Happy Thanksgiving week! There are still a couple days left before the funds for the La Esperanza secondary school scholarship are due. Give a kid in Nicaragua something to be thankful for! Donate online via PayPal even if if you don't have a PayPal account just by following the links on the site below. Click the Donate button and give what you can - $5, $10, whatever. And have a happy turkey day!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Making It Fair
As a sophomore at the University of Pittsburgh in 2003, I enrolled in a course entitled "The Sociology of Sports" more because I needed an easy A than because I needed a sociology class. I expected the sociology of sports to be the sociology of fan-dom. I was wrong. In fact, the main subject of study was the manner in which sports teams can be improved. The instructor, an entrepreneur who began his own consulting business, worked directly with professional sports teams. He analyzed every sociological aspect of the franchise -- from clubhouse atmosphere to the (im)balance between different sectors of the team. The hypothesis under which he worked was that all aspects of the franchise must come together in a balanced and logical way such that victory is the outcome. He analyzed defense, offense, management, and specialists on and off the field. At the core of his work was this fundamental question: how can I take an under-performing team and make it into a winner?
I aced the course, and the instructor wanted to hire me. Even though I had little sociological knowledge or technical know how, the core question struck a chord in me because the whole process of team improvement intrigued me. I was the Queen of Fair as a kid, often driven to tears by the simple fact that something was unfair, regardless of whether or not the outcome involved something I wanted. The idea of compromise didn't appeal to me, unless I judged it to be a fair compromise. In other words, I have never been easily appeased. The process of making losing teams into winners was a great outlet for my passion for fairness. I loved the challenge for all its complexities, and I loved the outcome. Making teams into champions was never the goal -- it was always to make them competitive to such a degree that they had the chance to be a champion.
The semester after I studied the sociology of sports, I embarked on my semester at sea, shifting my studies toward globalization, international development, and cultural studies. My obsession with fairness found a new outlet, one which was aimed at the ultimate practice in justice: the fairness of the human condition. Until I completed my bachelor's degree, my studies focused on the political history and development of Latin America. Now, my attention is turned more toward the economic and human factors of development, and I feel the same amount of excitement for the conundrum set before me that I did in 2003. When I gaze down at the pile of notebooks, articles, developmental theory textbooks, and scholarly essays that surround me, I see the pieces of a puzzle. I'm saddled with the responsibility of putting these pieces together in such a way that societies have the opportunity to be winners. A finished puzzle wouldn't be the next economic super power, it would be a society in which people are competitive to the degree that they have the chance to champion their own causes.
At first glance, it seems an obsession with baseball and football is a petty passion for a person involved in the study and practice of international development, but upon closer inspection you can see that the two interests are just different sides of the same coin. I want to know how to take that which fails to meet its potential and create opportunities it can seize with success. I've found two outlets for this challenge, but there are many more. The front office managers of weak professional sports teams aim to provide their team with the tools it needs to compete. Classroom teachers strive to give under-performing students the tools they need to realize their potential. Philanthropic foundations work to give struggling organizations and entrepreneurs the tools they need to succeed in their aims. In international development, the goal is to give countries, governments, societies, or individuals the tools they need to actualize the goals they value.
How do you take something that performs poorly and make it into a winner? The pervasiveness of this question appears rooted in the fact that there is no single answer. The question opens a Pandora's box of complex circumstances, and it seems innately human to find the fun in sifting through them in search of combinative solutions that lead to success.
I aced the course, and the instructor wanted to hire me. Even though I had little sociological knowledge or technical know how, the core question struck a chord in me because the whole process of team improvement intrigued me. I was the Queen of Fair as a kid, often driven to tears by the simple fact that something was unfair, regardless of whether or not the outcome involved something I wanted. The idea of compromise didn't appeal to me, unless I judged it to be a fair compromise. In other words, I have never been easily appeased. The process of making losing teams into winners was a great outlet for my passion for fairness. I loved the challenge for all its complexities, and I loved the outcome. Making teams into champions was never the goal -- it was always to make them competitive to such a degree that they had the chance to be a champion.
The semester after I studied the sociology of sports, I embarked on my semester at sea, shifting my studies toward globalization, international development, and cultural studies. My obsession with fairness found a new outlet, one which was aimed at the ultimate practice in justice: the fairness of the human condition. Until I completed my bachelor's degree, my studies focused on the political history and development of Latin America. Now, my attention is turned more toward the economic and human factors of development, and I feel the same amount of excitement for the conundrum set before me that I did in 2003. When I gaze down at the pile of notebooks, articles, developmental theory textbooks, and scholarly essays that surround me, I see the pieces of a puzzle. I'm saddled with the responsibility of putting these pieces together in such a way that societies have the opportunity to be winners. A finished puzzle wouldn't be the next economic super power, it would be a society in which people are competitive to the degree that they have the chance to champion their own causes.
At first glance, it seems an obsession with baseball and football is a petty passion for a person involved in the study and practice of international development, but upon closer inspection you can see that the two interests are just different sides of the same coin. I want to know how to take that which fails to meet its potential and create opportunities it can seize with success. I've found two outlets for this challenge, but there are many more. The front office managers of weak professional sports teams aim to provide their team with the tools it needs to compete. Classroom teachers strive to give under-performing students the tools they need to realize their potential. Philanthropic foundations work to give struggling organizations and entrepreneurs the tools they need to succeed in their aims. In international development, the goal is to give countries, governments, societies, or individuals the tools they need to actualize the goals they value.
How do you take something that performs poorly and make it into a winner? The pervasiveness of this question appears rooted in the fact that there is no single answer. The question opens a Pandora's box of complex circumstances, and it seems innately human to find the fun in sifting through them in search of combinative solutions that lead to success.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
A Small Request
I received an email regarding school sponsorship from an organization which I befriended when I was volunteering in La Prusia, Nicaragua. My neighbor in La Prusia, a 19 year old girl named Chilo, inspired me to initially contact this organization about school sponsorship programs. Chilo is a sponsored student; a woman who also volunteered where I did pays yearly for Chilo's school fees, uniform, and books. Chilo is incredibly bright, and aims to attend university next year in Managua, hoping eventually to study outside Nicaragua.
La Prusia is an extremely poor neighborhood just beyond the borders of Granada, Nicaragua. The people who live there are marginalized by the government, which doesn't recognize them as legal landowners and therefore provides no sanitation, electricity, clean water, or schools for any of its more than 500 residents. The youngest children are sent to school in Granada, and their parents must pay school fees equivalent to about $100 yearly, which is usually more than each family earns over the course of 3 or 4 months. Most children do not go on to secondary school because of the high cost and because their help is needed in generating family income.
La Esperanza Granada funds a free school in La Prusia, but their teachers are volunteers and therefore there is a high changeover rate among staff. To help students who are most dedicated to their studies, the organization helps match deserving students with sponsors who pay for secondary and university education.
Chilo implored me to sponsor a student, and I intend to fulfill my promise to her. I'd like to start a sponsorship collection fund. I think it would be great if everyone donated as much or as little as they are able. In 2009, school fees will be $210. I'll make up the difference between whatever we collect and the $210 sponsorship cost. A link to the La Esperanza Granada website is below. To contribute to the collective sponsorship fund I proposed, just click the button. You can contribute online via PayPal!
La Prusia is an extremely poor neighborhood just beyond the borders of Granada, Nicaragua. The people who live there are marginalized by the government, which doesn't recognize them as legal landowners and therefore provides no sanitation, electricity, clean water, or schools for any of its more than 500 residents. The youngest children are sent to school in Granada, and their parents must pay school fees equivalent to about $100 yearly, which is usually more than each family earns over the course of 3 or 4 months. Most children do not go on to secondary school because of the high cost and because their help is needed in generating family income.
La Esperanza Granada funds a free school in La Prusia, but their teachers are volunteers and therefore there is a high changeover rate among staff. To help students who are most dedicated to their studies, the organization helps match deserving students with sponsors who pay for secondary and university education.
Chilo implored me to sponsor a student, and I intend to fulfill my promise to her. I'd like to start a sponsorship collection fund. I think it would be great if everyone donated as much or as little as they are able. In 2009, school fees will be $210. I'll make up the difference between whatever we collect and the $210 sponsorship cost. A link to the La Esperanza Granada website is below. To contribute to the collective sponsorship fund I proposed, just click the button. You can contribute online via PayPal!
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
El Diaro Che
Poverty is forced passiveness. To be wealthy is to be able to live life aggressively.
And this kind of wealth should never be forsaken and unappreciated, wasted, or lost.
Ernesto "Che" Guevara as a pop culture icon bothers me. My adoration of Guevara is not based on the concept of him as a counter-culture, fuck-the-man, martyred-by-the-CIA figure. Guevara is a symbol of what it means to explore, to set out on the open road, and to be touched by people. He is the one who said "Let the world change you, and you can change the world." And he did. He really did change the world. It was for a short time, but he fought and won a revolution. He led resistance in the Congo and in Bolivia. He was the ultimate destroyer of systems, ignorer of structures, inspirer of masses. It was convenient that the slang of his country allowed him to wear such a populist nametag as che -- dude, buddy, friend. At how ironic that such a name would always highlight his roots in South America's most European country. How fitting that he wore that badge, the blood of the Spaniards so strong in his veins, while fighting for the cause of the single, mestizo race of Latin America.
Guevara was the ultimate traveler, couchsurfer, idealist, visualizer, thinker, dirtbag. He should be studied for his thoughts, his journal-keeping, his experiences, his goals. He is not a lesson in failed populism, CIA intervention, halted revolution, or narrow-minded idealism. Guevara is a lesson in the value of the journey, the importance of the daydreamer, the power of the open heart. Those lessons would do everyone a lot of good.
He changed the world, and it all started with a backpack and the road.
Monday, September 15, 2008
My Maple Syrup Brain
My head is spinning and I'm not quite sure what set it off. Could it be the massive amounts of development theory I am reading through each day? Or maybe it's the economic equations with their dozens of variables that set my brain on a spiraling path to insanity. Could the dizzying pace at which I have settled into life in Vancouver be contributing to the madness? Without a doubt, the sheer volume of names and faces and stories and places that have muscled their way into my consciousness must be complicating my mental state.
When it comes to school, I have theories on everything and opinions on nothing. Each book contradicts the next. Easterly says development is economic growth, and the only path to success is through incentivizing investment. But Sachs argues that debt forgiveness and education and disease control are the goals which will lead to development. Easterly mocks Bono; Sachs is Bono's mentor. Sen argues that everyone is completely bonkers -- and the only way we can measure development is by the capabilities of individuals; development is freedom. But such a broad definition of development opens the door to arguments both for and against anarchy, Marxism, capitalism, industrialization, de-industrialization, economic reform, universal education, and globalization.
I'm in Vancouver because I want to learn about development, which to me is the minimization of misery and the increase in equality among all people, not just within a given community or country. I think this requires sacrifice on the part of the wealthiest -- I see no practicableness in the idea that we can keep economies growing infinitely to the end that everyone is wealthy. No, wealth is built on the exploitation of others. To achieve equity and fairness, sacrifices must be made. The system must be radically changed (destroyed?). I'm in Vancouver, and I spend 10 hours a day thinking about all these things that need to be done. I think, I listen, I discuss, I think some more, I argue a bit, I think, I go home, I read, I think, I try to synthesize it all, and I end up turning to my journal or this blog or a friend's unoccupied ear in the hope that if I ramble long enough about all these ideas, some sort of cohesive thought will eventually form in my brain and tumble off my tongue in a coherent manner. But all that I've got is the previous sentence: 75 words of gibberish.
In an ideal world, everyone would have the opportunity to expend this much mental energy on theory and philosophy and concepts, but there would be no need because there would be no desperation for change. Even though I know that the opportunity for this thought is what separates the free from the unfree, I don't think that life should really be lived this way. Life should be simple, clean, happy. People should throw off desire, embrace reflection, nature, and the generosity of others. Buddha had it right -- but the problem with Buddhism is that we are all supposed to toss away our possessions and rely on the generosity of others in order to obtain what we need to survive. If everyone is throwing off desire and possessions, then who is left to give charity?
That was way off the point, but it's been an idea that has crept into my head more than once today, and I thought perhaps the best way to deal with its annoying presence in my mind would be to try to communicate it to someone else. It's not that the idea annoys me, but I feel that my mental energy is so pushed to the limit that any thought not directly related to Sen, Easterly, Keynes, Mosse, Harriss, the IMF, Bono, Sachs, the World Bank, globalization, the dalit, the WTO, Marxists, hippies, anarchists, and famine is mental energy that is being wasted.
But then on the other hand -- what good is my position in a "developed" society if I cannot exercise my mental capacities in the way that I see valuable? I want to think about football and chocolate, sunsets, leprechauns, the Hold Steady, Buddhism, paper airplanes, the attractive people I see everywhere, movies, Naipaul, cotton vs. hemp, and quesadillas. Thinking about that stuff is fun. It makes me feel alive. Thinking about development economics does not make me feel alive; it makes me feel like I am drowning in molasses (or should I say maple syrup?), but that perhaps someday I'll have one single great thought that could make a huge impact on the world and rocket me out of my sugary grave. So I am trapped inside my own mind. On the one hand, I want to exercise the parts of my brain that give me instant gratification, and on the other hand I want to push my brain to the absolute limit of my capacity for abstract thought, even though it is painful, frustrating, and apparently doomed to futility, since I have more questions and no answers.
