie I have ever contented with is this: Life is a story about me."

I'm not sure I agree with the last sentence of the above quotation. Try and follow me: when I was younger, adults would repeat maxims to me, such as "mind your own business," and "worry about yourself." Then once I started getting older, people began telling me to be considerate of the comfort and state of others, and insinuated that focusing on myself too much is selfish and unproductive to the general good. So soon enough, balancing "selfish" thought and concern for others became difficult for me. Don't you remember when you realized that one-liners adults told you don't really apply to life so easily? And let's be honest here, we eventually see that life is much more vibrant when we don't always follow rules, both those we set for ourselves, and those set for us by others (informal and formal). I suppose my point is that we need to be cautious about rules and realizations we have about life, because just when we think we "know," we get soaked with a bucket of ice cold water, sometimes in the heat of Summer, but more often in the dead of Winter.

A strange Facebook chat

2010-02-08T01:05:00.004-05:00

I really only Facebook chat with a few people. Every month or so this Facebook "friend" initiates a chat that basically inquires into how we know each other; the truth is, I don't know why we are Facebook friends. Sometimes I respond, sometimes I don't; I did just now, though, because I couldn't resist being semi-snarky. This is the conversation:

'Alvin' :

01:01

hey how do i know u again

lol

Lauren

01:01

why do you always ask me this?!

it;s kind of funny, bc no one else seems to care how they know their facebook friends, so i guess it's cool lol

i dont remember

we both go/went to C of C, that's as far as I know

01:02

'Alvin'

damn

ill just remove u

geeze

01:02

Lauren

haha okay, i didnt mean it in a mean way, but fine

01:04
'Alvin' está desconectado/a.

This interaction was weird! I don't think my question was a personal affront to this Alvin character, I think I was just interested in why the same conversation would happen in the early morning hours every so often. Was he sincerely confused about our connection? Did he really care? Was it his attempt to make conversation? I don't think I care too much that he "de-friended" me, but it was just odd, the whole thing, I guess.

Hope this makes you giggle

2010-02-07T20:46:00.001-05:00

I was just looking on the WWOOF USA website (willing workers on organic farms) and found this hilarious listing in South Carolina. I think it needs little explanation!

"Hunters and Gatherers! Looking for a way to live that works well for Human Beings? Then join us as we move backwards, away from the insanity of the modern “civilized” world. Fishing family looking for additional tribal members on their path to personal power. Seeking open minded apprentices with willingness to learn. Need to be able to stay long term, at least a year, and have a desire to participate in creation with its limitless opportunities. We live on 40 acres in a 3 bedroom house and have a big vegetable garden. We fish, shrimp, crab and raise chickens for eggs and meat, raise honey bees. We tan hides and run kayak tours. We live. You will stay in a tipi, tent or camper. English, Swedish and Spanish spoken. No alcohol or drugs. No pets."

2010-02-04T23:48:00.002-05:00

I've been climbing rocks and stones
been collecting broken bones
I've been swimming across the lakes
just to find this perfect place
I got lost into the woods
I've been covered up in mud
I've been going through a lot
just to find this perfect spot

-"Treehouse," by I'm From Barcelona

2010-01-31T23:41:00.001-05:00

"So the poet of place situates himself in place in order to lose himself in it. Poetry of place is actually a poetry of displacement and self-annihilation. The poet replaces self with situation, turning himself, as in were, inside out, so that the center of "knowing who you are" becomes the circumference of uncertainty. The poem as locus mirrors this dynamic, since it is a measured place, possibly with stanzas (rooms), which has an infinite capacity to contain everything outside it, including the poet. To have identity means to be alone. Loneliness is the anxiety that compels us to identify with an other or with otherness. To disappear into a place. To empathize."

James Galvin, "The Poetry of Place: James Wright's 'The Secret of Light'"

2010-01-31T23:00:00.003-05:00

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
-Marianne Williamson

Secular injunction against suicide

2010-01-17T17:31:00.002-05:00

Many religions prohibit followers from taking their own lives, but of course, this does not stop roughly 1.1/10,000 people in the U.S. from doing so each year (2005 statistics). Poets, for a complex set of reasons, have an long and awful track-record of taking their own lives. Recently, one of the country's premier poets took her life, and in response, Jennifer Michael Hecht, a fellow poet and friend of the deceased, issued a plea/injunction against suicide. In "On Suicide," she writes (the emphases are mine, though):

"I’m issuing a rule. You are not allowed to kill yourself. You are going to like this, stay with me. When a person kills himself, he does wrenching damage to the community. One of the best predictors of suicide is knowing a suicide. That means that every suicide is also a delayed homicide. You have to stay. The reason I say you are going to like this is twofold. First of all, next time you are seriously considering suicide you can dismiss it quickly and go play a video game (or something else meaningless and fun, it’s when we try for meaning that we go crashing into the existential wall – the universe is absurd, to get along with it, you should be too). Second, and this one’s a little harder to describe, if you are even a tiny bit staying alive for the sake of the community, as a favor to the rest of us, I need to make it clear to you that we are grateful that you stay. I am grateful that you stay alive.

"And we are in the room with you, going from one moment to the next, in whatever condition you manage to do it. Sobbing and useless is great! Sobbing and useless is a million times better than dead. A billion times. Thank you for choosing sobbing and useless over dead.

"There are poets and other artists, psychotherapists and average Joes, who are thinking of your struggle and appreciating what you have managed to put up with. We are grateful. Best of all, practicing tuning in to your gratitude for others' staying alive also tones up your ability to feel the gratitude that people are extending to you too, you start to feel the support of it, the invisible arms. Don’t kill yourself. Suffer here with us instead. We need you with us, we have not forgotten you, you are our hero. Stay."

Below is a poem by the late poet, Rachel Wetzsteon, who provoked the outcry against suicide. I am grateful that she lived for the time she did, but it's so painfully true what Hecht writes about her: we need you with us.

------


At the Zen Mountain Monestary Rachel Wetzsteon (1967-2009)

A double line of meditators sits on mats, each one a human triangle. Evacuate your mind of clutter now. I do my best, squeezing the static and the agony into a straight flat line, but soon it soars and dips until my mind’s activity looks (you can take the girl...) uncannily like the Manhattan skyline. Observe your thoughts, then gently let them go. I’m watching them all right, unruly dots I not only can’t part from but can’t help transforming into restless bodies -- they’re no sooner being thought than sprouting limbs, no longer motionless but striding proudly, beautiful mental jukeboxes that play their litanies of joy and woe each day beneath the shadow of enormous buildings. Desires are your jailers; set them free and roam the hills, smiling archaically. It’s not a pretty picture, me amid high alpine regions in my urban black, huffing and puffing in the mountain air and saying to myself, I’m trying but it’s hopeless; though the tortures of the damned make waking difficult, they are my tortures; I want them raucous and I want them near, like howling pets I nonetheless adore and holler adamant instructions to -- sprint, mad ambition! scavenge, hopeless love that begs requital! -- on our evening stroll down Broadway and up West End Avenue.

