Just a short thought, the rest I’ll keep to myself. Travelling alone, especially as a female, has its definite pros and cons. Which I feel are pretty much unavoidable and thus simply need to either be accepted and taken in stride, or just don’t travel. Aside from missing certain people, and being condemned to the solitude of my mind, I have to be somewhat careful where I go and who I talk to and how much I talk. I can’t really explore the night life so I really only get an idea of what the place is like during the day. I’m not staying in hostels so I don’t have a network source with other tourists, nor do I run into many during the day to buddy up with. I’ve gotten more used to it, being in a hotel alone doesn’t quite have the same emptiness that it used to, nor do long train rides feel as unproductively pointless and I can’t really tell if that’s a good or bad thing. It certainly helps make the travelling less exhausting but maybe I’m lowering my standards. Who knows. Doesn’t matter much I suppose. What has been good though is having to step up and take charge of every situation I’m in; I have to, I don’t have anyone else to fall back on. It is also a good practice for self-initiative; if I don’t get off my duff and go do the things I think would be cool to do, then it ain’t gonna happen; so, just do it.
I was sitting in a café today; inside, behind a floor to ceiling glass window and watching the people outside. From behind the glass wall, I saw friends sitting and talking in groups, groups of kids playing, husbands and wives walking…these people have their lives here. I’m just…here. This random, disconnected person who just happens to be here for a short period of time. This fact has been more accented this trip as I’ve been a TRUE tourist for the first time; doing the city to city thing, public transportation, public housing….all of that is relatively new for me. And somewhat unsatisfying. I feel more aloof, more like an invasive tourist, and less like I’m getting a real experience. But…maybe it’s just different. Who knows. Not complaining, just sayin’.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Barter like a Berber: An newly optimistic view on hagglers
At one point in time, I dreaded going anywhere that involved bartering. Firstly because I hated bartering: it involved manipulation, which I knew I could be really good at, and thus felt guilty and didn’t want to condone anything that encouraged that side of me. Secondly, because I hated hagglers, hated being bothered and didn’t like the idea of having to associate with people who were there to deceive and take advantage of me.
But then I sort of realized it’s just how things are. By going someplace where things are sold, you are signaling possible interest in buying things. The seller is there to sell things and thus reads that signal. It’s their job to bother you; it’s not personal, it’s business. And while they may be people doing their job, they are people. People with lives and wives and kids and stories and problems and thoughts and feelings.
So rather than avoiding the bartering that I previously saw; one where the seller is trying to rob you and you are trying to rob the seller, I came to see bartering as more of a way of negotiating to reach an agreement that makes both parties happy. Diplomacy at its finest. And in a way, it’s an interesting art form, it involves language, stance, tone of voice, body language, eye contact: it’s a dance. In Uganda a lot of it involves intimidation; cross your arms, keep your voice steady, step away when you don’t like a price, stare them down. Morocco is similar but seems to involve less intimidation (they aren’t scared of white people here, obviously) and more friendliness. Let them talk for a bit, get to know them, smile, laugh, show interest in their lives and their craft. Get to know the person behind the dirhams. They’ll ask you to sit down, show you the things they made that they are proud of, tell you about everyone they ever met from the states, and how much they like Obama. I suppose this leaves room for concern that they’ll expect a sale or ask for a higher price because you took so much of their time. But surprisingly, I didn’t find this to be the case. In one day in the Fes medina alone, I was offered tea three times, was given a free trinket, walked away from several sales, and got prices I was ok with. Sure they weren’t the lowest prices known to mankind but if I wasn’t comfortable with the price, I wouldn’t have bought it, that’s the point of bartering.
Another thing I realized was conversation makes a great distraction if you need to weasel out of a situation. I was taking pictures of some hanging blankets and the owner came up to me saying he expected a few dirhams for the pictures. As I started explaining I had asked permission from someone else he was so shocked by my French he started asking questions; are you French? American! That’s so good you know French! (I had a lot of shopkeepers actually THANK me for speaking French, some seemed exasperated at all the English speaking Americans walking around) What state are you from? What’s the weather like there? Do you like it here? It’s such a beautiful land, is it not? Why are you here? Are you studying Arabic? How long are you here for? And before you know it, I was walking away, being wished good luck, all my dirhams still safely tucked away. Just one of several similar instances.
Overall: lesson learned, shopkeepers are people too, treat them as such and it could be immensely rewarding, not only for your pocket book but also for having a positive and enriching experience.