When it comes to school, I have theories on everything and opinions on nothing. Each book contradicts the next. Easterly says development is economic growth, and the only path to success is through incentivizing investment. But Sachs argues that debt forgiveness and education and disease control are the goals which will lead to development. Easterly mocks Bono; Sachs is Bono's mentor. Sen argues that everyone is completely bonkers -- and the only way we can measure development is by the capabilities of individuals; development is freedom. But such a broad definition of development opens the door to arguments both for and against anarchy, Marxism, capitalism, industrialization, de-industrialization, economic reform, universal education, and globalization.
I'm in Vancouver because I want to learn about development, which to me is the minimization of misery and the increase in equality among all people, not just within a given community or country. I think this requires sacrifice on the part of the wealthiest -- I see no practicableness in the idea that we can keep economies growing infinitely to the end that everyone is wealthy. No, wealth is built on the exploitation of others. To achieve equity and fairness, sacrifices must be made. The system must be radically changed (destroyed?). I'm in Vancouver, and I spend 10 hours a day thinking about all these things that need to be done. I think, I listen, I discuss, I think some more, I argue a bit, I think, I go home, I read, I think, I try to synthesize it all, and I end up turning to my journal or this blog or a friend's unoccupied ear in the hope that if I ramble long enough about all these ideas, some sort of cohesive thought will eventually form in my brain and tumble off my tongue in a coherent manner. But all that I've got is the previous sentence: 75 words of gibberish.
In an ideal world, everyone would have the opportunity to expend this much mental energy on theory and philosophy and concepts, but there would be no need because there would be no desperation for change. Even though I know that the opportunity for this thought is what separates the free from the unfree, I don't think that life should really be lived this way. Life should be simple, clean, happy. People should throw off desire, embrace reflection, nature, and the generosity of others. Buddha had it right -- but the problem with Buddhism is that we are all supposed to toss away our possessions and rely on the generosity of others in order to obtain what we need to survive. If everyone is throwing off desire and possessions, then who is left to give charity?
That was way off the point, but it's been an idea that has crept into my head more than once today, and I thought perhaps the best way to deal with its annoying presence in my mind would be to try to communicate it to someone else. It's not that the idea annoys me, but I feel that my mental energy is so pushed to the limit that any thought not directly related to Sen, Easterly, Keynes, Mosse, Harriss, the IMF, Bono, Sachs, the World Bank, globalization, the dalit, the WTO, Marxists, hippies, anarchists, and famine is mental energy that is being wasted.
But then on the other hand -- what good is my position in a "developed" society if I cannot exercise my mental capacities in the way that I see valuable? I want to think about football and chocolate, sunsets, leprechauns, the Hold Steady, Buddhism, paper airplanes, the attractive people I see everywhere, movies, Naipaul, cotton vs. hemp, and quesadillas. Thinking about that stuff is fun. It makes me feel alive. Thinking about development economics does not make me feel alive; it makes me feel like I am drowning in molasses (or should I say maple syrup?), but that perhaps someday I'll have one single great thought that could make a huge impact on the world and rocket me out of my sugary grave. So I am trapped inside my own mind. On the one hand, I want to exercise the parts of my brain that give me instant gratification, and on the other hand I want to push my brain to the absolute limit of my capacity for abstract thought, even though it is painful, frustrating, and apparently doomed to futility, since I have more questions and no answers.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
my people
these people exist
they're just hard to find
the ones that have passion
and put it all on the line.
the ones with good taste
for their music and shows
the ones who eat curry
sushi, pizza, natty bohs.
these people who love beauty
and road trip sing-alongs
the ones who read vonnegut
and write breakfast food songs.
they rarely sit still
travel by bus, bike, and feet
they have opinions on everything
in trivial pursuit can't be beat.
fans of john belushi
cusack, candy, and hughes
underdogs on paper
but really can't lose.
they're campers and dirtbags
greasy, sweaty, and free
they wander across cities
countries, oceans -- all three.
these people walk the edge
of where the ocean meets the land
like they're walking on a wire
often walking hand in hand.
they're laughers and thinkers
they carry only what they need
they talk about nonsense
reject good fortune for good deed.
my people are few
they've got a sparkle divine
they live life on fire
they walk the line.
the talkers, the drinkers
the misfits, the serene
they clap their hands
they cause a scene.
no complaining, no worries
never embarrassed, never lost
seeking out adventure
no matter the cost.
weekends start wednesday
summer's over too soon
box wine in backpacks
raise a toast to the moon.
houses have nicknames
but home is the noise
of clinking glass, thumping bass
seeking out simple joys.
the dreamers, the huggers
cheering for their teams
drinking, eating, sleeping
with life bursting at the seams.
sharing couches and kitchens
often misunderstood
my people show me truth
that in every bad there's good.
through lovesickness and heartbreak
death, loss, and despair
the ones for me never stop moving
won't stop living, wouldnt dare.
you see these people are few
and they're not easy to find
but their loyalty never fades
so neither does mine.
they're just hard to find
the ones that have passion
and put it all on the line.
the ones with good taste
for their music and shows
the ones who eat curry
sushi, pizza, natty bohs.
these people who love beauty
and road trip sing-alongs
the ones who read vonnegut
and write breakfast food songs.
they rarely sit still
travel by bus, bike, and feet
they have opinions on everything
in trivial pursuit can't be beat.
fans of john belushi
cusack, candy, and hughes
underdogs on paper
but really can't lose.
they're campers and dirtbags
greasy, sweaty, and free
they wander across cities
countries, oceans -- all three.
these people walk the edge
of where the ocean meets the land
like they're walking on a wire
often walking hand in hand.
they're laughers and thinkers
they carry only what they need
they talk about nonsense
reject good fortune for good deed.
my people are few
they've got a sparkle divine
they live life on fire
they walk the line.
the talkers, the drinkers
the misfits, the serene
they clap their hands
they cause a scene.
no complaining, no worries
never embarrassed, never lost
seeking out adventure
no matter the cost.
weekends start wednesday
summer's over too soon
box wine in backpacks
raise a toast to the moon.
houses have nicknames
but home is the noise
of clinking glass, thumping bass
seeking out simple joys.
the dreamers, the huggers
cheering for their teams
drinking, eating, sleeping
with life bursting at the seams.
sharing couches and kitchens
often misunderstood
my people show me truth
that in every bad there's good.
through lovesickness and heartbreak
death, loss, and despair
the ones for me never stop moving
won't stop living, wouldnt dare.
you see these people are few
and they're not easy to find
but their loyalty never fades
so neither does mine.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Summer Time (And The Livin's Easy)
Life in Vancouver has certainly not gotten off to any kind of modest start. Besides the epic road trip which marked the beginning of my transition to life here, the first week in BC was incredibly eventful. For starters, my road trip companion was around for the first two days. She had that "see it all while I can" attitude that only visitors can really maintain. We hiked in Stanley Park, tried various restaurants, befriended bartenders, checked out the art museum, saw the zombie parade, went shopping, and explored some of the funkier parts of town. Then she left, and I dissolved into a pool of my own conflicting emotions: excitement, apprehension, ambition, fear, happiness, loneliness...
After only a day or two of wallowing in that strange space between visitor and local, I got back on my feet and resumed the project of exploring this town. I made some friends, ran errands, demystified the public transportation system, and stopped carrying my guidebook and map with me every time I left the house. I climbed onto my bike and charged up the 15 block hill towards downtown, intent on exploring the massive campus at the University of British Columbia, which has more preserved green space than Stanley Park. My ambitious plan was thwarted after more than 100 blocks, though, when an oblivious driver opened her car door directly into my handlebars. My bike went flying, and so did I. Amazingly, I have only some nasty bruises and a sore hand to show for it. (Yes, I was wearing my helmet.) My bike is even undamaged. But my temporary hosts convinced me to contact the insurance company of British Columbia, as reporting all accidents involving autos is mandatory. I feared the driver, who not only tried to blame the incident on me but also gave me the finger as she stormed away, would try to file a claim against me for damage to her car door. To protect myself, I made a statement with the insurance company first.
I didn't expect anything to come of it, I just wanted my story to be on record. But protocol led me to an appointment with a claims adjuster, who took my story and listened to my tale attentively. He encouraged me to request reimbursement for my costs. The bandage for my hand cost $5, and he said he'd reimburse me for that. I laughed, but he was serious. Never has an insurance company so begged me to ask them for money. At one point during the meeting he even said, "Well, you've got a great attitude about this, and I like to give presents to people with good attitudes." I am not sure what he was insinuating with that remark, but I hope it means I'll be somehow compensated for my inconvenience even though I haven't filed a claim. I'm sure he's just trying to keep me from going to court, since that would cost the insurance company way more than a little settlement, but I have no intentions of filing a claim, let alone suing. I suppose the gods are smiling down on me.
Hopefully, the good vibes that have characterized my first week and a half here will continue to set the flow for the coming weeks. I move into my apartment this weekend, and school starts a few days after. The pace of life will certainly be changing, but hopefully not too much else. Well, I guess I could hope for a little better weather. It's been unseasonably cool for the past few days: a welcome change when compared to D.C.'s 90-something and humid summer, but still a bit harsh for August. Things will never be perfect, but so long as the weather is the worst thing I have to complain about, I'll go ahead and say they are.
After only a day or two of wallowing in that strange space between visitor and local, I got back on my feet and resumed the project of exploring this town. I made some friends, ran errands, demystified the public transportation system, and stopped carrying my guidebook and map with me every time I left the house. I climbed onto my bike and charged up the 15 block hill towards downtown, intent on exploring the massive campus at the University of British Columbia, which has more preserved green space than Stanley Park. My ambitious plan was thwarted after more than 100 blocks, though, when an oblivious driver opened her car door directly into my handlebars. My bike went flying, and so did I. Amazingly, I have only some nasty bruises and a sore hand to show for it. (Yes, I was wearing my helmet.) My bike is even undamaged. But my temporary hosts convinced me to contact the insurance company of British Columbia, as reporting all accidents involving autos is mandatory. I feared the driver, who not only tried to blame the incident on me but also gave me the finger as she stormed away, would try to file a claim against me for damage to her car door. To protect myself, I made a statement with the insurance company first.
I didn't expect anything to come of it, I just wanted my story to be on record. But protocol led me to an appointment with a claims adjuster, who took my story and listened to my tale attentively. He encouraged me to request reimbursement for my costs. The bandage for my hand cost $5, and he said he'd reimburse me for that. I laughed, but he was serious. Never has an insurance company so begged me to ask them for money. At one point during the meeting he even said, "Well, you've got a great attitude about this, and I like to give presents to people with good attitudes." I am not sure what he was insinuating with that remark, but I hope it means I'll be somehow compensated for my inconvenience even though I haven't filed a claim. I'm sure he's just trying to keep me from going to court, since that would cost the insurance company way more than a little settlement, but I have no intentions of filing a claim, let alone suing. I suppose the gods are smiling down on me.
Hopefully, the good vibes that have characterized my first week and a half here will continue to set the flow for the coming weeks. I move into my apartment this weekend, and school starts a few days after. The pace of life will certainly be changing, but hopefully not too much else. Well, I guess I could hope for a little better weather. It's been unseasonably cool for the past few days: a welcome change when compared to D.C.'s 90-something and humid summer, but still a bit harsh for August. Things will never be perfect, but so long as the weather is the worst thing I have to complain about, I'll go ahead and say they are.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
I Made It!
philadelphia
lots of laughs, wake at dawn, drive drive drive
chicago
hugs and beers. rooftop chit chat. music and dancing.
driving for what felt like days. breakout out the tent. make a fire.
mount rushmore
smaller than i expected. rain and hail. running. laughter.
more campsites. a motel. heart to hearts. long days in the car filled with good music.
yellowstone national park and old faithful.
beautiful.
the last part was a blur. driving driving driving. seattle. bellingham.
finally.
vancouver.
This city is huge and overwhelming. There is so much to see and do. So many people to meet. The first full day here, my friend and I ran into a parade of zombies. There were traditional zombies, an Elvis zombie, a hula zombie, and finally at the end of the hundreds of walking dead, a group of stoic zombies performing the Thriller dance. Perfectly timed. No music. It was so excellent! And it was the perfect welcome to what I am sure will be a very bizarre, educational, and fun year.
lots of laughs, wake at dawn, drive drive drive
chicago
hugs and beers. rooftop chit chat. music and dancing.
driving for what felt like days. breakout out the tent. make a fire.
mount rushmore
smaller than i expected. rain and hail. running. laughter.
more campsites. a motel. heart to hearts. long days in the car filled with good music.
yellowstone national park and old faithful.
beautiful.
the last part was a blur. driving driving driving. seattle. bellingham.
finally.
vancouver.
This city is huge and overwhelming. There is so much to see and do. So many people to meet. The first full day here, my friend and I ran into a parade of zombies. There were traditional zombies, an Elvis zombie, a hula zombie, and finally at the end of the hundreds of walking dead, a group of stoic zombies performing the Thriller dance. Perfectly timed. No music. It was so excellent! And it was the perfect welcome to what I am sure will be a very bizarre, educational, and fun year.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Amazing
As I sit watching the Home Run Derby, I am marveling at Josh Hamilton. His story is incredible: former coke-head/heroin addict who was out of baseball for three years, had a dream he was hitting in the home run derby at Yankee Stadium, got clean, and is now in the running to be the first Triple Crown winner in decades. He hit 28 homeruns in the first round of tonight's derby at Yankee Stadium. What did he have to stay after the historic performance? "It's amazing what God's done in my life and how quickly he did it." God, god, god -- I feel like his name is on the lips of half my favorite ball players these days. I'm not a religious person, so my first reaction to all this god talk is to be turned off. I mean, people should recognize that working out and physics has something to do with baseball, not just god. But then, who (or what) is god?