New Year's resolutions can be unreasonable

2010-01-08T23:30:00.004-05:00

I hate going to CVS and seeing all of the magazines about the "best diets to start off the new year" and celebrities dropping 10 pounds with ease. While I am personally accustomed to the way the media tries to twist around females' perceptions of themselves, it still sickens me that this madness continues to sell.

I was on the T today when I found an article in the Opinions section of the Boston Globe about body consciousness, and more specifically, a 5% tax that some were trying to get Congress to impose on cosmetic surgery.

It says: "Indeed a proposal in the Senate version of the healthcare bill to impose a 5 percent tax on cosmetic surgery was vociferously opposed not just by the nip-tuck industry, but by women's groups who argued that Botox and liposuction are important tools to help them level the playing field with men.

"To be fair, NOW stated that it was not endorsing cosmetic surgery and vowed to continue fighting unrealistic images of female beauty in society. But the underlying message that cosmetic surgery lets women control their own bodies is creepily reminiscent of what teenage girls often say to explain anorexia or other eating disorders: that it gives them a sense of control.

"Let’s hope that obsessing over body image doesn’t become a new bonding experience across the generations. It will only lead to more guilt and anxiety - the very emotions that erode self-esteem and send women chasing after ever more impossible goals in the first place. Instead, we could all try to understand that true happiness comes from being in harmony with conditions as they actually are. It’s the healthiest thing we can do in the New Year - if not for ourselves, for our daughters."

What are your resolutions for the New Year? Why are they your resolutions?

Renee Loth. "Hey, does this facelift make me look fat?" The Boston Globe. 8 Jan 2010.

Re-dedication of my blog

2009-12-30T23:05:00.001-05:00

I felt that my blog seemed a little outdated, so I've given it a fresh look!

I've been feeling pretty good lately. Fall semester concluded beautifully, and the snow outside of my window has just stopped coming down. If you know me, which you probably do, as I only have a few fabulous readers (thank you), you know that I'm a bit flighty, and often in search for something I can't name (alright, I'll say it: awe of our existence, comfort in my skin, satisfaction of the way the world turns). However, what I've discovered lately, mostly through yoga, is that such a search is futile, that while satisfaction can come from external sources, such satisfaction is inherently unstable. Unstable experiences are fine in their own right, but there's one thing that isn't unstable, one thing that will always be there, and that's me! How convenient, right?

I've seen time after time that so much unhappiness (depression, disconnectedness, despair, etc.), generally speaking, is caused by a disassociation with the self. So I'm preaching appreciation of us, not egoism, because I am confident that the love and truth and goodness that I seek is contained within me, and within nearly each and every human being, if only we are willing to let go of the past and the future which suffocate our present existence like big, noxious clouds and embrace US. There's no good reason to feel hopeless because we are exactly what we have been looking for.

So I'm re-dedicating this blog to you and to me: what can help us become to best people we are meant to be? This will not be the only question I will explore, but most issues I will look at will probably come back to the theme of how we treat each other and ourselves. I hope I can bring up some juicy ideas and conversations for us; thank you for your support and love!

Happy New Year!

Loneliness spreads, so help fight it, to a point

2009-12-30T16:48:00.002-05:00

I recently began a friendship with someone at school, and so far, it hasn't exactly been the most typical of relationships; my friend contacts me more than I am used to. This friend is only kind to me (perhaps much more kind than I feel comfortable with...why is this?), but a bit too needy. I feel guilty about how I am unwilling to give back as much energy as I receive from this individual, since I know that loneliness is a horrible feeling, but I just want to close myself off sometimes when I feel pressured to talk.

I summed that up a little too quickly, but it's irrelevant. Anyways, I recently stumbled on an article in the Boston Globe about loneliness as a evolutionary development, and about how loneliness spreads, and about how we can respond more gracefully to loneliness in our relationships. Here are my favorite snip-its from the article:

"There's something seemingly oxymoronic in the idea that loneliness can be catching...making sense of the contagiousness of loneliness demands that we rethink our idea of what loneliness is, and that we come to realize how being surrounded by people doesn't necessarily protect us...loneliness isn't being alone, it's feeling alone...a person can be lonely if he doesn't feel like he has a meaningful connection with any of them.
"Loneliness...is an evolutionary adaptation that humans acquired to knit them together into collaborative social groups...spurs people not onto to form social ties, but to strengthen the ones they have. The paper Cacioppo co-wrote...fond that having a friend who reports feeling lonely makes a person 52 percent more likely to feel lonely.

"So if loneliness is contagious, is there something we can do to inoculate ourselves against it, as individuals or communities? One response is simply to quarantine the lonely. And there is some precedent for this in the animal world. But trying to emulate that model is likely to backfire badly. By being conscious of the contagiousness of loneliness, we can try to guard against spreading it ourselves, meeting a lonely person's negative affect with patience rather than absorbing it and passing it on to someone else. We can remind ourselves to think of a neighbor's loneliness as the manifestation of an innate hunger for conection, and remind ourselves that feeding the hunger is the best way to stop its spread.

Sometimes it's tempting to shy away from people who seem to need us much more than we need them, but the truth is that we need to quell their feelings of loneliness to protect our own sense of connectedness. Likewise, we need to give of ourselves even when it's inconvenient, for when we are in need of something, we hope that our loved ones will be there for us through and through. But it's also important to be able to say, "I'm sorry, but tonight's probably not the best for me," without fear of feeling like a bad person.

Drake Bennett, "The loneliness network." The Boston Globe. 27 Dec 2009.

Jewton/Newton elects its first black mayor

2009-11-03T22:07:00.000-05:00

For the past three years, my nuclear family has resided in Newton, which in 2005 was judged the nation's safest city. I have never felt particularly connected to the city because it has the aura of an overgrown town (there are now about 85,000 people there). The place just has a few too many Whole Foods, Starbucks, and traffic jams of imported SUVs to feel like home. The town's new high school will, at $200 million, be the most expensive in Massachusett's history.

However, a few things about the town please me, including its accessibility to Boston via the MBTA, the fact that the Charles River flows near my house, the world-class hospital, the local ethnic eateries in my hood, and the fact that it lies along the Boston Marathon route. And one more thing to add to the list: Newton, with a black population of about 2%, just today elected its first black mayor. I love even more what someone on the web said about this historic date:

"I find it amazing that I will now live in a city with a black mayor, in a state with a black governor, in a country with a black president. Such a thing was absolutely inconceivable when I was growing up and, regardless of how I feel about the individual politicians, I am proud to be living in a time and place where that is possible."