But then I sort of realized it’s just how things are. By going someplace where things are sold, you are signaling possible interest in buying things. The seller is there to sell things and thus reads that signal. It’s their job to bother you; it’s not personal, it’s business. And while they may be people doing their job, they are people. People with lives and wives and kids and stories and problems and thoughts and feelings.
So rather than avoiding the bartering that I previously saw; one where the seller is trying to rob you and you are trying to rob the seller, I came to see bartering as more of a way of negotiating to reach an agreement that makes both parties happy. Diplomacy at its finest. And in a way, it’s an interesting art form, it involves language, stance, tone of voice, body language, eye contact: it’s a dance. In Uganda a lot of it involves intimidation; cross your arms, keep your voice steady, step away when you don’t like a price, stare them down. Morocco is similar but seems to involve less intimidation (they aren’t scared of white people here, obviously) and more friendliness. Let them talk for a bit, get to know them, smile, laugh, show interest in their lives and their craft. Get to know the person behind the dirhams. They’ll ask you to sit down, show you the things they made that they are proud of, tell you about everyone they ever met from the states, and how much they like Obama. I suppose this leaves room for concern that they’ll expect a sale or ask for a higher price because you took so much of their time. But surprisingly, I didn’t find this to be the case. In one day in the Fes medina alone, I was offered tea three times, was given a free trinket, walked away from several sales, and got prices I was ok with. Sure they weren’t the lowest prices known to mankind but if I wasn’t comfortable with the price, I wouldn’t have bought it, that’s the point of bartering.
Another thing I realized was conversation makes a great distraction if you need to weasel out of a situation. I was taking pictures of some hanging blankets and the owner came up to me saying he expected a few dirhams for the pictures. As I started explaining I had asked permission from someone else he was so shocked by my French he started asking questions; are you French? American! That’s so good you know French! (I had a lot of shopkeepers actually THANK me for speaking French, some seemed exasperated at all the English speaking Americans walking around) What state are you from? What’s the weather like there? Do you like it here? It’s such a beautiful land, is it not? Why are you here? Are you studying Arabic? How long are you here for? And before you know it, I was walking away, being wished good luck, all my dirhams still safely tucked away. Just one of several similar instances.
Overall: lesson learned, shopkeepers are people too, treat them as such and it could be immensely rewarding, not only for your pocket book but also for having a positive and enriching experience.
First sights and sounds of Casablanca
Slowly sipping a Coca-Cola in a café next to a busy intersection. The clamor of dishes in the background. Cars roll by in the foreground with only a little honking. A covered, protected feeling from the dark, tall valance covering the tables. The evening sun bright and warm on the sides of white cement buildings crowded more closely and helter-skelter than that of Fes. Pedestrians walk by, mostly dressed modern, carrying big colorful shopping sacs. To my right a huddle of three dark heads tuck into a greasy, messy pile of frites and sandwiches washed down with Arabic printed glass Coca-Cola bottles. To my left a man pours a high stream of steaming mint tea from a silver kettle that lands in the small glass below in a waterfall-esque rush of yellow bubbles with a vigorous swirl of green flecks. Pour high. Dump back in kettle. Pour. Dump. Pour. Dump. It’s rhythmic. A few children run by, followed by their father who slaps the waiter on the shoulder and stops for a cheery hello. An older man stops in the doorway and yells something friendly in Arabic and touches his hand to his heart, laughs at the return greeting and walks away smiling. All the noises and rush of a hustling and bustling city, coupled with the Moroccan patience and hospitality has me observing with fascination and curiosity. Maybe a day and half alone won’t be the solitary confinement I was worried it would be. In fact, I might just really like it here.