Josh Hamilton's psychic dream brings to my mind the idea that the human brain is capable of way more than we can even fathom. And time, that's a fluid concept. We understand and can experience time moving forward, but in all other aspects of existence that which moves forward can also move backwards. And sideways. Maybe we don't consciously experience it, but time is moving all around us. Maybe our little-understood brains actually experience time in all its dimensions, even if our bodies cannot.
Some people would call these ideas science fiction. Others call it quantum physics. And still others, they call it god. When one person see things others cannot, people call it god. When someone is able to overcome enormous physical obstacles, people call it god. They call it god because they can't explain it. "It's god's will," they may say. Well I think there is an explanation. I don't necessarily have that explanation, but I believe it's out there. Put me in the quantum physics camp. But from that camp, I feel like I have to reach a hand out to the god folks. They're recognizing all the same amazing things I am -- they've just decided that instead of finding an explanation, they're better off trusting in the existence of the amazing for what it is. I'd rather acknowledge that the explanation for the amazing is possibly the most amazing of it all, and only by seeking understanding can a person truly appreciate it -- but that's just me.
Josh Hamilton's psychic dream brings to my mind the idea that the human brain is capable of way more than we can even fathom. And time, that's a fluid concept. We understand and can experience time moving forward, but in all other aspects of existence that which moves forward can also move backwards. And sideways. Maybe we don't consciously experience it, but time is moving all around us. Maybe our little-understood brains actually experience time in all its dimensions, even if our bodies cannot.
Some people would call these ideas science fiction. Others call it quantum physics. And still others, they call it god. When one person see things others cannot, people call it god. When someone is able to overcome enormous physical obstacles, people call it god. They call it god because they can't explain it. "It's god's will," they may say. Well I think there is an explanation. I don't necessarily have that explanation, but I believe it's out there. Put me in the quantum physics camp. But from that camp, I feel like I have to reach a hand out to the god folks. They're recognizing all the same amazing things I am -- they've just decided that instead of finding an explanation, they're better off trusting in the existence of the amazing for what it is. I'd rather acknowledge that the explanation for the amazing is possibly the most amazing of it all, and only by seeking understanding can a person truly appreciate it -- but that's just me.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Ode To Summer!
Day to day, night to night
That's how we live and we're all right
We walk around this town like we own the streets
And stay awake through summer like we own the heat
We live on front porches and swing life away
Love and trust and shows all summer
Life's better lived in smaller lengths of time
Paycheck to dollar night
May I never lose my youth, and if I do may I be forgettable.
Getting older only makes it harder to remember
Let this demon in -- he'll only remind you
We are our only saviors
I've got some friends, some that I hardly know
But we've had some times I wouldn't trade for the world
We chase these days down with talks of the places that we will go
I will never lose my youth.
All of this is too unforgettable
We're gonna build something this summer
Props to The Copyrights (Kids of the Black Hole), Brand New (Soco Amaretto Lime), Rise Against (Swing Life Away), The Hold Steady (Constructive Summer), and Set Your Goals (The Fallen).
That's how we live and we're all right
We walk around this town like we own the streets
And stay awake through summer like we own the heat
We live on front porches and swing life away
Love and trust and shows all summer
Life's better lived in smaller lengths of time
Paycheck to dollar night
May I never lose my youth, and if I do may I be forgettable.
Getting older only makes it harder to remember
Let this demon in -- he'll only remind you
We are our only saviors
I've got some friends, some that I hardly know
But we've had some times I wouldn't trade for the world
We chase these days down with talks of the places that we will go
I will never lose my youth.
All of this is too unforgettable
We're gonna build something this summer
Props to The Copyrights (Kids of the Black Hole), Brand New (Soco Amaretto Lime), Rise Against (Swing Life Away), The Hold Steady (Constructive Summer), and Set Your Goals (The Fallen).
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A Penciled Plan
I leave for Vancouver in less than 8 weeks. My friend Jess is coming along for the adventure. This is our first rough plan for a 6-day route. We'll stop along the way wherever it catches our fancy to do so, and hopefully get a brewery tour at Big Sky in Missoula, MT:
View Larger Map
View Larger Map
Monday, June 2, 2008
No Stranger Land
It is no small wonder how so many people want to dedicate their lives to doing good, spreading happiness, and connecting with people from all over. But currently two small wonders, trekking across the country on foot on a tour of goodwill and adventure, are making the intentions of many into the reality of a few. The No Stranger Land Project is an inspiring journey by two recent University of Iowa grads to walk from Maine to the West Coast, performing random acts of kindness in attempt to make the country into a "No Stranger Land." The duo of foot travelers keeps a great travelogue on their blog, and the writing is almost as inspiring as the journey.
Projects like this one renew my faith that if you dream it, you can do it. But seeing two boys set off on such an awesome adventure also reminds me how much easier it is to be an adventuring man than woman. These boys are big and strong; they can carry their large packs and still have energy to perform random acts of kindness (albeit a struggle). But they don't have to worry about rapists or tampons. The pair of them can hitchhike with confidence. They simply have it easier. I envy them.
Projects like this one renew my faith that if you dream it, you can do it. But seeing two boys set off on such an awesome adventure also reminds me how much easier it is to be an adventuring man than woman. These boys are big and strong; they can carry their large packs and still have energy to perform random acts of kindness (albeit a struggle). But they don't have to worry about rapists or tampons. The pair of them can hitchhike with confidence. They simply have it easier. I envy them.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Glue That Holds Us Together
There are a lot of reasons that people come together and form close friendships. Cohesive groups can be built on a shared passion, neighborhood, tragedy, lifestyle, or hobby. I never put much thought into what brought and holds my friends together until someone outside the circle spoke to me about what brings his friends together. "No matter what," he said. "My friends and I all really try to treat people right." That struck me not only as an admirable trait, but also as an incredibly impressive distinction for a group of friends. Their dedication to that code must be really strong if it is what holds together their friendship.
What singular aspect, then, is responsible for holding my crew together? I couldn't pinpoint just one. By and large, we're conscientious: politically, socially, and environmentally. But that isn't what defines who we are. We also have an unparalleled passion for music, despite the rather wide canvas which encompasses our personal tastes. But that isn't a defining characteristic for any of us, either. We all share a taste for the absurd, a desire to bring people together to laugh and dance and eat, and a general love for life. But until today, I had not realized that this love for life presents a pair of attitudes that we all find rather difficult to balance. Perhaps this is what defines us as individuals and as a group.
On the one hand, I believe we are a group that loves every moment of happiness more than most. Our capacity for feeling good is simply greater than that of most others. To love laughter and the joy of your finer moments makes the anticipation of future adventures almost too much to bear. To love new experiences and yearn for them to the point that we drop everything for the chance to drive across the country on a scooter or teach English in Korea for a year (which has appealed not only to one of my friends, but three), is certainly a distinctive characteristic. Our thirst for new people and places carries us forward like a riptide. We start a life at a job, a school, a new city with precise focus, only to be drawn down the shore by the enticing possibilities around us. On ever-changing paths to the future, we allow ourselves to be carried forward by unknown forces.
But this love for life doesn't just draw us toward the uncertain future, it also hold us back. We share a strong sense of nostalgia. We look back and see moments of uncontrollable laughter, easy afternoons beneath sunny skies, and uninhibited hours of freedom in the universe we created. We recall bringing people together to dance, to grill, to marvel at fireworks and watch the reflections of our smiles in each others' eyes. When we find ourselves at a fork in the uncertain road to the future, the appeal of the past grows stronger. We know we can make our lives whatever we want them to be, so ever-present among the countless options before us is the possibility of recreating the finest of our memories and making an attempt at going back in time.
I have many conversations with friends about wanting to go back to where it all started -- be that Pittsburgh or Semester at Sea or Costa Rica -- and extend the lifestyle of our pasts indefinitely into the future. But I also realize that we're all thirsting to experience everything and fill our lives with new adventures. Could we really be happy living in a situation as familiar as one intentionally created to mimic what we have already seen and done?
I don't know how to balance these contradictory loves for the past and future except by moving forward into the unknown while holding on tight to the people who were there from the beginning. Places can't be carried with you, but people can. Even as they change and grow into ever more complicated creatures, people can be held close to help you carry the pure joy of the past into the wild excitement of the future.
What singular aspect, then, is responsible for holding my crew together? I couldn't pinpoint just one. By and large, we're conscientious: politically, socially, and environmentally. But that isn't what defines who we are. We also have an unparalleled passion for music, despite the rather wide canvas which encompasses our personal tastes. But that isn't a defining characteristic for any of us, either. We all share a taste for the absurd, a desire to bring people together to laugh and dance and eat, and a general love for life. But until today, I had not realized that this love for life presents a pair of attitudes that we all find rather difficult to balance. Perhaps this is what defines us as individuals and as a group.
On the one hand, I believe we are a group that loves every moment of happiness more than most. Our capacity for feeling good is simply greater than that of most others. To love laughter and the joy of your finer moments makes the anticipation of future adventures almost too much to bear. To love new experiences and yearn for them to the point that we drop everything for the chance to drive across the country on a scooter or teach English in Korea for a year (which has appealed not only to one of my friends, but three), is certainly a distinctive characteristic. Our thirst for new people and places carries us forward like a riptide. We start a life at a job, a school, a new city with precise focus, only to be drawn down the shore by the enticing possibilities around us. On ever-changing paths to the future, we allow ourselves to be carried forward by unknown forces.
But this love for life doesn't just draw us toward the uncertain future, it also hold us back. We share a strong sense of nostalgia. We look back and see moments of uncontrollable laughter, easy afternoons beneath sunny skies, and uninhibited hours of freedom in the universe we created. We recall bringing people together to dance, to grill, to marvel at fireworks and watch the reflections of our smiles in each others' eyes. When we find ourselves at a fork in the uncertain road to the future, the appeal of the past grows stronger. We know we can make our lives whatever we want them to be, so ever-present among the countless options before us is the possibility of recreating the finest of our memories and making an attempt at going back in time.
I have many conversations with friends about wanting to go back to where it all started -- be that Pittsburgh or Semester at Sea or Costa Rica -- and extend the lifestyle of our pasts indefinitely into the future. But I also realize that we're all thirsting to experience everything and fill our lives with new adventures. Could we really be happy living in a situation as familiar as one intentionally created to mimic what we have already seen and done?
I don't know how to balance these contradictory loves for the past and future except by moving forward into the unknown while holding on tight to the people who were there from the beginning. Places can't be carried with you, but people can. Even as they change and grow into ever more complicated creatures, people can be held close to help you carry the pure joy of the past into the wild excitement of the future.
I Get The Notion It's A Summer Rain...
Despite the East Coast phenomenon of chilly sogginess, summer is actually approaching. Just ask the people in the Northwest, who had record-setting heat last week, or the people in the South, who are dealing with it now. And as the summer days draw near, it's time for the year's biggest blockbusting movies. This week, it's all about the return of a whip-toting archaeologist. But before you dash over to your nearest theater and buy the last affordable popcorn, read What I've Learned From Dr. Jones, written by my good friend over at DraculaLovesYou.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Aimless In Wonder
I want to be so awed by the world that my life is pointed in all directions at once. I don't think aimless deserves the negative connotation that it has. One can be ambitious and aimless at the same time.
Ambition - the desire to achieve
Aimless - moving in no particular direction
I would never strive to be ambition-less. but as I see it, I can be aimless and still live a full and happy life. In fact, an aimless life seems to be a fuller and happier one that I imagine an "aimed" life would be. Aimless implies movement in one's life -- following a path without knowing your final destination, or even blazing a new trail without an endpoint in mind. Life should be lived like an afternoon walk in the forest -- taken one step at a time, with frequent stops to enjoy the view, applaud yourself for overcoming challenges, and observe the way your surroundings interact with your presence and can continue to thrive long after you've gone away. It has nothing to do with reaching a certain place or finding a specific thing; it's just about the journey. And to be so overwhelmed with wonder and awe that you cannot possibly pinpoint a goal other than to simply live, that is true success.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
What's An Adventurer To Do But Rest My Feet...?
When I think back on my last few weekends, I see a series of rapidly moving, blurry images of DC. It's something like
trafficjammetrohockeyfriescrowdstreetfightfriends
beerrainmetrodancepartyfriendsmetrospanishsweat
parkinglotmetrorainstormfreezingconcertrainfreezing
dancepartyindianfoodskeeballtragedymetropizzabaseball
That being my mental state, I decided to force myself to slow down. After the Pirates/Nationals game on Sunday, which the Pirates lost sadly, I decided to avoid the crowded Green Line Navy Yard stop, even though I needed to get to Greenbelt to pick up my car. I figured I'd walk to the next stop or maybe go to Union Station, get on the Red Line, and then pick the Green back up at Fort Totten. I left the Navy Yard station at 4:30pm, and headed North. I didn't really know which street to walk on, I just new that if I walked towards the Capital, I'd eventually get to where I wanted to be. I found a sweet, empty Wendy's and bought a delicious chocolate Frosty shake (wow, Wendy's has come so far since I was a kid) and started merrily on my journey. I followed some other post-game pedestrians, and eventually found a sweet walking path under 395. I was a little weary, not being familiar with the neighborhood and knowing only that I was certainly not in the best neighborhood in which to lose track of myself. However, there were a lot of other baseball folks walking, so I figured I'd go with the flow.