I am also glad to be living in such a time and place where the color of one's skin does not prohibit him from serving the public's interest. I am also proud that the winners are honorable and hard-working; in my city, the candidate knocked on more than 10,000 doors to garner support. Nonetheless, no one can deny that much more than electing black officials needs to happen in order to really alter the social constructs of our cities and nation. Bravo for more steps in the right direction, though.

To Belive is to Create, adapted from Spanish

2009-11-02T00:45:00.000-05:00

"All children are born free of reasoning. That is important. Nobody is born with reasoning. Reasoning is like taxes, a kind of tax that the serpent charges us for living on Earth. This tax that we have been paying for many centuries has brought us to a wisdom, which is the serpent wisdom, and as never before in history, we have decided to disobey, to be able to love the
truth that we have inside.

"That is my point: Mexico and Latin America in general, are countries that have disobeyed, they are places full of this energy, and just by accepting it, by connecting the positive to the negative, we will set it on fire and we will illuminate it. We will light inside and we will become heirs of this wealth of ancestral cosmic knowledge that is in the air for anyone that opens his heart.

"We are at humanity's moment of grace, where it will be consecrated as humanity. It is a dance, let us say, the dance for humanity's graduation, and it is necessary to dance it, it is necessary to enjoy it."-To Believe is to Create

To be Number 25 out of 73.

2009-10-27T22:25:00.000-04:00

"Stand up to your obstacles and do something about them. You will find that they haven't half the strength you think they have." - Norman Vincent Peale

350 on the front of countless international papers

Last Saturday was the International Day of Climate Action, when the people of the globe mobilized to advocate for solutions to get back down to 350 parts per million of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere (the limit at which civilization as we currently know it can survive). The tiniest towns you've never heard of (e.g. Scheki, Azerbaijan) and civilization's "greatest" cities (Cairo, Mexico City, etc.) sponsored more than five thousand events.

Of course I had to participate, seeing as I'd been thinking about this day off-and-on since my internship this summer. I found an event at 350.org, and recruited Bess, one of my new best friends from the Enviro House, to make the journey to "the other side." After a brief stop at the Farmers' Market, where I was gratuitously bestowed with three servings of homemade egg pasta, (either because I knew the pasta man's newly-adopted dog or because I "looked like I wasn't from here" [his phrasing]) we made it on our beach cruisers across the Cooper River Bridge, the longest cable-stayed bridge in the Western Hemisphere. At the bottom of the bridge was Mt. Pleasant's new Waterfront Park, a perfectly-tended playspace where we would be a part of a human depiction of "350."

In the beginning, around 3:00pm, the participants were predominantly parents with young children. As we started to organize into the "350," random others showed up: a staunch cyclist, an ethnic couple new to the area, older couples, a sole college student, etc. There was little discussion of the meaning of the event, but we held each others' hands as if we all knew why were there. A fireman climbed a long ladder on his fire truck and took a few photos of us with eyes squinted because of the sun. According to the official census taker, I was Participant 25 and Bess was Participant 31 out of a lovely 73.

We were two out of perhaps millions of people WORLDWIDE who came out to show how much they cared about the survival of our world. Though I am just that little figure in the white shirt in front of the giant paper "3," I feel rather essential to the movement. It feels invigorating to witness people crossing all lines to come together for this crucial moment in history.

A month too late, here's José González

2009-09-22T15:18:00.000-04:00

José González is a Swedish musician born to Argentine parents. His performances are hauntingly gorgeous. The one I've included below, the cover of the Knives' Heartbeats, gives me a slight case of what my poetry teacher calls "the goosebumps." The song's subject quickly becomes clear to the listener. My favorite verse goes: "And you, you knew the hands of the devil, and you, kept us awake with wolf teeths, sharing different heartbeats, in one night."

A 180˚ Turn: Summer Reading, Now I Love It!

2009-08-20T04:40:00.000-04:00

Throughout my Summer, which comprised of biking around Cape Cod and relaxing around Boston, I have read a number of books, including: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Díaz; Running With Scissors, by Augusten Burroughs; The City of Your Final Destination, by Peter Cameron; Before the Knife: Memories of An African Childhood, by Carolyn Slaughter; Memories of My Melancholy Whores, by Gabriel García Márquez; and One Hundred Years of Solitude, also by Márquez. Because of its incredibly imaginative plot and lovely, juicy description, the latter was likely my favorite. Here is a chunk for you to savor; it stuck out because it was near the end of the novel, not because it is my favorite passage:

"Álvaro was the first to take the advice to abandon Macondo. He sold everything, even the tame jaguar that teased passersby from the courtyard of his house, and he bought an eternal ticket on a train that never stopped traveling. In the postcards that he sent from the way stations he would describe with shouts the instantaneous images that he had seen from the window of his coach, and it was as if he were tearing up and throwing into oblivion some long, evanescent poem: the chimerical Negroes in the cotton fields of Louisiana, the winged horses in the bluegrass of Kentucky, the Greek lovers in the infernal sunsets of Arizona, the girl in the red sweater painting watercolors by a lake in Michigan who waved at him with her brushes, not to say farewell but out of hope, because she did not know that she was watching a train with no return passing by." - From One Hundred Years of Solitude (an English version published by Harper with no indicated translator), by Gabriel García Márquez.

I wish that I were able to read the novel in Spanish once I reach the necessary fluency to feel the beauty of Marquez's words. This semester I'm taking a Spanish-American literature course, so I'll be practicing. I can't wait to improve my skills, but am a little heartbroken that I won't be in Hispanic America (Latin and South Americas) to really get better at all things related to Spanish. But at least I get Challston, and that's something special.

Who Reviews Restaurants, Anyway?

2009-08-20T01:40:00.000-04:00

Check out "What They Brought to the Table," a cheeky article in the NYT that details a food critic's observations on everything non-food related. He tells of lessons he has learned about human nature through dining with people/eating food with friends as part of his occupational duties. I could not help but giggle upon reading the following account; I don't believe I'm one of these "hoarders" which he mentions, especially in the company of others, but who knows:

When they liked the dish in front of them, they’d forget that they were supposed to eat no more than a quarter of it, to preserve enough for the other three diners, including me, to have a good taste.

“Oh, I lost track!” they’d say as they passed a nearly empty plate.

I enjoy learning the strange details involved in jobs, both to appease my curiosity and to satisfy my need for "consumer control." People are too frequently unaware of the work/procedure that is behind the services and products that they consume.

City or Farm Gal? Maybe I am neither!