Journal Excerpt: Rooftop sunset in Fes
Journaling on the rooftop at sunset. I can’t help but smile. The bright orange sun is sinking behind the dark outlines of hilltops in the distance. The air is filled with squawking blackbirds and the streets flow with cars. White rooftops at eyelevel abound with a weed patch of satellite dishes and colorful clothes lines. In the distance the tops of buildings and mosques glow a slight orange with the light of sunset. A solid breeze fills my lungs with fresh air, fills my ears with the rush of wind, fills my shirt with the playful spin of air, fills my hair with fluid life and volume. And now the sun has dipped behind the hill, leaving a glowing afterthought and hint of creeping darkness as the moon grows persistently brighter over my shoulder and the trees begin to blend together in a shadowy monochrome. Amazing and dramatic. There is life here. No dullness or stagnancy; rather a subtle vibrancy as I overlook the city and am reminded that I am somewhere great; that I am in Fes. A place where the thick whitewashed buildings with a random patch of color seems not unlike the modestly flowing fabrics of the women here with the occasionally flashy sandal or painted nails. A place where the intermingling of French and Arabic tongues seems symbolic of the unique position of Maroc; poised somewhere between the African, European, and Middle Eastern worlds. A place where the call to prayer winding its way through the streets and ringing off building walls reminds one of the sacred religiosity that rings in so many hearts here. A place where a single frozen scene of a rough, wrinkled elderly hand being aided by the young and strong seems indicative of all that Morocco has been through over the ages, the hospitality that dominates, the strength that prevails, and the importance of family and respect so culturally ingrained in the society. It is at once both different and marvelous.
And now the sky has darkened and the shadows dominate where light was so shortly ago. The colorful city lights crop up brightly and mystically through random dark patches of trees…
And now the sky has darkened and the shadows dominate where light was so shortly ago. The colorful city lights crop up brightly and mystically through random dark patches of trees…
Spinning between worlds
My thoughts aren’t fully formulated because obviously I haven’t had anywhere near the cultural immersion in Morocco that I had in Uganda, but I have been finding it fascinating what a completely different world it is here compared to Uganda/East Africa. I found it interesting the other day when Jason remarked that this is pretty much as he imagined Africa would be. This is pretty much the exact opposite of the Africa I’ve known, thus far. Uganda has more of a…whimsical feel to it. More dense and lushly tropical. Dirtier. Denser population. More subsistence farming, etc. Even driving out of the city to the rolling crop laden hills feels different, more spacious, organized. Which I think really drives home the point just what an immensely diverse continent it is. And even more so, the huge contrast between the Maghreb and Sub-Saharan Africa. I remember talking to people on the train the first day and they struggled to understand where Uganda was located (“north of Rwanda” helped), and more than one person boasted how much more “modern” Morocco was and how “undeveloped” the rest of Africa was. One girl referred to it as “black Africa” which a bit of a snarl and talked about how many of “them” were coming to Morocco. Interesting stuff that I could go on a lot longer about, but I’m pretty sure no one would continue reading (if anyone is) if this got much longer.
Rabat
Between waking up late and the train taking longer than expected, I only had about 4 hours to wander Rabat. I think I’m still in Uganda mode time-wise because I keep feeling the anxious urge to start heading back around 6pm because Uganda gets pitch dark around 7:30. Yet here, it stays light until around 8:30 and people wander until late. My bad. Regardless, in the short time, I was amazed how much I was able to see and do. I wandered the Nouvelle Ville a bit, stopped for a leisurely lunch of hommus and babeganoush (or how ever the heck you spell it, apologies for the cultural-linguistic insensitivity). Then I breezed through the small and afternoon-ly deserted medina and headed for the Kasbah. I ended up stumbling on the Atlantic ocean (you’d think I would have noticed something like that on the map) and thus headed for the beach to explore for a bit before heading back up to the kasbah, which merited only about a half an hour wander. I wandered through the lush local garden for a bit and headed back to the nouvelle ville for some ice cream, wandered a bit more, and caught the evening train back. And that was Rabat.
Chefchaouen
I love Chefchaouen. But maybe that’s because I got so small a taste, it left me wanting more. Trains aren’t an option and there’s only 2 buses a day. What was supposed to be a 4 hour bus ride turned into 7 hours, which is another story altogether (involving sitting in a 94 degree bus without water for 2 hours, Andalucían piano players, cocaine, and a general test of patience and endurance). I finally arrived around 7pm, found the hotel the travel book had recommended, dropped off my bags, and began to wander in the evening hours. My first thought was that it’s the perfect place for a romantic weekend get-away. It’s tucked away and charming, but bustling enough to not feel completely removed. The tall white buildings throw around the light in the winding, labrynthian, narrow alleyways that glow with all the shadows and shades of blue walls, blue shutters, blue doors…
The main road is lined with shop after shop overflowing with touristy goods which has its pros and cons. The con is that its touristy. The pro is that it’s mostly local artisans who make their wares on cite and are not only super eager to talk with you, but also take pride in showing off their shop and the quality of their goods. It’s a lot more laid back than the big city medinas and doesn’t have the hagglers or the nick-nacky junk you’ll never use. The shop keepers are friendly and patient; one leather sandal maker pulled me into his shop, sat me down, introduced me to all his workers, talked for a good 10-15 minutes, offered me tea, and actually bartered down to a pretty sweet price on a pair of sandals. Which I ultimately declined. You can get pretty good prices here and more variety than some of the city medinas.