Eventually, I found myself strolling past the Capital, which I hadn't visited since an ACORN-led protest in 2006. I forgot what a massively beautiful building it is. It seemed even more beautiful when I blocked out my knowledge of what happens inside. So I dawdled a little there, admiring all the foreigners and tourists excitedly taking pictures of the marble dome and view of the Washington Monument from a distance. I sipped some tepid, chlorinated water from a public fountain, and continued on a beeline path for Union Station. Only when I got there, I realized it was entirely too close to the Capital. I wasn't ready to stop walking yet. By this time, it was just past 5:00, and I figured the crowds on the Green Line would have dwindled. So I headed for Chinatown.
Again, let me remind you that I didn't really know where I was going. I just knew that if I got to 7th and G, I'd be near the Metro. I'm not too good at the whole NE, NW, SE thing that is required of navigating in DC. But I do have a pretty good sense of direction, even if I don't know what the streets I am walking on should be named. So I followed my instincts and ended up exactly where I wanted to be -- directly in the middle of an intersection of at least four streets, with no sidewalks in sight. Splendid. As I raced my way across the intersection Frogger-style, I paused for a moment on a median strip. A car approached, and I thought I saw the people inside waving. "What? Friendliness to strangers in DC?" No! Of course not. It was a carload of friends. "What are you doing here?" I screamed. It would have been more appropriate for them to ask me, seeing as they were at least enclosed in a vehicle and I was a flip-flopped pedestrian on a median strip at a massive intersection. "Do you maybe need a ride?" they asked, obviously entertained at my situation. I looked around. "Actually, that building over there is where my friend lives. I'll be fine." And with that, I sprinted across the last stretch of roadway and headed to 301 Massachusetts Avenue, NW, safe haven for the weary flip-flopped urban hiker.
After a half-hour chit-chat/water break, I was revived and resumed my trek, although from there it wasn't much of a journey. Within 10 minutes of leaving my friend's building, I was on a train headed to Greenbelt. But what an adventure it all was. Thanks to the sweet tools at MapMyRun. com I know my walk was just under 3 miles long. I think I passed through 3 different universes along the way. DC is one bizarrely diverse town. Pockets of this kind of people thrive amongst swaths of that kind of people. I was nearly ticketed for jay-walking by one cop and cheered on as I raced across a different street by another cop. What a strange town. It's nice to see it in the daylight at 3 miles an hour, rather than from underground at Metro-speed.
trafficjammetrohockeyfriescrowdstreetfightfriends
beerrainmetrodancepartyfriendsmetrospanishsweat
parkinglotmetrorainstormfreezingconcertrainfreezing
dancepartyindianfoodskeeballtragedymetropizzabaseball
That being my mental state, I decided to force myself to slow down. After the Pirates/Nationals game on Sunday, which the Pirates lost sadly, I decided to avoid the crowded Green Line Navy Yard stop, even though I needed to get to Greenbelt to pick up my car. I figured I'd walk to the next stop or maybe go to Union Station, get on the Red Line, and then pick the Green back up at Fort Totten. I left the Navy Yard station at 4:30pm, and headed North. I didn't really know which street to walk on, I just new that if I walked towards the Capital, I'd eventually get to where I wanted to be. I found a sweet, empty Wendy's and bought a delicious chocolate Frosty shake (wow, Wendy's has come so far since I was a kid) and started merrily on my journey. I followed some other post-game pedestrians, and eventually found a sweet walking path under 395. I was a little weary, not being familiar with the neighborhood and knowing only that I was certainly not in the best neighborhood in which to lose track of myself. However, there were a lot of other baseball folks walking, so I figured I'd go with the flow.
Eventually, I found myself strolling past the Capital, which I hadn't visited since an ACORN-led protest in 2006. I forgot what a massively beautiful building it is. It seemed even more beautiful when I blocked out my knowledge of what happens inside. So I dawdled a little there, admiring all the foreigners and tourists excitedly taking pictures of the marble dome and view of the Washington Monument from a distance. I sipped some tepid, chlorinated water from a public fountain, and continued on a beeline path for Union Station. Only when I got there, I realized it was entirely too close to the Capital. I wasn't ready to stop walking yet. By this time, it was just past 5:00, and I figured the crowds on the Green Line would have dwindled. So I headed for Chinatown.
Again, let me remind you that I didn't really know where I was going. I just knew that if I got to 7th and G, I'd be near the Metro. I'm not too good at the whole NE, NW, SE thing that is required of navigating in DC. But I do have a pretty good sense of direction, even if I don't know what the streets I am walking on should be named. So I followed my instincts and ended up exactly where I wanted to be -- directly in the middle of an intersection of at least four streets, with no sidewalks in sight. Splendid. As I raced my way across the intersection Frogger-style, I paused for a moment on a median strip. A car approached, and I thought I saw the people inside waving. "What? Friendliness to strangers in DC?" No! Of course not. It was a carload of friends. "What are you doing here?" I screamed. It would have been more appropriate for them to ask me, seeing as they were at least enclosed in a vehicle and I was a flip-flopped pedestrian on a median strip at a massive intersection. "Do you maybe need a ride?" they asked, obviously entertained at my situation. I looked around. "Actually, that building over there is where my friend lives. I'll be fine." And with that, I sprinted across the last stretch of roadway and headed to 301 Massachusetts Avenue, NW, safe haven for the weary flip-flopped urban hiker.
After a half-hour chit-chat/water break, I was revived and resumed my trek, although from there it wasn't much of a journey. Within 10 minutes of leaving my friend's building, I was on a train headed to Greenbelt. But what an adventure it all was. Thanks to the sweet tools at MapMyRun. com I know my walk was just under 3 miles long. I think I passed through 3 different universes along the way. DC is one bizarrely diverse town. Pockets of this kind of people thrive amongst swaths of that kind of people. I was nearly ticketed for jay-walking by one cop and cheered on as I raced across a different street by another cop. What a strange town. It's nice to see it in the daylight at 3 miles an hour, rather than from underground at Metro-speed.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Map Maker?
Well, Clustrmaps just archived all my lovely red dots, so I once again have a sad, blank map with but one red dot -- which represents me. On the main Small Wonder page, click on the thumbnail map, then choose "maps archive" then select the link for the past year. This will show you a thumbnail snapshot of all 2100 views from the last year. It was a good year. I'll keep blogging. I like those dots.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Map Maker, Map Maker, Make Me A Map
When I was a kid, a playmate of mine insisted we play "treasure hunt." For three-year olds, it was a rather complex game. First, my friend and I acquired a piece of paper and a marker from my mother. Then, with intense effort, my friend slowly drew one continuous looping line across the paper. His hand glided from the middle of the page to the upper right corner, then traveled down to the left on a dizzying path which crossed the paper's center point at least twice before arriving at its final destination. He marked the end point with a large X.
"Here is the treasure," he told me. "We have to follow this map to find it."
I put my head next to his and we studied the map, glancing up at the wilderness that once was my kitchen so as to orient ourselves.
"See, we are here," I said pointing to a spot on the scribbled paper. "We have to go this way to start."
And we took off. Each footstep was taken with extremely slow care and confirmed immediately afterwards by glancing at the map. We argued over which way to go when we reached the mountain of the stairs. Did the map suggest we proceed upwards, or was it suggesting that the treasure was underneath? Did we need to abandon the map in order to overcome certain obstacles in our path? If so, how would we rediscover our route?
When I was seven years old, my dad took me for a walk on the paved paths that wound through the woods in our neighborhood. As we approached a fork in the path, I considered the possibilities. We could proceed to the right and attempt to conquer the towering mountain ahead, or we could swerve downhill to the left. We chose the first option, and as I approached the crest of the hill, I felt I was entering a new civilization. What were these structures before me? Houses never before seen. It was a new city, a different world. We had taken a shortcut that led to the end of the street directly behind our own. I had seen these houses a dozen times before, but approaching from the forest, I felt I was discovering a previously uncharted land.
In fourth grade, I decided that there was no point to continuing my studies. My ability to be amazed by the familiar was dwindling. My teacher told me that all the oceans, seas, and continents had been explored. There were islands smaller than our town, far away from any civilized areas, where explorers had charted topography and recorded the activities of wildlife. There was nothing left to explore. That era had ended long ago. I was born in the wrong century.
When I was nineteen years old, I set off on a journey around the world. The ship which carried my "floating university" was in constant motion, always bound for some point east. I sat on the rear deck and stared off into the western sky. Surrounded by blue waves, I scoured the horizon for other ships, searched the water's surface for whales and sharks, and as the sun dipped below the edge of the sea, I turned my gaze upward to concentrate on the previously unseen constellations that hovered above me. This was exploration. Yes, maybe everything I saw already appeared in some book, some essay, someone's research journal, but none of it had ever been experienced this way before. That was all mine.
There are two kinds of exploration. There is the "heroic exploration" of Magellan and Columbus. Today, that kind of activity is practiced by scientists and researchers, studying every smaller or ever larger bodies in hopes of finding something previously unknown.* But there is also the "cogitative exploration" of those who hunt for experience, for the opportunity to reflect, for the feeling of fanatical satisfaction that arises from seeing/feeling/hearing/doing something for the first time and loving it.
Maybe all the maps of the world have already been made. I might never gaze down from a mountain peak and see an uncharted territory below me. But there is plenty left to explore. Fourth grade teachers don't know everything.
*Berry, Wendell. Life Is A Miracle, Counterpoint, Washington, DC, 2000. p. 55.
"Here is the treasure," he told me. "We have to follow this map to find it."
I put my head next to his and we studied the map, glancing up at the wilderness that once was my kitchen so as to orient ourselves.
"See, we are here," I said pointing to a spot on the scribbled paper. "We have to go this way to start."
And we took off. Each footstep was taken with extremely slow care and confirmed immediately afterwards by glancing at the map. We argued over which way to go when we reached the mountain of the stairs. Did the map suggest we proceed upwards, or was it suggesting that the treasure was underneath? Did we need to abandon the map in order to overcome certain obstacles in our path? If so, how would we rediscover our route?
When I was seven years old, my dad took me for a walk on the paved paths that wound through the woods in our neighborhood. As we approached a fork in the path, I considered the possibilities. We could proceed to the right and attempt to conquer the towering mountain ahead, or we could swerve downhill to the left. We chose the first option, and as I approached the crest of the hill, I felt I was entering a new civilization. What were these structures before me? Houses never before seen. It was a new city, a different world. We had taken a shortcut that led to the end of the street directly behind our own. I had seen these houses a dozen times before, but approaching from the forest, I felt I was discovering a previously uncharted land.
In fourth grade, I decided that there was no point to continuing my studies. My ability to be amazed by the familiar was dwindling. My teacher told me that all the oceans, seas, and continents had been explored. There were islands smaller than our town, far away from any civilized areas, where explorers had charted topography and recorded the activities of wildlife. There was nothing left to explore. That era had ended long ago. I was born in the wrong century.
When I was nineteen years old, I set off on a journey around the world. The ship which carried my "floating university" was in constant motion, always bound for some point east. I sat on the rear deck and stared off into the western sky. Surrounded by blue waves, I scoured the horizon for other ships, searched the water's surface for whales and sharks, and as the sun dipped below the edge of the sea, I turned my gaze upward to concentrate on the previously unseen constellations that hovered above me. This was exploration. Yes, maybe everything I saw already appeared in some book, some essay, someone's research journal, but none of it had ever been experienced this way before. That was all mine.
There are two kinds of exploration. There is the "heroic exploration" of Magellan and Columbus. Today, that kind of activity is practiced by scientists and researchers, studying every smaller or ever larger bodies in hopes of finding something previously unknown.* But there is also the "cogitative exploration" of those who hunt for experience, for the opportunity to reflect, for the feeling of fanatical satisfaction that arises from seeing/feeling/hearing/doing something for the first time and loving it.
Maybe all the maps of the world have already been made. I might never gaze down from a mountain peak and see an uncharted territory below me. But there is plenty left to explore. Fourth grade teachers don't know everything.
*Berry, Wendell. Life Is A Miracle, Counterpoint, Washington, DC, 2000. p. 55.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Excuse me, China, can we talk for a moment?
I have been trying to closely follow the conflict between the Chinese government and the protesting Tibetan monks in the Lhasa province (and elsewhere). I feel this latest unrest provides a prime example of the kind of human rights violations the Chinese government commits daily. Many human rights groups are calling for a boycott of the upcoming Olympic games in Beijing. The Bush White House claims it is encouraging the Chinese government to have a dialog with the leaders of these protests. However, this administration has refused to speak with its own adversaries, so it's quite absurd that it expects others to do so. I'm infuriated by the fact that Bush still intends to attend the opening ceremonies of the games. Simply showing his face at the games implies he endorses China's hosting these games, and it's disgusting to think about all the horrible acts China has committed against its own people.
I wonder what the White House would be saying if Barack Obama was president. I wrote a short email to the campaign, and I'm awaiting a response. I'll let you know when I receive it. This is an important issue, and we can't stand idly by as it unfolds. One of my friends likened the situation to the 1936 Olympics. While I think that's an overstatement and the situation could be a lot worse, we as citizens of the world have a duty to try to prevent it from becoming so.
I wonder what the White House would be saying if Barack Obama was president. I wrote a short email to the campaign, and I'm awaiting a response. I'll let you know when I receive it. This is an important issue, and we can't stand idly by as it unfolds. One of my friends likened the situation to the 1936 Olympics. While I think that's an overstatement and the situation could be a lot worse, we as citizens of the world have a duty to try to prevent it from becoming so.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Impassioned Serenity: Mexico v. 2.0
WARNING: The first three paragraphs of this post are a bitter tirade. If you do not care to read about the writer's loathing for passport-carrying bros and their hos, please advance to the fourth paragraph. Thank you.