2009-08-14T19:21:00.000-04:00

There's a five-year waiting list to get a plot in this community garden in the South End

Not too long ago I would picture myself living a simple life in a rural part of the U.S. of A.; I'd slowly drink coffee in the backyard, and observe the natural beauty that would surely surround me. Not too far away I'd see the line where my clothes would be drying. Then I would sometimes picture myself in some small room in some large city. However, neither of these scenarios were perfect: I thought that I'd feel lost in the masses of the city, alienated by the waves of movement, a robin overtaken by eagles. In the countryside, I imagined feeling connected to nature, empowered by the beauty of the unspoiled nature, yet somehow alone, disconnected from the fiery magic of many minds colliding in the hopes of feeling alive.

Recently I've stopped wondering where I'll end up. I still dream sometimes: maybe after college I'll find myself in a small Colombian village, or in the lush hills of Ireland, or even in some new city here in the United States. Maybe I'll have a new room to decorate from the ground up, or maybe I'll wander around Mexico with no plan (and maybe even without a cell phone!).

However, I have realized that cities are not as scary as I once had imagined. This epiphany first occurred when I came back from Buenos Aires: I had had a fabulous time, and I rarely felt alone. Then, walking through Boston during the past few weeks, I have sprung upon huge urban renewal projects, beautiful parks and gardens that stand for the same things I do: fresh air, play, expression, connection with nature and each other, exercise, and beauty.

Some special person must have taken it upon him/herself to tie these pretty flowers onto the bike rack

I had to leave in the middle of this post to make a DJ'ed Hot Power Yoga class in Cambridge. I don't think I could have found 25 eager attendees to bend their bodies in 95˚F+ from 9:00-10:30PM on a Friday night if I were in Athol, Massachusetts! Now that I'm started, I could go on and on analyzing the pluses and minuses of any type of living situation, which just goes to show that sometimes you just gotta ride your life's wave and accept that you may end up in Round Top, Texas, and be happy as a puppy chasing a United States Postal Service worker. Dreaming is wonderful and working diligently towards goals is even better, yet nothing feels better than living a life without definition and invisible lines that limit our once in forever journeys.

"Losing My Fig Leaf"

2009-08-07T22:32:00.000-04:00

I found "Losing My Fig Leaf" earlier this summer on the Skirt! website; the article's about nude modeling, and upon reading it, I felt as though I had aged a few years and unknowingly written an article about my own experience (funny enough, the piece was written by another Lauren). Isn't that beautiful? How we can read a piece of writing and feel a connection to other people through common thoughts and emotions?

I have contemplated nude modeling at the College, and I go back and forth between feeling confident enough to present myself to "audition" for the position and not feeling quite ready. Two semesters ago I was a Drawing I student pumped to have a nude model. For me and the majority of the class, the nude models were never about more than beautiful human figures to sketch. However, there is always a boy (or two) in the beginning art classes that is SO EXCITED! for his first session with the nudes; there was one of these types in my class, a red-headed kid who someone got placed in the class, who was whispering to another guy about his first female model, but soon enough, he too saw the nude person for its artistic purpose.

While the idea of nude modeling is not as scary as it was fifteen minutes ago, I'm not so sure that my Fall semester job will involve bra removing. But isn't it just spectacular how words can sometimes make us feel stronger, at least temporarily?

Just like Charlie, I love Boston's subway

2009-07-31T22:34:00.000-04:00

I bumped my magnetic CharlieCard to the sensor to pay my $1.70 fare. It was raining so hard that a waterfall was created over the sides of the train, making it impossible to enter the car without getting wet. As the car began to fill up with rush hour passengers, I noticed two women, about my age, likely even younger, each holding a stroller that held a toddler. One of the toddlers kept saying, "Hewwo!" and "Hiiii!" to the people nearby her, who besides myself dressed like professionals. One of the men paid the girl attention, i.e. he made eye contact with her, but the others paid her no heed. I smiled with little Lizamarie (I asked her mom her name), and then I started to feel bad that some of the people were more interested in reading the newspapers five inches from their faces than interacting with an adorable little girl. I understand that some people just don't know what's appropriate "subway etiquette," but come on, she had such a sweet grin, and was certainly eager for some human-to-human interaction. Maybe I'm looking too deep into the situation, but I wonder if situations like this perpetuate our anxiety of strangers.

I had to get off the traincar to switch to another line. With my Gabriel García Marquéz novel, I sat down on a wooden bench next to an older man who was conversing with his woman companion about the mangos that he was handling. They were at the subway stop near one of Boston's most exciting outdoor fruit and veggie markets. I asked how the market was, and he looked at me confusedly, so I repeated my question in Spanish: "Como fue el mercado?" He said that is was cheap! Turns out he was from Colombia (just like the author of my book), so I proudly displayed my wrist that bore a bracelet with his red, yellow, and blue flag. Like most Colombians, he was talkative (I won't repeat the whole interplay). As the train pulled in to the station he said, "Mucho gusto," which means, "Nice to meet you." I smiled, and then walked onto the train, anxious to savor the last three pages of one of the best novels I have ever read.

When little Bostonians first go to school, they learn a song about a man named Charlie who gets lost on the subway (which we just call the T). The chorus goes: "Did he ever return? No, he never returned, and his fate is still unknown. He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston, he's the man who never returned." While it must have been hard for poor Charlie to go missing from his family (he could not pay his fare, so the story goes that he was not allowed off the train), it is reassuring to know that Charlie never had a shortage of interesting people to meet, and new ideas to consider.

F.Y.I.: Opened in 1897, Boston's subway is U.S.A.'s first. Ridership on the whole Mass Transit system has increased in the past decade. In July of 2008, system-wide ridership was nearly 34.7 million.

Staying up-beat on Cape Cod

2009-06-18T13:19:00.000-04:00

I have not posted for awhile, but I feel a comeback. Lately I've been so touched by Sanaz's updates all the way from Iran, where her family's from, and where people are still protesting the results of the presidential election. Please read them!

I'm on Cape Cod with a program called Mass Climate Summer; we are biking around the state trying to unite people who want to get more involved in the climate change movement. We go door to door for about 3.5 hours a day, as well as deliver an unbelievable symposium called Awakening the Dreamer, which is meant to awaken people to the possibility of a new existance on this planet, one that is environmentally sustainable, socially just, and spiritually fulfilling. Our first symposium will be held this Saturday afternoon at the Barnstable library.

I don't get paid for this "internship," but I am given food and housing (at churches and personal homes). The most frustrating aspect of the program, besides the lack of clean clothing I can carry in my backpack at one given moment, is that people so far have been uninterested in taking a bigger step in the climate change movement. I can get people to sign the petition we bring around that demands Congress Repower America with 100% clean electricity in the next decade, but the majority that sign do not want to do anything besides this. While I understand that people have their own lives and passions that they direct their energies to, I am surprised that more people have not been receptive to conversations about energy conservation or anything of the like. I have more luck talking with them about their dogs, which gets on my nerves because I don't feel like I am making good use of my time.