Disclaimer: I was thrown off by a kid that walked up to me and said, “hola!” and at first thought maybe just that word had crept into the local tongue. Then a shop keeper gave me a desperately confused look when I approached him in French. Some people speak French here, but about 80% know only Spanish or Arabic. So, if you speak French, good luck bartering. If you speak Spanish, it’s your lucky day.
Around dusk I wandered into the main square to grab a couscous dinner (which was…ehhh) and people watch as the evening call to prayer brought in droves of old men greeting and talking together. I stole a couple shots (just couldn’t resist) and felt like no one cared in the least.
I had to leave early in the morning so I didn’t get much more time to wander, but overall, it’s an extremely quaint (and photogenic) little city perched on the hillside with a huge local presence despite the touristy bits. Kids playing football in the alleys. Old guys talking across shops. Teenagers running to the community water tap. Women hollering across clothes-lines. It’s impeccably clean, well kept up, feels incredibly safe, chill, and encourages you to just breathe, relax, and wander.
The main road is lined with shop after shop overflowing with touristy goods which has its pros and cons. The con is that its touristy. The pro is that it’s mostly local artisans who make their wares on cite and are not only super eager to talk with you, but also take pride in showing off their shop and the quality of their goods. It’s a lot more laid back than the big city medinas and doesn’t have the hagglers or the nick-nacky junk you’ll never use. The shop keepers are friendly and patient; one leather sandal maker pulled me into his shop, sat me down, introduced me to all his workers, talked for a good 10-15 minutes, offered me tea, and actually bartered down to a pretty sweet price on a pair of sandals. Which I ultimately declined. You can get pretty good prices here and more variety than some of the city medinas.
Disclaimer: I was thrown off by a kid that walked up to me and said, “hola!” and at first thought maybe just that word had crept into the local tongue. Then a shop keeper gave me a desperately confused look when I approached him in French. Some people speak French here, but about 80% know only Spanish or Arabic. So, if you speak French, good luck bartering. If you speak Spanish, it’s your lucky day.
Around dusk I wandered into the main square to grab a couscous dinner (which was…ehhh) and people watch as the evening call to prayer brought in droves of old men greeting and talking together. I stole a couple shots (just couldn’t resist) and felt like no one cared in the least.
I had to leave early in the morning so I didn’t get much more time to wander, but overall, it’s an extremely quaint (and photogenic) little city perched on the hillside with a huge local presence despite the touristy bits. Kids playing football in the alleys. Old guys talking across shops. Teenagers running to the community water tap. Women hollering across clothes-lines. It’s impeccably clean, well kept up, feels incredibly safe, chill, and encourages you to just breathe, relax, and wander.
First medina
So I really enjoyed the medina. At first I felt a bit ridiculous just randomly wandering around a place for sheer personal amusement…but then I got over it. I intentionally kept my camera and wallet in my bag. I wanted to just wander and see what I saw without putting on the lenses of looking for things to buy or take pictures of. It was really busy in the morning and you got pulled along with the crowd. To avoid getting lost I started stopping to write down where I turned marked by nearby landmarks (before red dress, after dried fruits) but after a while gave it up. I was also going to attempt the walking tour from the guide book, but upon failing to find even the first turn to the first landmark, gave that up too. But I still saw everything in the tour and more; I had a running commentary in my head as I passed souq after souq (“you can watch the metal workers as they finish platters frequently rented out for weddings”…“ the shaded trees in the henna souq”… “the tanneries make themselves known by scent long before you arrive”). There is EVERYTHING in there. Gorgeous leather work, gold and silver, dried fruits, fresh fruits, candies, spices, rices and beans, henna, pottery, beaded jewelry, fabrics, clothes…seriously, if it’s not in the media, it doesn’t exist. And all stuffed in tiny little shops in narrow little alley ways, each alley a little differently constructed than the last.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
First medina