When I was in college, I never took vacation during Spring Break. No Cancun, no Tampa, not even a trip to New York for the Big East tournament (although this would have been a great year to go -- P I T T Let's Go Pitt!). But this past week, I found myself picking my way through the Atlanta airport among throngs of flip-flop wearing, beach towel toting college kids, all on their way to the warm sun of the Caribbean/Latin America. It wasn't until I started praying that I'd be seated as far away as possible from these rowdy packs that I realized that what I scheduled as a week-long visit with a friend in Puebla, Mexico coincided with the unholy institution to which hordes of pale kids in Greek-letter t-shirts loudly declared their loyalty at least a dozen times a day -- "Spring Break '08!"
Air travel isn't something I generally enjoy. It involves long lines, hours of seated boredom, and lots of fossil fuel. But generally, the benefits outweigh the annoyances -- it's fast, it's uncomplicated, and it's fairly affordable if you do your booking right. I recommend it to strangers who say they have never left the country. I tell them to buy the cheapest ticket they can find and purchase the Lonely Planet guide for their destination; trips are easy to plan. But I would never, ever recommend that anyone try a taste of travel during the chaos and obscenity that is Spring Break. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I need to take a shower -- hot water beating into my scalp and loud, shower door-enhanced singing are the only things that can block out the memories of the insanity.
I am all for rowdiness and fun. Give me some beers and tickets to the game, and I'm set for hours of cheers and jeers. Switch out the tickets for a handful of good friends and a stack of red Solo cups, and things will only get better. But maneuvering myself through pockets of (soon to be) hungover students after navigating check-in lines, immigration, and customs, well that's just the straw that breaks the traveler's back.
Between ugly experiences at the airport, I enjoyed a week of sunshine and tortillas in Puebla, Mexico. It was nothing more than a week of art museums, afternoon walks, and hot drinks in the evening, but it was an ideal escape from suburban Maryland. In Puebla (city), I saw an exhibit of Julio Galan. Critics say his work is Kahlo-esque, and I think they're right. But whereas the meaning of Kahlo's work is sometimes so obvious it violently hits the viewer like an anvil to the cranium, Galan's paintings force viewers to create their own interpretations. His work is interactive: his paintings are a question and he left few clues as to his original intentions before his untimely death in 2006. The discovery of Galan was uplifting for me. It gives me someone new about whom to wonder, read, and talk. I want to see more of his works, so the discovery gives me a new treasure to hunt, too.
Back in Cholula, where I was staying, I experienced another highlight of my trip: Container City. I was walking through the town with my friend Erick one evening when I saw a sign for Container City (red with white letters), posted on a high pole a couple blocks ahead. As we neared the sight, I saw a number of large containers, much like the kind people use to store their belongings on their driveways during home renovations or as they prepare for a move. "Oh, self-storage," I thought to myself. For some reason, it struck me as strange that a self-storage facility would be necessary in a town like Cholula. People didn't seem to have all that much "stuff." But then I remembered that it's a college town, and I concluded that self-storage, although costly, is a logical solution for many nomadic college students.
Well, all my thinking was for naught. Container City is not a self-storage company. It's a city within a city.
A students at UDLA, the largest university in Cholula, came up with the idea fairly recently. The containers, which were indeed initially designed for self-storage, are modified slightly. Each of them has at least one wall of glass, usually sliding doors. These window/walls face the interior of the "city," which is why I didn't see them from the street. Companies of various kinds rent the units as store fronts. There is a fashion boutique, a salon, and even a tea house. Originally, the brains behind this project had intended to rent some of the units as small apartments, but this idea wasn't too popular. Although the units are large enough to house a bar and three tables or four clothing racks, they'd be quite cramped as living space. And in a town where rental properties abound, they just didn't appeal as homes. But they definitely appeal as commercial space (at least to me).
I don't know how many units comprise the entire city, but a good estimate would be something like 20. I visited only a handful, and by far my favorite was the Mandala tea house. Mandala was set near the city's entrance, but far enough from the street that it gave me the feeling that I'd discovered something secret when I stepped in. From it's entrance, you face a wall of glass jars, each filled with tea bags of the exotic nature from all over the world. As you approach the bar, the tea maiden (that's not really her title, but I like how it sounds), takes two or three jars from the wall and brings them to you for a sniff. These are her recommendations (which she makes based solely on your appearance). They're always dead-on. The first time I entered Mandala, I was offered an Indian black tea and a South African vanilla. The first was meant to be served in water, the latter in milk. I wasn't in a milky tea mood, so I opted for the Indian black. While waiting for the tea maiden to prepare my drink (which she did with the utmost care and the use of at least three different technologically-advanced tea machines), I took a seat at one of the small, low tables. Across from me, a large East Asia-inspired mural charmed my eyes with its swirls of cool colors and serene faces. My gaze shifted to the table beside me, and I spotted a book, "20,000 Secrets of Tea" by Victoria Zak. I began to leaf through it and soon found myself completely engrossed. There were profiles of hundreds of herbs, charts listing which can be used as treatments for which ailments, and pages of herb history. I've never been a tea aficionado, but this book called out to me like Straight Jacket to Shaun Brumder. I found a new passion.
I went back to Mandala two more times that week. Container City was so comfortable -- intimate, young, efficient. The setting was as inspiring as the tea itself. Using containers as storefronts was cheaper than construction, used fewer materials, was gentler on the environment, and gave each business an automatic audience of interested potential customers. I was surprised that I had never before heard of such an arrangement but certain that it must be in used elsewhere.
Check out this site and containercity.com for more information about these pre-fab wonders. I'm off to relax with a cup of oolong tea before the next round of the NCAA men's tournament.
When I was in college, I never took vacation during Spring Break. No Cancun, no Tampa, not even a trip to New York for the Big East tournament (although this would have been a great year to go -- P I T T Let's Go Pitt!). But this past week, I found myself picking my way through the Atlanta airport among throngs of flip-flop wearing, beach towel toting college kids, all on their way to the warm sun of the Caribbean/Latin America. It wasn't until I started praying that I'd be seated as far away as possible from these rowdy packs that I realized that what I scheduled as a week-long visit with a friend in Puebla, Mexico coincided with the unholy institution to which hordes of pale kids in Greek-letter t-shirts loudly declared their loyalty at least a dozen times a day -- "Spring Break '08!"
Air travel isn't something I generally enjoy. It involves long lines, hours of seated boredom, and lots of fossil fuel. But generally, the benefits outweigh the annoyances -- it's fast, it's uncomplicated, and it's fairly affordable if you do your booking right. I recommend it to strangers who say they have never left the country. I tell them to buy the cheapest ticket they can find and purchase the Lonely Planet guide for their destination; trips are easy to plan. But I would never, ever recommend that anyone try a taste of travel during the chaos and obscenity that is Spring Break. Just thinking about it makes me feel like I need to take a shower -- hot water beating into my scalp and loud, shower door-enhanced singing are the only things that can block out the memories of the insanity.
I am all for rowdiness and fun. Give me some beers and tickets to the game, and I'm set for hours of cheers and jeers. Switch out the tickets for a handful of good friends and a stack of red Solo cups, and things will only get better. But maneuvering myself through pockets of (soon to be) hungover students after navigating check-in lines, immigration, and customs, well that's just the straw that breaks the traveler's back.
Between ugly experiences at the airport, I enjoyed a week of sunshine and tortillas in Puebla, Mexico. It was nothing more than a week of art museums, afternoon walks, and hot drinks in the evening, but it was an ideal escape from suburban Maryland. In Puebla (city), I saw an exhibit of Julio Galan. Critics say his work is Kahlo-esque, and I think they're right. But whereas the meaning of Kahlo's work is sometimes so obvious it violently hits the viewer like an anvil to the cranium, Galan's paintings force viewers to create their own interpretations. His work is interactive: his paintings are a question and he left few clues as to his original intentions before his untimely death in 2006. The discovery of Galan was uplifting for me. It gives me someone new about whom to wonder, read, and talk. I want to see more of his works, so the discovery gives me a new treasure to hunt, too.
Back in Cholula, where I was staying, I experienced another highlight of my trip: Container City. I was walking through the town with my friend Erick one evening when I saw a sign for Container City (red with white letters), posted on a high pole a couple blocks ahead. As we neared the sight, I saw a number of large containers, much like the kind people use to store their belongings on their driveways during home renovations or as they prepare for a move. "Oh, self-storage," I thought to myself. For some reason, it struck me as strange that a self-storage facility would be necessary in a town like Cholula. People didn't seem to have all that much "stuff." But then I remembered that it's a college town, and I concluded that self-storage, although costly, is a logical solution for many nomadic college students.
Well, all my thinking was for naught. Container City is not a self-storage company. It's a city within a city.
A students at UDLA, the largest university in Cholula, came up with the idea fairly recently. The containers, which were indeed initially designed for self-storage, are modified slightly. Each of them has at least one wall of glass, usually sliding doors. These window/walls face the interior of the "city," which is why I didn't see them from the street. Companies of various kinds rent the units as store fronts. There is a fashion boutique, a salon, and even a tea house. Originally, the brains behind this project had intended to rent some of the units as small apartments, but this idea wasn't too popular. Although the units are large enough to house a bar and three tables or four clothing racks, they'd be quite cramped as living space. And in a town where rental properties abound, they just didn't appeal as homes. But they definitely appeal as commercial space (at least to me).
I don't know how many units comprise the entire city, but a good estimate would be something like 20. I visited only a handful, and by far my favorite was the Mandala tea house. Mandala was set near the city's entrance, but far enough from the street that it gave me the feeling that I'd discovered something secret when I stepped in. From it's entrance, you face a wall of glass jars, each filled with tea bags of the exotic nature from all over the world. As you approach the bar, the tea maiden (that's not really her title, but I like how it sounds), takes two or three jars from the wall and brings them to you for a sniff. These are her recommendations (which she makes based solely on your appearance). They're always dead-on. The first time I entered Mandala, I was offered an Indian black tea and a South African vanilla. The first was meant to be served in water, the latter in milk. I wasn't in a milky tea mood, so I opted for the Indian black. While waiting for the tea maiden to prepare my drink (which she did with the utmost care and the use of at least three different technologically-advanced tea machines), I took a seat at one of the small, low tables. Across from me, a large East Asia-inspired mural charmed my eyes with its swirls of cool colors and serene faces. My gaze shifted to the table beside me, and I spotted a book, "20,000 Secrets of Tea" by Victoria Zak. I began to leaf through it and soon found myself completely engrossed. There were profiles of hundreds of herbs, charts listing which can be used as treatments for which ailments, and pages of herb history. I've never been a tea aficionado, but this book called out to me like Straight Jacket to Shaun Brumder. I found a new passion.
I went back to Mandala two more times that week. Container City was so comfortable -- intimate, young, efficient. The setting was as inspiring as the tea itself. Using containers as storefronts was cheaper than construction, used fewer materials, was gentler on the environment, and gave each business an automatic audience of interested potential customers. I was surprised that I had never before heard of such an arrangement but certain that it must be in used elsewhere.
Check out this site and containercity.com for more information about these pre-fab wonders. I'm off to relax with a cup of oolong tea before the next round of the NCAA men's tournament.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
It's None of Your Busy-ness
Somebody once asked me if I'd rather be stressed but not bored at work or be bored but relaxed. I picked the latter, thinking about how I've had jobs that have left me so stressed I can hardly sleep at night for worry that something will go wrong the next day. Currently, things are pretty calm for me at work. Yesterday, my mom said to me, "You must have had a lot of free time at work today; you emailed me three different links." (see below)
I thought to myself, "Time flew by today. Actually, I was pretty busy ." But then, was I? Yesterday I had about three hours of free time at work, mostly spent cruising online news sources and chatting via GoogleChat. But three hours out of eight didn't seem like much.
Flashback one year and I am sitting in the Union Project main office, so busy my eyes could have been looking in two different directions and no one would have noticed. Three hours of free time? Unheard of. Somewhere along the line, my standard for busy-ness got thrown way off. And it's not just my subjective judgment of what constitutes a busy day, it's something about how my body reacts to it.
A year ago, a day with three free hours sprinkled throughout it would have dragged on into infinity. These days, it seems to fly by without waving hello. I think the turning point for my perception of time happened sometime in Mexico. There, I was working six to seven hour days, but I had a solid six hour chunk in the middle of the day that was totally unoccupied. I think the bizarre pattern that emerged in my life through off my concept of time; I can now easily pass four or five straight hours -- with a book, a computer, or someone to chat to -- without a worry. Time sails by smoothly, towing me along happily. I am never wont for something to do. In other words, I have become an expert at entertaining myself.
I'm not stressed, but I'm not bored, either.
How is this newfound ability to entertain myself (and what I think I am finding to be a craving for time to do so everyday) going to affect my life once I go back to school, back to the hustle and bustle that accompanies life in a big city, research projects, class presentations, meetings, etc.? Readjusting to that is going to be one of the major challenges of life at SFU. I know I am a good student and pretty damn adept at adapting to new environments, but adjusting to a new pace of life, that is a battle I had not yet considered.
The Good Links From Yesterday:
I thought to myself, "Time flew by today. Actually, I was pretty busy ." But then, was I? Yesterday I had about three hours of free time at work, mostly spent cruising online news sources and chatting via GoogleChat. But three hours out of eight didn't seem like much.