Another aspect of this whole thing that I've been thinking about is the message of the petition, which as I said before calls for 100% clean electricity in the next decade, i.e. the federal government needs to find solutions to enable the country to switch from burning coal and oil for electricity to utilizing renewable energy sources such as hydro power, wind power, geothermal, and solar/photovoltaic. A lady at a door told me that she'd sign my petition, but that it would "never happen." Clearly that's not the attitude one should have if he is looking for change, but I've been wondering whether the demands of the petition should be more easily attainable. People who disagree with me might cite the example of the fall of apartheid in South Africa to argue that swift change is possible. While I agree that swift change can happen, I don't think that getting 30 signatures per day will really help make this happen. I have been honest with my groupmates about my skepticism because I wanted their opinion. They do not like canvassing either, but don't seem to be affected by the same feeling of misappropriating their time. We talked about canvassing on the beach, but the weather has not been great yet, and someone said he did not want to disturb people. I countered the latter by saying that it would not be a great disturbance to calmly approach sunbathers (isn't it a bit more invasive to approach people at their doors?).

I will stay as positive as I can without forcing it. Either way, I have been enjoying living and getting to know new people, biking around the Cape and watching its beautiful sunsets, and meeting the few people that have something incredibly special that they unknowingly share with everyone they meet.

The small choices we made often lead to BIG things!

2009-05-23T20:44:00.000-04:00

Two hours ago I took the last jog before my big 8am race tomorrow: 13.1 miles through the heart of Boston. As I was lightly trotting for 2 miles, I thought about high school field hockey and a coach, Ellen, who pushed me to increase my speed and endurance (especially important for me as a mid-fielder). After running a grueling 1.8mi loop around Larz Anderson Park, Ellen would stand there, pencil and paper in hand, threatening more loops if we did not run a second lap quicker than the first. If I had not decided to try a new sport at 14 years old, I probably would not have come to love running, nor would I have experienced the satisfaction of disciplined training that I'm bathing in as I now write this.

The 20km race will be twice as long as any other I have competed in. For the past two months I have stuck to a 4x/week training schedule, missing only two runs. In Argentina and especially on the Carribean coast in Colombia, where temperatures were often 95˚ upwards , getting my runs in was sometimes challenging, but today I could not feel prouder or stronger for sticking to my plan and making my hopes come to life.

When I was younger, running was often about fitness and weight loss, but now it has shown itself to be something more important for me, a teaching tool to show what I am capable of with self-discipline. Running involves but myself and a pair of too-expensive shoes, so I never had the option to put the responsibility of training on anything or anyone else.

Training during the last past 8 weeks has been about my experience, and tomorrow will be the same, though I will of course hope for the best for the tens of thousands running next to me. This means that I will not look to those next to me to determine my pace. While the finish line will no doubt pop up in my head, I will appreciate the 13 miles of beautiful riverfront and city that I have come home to. I will celebrate with my brother and his friends at the finish line, and we will cheer for the other runners as they approach the finish line and realize what will no doubt be tens of thousands of achievements, many just as significant or even more so than mine. Tomorrow we will be more than just a swarm of people tied together by our love for the Red Sox. While we will run in separate spheres, we will be united by the common purpose of being just a little bit better than before, not measured by anyone else, but by our individual authority.

Dance and "poor" life in Cartagena

2009-05-10T01:58:00.000-04:00

Two days ago I watched teams from Cartagena universities compete in traditional dance and music in the Old Town, a part of the city that drips with bold colors and bougainvillea, palm-tree shaded plazas and intricate colonial architecture. I went to watch Oscar/Yair (22), one of Elizabeth's great-nephews, dance. The sun, like always, beat down on the crowd, while vendors hawked cool drinks. I went with Oscar's younger sister, Maria (11). Despite the heat waves, the dancers were gorgeous in their elaborate make-up and outfits.

Yair is studying to be an engineer, like many other young men in his family. He loves to dance though, and so do I!

On Friday, Nidia, Oscar and I took two buses to go to Mandela, an economically-starved neighborhood near the city. Why? They took me to heart when I said I wanted to see all of Cartagena! Some of Lil's relatives live there, like her aunt, who's approaching 90. It was poor, but there was no feeling of despair, just children biking and frolicking in the street. I didn't feel depressed by what I saw because no one their seemed sad.

Then we took two more buses to Nidia's house. She lives in a poor area too, but this one had trash all along the walk from the road to the homes. Her house is bonita, though. We had lunch and then Oscar and I practiced salsa, which I'm getting better at! Then we choreographed a number to a dancehall song. I never met a 22-year-old who enjoyed doing things like this with me, what fun! We still have to practice and add some more steps though.

Tomorrow the youngins around here (and Nidia, who's 39, but acts younger) are waking up at 6am to go by boat to some Carribean islands. I'm a bit too tan now (I'm trying to look like my beloved mangos), so tomorrow I'll have to be extra careful with the sun, my unforgiving pal.

Back home in Cartagena for a visit.

2009-05-06T02:01:00.000-04:00

I have a strong urge to write/type something down, but I have to figure out what exactly. Do you know that feeling? You know there's a lot inside waiting to be told to someone, but...and there are people all around you, but...and it's not as if you're afraid, or ashamed, or anything like that, it's just that you don't know, and even now the words are hard to type.

The reason why I feel like this is because I am in Cartagena, Colombia, staying at Elizabeth's house with her family that watches the house while she spends 11 months out of the year caring for the young daughter of a millionaire family in New York. Elizabeth was our "babysitter" for five or six days a week over 12+ years. But "babysitter" hardly represents what she was to me then, nor does it do justice to her indelible mark on my life.

When Elizabeth had to seek other work because of my family's weak financial situation, it was a very inopportune time for me; being 12 or 13 and living with two brothers and my Dad, I desperately needed her to stay. But at the time I didn't ask questions. To be honest, I can't remember how I felt around the time she said goodbye. For a long time, Lilly, as we called her, sent birthday and Christmas cards to my brothers and I; I sent her a sweater for her birthday one year. When she was in Boston she came to visit us, and one time we went as a family to visit her in Manhattan; she cared for, and continues to care for, a sweet, lucky girl, the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Eventually the cards stopped coming, though we spoke every 4-6 months via phone.

My life, of course, was never the same without her. I accepted her departure to care for another chiquitita, and her caring for me, as consequences of her career. (Yes, taking care of people, both blood and non-blood relatives is the lifetime profession she has mastered better than anyone.) But her leaving was equal to a close mother leaving her daughter to care for another girl. For a long time after she left, I tried to be strong: certainly she would have wanted it this way. As would become an awful habit of mine, I cauterized the wound of her untimely exit, but only temporarily: she visited once (was I 15 or 17?) and I cried, and then there was the poem I wrote just last year in Spanish about missing her. Obviously I had not processed what had happened to me.