So I really enjoyed the medina. At first I felt a bit ridiculous just randomly wandering around a place for sheer personal amusement…but then I got over it. I intentionally kept my camera and wallet in my bag. I wanted to just wander and see what I saw without putting on the lenses of looking for things to buy or take pictures of. It was really busy in the morning and you got pulled along with the crowd. To avoid getting lost I started stopping to write down where I turned marked by nearby landmarks (before red dress, after dried fruits) but after a while gave it up. I was also going to attempt the walking tour from the guide book, but upon failing to find even the first turn to the first landmark, gave that up too. But I still saw everything in the tour and more; I had a running commentary in my head as I passed souq after souq (“you can watch the metal workers as they finish platters frequently rented out for weddings”…“ the shaded trees in the henna souq”… “the tanneries make themselves known by scent long before you arrive”). There is EVERYTHING in there. Gorgeous leather work, gold and silver, dried fruits, fresh fruits, candies, spices, rices and beans, henna, pottery, beaded jewelry, fabrics, clothes…seriously, if it’s not in the media, it doesn’t exist. And all stuffed in tiny little shops in narrow little alley ways, each alley a little differently constructed than the last.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
The hagglers weren’t too bad, relatively speaking. Sometimes they tried to follow me, but at least they didn’t yell at me and/or grab me. Walking around was sometimes exasperating and I had to remind myself to chill. Moms with little kids going at a snails pace. Teenage girls walking slow in conversation. Old ladies hobbling along and stop randomly right in the middle. Two friends stopping for a handshake and a hello….right in front of you, in the middle of the walkway. I could tell I was still in Uganda mode because my first inclination was to push and shove my way through, but I realized even though the personal space is small, they won’t just brush by people if it requires brusque bodily contact….so I wasn’t sure what to do and ended up waiting a second or two and then shimmying my way past. I got pretty lost in the top end of the medina and after wandering the same area for an hour (which seemed to all be steeply uphill…even when I back tracked) finally gave up and exited through a gate I had found earlier rather than the gate I came in by.
Lessons from the Medina
1.) PASS ON THE LEFT! I swear I had to remind myself 20 zillion times in the medina today
2.) Don’t focus so much on spacing out hagglers that you space out everything and almost get trampled by passing mules.
3.) Take allergy medication BEFORE entering medina. Not after.
4.) Memorize all French numbers. Immediately. (for some reason I never learned past 10)
5.) Avoiding walking up and down the same road multiple times; the “guides” will recognize you and approach you more since doubling back makes it look like you are, “lost.”
2.) Don’t focus so much on spacing out hagglers that you space out everything and almost get trampled by passing mules.
3.) Take allergy medication BEFORE entering medina. Not after.
4.) Memorize all French numbers. Immediately. (for some reason I never learned past 10)
5.) Avoiding walking up and down the same road multiple times; the “guides” will recognize you and approach you more since doubling back makes it look like you are, “lost.”
A new way to learn French
Just ride trains in Morocco all day. Seriously. I’m pretty sure I got more practice listening and speaking and actually conversing on a 5 hour train ride than I did in the two weeks I was in France before Uganda.
On my first train, a mother and teenage son in the adjoining car (yep, they were yelling across cars) almost immediately started asking about me and insisted that I move to come sit with them and eat their food with them. I declined and struggled to explain myself, my luggage was so cumbersome, I didn’t want to cramp them, and my stomach wasn’t feeling well (really, it wasn’t) so food probably wasn’t a good idea. I felt bad, I think I insulted them. A girl across the aisle saved me by starting up conversation and when we got off the train, stood and talked with me about her life and views on Muslim women in Morocco for a good half hour and finally parted with a hug and two quick cheek kisses.
The second train had the cars divided into compartments so it was basically me sitting there and talking to different people as they came and went. When I first sat down, I stepped into an intense discussion between a Congolese expat (and former national soccer player) and older female about how lazy the youth in Morocco are. I started nodding along, trying to keep up with the conversation until suddenly he turned to me and goes (in French, of course), “so what do you think? What are the positives and negatives?” Uhhhhh……..I’m am American, and I just got here. So then the conversation turned into how good it is to travel and all the things about culture you can learn, which then turned into a discussion on people’s perception and value of money in different cultures. The second wave of people brought a VERY heated discussion on Americans perception of Muslims and Moroccan sentiments about the war in Iraq (if you haven’t guessed, everyone here thinks Bush was a fool). And the last wave brought a sweet mom and her shy 3 year old daughter who talked with me about EVERYTHING for a good two hours and ended in an insistent invitation to her mother’s house (whom she was visiting) in Fes for a couscous lunch on Friday. And I might just take her up on it.