Flashback one year and I am sitting in the Union Project main office, so busy my eyes could have been looking in two different directions and no one would have noticed. Three hours of free time? Unheard of. Somewhere along the line, my standard for busy-ness got thrown way off. And it's not just my subjective judgment of what constitutes a busy day, it's something about how my body reacts to it.
A year ago, a day with three free hours sprinkled throughout it would have dragged on into infinity. These days, it seems to fly by without waving hello. I think the turning point for my perception of time happened sometime in Mexico. There, I was working six to seven hour days, but I had a solid six hour chunk in the middle of the day that was totally unoccupied. I think the bizarre pattern that emerged in my life through off my concept of time; I can now easily pass four or five straight hours -- with a book, a computer, or someone to chat to -- without a worry. Time sails by smoothly, towing me along happily. I am never wont for something to do. In other words, I have become an expert at entertaining myself.
I'm not stressed, but I'm not bored, either.
How is this newfound ability to entertain myself (and what I think I am finding to be a craving for time to do so everyday) going to affect my life once I go back to school, back to the hustle and bustle that accompanies life in a big city, research projects, class presentations, meetings, etc.? Readjusting to that is going to be one of the major challenges of life at SFU. I know I am a good student and pretty damn adept at adapting to new environments, but adjusting to a new pace of life, that is a battle I had not yet considered.
* * *
The Good Links From Yesterday:
- Rove Taunted at University of Iowa (pay attention to the quote in the third paragraph)
- Meds Lurk in Drinking Water (remember, this is just part one)
- Garfield Minus Garfield (posted to Small Wonder yesterday)
- A New Hope (the words I wish I could have found first)
Monday, March 10, 2008
Insanity
If I can't think of anything to write, at least I can bring you some Monday-morning entertainment. See below for the best modified cartoon on the 'net. I wonder what would happen if we removed Charlie Brown from Peanuts? Or maybe it'd be better if we removed Lucy from Peanuts...
Garfield Minus Garfield
Garfield Minus Garfield
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Slack-tastic
I am in the midst of the worst writer's block of my life. When I first got back from Latin America, I was writing constantly. Words were pouring from my pen onto the pages of my journal. I kicked out four short stories in a week. And then, it all stopped. The inspiration evaporated. I'm groping for words when I speak, and writing is a lost cause. I can hardly think of what I want to say, let alone a good way of saying it.
Is suburbia killing my brain? I'd like to think so. A problem like that would have an easy solution. But I don't think it's that simple.
I'm reading a lot, and that usually gets me writing. The main thing is that my journaling as fallen off. At the end of the day, I just don't feel like opening my little red book, and this is a new feeling for me. I love my journal. I always have. I have filled dozens of them in my lifetime. And yet, these past few weeks, I just haven't felt like it.
If you have a good writer's block cure, please send them my way. I am utterly desperate for suggestions.
Is suburbia killing my brain? I'd like to think so. A problem like that would have an easy solution. But I don't think it's that simple.
I'm reading a lot, and that usually gets me writing. The main thing is that my journaling as fallen off. At the end of the day, I just don't feel like opening my little red book, and this is a new feeling for me. I love my journal. I always have. I have filled dozens of them in my lifetime. And yet, these past few weeks, I just haven't felt like it.
If you have a good writer's block cure, please send them my way. I am utterly desperate for suggestions.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Talk about renewable energy...
U.S. scientists have developed a microfiber fabric that generates its own electricity. In the future, it could be used in everyday clothing, enabling the wearer to charge iPods and cell phones using the natural motion of everyday activities.
more...
Also of interest -- a team of scientists from the University of Michigan, Simon Fraser University, and the University of Pittsburgh worked together to develop a battery charger that uses the motion of walking to generate electricity.
more...
I think it's great that both Pitt and SFU were both involved in this effort. Now I just need to find an excuse to study at Michigan...
By the way, I can't wait to sell my battery-charging services as I continue to walk my way across the world's smallest nations. (You can check the first one off the list.)
more...
Also of interest -- a team of scientists from the University of Michigan, Simon Fraser University, and the University of Pittsburgh worked together to develop a battery charger that uses the motion of walking to generate electricity.
more...
I think it's great that both Pitt and SFU were both involved in this effort. Now I just need to find an excuse to study at Michigan...
By the way, I can't wait to sell my battery-charging services as I continue to walk my way across the world's smallest nations. (You can check the first one off the list.)
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Response
Here is the response I just received from the Howard County Government regarding the request in my previous post...
SUBJECT: Your concerns for the Commission on the Environment & Sustainability Executive Director
Good morning Ms. Bricker,
Thank you for your concern for our community and the environment. Joshua Feldmark asked me to contact you about your specific concern about the areas around Columbia Gateway. I have consulted with two of our experts from the Traffic Division and from the Construction Inspection Division and the following are their answers:
The Transportation Projects Division has a capital project to install a sidewalk along the south side of Robert Fulton Drive starting just west of the Columbia Gateway Drive intersection where the sidewalk currently ends, continuing through the Lee Deforest intersection and connecting with the existing sidewalk along Solar Walk. Design of the alignment of the sidewalk is complete, however easements must be obtained from CA prior to construction beginning. For more information, please contact Mark Kovach at 410.313.6153.
Putting sidewalk along Commerce Center Drive requires the assistance of the management company for the Snowden Square shopping center. This is private property. Our acting bureau chief has worked with them before when their landscaping obstructed the sight distance coming out of the shopping center at the Robert Fulton Dr intersection. They were very accommodating with removing the landscaping. She will contact them regarding the communities desire for sidewalk from the intersection into their store area.
With the installation of sidewalk on the shopping center side, then the traffic division can have a signalized marked pedestrian crosswalk installed with pushbuttons and pedestrian signals at Robert Fulton Dr and Solar Walk. Technically, according to State Highway standards, they should not provide a signalized marked crosswalk unless both sides of the road have sidewalk to lead the pedestrian to their destination.
As far as the mud is concerned, there are some small amounts of dirt where the County has test pitted an abandoned bridge abutment and fiber optic cable. The amount of dirt is no bigger that what you would see around a tree. Is this what you may have seen while walking to the shopping center (see attached photo labeled Robert Fulton 2 on right)? As you can see from the attached pictures, the area is completely stabilized, and there is no active land development.
I hope this helps. Please let Joshua or me know if you need anything else.
Best,
Candace Dodson Reed
Community Liaison
Howard County Government
I'll mark that in the win category for now. She even attached 4 photos of the exact places I mentioned in my letter. I wonder how long it will take CA (the Columbia Association) to provide the easements... Time to write another letter!
SUBJECT: Your concerns for the Commission on the Environment & Sustainability Executive Director
Good morning Ms. Bricker,
Thank you for your concern for our community and the environment. Joshua Feldmark asked me to contact you about your specific concern about the areas around Columbia Gateway. I have consulted with two of our experts from the Traffic Division and from the Construction Inspection Division and the following are their answers:
The Transportation Projects Division has a capital project to install a sidewalk along the south side of Robert Fulton Drive starting just west of the Columbia Gateway Drive intersection where the sidewalk currently ends, continuing through the Lee Deforest intersection and connecting with the existing sidewalk along Solar Walk. Design of the alignment of the sidewalk is complete, however easements must be obtained from CA prior to construction beginning. For more information, please contact Mark Kovach at 410.313.6153.
Putting sidewalk along Commerce Center Drive requires the assistance of the management company for the Snowden Square shopping center. This is private property. Our acting bureau chief has worked with them before when their landscaping obstructed the sight distance coming out of the shopping center at the Robert Fulton Dr intersection. They were very accommodating with removing the landscaping. She will contact them regarding the communities desire for sidewalk from the intersection into their store area.
With the installation of sidewalk on the shopping center side, then the traffic division can have a signalized marked pedestrian crosswalk installed with pushbuttons and pedestrian signals at Robert Fulton Dr and Solar Walk. Technically, according to State Highway standards, they should not provide a signalized marked crosswalk unless both sides of the road have sidewalk to lead the pedestrian to their destination.
As far as the mud is concerned, there are some small amounts of dirt where the County has test pitted an abandoned bridge abutment and fiber optic cable. The amount of dirt is no bigger that what you would see around a tree. Is this what you may have seen while walking to the shopping center (see attached photo labeled Robert Fulton 2 on right)? As you can see from the attached pictures, the area is completely stabilized, and there is no active land development.
I hope this helps. Please let Joshua or me know if you need anything else.
Best,
Candace Dodson Reed
Community Liaison
Howard County Government
I'll mark that in the win category for now. She even attached 4 photos of the exact places I mentioned in my letter. I wonder how long it will take CA (the Columbia Association) to provide the easements... Time to write another letter!
Thursday, February 7, 2008
My Other Car Is My Feet
After living the urban lifestyle for five years, one of the things I find most amazing about suburbanites is their assumption that you must get in your car anytime you want to go anywhere. It's as if suburban America has collectively forgotten that their legs, in fact, are a mode of transportation. But not only that, walking doesn't cost a thing and it's a zero-emissions form of transportation!
Since returning to Columbia, I have found that in many ways I can maintain my walking lifestyle. The grocery store is just a mile away from my house, I walk to it once a week. Although most folks get in their cars and drive from one end of shopping centers to the other when running multiple errands, I walk across the parking lots. It's not a beautiful stroll, but it's an environmentally-conscious action. Plus, when I am way out beyond the cars in some of those lots, I feel quite peaceful even in that sea of concrete and steel.
I have actually pledged to myself that anytime I need to go somewhere that is less than a mile and a half away, I will walk. If I can't walk for some reason, I won't go until I can wrap the errand into another excursion or carpool with a family member who also needs to go there. Even when it's cold, walking isn't hard. A mile and a half is only a 20 minute walk. That's the daily minimum recommended by doctors for aerobic exercise. Make it round trip, and I'm well on my way to achieving a real work-out.
Cars pollute most in the first 5 miles of driving. Therefore, reducing the number of short trips I take is one of the most important goals I have. I feel, overall, that I have been quite successful so far. However, there is one area in Columbia where walking is quite impossible. Read on for the account I have sent to my local government officials...
For the past two weeks, I have been working in the Lee DeForest Drive commercial development in the Columbia Gateway Corporate park. Everyday I try to take a walk at lunch, and sometimes after work I like to go to the nearby Snowden Square shopping center to take care of a couple errands. However, after a rain this walk is nearly impossible. Why? No, not because of floods.
Because of mud.
The development is quite new and, reasonably so, the ground is soft. Therefore, everything is squishy after a rain. In most new developments, this isn't a problem because people walk on the sidewalk. However, there are no sidewalks on the main road in the corporate park, Robert Fulton Drive. Nor is there a sidewalk leading from Robert Fulton up to Commerce Center Drive in the Snowden Square shopping center.
I find this reality astounding for a few of reasons. First, there is a very high concentration of professionals in the Snowden Square area during the day. Wouldn't it make sense to entice those professionals to take a walk to the shopping center and enjoy a meal at one of the several restaurants there?
Second, there is a large housing development on a street called Solar Walk across the road from Snowden Square. People in the town-homes there are mere steps from the shopping center and movie theater. There is a sidewalk that leads from their homes to Robert Fulton Drive. But once they arrive at that intersection, the pavement stops. Why not encourage these people to walk to the movie theater by installing a sidewalk on Commerce Center Drive?
Finally, Lifetime Fitness, which is located in the same development where I work, is the gym of choice for many of the people working in the Lee DeForest development and other parts of Columbia Gateway. However, the parking lot is a nightmare after 5:00pm. I see many people pull out of their parking spots at their office building only to drive across the Lee DeForest development and re-park at the gym. The parking lot fills up quickly, and then folks park along the sides of curvy Lee DeForest Drive, limiting visibility for drivers. Wouldn't Lifetime Fitness, its members, and the folks in that development all benefit from a sidewalk which encourages people to walk to their fitness center? Wouldn't walking make logical sense for people who want to, I don't know, increase their fitness?
It is Columbia's moral responsibility to encourage environmentally-conscious behavior in its residents, professionals, and guests. One of the pillars upon which this town was built was the idea of a walkable community -- a place in which you could walk from your home to the store, from work to the park. If I (a dedicated walker and friend of the environment) can't even comfortably walk the mile from my office to a nearby restaurant, how can anyone expect less pro-active Columbians to take a "step" toward environmentally sustainable action?
I implore you to install a sidewalk or walking path along Lee DeForest Drive, Commerce Center Drive, and especially along Robert Fulton Drive. Encourage walking. Encourage safety. Encourage environmental protection.
Since returning to Columbia, I have found that in many ways I can maintain my walking lifestyle. The grocery store is just a mile away from my house, I walk to it once a week. Although most folks get in their cars and drive from one end of shopping centers to the other when running multiple errands, I walk across the parking lots. It's not a beautiful stroll, but it's an environmentally-conscious action. Plus, when I am way out beyond the cars in some of those lots, I feel quite peaceful even in that sea of concrete and steel.
I have actually pledged to myself that anytime I need to go somewhere that is less than a mile and a half away, I will walk. If I can't walk for some reason, I won't go until I can wrap the errand into another excursion or carpool with a family member who also needs to go there. Even when it's cold, walking isn't hard. A mile and a half is only a 20 minute walk. That's the daily minimum recommended by doctors for aerobic exercise. Make it round trip, and I'm well on my way to achieving a real work-out.
Cars pollute most in the first 5 miles of driving. Therefore, reducing the number of short trips I take is one of the most important goals I have. I feel, overall, that I have been quite successful so far. However, there is one area in Columbia where walking is quite impossible. Read on for the account I have sent to my local government officials...