And so I decided to visit her hometown after I left Argentina, thinking that some of the pieces would come back together, that I would understand more about her through knowing where she comes from. So I'm staying here with Lil's relatives in her house that she has let them live in for the past 18 years. Her niece, Martha, is the mother of the house, a large woman who laughs like the offspring of a rooster and a songbird would if interbreeding between species were possible and birds could laugh, just like Elizabeth laughs. I went to the beach today with two of Lil's countless nieces, went jogging with one of her nephews and also practiced salsa and merengüe with them after the most delicious dinner of platanos (fried, sweet plantains), avocado, meat and passionfruit juice.
Me and Maria at the beach

Listening to the iPod Lil had given him (an old 30GB from the children she works for), Lil's 2o-year-old great-nephew picked me up from Cartagena's small international airport. He had a sign that said: "Loren I'm Yair." We got into a taxi to go home, and I started to sniffle/cry a bit. I breathed to control the situation. Martha came home a half-hour later with fresh roses and corn flakes for me, and of course the tears came again. Lil got on the phone some way or another, and it was determined that I had a cold and should take advil. I said I did not have a cold, that I felt healthy, that I was okay. (One can cry and be okay, I guess.) "No llores," (don't cry) both Elizabeth and Martha told me. "Okay," I responded earnestly.

Martha and Nidia (they were not expecting the photo!)

I didn't speak to Lil on the phone today, but she's all around here, en casa and in Cartagena. She was there when I savored every speck of Colombian food served to me today and when I confirmed a nephew's comment that all I need to be content in life is fried, sweet plantains and thick mango juice (though I stuck in a clause about running shoes). Photos of her with family and friends are around the house, and everyone I speak with who knows Lil feels the same way about her as I do. In a way, I'm under Lil's care, albeit indirectly (she told Martha what I like to eat, that I like to laugh, etc), and it feels special.
Dinner with Jorge Luis (Jorgito) after a jog...so fresh and flavorful!

Before I got here my brother said that it would be like a time warp. I don't really think about it that way; of course the sounds, sights, smells and tastes bring me back to lovely times, but I am not the girl I was 9 years ago, so the experience is a step forward in my understanding of some elements of the past. I don't want to feel like I felt when I was a girl, living comfortably under Elizabeth's care, but like myself, 20-years-old, appreciating and incorporating things that were meaningful for me for a long time, but which I had stopped thinking about with the hope of moving independently into the future.

I am beginning to realize that Lil, who had made my life so rich, had to leave for reasons beyond my control, and even though this has hurt off and on for awhile, I am lucky to have had her constant care for as long as I did. Her support and discipline helped make me into the great person I am today, and even though now she is far away, I can still use her traits as examples for myself in the present. Talking to her on the phone and being around her family bring back strong feelings of love, family, etc. that sometimes making me cry, but I'm okay with that, her love is still around for now.

The end of the beginning

2009-05-02T00:36:00.000-04:00

Right now I am sitting in the most unlikely of places: a 5-star Sheraton hotel in Santiago, Chile. I was supposed to be in an ocean-front room in Peru as part of my surfari, but my plane to Lima got pushed to tomorrow morning.

Three months passed like summers pass; they feel drawn out as they happen, but so eclipsed at the end. For once I can't think of too many what-ifs (there's just one thing I wish I had told someone). I lived like I always wanted to: drank when I wanted to, talked to the people I wanted to, danced when I wanted to and went to class when I wanted to!

I felt strange the last few days of my trip, knowing that all of the good times were coming to an end. This alone, however, made me want to make the fara (the "move," the night, the party) on the last night the best. Around 2am a group of us tried to hail a taxi to a well-known club. We tried three times, but each driver made an excuse (not enough gas, too many cops near the club, etc.)...frustrating, but ultimately fuel for our amusement. Anyways, we got to the club, and through the madness of everyone getting in and knowing someone who knew someone we did not have to pay the $15 cover. On the open-air deck they played 80s tunes. Some of my friends popped champagne; with a Southern boy (from the U.S.) I spun and twisted in a way that would make my dad proud.

Around 5:30am I though that I did not want to stay until sunrise. I had no money though, so I had to wait until my benefactor Dior wanted to go back. I didn't want to be the one to end the night, so I just continued talking and dancing until the club started to clear out and only the die-hard shakers remained. With strangers we jumped and sang our energy out to stupid American songs; we put our arms around each other and spun. I felt so much freedom, complete presence. The sky started to lighten and we were cleared out of the club. Instead of headed straight for a cab, the five of us who stayed 'til the end watched the sky get blueish-orange. A Chilean fella gave me his black corduroy blazer: "Until you go to the taxi," he said.

My study abroad is officially over, but it will stay with me for a long time. I still have three weeks left in South America and I hope they will be three of the best ones yet.

An atypical sidewalk strut, mouths shut

2009-04-08T15:49:00.000-04:00

Ben and I leave school early after a grammar and lexicon quiz. We're back in Palermo, our hood, and we strut down the concrete sidewalk to grab an ice cream cone. In class we learned an expression that in Argentina takes on a naughty meaning (Spanish words can take on different meanings in different countries), but Ben and I disagree on its exact phrasing. So we stop on the side of the sidewalk to figure out if the phase is super silly or just plain silly. Ben looks through his book, his dreaded head bent in concentration, but all of a sudden, he turns to me, his black eyes unusually absent of expression.

"Did you just see him?" he asks.
"Who, the guy with the puffy hair?" I assume, as we have developed a shared level of comfort in citing what we find attractive and unattractive in both males and females. Ben turns his shoulder towards me as if to show me something, but I still do not know what he's trying to say.
"He just spit on me!"
"What?"
"That guy," he says, pointing his dark brown finger towards a denim-clad figure wearing black headphones that cover his frizzy, pony-tailed mane. He is hunched over, in the zone, traveling like a vulture towards a dead carcass.
"Are you serious?" I ask, stupified.
"Yes."
I don't know what to say, so I get napkins out of my purse and hand them to Ben.
"Should we go after him?" I ask, the only thing I know to say.
"And do what?"
"Ask him why he did that...why he's such a coward that he would do that and not say anything. I know I can catch up to him," I assure Ben.
"You're serious, aren't you. No, that's okay, Lauren," he says. So he smiles a recuperative smile and tries to continue from where he was before, looking for the naughty phrase in the book.
"I can't do this right now," he says, and stuffs what had once been a tree back in his North Face pack. ¨Maybe he just didn't see me?¨ Ben finally offers.

With our heads held up high and eyes focused forward, we walk towards our favorite heladería. Our eyelids are open very wide, yet our mouths are shut with invisible Elmers glue, the type you used in elementary school that just barely managed to keep two papers stuck together.