They told me the Moroccans were hospitable, but this was ridiculous.
On my first train, a mother and teenage son in the adjoining car (yep, they were yelling across cars) almost immediately started asking about me and insisted that I move to come sit with them and eat their food with them. I declined and struggled to explain myself, my luggage was so cumbersome, I didn’t want to cramp them, and my stomach wasn’t feeling well (really, it wasn’t) so food probably wasn’t a good idea. I felt bad, I think I insulted them. A girl across the aisle saved me by starting up conversation and when we got off the train, stood and talked with me about her life and views on Muslim women in Morocco for a good half hour and finally parted with a hug and two quick cheek kisses.
The second train had the cars divided into compartments so it was basically me sitting there and talking to different people as they came and went. When I first sat down, I stepped into an intense discussion between a Congolese expat (and former national soccer player) and older female about how lazy the youth in Morocco are. I started nodding along, trying to keep up with the conversation until suddenly he turned to me and goes (in French, of course), “so what do you think? What are the positives and negatives?” Uhhhhh……..I’m am American, and I just got here. So then the conversation turned into how good it is to travel and all the things about culture you can learn, which then turned into a discussion on people’s perception and value of money in different cultures. The second wave of people brought a VERY heated discussion on Americans perception of Muslims and Moroccan sentiments about the war in Iraq (if you haven’t guessed, everyone here thinks Bush was a fool). And the last wave brought a sweet mom and her shy 3 year old daughter who talked with me about EVERYTHING for a good two hours and ended in an insistent invitation to her mother’s house (whom she was visiting) in Fes for a couscous lunch on Friday. And I might just take her up on it.
They told me the Moroccans were hospitable, but this was ridiculous.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A bientot!
Well. Last day. And a lazy one at that. I stood up the HELP kids this morning, they weren’t quite sure of their plans for the day and I didn’t feel like getting up at 7 to help a group I freely declare my lack of full support for. Instead, I slept, tanned, and will head off the a local bakery to help out in the next hour or so. Then time to pack up! Mum is insisting on taking me to the airport rather than my paying a local church member, so I’ll head to Kampala with her in the morning and then we’ll head off to the airport around lunchtime. Then a 7 hour overnight layer in Dubai and I’ll be in Morocco! Let’s hope I can find Jason’s apartment….once again I find myself traveling to far off and unfamiliar places with nothing more than a paragraph or two of directions to get me where I need to go. That’s obviously putting a dramatic light on it, I’m not worried, Jason has been ridiculously accommodating and gave very specific directions and two phone numbers to reach him at should anything happen.
Check back soon to hear all about the next leg of my travels!
Check back soon to hear all about the next leg of my travels!
Not so bad
It cracks me up how as I repeatedly find myself explaining in conversation that my research group left already and I’m here for a few days until heading out, how many people say, “you must be so bored!” what a shame that locals see their town as so boring! I’ve actually been really enjoying myself the past few days. Maybe the most I have since I’ve been here this trip. Maybe.
Saturday I worked a bit in the morning, ran some errands in town (water, internet, fabric drop-off), and then headed off to Kampala. I will admit I got really lucky; usually the fast talking, pushy conductor just shoves you in the van, but this time the driver was looming around and his aged friendly eyes caught my searching ones. I told him I needed to get to Uganda house on Kampala road and he sat me in the front seat next to him and an hour and a half later remembered exactly where I needed to hop out, which is the part I was worried about. My life is too easy, I know. I found the bookstore I needed just up the road and grabbed the Lonely Planet Morocco travel guide I’ve been eyeing thirstily for about a week. After an intense boda bartering session (no I will not pay you 3,000 shillings for a 500 shilling ride across town!) I met up with Mum at her shop, where I was shown the entire warehouse, introduced to everyone and their uncle, given a cushy seat, hot samosas, an ice cold Coke, and promptly ordered to count the number of bags of rice that were carried through the door. My life is too easy, I know. Mum drove me home, speaking to me only in Lugandan (she insists I won’t learn the language any other way, which is sort of true, I don’t always know exactly what she’s saying in a transliteral sense, but usually get the point). We stopped by the market on the way back and then let me cook dinner under her supervision all the while discussing her life and her thoughts on some current events in Uganda.