For the past two weeks, I have been working in the Lee DeForest Drive commercial development in the Columbia Gateway Corporate park. Everyday I try to take a walk at lunch, and sometimes after work I like to go to the nearby Snowden Square shopping center to take care of a couple errands. However, after a rain this walk is nearly impossible. Why? No, not because of floods.
Because of mud.
The development is quite new and, reasonably so, the ground is soft. Therefore, everything is squishy after a rain. In most new developments, this isn't a problem because people walk on the sidewalk. However, there are no sidewalks on the main road in the corporate park, Robert Fulton Drive. Nor is there a sidewalk leading from Robert Fulton up to Commerce Center Drive in the Snowden Square shopping center.
I find this reality astounding for a few of reasons. First, there is a very high concentration of professionals in the Snowden Square area during the day. Wouldn't it make sense to entice those professionals to take a walk to the shopping center and enjoy a meal at one of the several restaurants there?
Second, there is a large housing development on a street called Solar Walk across the road from Snowden Square. People in the town-homes there are mere steps from the shopping center and movie theater. There is a sidewalk that leads from their homes to Robert Fulton Drive. But once they arrive at that intersection, the pavement stops. Why not encourage these people to walk to the movie theater by installing a sidewalk on Commerce Center Drive?
Finally, Lifetime Fitness, which is located in the same development where I work, is the gym of choice for many of the people working in the Lee DeForest development and other parts of Columbia Gateway. However, the parking lot is a nightmare after 5:00pm. I see many people pull out of their parking spots at their office building only to drive across the Lee DeForest development and re-park at the gym. The parking lot fills up quickly, and then folks park along the sides of curvy Lee DeForest Drive, limiting visibility for drivers. Wouldn't Lifetime Fitness, its members, and the folks in that development all benefit from a sidewalk which encourages people to walk to their fitness center? Wouldn't walking make logical sense for people who want to, I don't know, increase their fitness?
It is Columbia's moral responsibility to encourage environmentally-conscious behavior in its residents, professionals, and guests. One of the pillars upon which this town was built was the idea of a walkable community -- a place in which you could walk from your home to the store, from work to the park. If I (a dedicated walker and friend of the environment) can't even comfortably walk the mile from my office to a nearby restaurant, how can anyone expect less pro-active Columbians to take a "step" toward environmentally sustainable action?
I implore you to install a sidewalk or walking path along Lee DeForest Drive, Commerce Center Drive, and especially along Robert Fulton Drive. Encourage walking. Encourage safety. Encourage environmental protection.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Window
Yesterday I signed up for a new Howard County Library card, cementing my status as a re-established Marylander. Card in hand, I purposefully strolled from the front desk to the Fiction section, as if I already knew what I was looking for (I didn't). I found myself face to face with the "H" shelf and strode to the left until I arrived at the Ks. Something inside me drove my body towards the works of Milan Kundera, although once I arrived there I discovered I'd already read all of the books available (and own a copy of most, as well).
From the Ks, I retraced my steps until I arrived at the Cs, knowing I was in search of something by Michael Chabon. For some reason, the discovery of an almost brand-new copy of "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" caught me by surprise. I snatched it immediately and carried it to the check out desk as if it was a fresh, fragile egg. Elated, I walked out of the library feeling like I'd just won a prize, and in a way I guess I had. This is a book I've been meaning to read for ages, and 24 hours later I was already more than halfway through it -- at once wanting to tear through the remaining pages and also never wanting it to end.
But I still find my thoughts returning to the works of Kundera. So much of his writing is dedicated to the examination of (what I see as) the truth that two people can never share a common memory or even hold true images of each other in their minds. All of our memories of events and people (including ourselves) are tainted by our personalities, desires, and fears. And yet, despite this seemingly insurmountable obstacle that reality places between us all, we form these very real connections and love still blooms.
I'm now living in a place that for a long time was not much more than a memory to me, and I'm simultaneously flooded with a whole new set of memories of another, far off place. I remind myself, and discover reminders everywhere, that the world in my mind and the physical world are not the same place. The act of remembrance is like looking at the world through a window, with the frame blocking part of the view. Living, moving objects are visible, but our minds will never allow us to see the whole thing. Whether it's a memory of a sandwich or a friend, what's in our minds is never what -- at one time -- we found before us.
And so I am all the more amazed at the ease with which two people can remain connected over time and distance. It's a remarkable, apparent simplicity in a very complex world.
From the Ks, I retraced my steps until I arrived at the Cs, knowing I was in search of something by Michael Chabon. For some reason, the discovery of an almost brand-new copy of "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" caught me by surprise. I snatched it immediately and carried it to the check out desk as if it was a fresh, fragile egg. Elated, I walked out of the library feeling like I'd just won a prize, and in a way I guess I had. This is a book I've been meaning to read for ages, and 24 hours later I was already more than halfway through it -- at once wanting to tear through the remaining pages and also never wanting it to end.
But I still find my thoughts returning to the works of Kundera. So much of his writing is dedicated to the examination of (what I see as) the truth that two people can never share a common memory or even hold true images of each other in their minds. All of our memories of events and people (including ourselves) are tainted by our personalities, desires, and fears. And yet, despite this seemingly insurmountable obstacle that reality places between us all, we form these very real connections and love still blooms.
I'm now living in a place that for a long time was not much more than a memory to me, and I'm simultaneously flooded with a whole new set of memories of another, far off place. I remind myself, and discover reminders everywhere, that the world in my mind and the physical world are not the same place. The act of remembrance is like looking at the world through a window, with the frame blocking part of the view. Living, moving objects are visible, but our minds will never allow us to see the whole thing. Whether it's a memory of a sandwich or a friend, what's in our minds is never what -- at one time -- we found before us.
And so I am all the more amazed at the ease with which two people can remain connected over time and distance. It's a remarkable, apparent simplicity in a very complex world.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The Last Day
Managua, NICARAGUA -- It's my last day in Nicaragua, my last day of traveling for a while. I arrived in Managua around 9:00 this morning, which was surprising because I didn't leave Granada until almost 7:30, but the bus was efficient, although packed. I quickly found a room in a part of the city that Lonely Planet describes as "quiet and leafy." Well, it's not only that, but also close to a mall, lots of restaurants, and 50-cent per hour internet. My room is a double with a private bathroom, and it costs $15 for the night. The owners are super helpful, and I'm loving it. The Lonely Planet guide lists the hotel as "Nicaragua Guesthouse," but it's actually called "Backpacker for Backpackers." I know that doesn't make any sense, but neither does "Mochilera de Mochilera," the Spanish name that is also written on the front sign. No matter, the place is a mini-paradise.
This area of Managua reminds me a lot of Zapote (the area where I lived in Costa Rica). It's middle class and everything is colorful. It's actually almost suburban. The streets are a lot better here than they were in CR, though. Pretty much everywhere has better streets than CR... I bought fresh baked bread (2 loaves for a dollar) at a nearby bakery, and purused shoestores in search of new footwear. I wore through two different pairs of sneakers on this trip. Since today's search was unsuccessful, I am heading back to Maryland (where supposedly there is snow on the ground), with a pair of torn up mesh-sided sneakers and black flip-flops that are beginning to curl at the heel. Ah well, as I return to the land of climate-controlled buildings and cars, I have a feeling my footwear won't matter nearly as much to me as it has for the past 5 months.
Anyway, I am totally tuckered out, even though I haven't done a whole lot today. Basically, I am ready for home. This trip has been such an adventure. Although the last leg was a bit of a disappointment, I still feel great about the whole thing. I loved Granada, and I made a few really good friends in La Prusia. I hope we all keep in touch, and I think we actually will thanks to these good ol' internets. Leaving La Prusia was harder than I expected. As I walked down the dirt lane for the last time, I kept passing people I realized I was going to miss. There were lots of hugs and kisses and well wishes. It's amazing how quickly that community opened its arms to me.
I have to admit I am already researching discount airfare from Baltimore to Mexico City. I hope to go back for a visit around Easter. Another teacher from Instituto Heslington wrote to me about his own rough transition away from Mexico. "I think you're suffering from Mexico withdrawal . We had it good there. Didn't we?" We sure did. It's hard to be so spoiled and not realize it. I wish I hadn't taken so much for granted in Mexico. The food, the weather, and most of all the company. I'm happy to say I think I fully appreciate it all now, and when I go back I am going to soak up every drop of wonderfulness.
Signing off from Latin America...
This area of Managua reminds me a lot of Zapote (the area where I lived in Costa Rica). It's middle class and everything is colorful. It's actually almost suburban. The streets are a lot better here than they were in CR, though. Pretty much everywhere has better streets than CR... I bought fresh baked bread (2 loaves for a dollar) at a nearby bakery, and purused shoestores in search of new footwear. I wore through two different pairs of sneakers on this trip. Since today's search was unsuccessful, I am heading back to Maryland (where supposedly there is snow on the ground), with a pair of torn up mesh-sided sneakers and black flip-flops that are beginning to curl at the heel. Ah well, as I return to the land of climate-controlled buildings and cars, I have a feeling my footwear won't matter nearly as much to me as it has for the past 5 months.
Anyway, I am totally tuckered out, even though I haven't done a whole lot today. Basically, I am ready for home. This trip has been such an adventure. Although the last leg was a bit of a disappointment, I still feel great about the whole thing. I loved Granada, and I made a few really good friends in La Prusia. I hope we all keep in touch, and I think we actually will thanks to these good ol' internets. Leaving La Prusia was harder than I expected. As I walked down the dirt lane for the last time, I kept passing people I realized I was going to miss. There were lots of hugs and kisses and well wishes. It's amazing how quickly that community opened its arms to me.
I have to admit I am already researching discount airfare from Baltimore to Mexico City. I hope to go back for a visit around Easter. Another teacher from Instituto Heslington wrote to me about his own rough transition away from Mexico. "I think you're suffering from Mexico withdrawal . We had it good there. Didn't we?" We sure did. It's hard to be so spoiled and not realize it. I wish I hadn't taken so much for granted in Mexico. The food, the weather, and most of all the company. I'm happy to say I think I fully appreciate it all now, and when I go back I am going to soak up every drop of wonderfulness.
Signing off from Latin America...
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Fotos de la Esperanza (and other Granada things)
<-- This is the volunteer house in La Prusia where I used to live. It looks quite nice from the outside, doesn't it? Oh, looks can be so deceiving. :-)
A dolled-up Granada street. The colors are --> spectacular, but this street is really just dressed up for tourists. Most of the businesses here are restaurants (over priced), travel agencies, and real estate agencies. But hell, it looks great, doesn't it?
<-- This is the best picture I could get of the lagoon, but it doesn't nearly capture how truly breathtaking the place is. The Lake de Nicaragua is a smelly, gray thing. But this "lagoon," which is located beyond La Prusia in a volcanic crater, is blue and clear and fantastic. I am going back this weekend.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A Turn In Nicaragua
GRANADA, Nicaragua -- The "colonial heart" of Nicaragua is a colorful, lively town filled with travelers from all over the world, funky restaurants, book swaps, and dozens of volunteer opportunities. I selected one with Casas de Esperanza, a small organization dedicated to helping the residents of La Prusia, a barrio outside the Granada city limits, to construct durable dwellings with running water, light, and working indoor bathrooms.
I arrived on January 3, expecting to begin work on the project immediately. From the website and emails with the organization's coordinator, I gathered that most work was focused on construction, and on-site education ranging from carpentry to languages. The demand for volunteers seemed high, and I was excited. Plus, the organization has a communal volunteer house where you can stay for free as long as you are working on the project.
On the Friday that I met up with other volunteers to learn the route from Granada to the volunteer house and project site, it was hot and sunny. I walked uphill for an hour and a half with all my stuff. The volunteers I met that day had all arrived individually from Spain, but seemed to be a close knit group, and I looked forward to getting to know them better and practicing my Spanish.
However, things didn't quite go as planned. Although La Prusia is a poor community, the need for housing is not as urgent as I had thought. Many families are building homes in the project site, but also have quite comfortable dwellings along the one road that connects the La Prusia community. Although the houses that the families made on their own are mostly made of wood and have "improvised" toilets, all are equipped with electricity and running water. When you see the homes form the outside, they look like dilapidated shacks that belong in the forest. But inside, there are couches and La-Z-Boy chairs, TV and stereos, comfy beds with many blankets and mosquito nets (which are very necessary here). Homes here don't need to be air tight or climate controlled -- they need to be airy and waterproof. Many of these families have been living in these homes in La Prusia for generations, and the leaks are things of the past. People are comfortable.
Most people are building second or third homes at the project site because the materials and property are offered for a $1000 no-interest loan by the organization. True, the project houses are sturdier and built to last. But they are farther from Granada than many of the La Prusia houses, and they don't have the well-known comfort of the hand-me-down houses on the lane.
Anyway, working at the project site is a trial in patience. Often, there is no work to be done because no one from La Prusia is working on their house. Volunteers don't build houses, they just help. Also, there is only one ladder at the project, two levels, two shovels, and a shortage of basically every other material as well. The result: only a couple of people can work at a time.
One thing that the organization has done really well is construct a school on the project site. I am teaching two English classes there. One is for kids and meets three times weekly. I teach adults every day for an hour in the afternoon. But there are no desks in my classroom, just one table that seats about 5 or 6 students. We don't have books for the students other than very basic English-Spanish dictionaries. There is certainly no copy machine or other way to provide handouts. It's really hard to teach, but I have supposedly been successful. Judit, the coordinator, tells me everyday that the people on the lane keep talking about how much they enjoy my classes. Teaching fun classes is one thing, but I really want to teach in a manner that helps my students retain the information over a long period of time, and I'm not quite sure I am doing that. But I am doing what I can, and I guess it helps a bit.