As I get older it seems that I encounter more and more moments like these when there is little I know to say, the words in my head unfitting for the situation. When this happens, I muddle forward, my heart becoming just a bit heavier from the brief period of hopelessness. Like the rest of humankind, I am filled with thoughts, heavy stones I have yet to express that remain stuck at the bottom of a peculiar place that by this age I have come to regard fondly as my own. Maybe what's happening is human metamorphosis: things that I once would have said just aren't me anymore. It can be frustrating to accept that although I am me, there are some things about myself that will not have an explanation.

A wonderful 24 hours in Buenos Aires

2009-03-15T22:09:00.000-04:00

A beautiful thing about my life in Buenos Aires is the lack of planning that pervades my days. While it has caused problems a couple of times, it has also opened the door for many unexpected adventures.

Last night I was supposed to meet my friend Diana and her boyfriend visiting from the U.S. for dinner at 10PM; I had a feeling she wouldn't show because we had made the plans the night before when she was drunk off of but 2 glasses of white wine. Instead, I dressed up to go for sushi with two friends. I felt so gorgeous in a coral dress I bought a few weeks ago. Amber (in the red dress) said it looked like it was made just for me!

Initially my compatriots were disgusted with the bitchy waitress, but this sentiment subsided quickly. We had a great time, chatting about life and love while slowly savoring our delicious Japanese food and warm chocolate volcano with "American-flavored" (vanilla) ice cream. By the time we left, it was already 1:00am.

We returned to the Residencia, and even though my girls were tired, we headed out for the salsa club Azucar ("sugar") around 2:15am. In the taxi, Amber was swearing like a drunken soldier, and got the young driver involved: "Azzz ohhhhl," he said, getting sucked into the fun (Amber never fails). The bouncer outside asked us for our documents (i.e. our licenses), but we didn't have any. "Where are you from?" he asked. "The U.S. and Ecuador," we said, and he let us proceed. It's all basically a show of authority; no one really cares about anything here.

In the club we tried to dance salsa, but my skills are still in the development phase. There was a hilarious spectacle where the Cuban dance professors went onstage and gyrate for a good minute and mandate that the club-goers do the same. It's a type of warm-up, I suppose. Just that was worth the 30 pesos entrance ($8). It was a fun night/morning, and I did not get up until 3pm today.

People in the Residencia often use the daylight hours to recuperate from the night before, so I could not find anyone to go with me to the Japanese gardens this afternoon. I headed out solo, but bumped into my friend Lyle and Steve, who were walking to a nearby park. We went to the Palermo botanical gardens together, where there are lakes with paddle boats, various species of roses, rollerbladers, etc. It seemed like eden.

We shared cotton candy that was twirled on the spot, and sat down with 200+ people for an "urban comedy show." From what we could understand, the two guys were very funny, albeit absurdly crude by American standards.

Even though there were babies and rows of young people (like these preteens), the comedians joked about having sex with the random girl they selected from the audience (the one standing in the mid-ground), among other raunchy subjects. When we gave them money and told them we were from the U.S., they joked, "Concha tu hermana!" (you can guess what that means).

Later I went to a Chinese restaurant with some friends, and it was moderately delicious, despite a mix-up about a shrimp appetizer (I thought we were getting shu-mai, but we really ordered blown up shrimp tails). Then I had chocolate cake, and my friends enjoyed ice cream while we gawked over an attractive Argentine ice cream scooper who wore a DJ Tiesto shirt.

Nothing that could be compared to fireworks made my 24 hours wonderful: a relaxed dinner with girlfriends, cotton candy with random peeps I bumped into on the street, and a street show were enough to make me appreciate being in Buenos Aires now, just as the days begin to get a little shorter, and the wind makes me think twice about leaving my sweater behind.

And Morocco Wins!

2009-03-04T07:00:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back I set up a poll: Where would my beloved readers go if they had the opportunity? With an overwhelming four votes, Morocco swiped the gold from South Africa (two votes), France and Russia (each garnered one solitary vote). Apparently my Russian contingent (Ed, Ilona and Lana) missed the poll!

While my survey was hardly scientific, I am convinced that there is something magical about countries like Morocco, something that sparks wonder in the hearts of many who go through the majority of their lives following a routine down to the final ¨e.¨

Just the sound of the place will make one close his solitaire hand and rush to a discount travel website; in a whisper let Morocco out of your mouth, extending the final syllable, keeping your jaw open: Morocohhhh. The soft, rolling sound makes me think of endless winds that blow through sand mountains, brushing away animal and human prints.

For those whose most exotic aspect of life is the addition of cayenne pepper to their omelettes, sueños of faraway, unknown lands provide hope that there really is some place out there where life must certainly be wonderful. If my theory is correct that people dream of traveling to places like Morocco, Japan, Fiji and Thailand because of their mystical associations, maybe their is something we can all do to make our country and our homes a little bit more sacred (and not in the religious way).

What is it that we envy about certain cultures? Is it the fact that in photographs, natives of certain countries always seem to smile like their lives are the best in the entire world, despite the fact that they don't have so much in terms of material goods by our standards? Are we jealous of their contentedness? Or maybe it is the clear, turquoise waters of Fiji, or the volcanic mountain ranges of Thailand that allures us with their sheer beauty.

Maybe these images we have are just made up pictures, glimpses that don't give us the real picture of what exists in faraway places. Despite the fact that we want these places to be everything we imagine them to be, they are much more. If we are searching for places of beauty, can we find them in our own homes?

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I myself will admit a tendency to search for something new, something better than what I have. But this is the problem. We do not know ourselves well enough, we do not want to take the time to find the beauty that no doubt exists within ourselves and our communities. A quick solution is what we like. But easy fixes don't usually do the trick, just like moving to a new place in itself won't change the way one feels about the world. I did not mean to spend so much time extrapolating the results of some fun survey, but they got me thinking, and hopefully you as well.

¨No please, thank you!¨

2009-02-12T06:35:00.000-05:00

A few Porteños I have encountered have made special efforts to help me out. It seems that people here initially keep to their own business, but are keen to provide assitance when someone asks for it. Here are just two of the scenarios that I encountered:

1) In the city of Buenos Aires, there are large supermarkets like Carrefour (the French Wal-Mart) and Jumbo. There are also small ones, often owned by Chinese people, where people pick up a couple of bags for the next couple of days, and walk home from there.

Anyways, I went to one of these to return the bottle of 5 peso ($1.75) balsamic vinegar I had boughten, and to buy some lotion. I´m not familiar with most of the brands here, so I asked a lady next to me which was best. When I asked her if the Nivea slimming lotion worked, she chuckled and said, ¨Sorry, I don´t know! I´ve never had celulitis.¨ Thanks, lady. But no really...she pulled through; we settled on the traditional Nivia. I was in line to check out when she taps me on the shoulder: ¨Hey, I found this one! I´ll hold on to it, and if the Nivea´s too expensive, take this one!¨This was not the case (it was 9 pesos, less than $3), and after checking out, we exchanged chaus, and I walked out, amused by the friendly little lady who cared enough to take additional time to look for something that a stranger needed.