Ok, that was long. Sunday will be more to the point. I got home from church to find Doreen, Mum’s daughter, home and promptly was begged to come with her to visit Patrick (Mum’s oldest son) and his new baby in Ntinda. So, I tossed my scriptures on the bed and headed off with her for the taxi. We caught up on life on the way; she’s still brazenly independent and completely smitten with the idea of going to the US or UK. She really is very American in a lot of respects, talking with her is a lot like talking with my friends back home. We arrived at Patrick’s house, which is pretty nice, I would totally be ok living there. Patrick lives there with his girlfriend of 6 years, Marianne, who just had their first baby not even a month ago (and he is SOOOO precious!). Marianne’s twin sister, Becky, lives there as well along with Mum’s third born, Keith.
It was REALLY interesting to get a glimpse into the lives of 20 something up and coming Ugandans. There is a huge TV with a sweet stereo system in the living room, and all the bedrooms also have TV’s. Keith has the same laptop I do, which they all share via their “flashes” (jump-drives) that have more storage space than mine does. The kitchen has gas tanks instead of outdoor charcoal ovens. Becky’s floor was strewn with at least a dozen pairs of enviously stylish heels, her closet filled to the brim with pretty summer dresses, skinny leg jeans, leggings, and tank tops. As we gabbed about hair, babies, Kenya, and clubbing on her black and white flowered bed, I noted a ton of jewelry next to near empty bottles of Smirnoff and So Co. Was I really still in Uganda? It definitely put a contrast to the more traditional life at Mum’s house, just a generation older, where clothes are still washed by hand, house girls are a must, food is cooked outside, and the décor and clothing is noticeably less modern. Uganda is changing fast.
The thematic juxtaposition between traditional and modern continued when I found Drake, Mum’s 4th and final child who is still in secondary school (US 11th grade), at the gate upon my return (ouy…bad taxi ride home, long story, apparently something about merely sitting next to a muzungu was ROARING hilarious for the two girls on my bench) who waltzed into my room, invited himself to a seat and declared he was “hanging out.” He proceeded to tell me all about what’s “so fly” and what’s not so fly among kids his age, his escapades at the rugby club, how bored he gets during the weekdays, and the clubs and parties he goes to on the weekend. He has a best friend that’s a girl but he doesn’t want to date her for fear of losing the friendship, and admits it’s nice having her around because where she is, other girls will be, and what can you except, he’s young and free, can’t be tied down, and loves the ladies. He knows he’ll have to get more serious in a couple years, but right now, he’s joyous aware of his ability to “play.”
Mmmk, grr, another really long post that everyone is just going to skim over, assuming anyone is actually looking at this. Oh well!
Saturday I worked a bit in the morning, ran some errands in town (water, internet, fabric drop-off), and then headed off to Kampala. I will admit I got really lucky; usually the fast talking, pushy conductor just shoves you in the van, but this time the driver was looming around and his aged friendly eyes caught my searching ones. I told him I needed to get to Uganda house on Kampala road and he sat me in the front seat next to him and an hour and a half later remembered exactly where I needed to hop out, which is the part I was worried about. My life is too easy, I know. I found the bookstore I needed just up the road and grabbed the Lonely Planet Morocco travel guide I’ve been eyeing thirstily for about a week. After an intense boda bartering session (no I will not pay you 3,000 shillings for a 500 shilling ride across town!) I met up with Mum at her shop, where I was shown the entire warehouse, introduced to everyone and their uncle, given a cushy seat, hot samosas, an ice cold Coke, and promptly ordered to count the number of bags of rice that were carried through the door. My life is too easy, I know. Mum drove me home, speaking to me only in Lugandan (she insists I won’t learn the language any other way, which is sort of true, I don’t always know exactly what she’s saying in a transliteral sense, but usually get the point). We stopped by the market on the way back and then let me cook dinner under her supervision all the while discussing her life and her thoughts on some current events in Uganda.
Ok, that was long. Sunday will be more to the point. I got home from church to find Doreen, Mum’s daughter, home and promptly was begged to come with her to visit Patrick (Mum’s oldest son) and his new baby in Ntinda. So, I tossed my scriptures on the bed and headed off with her for the taxi. We caught up on life on the way; she’s still brazenly independent and completely smitten with the idea of going to the US or UK. She really is very American in a lot of respects, talking with her is a lot like talking with my friends back home. We arrived at Patrick’s house, which is pretty nice, I would totally be ok living there. Patrick lives there with his girlfriend of 6 years, Marianne, who just had their first baby not even a month ago (and he is SOOOO precious!). Marianne’s twin sister, Becky, lives there as well along with Mum’s third born, Keith.