Today, I left the communal volunteer house. After 11 days there, I had enough. At first, living there was okay. I shared a room with one other person, and the two other communal bedrooms were occupied by one person each. Another volunteer slept out in the living room with his dog. We had two bathrooms, and we took turns cooking for each other. Dinner was usually around 7:30pm. But then Judit arrived from the States, and her presence dramatically changed the dynamic in the house. She is originally from Spain, and tilted the cultural balance in the house severely to the European side. Dinner suddenly got pushed back to 9, 10:00 at night. I like to wake up at 6:00 to start work at the project before it's too hot, so eating late definitely wasn't going to work for me.
Then, Judit and another volunteer started bickering. Then more volunteers arrived. Soon, the house was a crazy place. The walls don't go all the way to the ceiling, so the noisy combination of snoring, midnight visits to the bathroom, early morning chit chat, roosters crowing, dogs barking, and general night time sounds made it impossible to sleep. Plus, the kitchen was always dirty or crowded. All I need to do in the house is sleep and eat, and I couldn't do either. So, Jess, another volunteer from the States, and I moved down to a hostel in Granada today.
Now we have a 45 minute walk in the mornings to the site, and 45 minutes more in the afternoon, but that's okay with me. I hate to be a whiner or a quitter, but feeling like the impact I am making here is minimal and feeling uncomfortable in the volunteer house has pushed me to give in a little and change my plans. Instead of staying here for a month or five weeks, I'll probably only do one more week after this one, for a total of three.
This is really the first disappointment I have ever faced traveling, so I don't have much to complain about. Not everything can go as planned. And truly, there are some great things about my experience here. Granada is cool. I like the other volunteers. The kids love me, and teaching them is fun (although exhausting!) My adult students are usually so enthusiastic, they leave class and immediately begin practicing whatever they just learned, even when it means calling the volunteers crazy. (We practiced using the verb "to be" with various adjectives.) I am working on some houses, and the efforts I make aren't in vain.
This isn't what I expected but it's not bad.
The other reason I am thinking about leaving early is that, for the first time in all my travels, I feel homesick. I am getting older, and I appreciate my family now more than ever. I am not going to ignore the fact that I miss them, I am going to go to them. I miss Mexico, I miss Erick, and I miss the wide open friendliness that greeted me at every turn until my arrival here. I've been spoiled by too many good people and too much good love. How could I possibly complain about that?
I arrived on January 3, expecting to begin work on the project immediately. From the website and emails with the organization's coordinator, I gathered that most work was focused on construction, and on-site education ranging from carpentry to languages. The demand for volunteers seemed high, and I was excited. Plus, the organization has a communal volunteer house where you can stay for free as long as you are working on the project.
On the Friday that I met up with other volunteers to learn the route from Granada to the volunteer house and project site, it was hot and sunny. I walked uphill for an hour and a half with all my stuff. The volunteers I met that day had all arrived individually from Spain, but seemed to be a close knit group, and I looked forward to getting to know them better and practicing my Spanish.
However, things didn't quite go as planned. Although La Prusia is a poor community, the need for housing is not as urgent as I had thought. Many families are building homes in the project site, but also have quite comfortable dwellings along the one road that connects the La Prusia community. Although the houses that the families made on their own are mostly made of wood and have "improvised" toilets, all are equipped with electricity and running water. When you see the homes form the outside, they look like dilapidated shacks that belong in the forest. But inside, there are couches and La-Z-Boy chairs, TV and stereos, comfy beds with many blankets and mosquito nets (which are very necessary here). Homes here don't need to be air tight or climate controlled -- they need to be airy and waterproof. Many of these families have been living in these homes in La Prusia for generations, and the leaks are things of the past. People are comfortable.
Most people are building second or third homes at the project site because the materials and property are offered for a $1000 no-interest loan by the organization. True, the project houses are sturdier and built to last. But they are farther from Granada than many of the La Prusia houses, and they don't have the well-known comfort of the hand-me-down houses on the lane.
Anyway, working at the project site is a trial in patience. Often, there is no work to be done because no one from La Prusia is working on their house. Volunteers don't build houses, they just help. Also, there is only one ladder at the project, two levels, two shovels, and a shortage of basically every other material as well. The result: only a couple of people can work at a time.
One thing that the organization has done really well is construct a school on the project site. I am teaching two English classes there. One is for kids and meets three times weekly. I teach adults every day for an hour in the afternoon. But there are no desks in my classroom, just one table that seats about 5 or 6 students. We don't have books for the students other than very basic English-Spanish dictionaries. There is certainly no copy machine or other way to provide handouts. It's really hard to teach, but I have supposedly been successful. Judit, the coordinator, tells me everyday that the people on the lane keep talking about how much they enjoy my classes. Teaching fun classes is one thing, but I really want to teach in a manner that helps my students retain the information over a long period of time, and I'm not quite sure I am doing that. But I am doing what I can, and I guess it helps a bit.
Today, I left the communal volunteer house. After 11 days there, I had enough. At first, living there was okay. I shared a room with one other person, and the two other communal bedrooms were occupied by one person each. Another volunteer slept out in the living room with his dog. We had two bathrooms, and we took turns cooking for each other. Dinner was usually around 7:30pm. But then Judit arrived from the States, and her presence dramatically changed the dynamic in the house. She is originally from Spain, and tilted the cultural balance in the house severely to the European side. Dinner suddenly got pushed back to 9, 10:00 at night. I like to wake up at 6:00 to start work at the project before it's too hot, so eating late definitely wasn't going to work for me.
Then, Judit and another volunteer started bickering. Then more volunteers arrived. Soon, the house was a crazy place. The walls don't go all the way to the ceiling, so the noisy combination of snoring, midnight visits to the bathroom, early morning chit chat, roosters crowing, dogs barking, and general night time sounds made it impossible to sleep. Plus, the kitchen was always dirty or crowded. All I need to do in the house is sleep and eat, and I couldn't do either. So, Jess, another volunteer from the States, and I moved down to a hostel in Granada today.
Now we have a 45 minute walk in the mornings to the site, and 45 minutes more in the afternoon, but that's okay with me. I hate to be a whiner or a quitter, but feeling like the impact I am making here is minimal and feeling uncomfortable in the volunteer house has pushed me to give in a little and change my plans. Instead of staying here for a month or five weeks, I'll probably only do one more week after this one, for a total of three.
This is really the first disappointment I have ever faced traveling, so I don't have much to complain about. Not everything can go as planned. And truly, there are some great things about my experience here. Granada is cool. I like the other volunteers. The kids love me, and teaching them is fun (although exhausting!) My adult students are usually so enthusiastic, they leave class and immediately begin practicing whatever they just learned, even when it means calling the volunteers crazy. (We practiced using the verb "to be" with various adjectives.) I am working on some houses, and the efforts I make aren't in vain.
This isn't what I expected but it's not bad.
The other reason I am thinking about leaving early is that, for the first time in all my travels, I feel homesick. I am getting older, and I appreciate my family now more than ever. I am not going to ignore the fact that I miss them, I am going to go to them. I miss Mexico, I miss Erick, and I miss the wide open friendliness that greeted me at every turn until my arrival here. I've been spoiled by too many good people and too much good love. How could I possibly complain about that?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
The Burning (of) Bush
Feliz Año Nuevo! I write to you from the Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City. The last bus that would drop me off here did so at 10:15pm, but my flight doesn't leave until 6am. Thank goodness for all night Internet cafes.
It's cold, I mean really cold. I have three shirts on, including a hoodie. I am also wearing gloves (with the fingers cut off) and have my hood pulled way over my head. I can see my breath. The weather just got like this a day and a half ago. It's as if Mexico had to prove itself to me. "See Mel, I can be just as frigid and unwelcoming as your country. So ha!" Well, only the weather is frigid and unwelcoming. The rest of the country is still quite nice.
Anyway, the reason I am risking finger frost bite to write tonight is because I have to digitally immortalize the proceedings of the New Year's party I attended.
In Mexico, there is a tradition that every New Year's Eve, people burn effigies of old men. The scarecrow-like dolls are stuffed with fireworks, and meant to represent the old year. Erick's family wanted a good muñeco, so Erick volunteered to only "old man" mask he had in his possession: a rubber George W. Bush face.
Erick and his cousin worked for several hours on el viejito, including a good bit of time dedicated to hunting down good wood shavings for the stuffing and fireworks for emphasis. We finished stuffing Georgie around 7pm. Then we ran some errands, and got ready for NYE dinner.
Another big tradition in Mexico is to prepare a large family meal to be eaten right around midnight. I thought it best to save the food for after midnight, since eating would help alleviate the anti-climactic feeling that always casts a shadow over New Year's. But Erick's aunt was hungry, so we dug in to our seafood feast around 11:15. I enjoyed three kinds of fish, shrimp, and soup until 11:45 (we bought almost everything from the frozen foods section of Sam's Club). Then, we headed outside to burn the man.
The gasoline caught quickly, and ignited a couple fireworks right away. Then, there was a long period of slow, painful burning in which all the cloth and wood slowly turned to ash. Finally, the big fireworks caught and explosions rung out into the Tehuacan night. Other families all over the city were doing the same, and standing out in the cool night air, I was able to imagine for just a second what it would be like to live near a firing range. A family down the street must have stuffed at least $100 worth of fireworks in their muñeco, which is crazy considering how cheap fireworks are in Mexico. (They're illegal too, but that doesn't stop the stores from selling them.)
Watching George explode was fantastic. I couldn't think of a better way to welcome the new year. Because the mask was made of rubber, his face stuck around much longer than his body. Watching it contort and dissolve under the heat of the flames was comical, yet satisfying.
When I told my mom about burning George Bush and being so pleased about it, she jokingly hushed me, saying, "The government is gonna arrest us for talking like this!" She was on her cell phone and I was calling from an international pay phone. The sad odds are, our conversation probably wasn't private. But seriously, I can't be the only American gal burning an effigy of the president for pleasure.
My fingers are thoroughly numbed, and I am starting to lose feeling in my feet. It's time to find a warmer spot, and maybe a hot chocolate, and pass the next two hours until I can check in for my flight. Then, I will be allowed to cross into the forbidden land beyond the security desks where it is warm and the benches don't have arm rests (which means I can lay down).
It's cold, I mean really cold. I have three shirts on, including a hoodie. I am also wearing gloves (with the fingers cut off) and have my hood pulled way over my head. I can see my breath. The weather just got like this a day and a half ago. It's as if Mexico had to prove itself to me. "See Mel, I can be just as frigid and unwelcoming as your country. So ha!" Well, only the weather is frigid and unwelcoming. The rest of the country is still quite nice.
Anyway, the reason I am risking finger frost bite to write tonight is because I have to digitally immortalize the proceedings of the New Year's party I attended.
In Mexico, there is a tradition that every New Year's Eve, people burn effigies of old men. The scarecrow-like dolls are stuffed with fireworks, and meant to represent the old year. Erick's family wanted a good muñeco, so Erick volunteered to only "old man" mask he had in his possession: a rubber George W. Bush face.
Erick and his cousin worked for several hours on el viejito, including a good bit of time dedicated to hunting down good wood shavings for the stuffing and fireworks for emphasis. We finished stuffing Georgie around 7pm. Then we ran some errands, and got ready for NYE dinner.
Another big tradition in Mexico is to prepare a large family meal to be eaten right around midnight. I thought it best to save the food for after midnight, since eating would help alleviate the anti-climactic feeling that always casts a shadow over New Year's. But Erick's aunt was hungry, so we dug in to our seafood feast around 11:15. I enjoyed three kinds of fish, shrimp, and soup until 11:45 (we bought almost everything from the frozen foods section of Sam's Club). Then, we headed outside to burn the man.
We started by pouring gasoline all over George's pants. "Sorry we're burning your president," someone from the family called out. "Oh, believe me, I don't mind!" I thought. To Erick's fam, the man could have had anyone's face... Jack Lemon's would have worked just as well for their purposes.
The gasoline caught quickly, and ignited a couple fireworks right away. Then, there was a long period of slow, painful burning in which all the cloth and wood slowly turned to ash. Finally, the big fireworks caught and explosions rung out into the Tehuacan night. Other families all over the city were doing the same, and standing out in the cool night air, I was able to imagine for just a second what it would be like to live near a firing range. A family down the street must have stuffed at least $100 worth of fireworks in their muñeco, which is crazy considering how cheap fireworks are in Mexico. (They're illegal too, but that doesn't stop the stores from selling them.)
Watching George explode was fantastic. I couldn't think of a better way to welcome the new year. Because the mask was made of rubber, his face stuck around much longer than his body. Watching it contort and dissolve under the heat of the flames was comical, yet satisfying.
When I told my mom about burning George Bush and being so pleased about it, she jokingly hushed me, saying, "The government is gonna arrest us for talking like this!" She was on her cell phone and I was calling from an international pay phone. The sad odds are, our conversation probably wasn't private. But seriously, I can't be the only American gal burning an effigy of the president for pleasure.My fingers are thoroughly numbed, and I am starting to lose feeling in my feet. It's time to find a warmer spot, and maybe a hot chocolate, and pass the next two hours until I can check in for my flight. Then, I will be allowed to cross into the forbidden land beyond the security desks where it is warm and the benches don't have arm rests (which means I can lay down).
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