2) In a magazine I once read the saying, ¨Buy flowers before bread.¨Luckily, I have enough silver to do both. After the market, I went to the corner flower shop, Las Dalias, and told the owner that I only wanted to spend a little (10 or 12 pesos, around $3.50). We conversed (in Spanish, obviously) about the condition of the flowers, what I´m doing here, etc., and he flew around the store, arranging a bouquet with a sprig of Jasmine so odorous that I could´ve extracted enough perfume from it to last me a month! Por favor, explain the names of the flowers to me, I asked, though I wouldn´t be able to remember them if I had to. This man was so, so patient, animated, even, with a young lady who barely wanted to throw down real sheckels . I asked him what the word in Spanish was for someone who did not want to spend much, and he said, inteligente. This guy was smart! He knew how to make me feel like I was doing a good thing by being spend-thrifty. Like the hurricanes that quickly appear and strike Central America, this guy zoomed around the store and poofed back up with new additions to the bouquet. ¨How much?¨ I asked. ¨Ten pesos, like I originally told you,¨ he said, ¨I just love to see young people interested in flowers!¨ That was a few days ago, and I have been moving the flowers around the residencia for everyone to enjoy.

While people here may not smile at one another on the street, they show their interest and selflessness in other, more meaningful ways. Whether we´re talking 2 pesos or 200 pesos, or an exchange not involving money, the final interaction goes like this:

-The ¨taker¨says, ¨Muchas gracias.¨
-The ¨giver¨says, ¨No, gracias a vos, ¨No, de nada,¨or ¨No, por favor¨(No, thank you...No, it´s nothing...no, please!)

It´s nice because it makes even the smallest interchange, something that might seem like a tedium of ordinary life, feel like a big deal. Alright, it´s time for me to go to class. Please leave comments if you are touched by my experiences.

Finally there is rain in Buenos Aires...and "Internship"

2009-02-02T20:16:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in the common room of my Residencia. The rain is coming down slower than it was earlier this evening. I want to turn on Pandora or iTunes or Purevolume, but I think it will be better to sit here and write with the sounds of water dripping down on the sidewalk and cars buzzing down the street.

I signed up for a "special assignment abroad" for credit towards a Spanish major, so today I started my assignment in the kitchen of a Jewish center. Lunch is served daily for people who qualify, for financial or social reasons. The cook Christina has fine hair and wrinkles that betray her 56 years. She was patient, carefully explaining and re-explaing what she was doing in simpler Spanish. Much of the food in Argentina is artesenal (homemade), not packaged. She made delicious rolls and pasta (not homemade, however) with white sauce. I helped with the cooking, but no one would let me wash the dishes or do any other cleaning.

Originally I was hesitant to do this assignment because the guy in charge of the CofC program wants me to go from 8:30am-1:30pm every Monday. I imagined myself very bored of five hours of cooking pasta with white sauce on a weekly basis. Luckily, Christina said that I should come no earlier than 10am (she said she would not tell anyone of our agreement). I loved talking in Spanish with Christina about Argentina and family, and it was interesting to charlar (informally converse) with the other two women volunteers, who in the dining room asked me if I minded the smell of cigarettes. I lied and told them I didn't mind. Like most Argentines, they were absurdly tan. I could guess their age as 60 or 65 because of their wrinkles, but their sun-loving bodies may have aged badly. One of the ladies said that she had been to the states 10 times with her stockbroker husband, who often had to descend the 50+ stories of NY skyscrapers to find a place to smoke a cigarette.

The recipients of the lunch program were not especially friendly or appreciative, as if they were accustomed to the daily homemade meals that were carefully prepared for them. Unlike most Argentines that I've seen (besides the ones at the "Chinese" buffets) who eat slowly and with awareness, they ate in less than 25 minutes. In the end I was glad that I had gone, even though it was not the mental health center or environmental agency that I had requested to work with last week.

The rain is once again coming down hard, and its sound softens my tired body on the overstuffed, flowery couch. The others are scattered; some live in the other residencia, some went to find food, etc. But I am just fine listening to the rain fall.

Todo excelente en Argentina!

2009-01-28T21:33:00.000-05:00

I've only been in Buenos Aires for two days, but already I'm getting accustomed to the city (Spanish comes in handy). I live in a residencia, kind of like a student boarding house, with the 7 other students from CofC who are here. Other international students will come soon, but it's nice for now with just us here because it allows space to get to know each other. The beds are clean, the water is hot, and the food is cooked by three Argentine women who smile brilliantly like the poor, but happy people in Anthropology and Sociology videos. When we go in to the comedor (dining area), they greet us: "Buenos, mi amor," for example. That's one thing I've noticed about the people I've met so far: they are content. For example, yesterday evening I introduced myself to the night watch lady (yes, we have one here, even though we have keys to get in) and I was trying to be laid back with her, so I asked how long her shift is, and whether or not it gets boring. She said something like, "Oh, que no! It's a pleasure to be here with you all." The people here are calm; the go about their lives without the types of life-concerning thoughts Americans have. Of course I only say this from the porteños (dwellers in BA) I've observed, and the few I've talked to. I went to the kiosco to get a gaseosa (soda), and ended up in conversation with the owner, Luis. He asked me about Massachusetts ("How far is it from Philadelphia?"); "Four hours? Five hours?" I said, not really knowing. He said his English is poor, I disagreed...I won't say what he said next, because you would probably misunderstand the tone of the interaction......okay, fine, I'll tell ya. He said that he needs "una linda chica" to practice [English] with.

I've been to Argentina before, so I often incorrectly expect that others are familiar with it. A few tidbits: Argentina has Ushuaía, the world's southernmost city. Think glaciers, penguins, whales, and Darwin. The clothing company Patagonia is named after the region of the same name that stretches from Chile to Argentina.. This is what Patagonia's website says about the region:

"To most people, especially then, Patagonia was a name like Timbuktu or Shangri-La, far-off, interesting, not quite on the map. Patagonia brings to mind, as we once wrote in a catalog introduction, 'romantic visions of glaciers tumbling into fjords, jagged windswept peaks, gauchos and condors.'"

I want to go to Patagonia because of its incredible scenery, outdoor sports, indigenous peoples, and on-the-edge-of-the-face-of-the-earth reputation. It would take 36 hours on the bus from BA to Ushuaía, and the cost of the fare is $60/way. TO GET TO THE END OF THE EARTH!!!! (Besides Antarctica, of course.) We (some students from the group) may go during Spring Break...vamos a ver (we'll see).

Anyways, it's 1:51am here, and I have to get up in the morning to meet the authorities from the Jewish soup kitchen.

Abrazos!

P.S. More to come soon! Thinking of Massachusetts and Charleston...