It was REALLY interesting to get a glimpse into the lives of 20 something up and coming Ugandans. There is a huge TV with a sweet stereo system in the living room, and all the bedrooms also have TV’s. Keith has the same laptop I do, which they all share via their “flashes” (jump-drives) that have more storage space than mine does. The kitchen has gas tanks instead of outdoor charcoal ovens. Becky’s floor was strewn with at least a dozen pairs of enviously stylish heels, her closet filled to the brim with pretty summer dresses, skinny leg jeans, leggings, and tank tops. As we gabbed about hair, babies, Kenya, and clubbing on her black and white flowered bed, I noted a ton of jewelry next to near empty bottles of Smirnoff and So Co. Was I really still in Uganda? It definitely put a contrast to the more traditional life at Mum’s house, just a generation older, where clothes are still washed by hand, house girls are a must, food is cooked outside, and the décor and clothing is noticeably less modern. Uganda is changing fast.
The thematic juxtaposition between traditional and modern continued when I found Drake, Mum’s 4th and final child who is still in secondary school (US 11th grade), at the gate upon my return (ouy…bad taxi ride home, long story, apparently something about merely sitting next to a muzungu was ROARING hilarious for the two girls on my bench) who waltzed into my room, invited himself to a seat and declared he was “hanging out.” He proceeded to tell me all about what’s “so fly” and what’s not so fly among kids his age, his escapades at the rugby club, how bored he gets during the weekdays, and the clubs and parties he goes to on the weekend. He has a best friend that’s a girl but he doesn’t want to date her for fear of losing the friendship, and admits it’s nice having her around because where she is, other girls will be, and what can you except, he’s young and free, can’t be tied down, and loves the ladies. He knows he’ll have to get more serious in a couple years, but right now, he’s joyous aware of his ability to “play.”
Mmmk, grr, another really long post that everyone is just going to skim over, assuming anyone is actually looking at this. Oh well!
The lone muzungu
Well, we went to our last school on Wednesday, ran errands in Kampala on Thursday, and the entire group headed out yesterday (Friday). I leave Tuesday for Morocco. Yeesh, that went by fast. First getting here feels like a long time ago, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve been here a long time, which is weird since my life has been so mobile, I would have thought the feeling of staying put for this long would be especially noticeable. But nope. Maybe it’s because there was so little readjustment, maybe it’s because our days haven’t been as full as I was expecting (and would have liked).
Regardless, I am now a lone Muzungu.
It was the oddest experience, hopping out of the van as the group headed off to the airport, saying my thanks, and losing sight of the crowded faces as I pulled the sliding door shut. I turned my back to the main road and exhaled. This was it. I was on my own. It was just me, and Mukono. I hopped across a gorge and started walking up the side road to the house. I didn’t feel naked or bare or revealed as I was walking, I’ve walked these roads many times before alone. But I felt somehow as if the world around me was frozen and I was moving through it. I knew something everyone around me didn’t: my group was gone. And it was so odd, moving along that road, everyone working and no one noticing. Nothing had changed for them, life continued just as it had two minutes ago, but for me, everything had changed. Tumbling up Jinja road to Entebbe was a van full of Muzungu’s that had been my source of companionship, laughter, discussion, during the past three weeks. The professors who had randomly caught my attention in the hallway two years ago and since became my mentors and opened up an entirely new world to me were gone and I would probably never see them again since I won’t be at BYU in the fall. Gone, gone, gone.
I won’t be lonely. I refuse. There’s no point. But…I am. A bit. I certainly know plenty of people in the area so I’m obviously not entirely alone, but from about 8pm onward, its me, myself, and I. Which is fine, I’ve certainly got plenty of work to get done. And I’ve got plans for the next three days to keep me occupied, but…it’s not quite the same, ya know? I can go places and do stuff and have occasional contact with people, but I don’t have Rachel or Caleb to tag along and share the experience with. It will be interesting though, I think. I feel a lot more focused on being here now than I was previously and maybe that’ll open up some new insight. Check back in a few days!
Regardless, I am now a lone Muzungu.
It was the oddest experience, hopping out of the van as the group headed off to the airport, saying my thanks, and losing sight of the crowded faces as I pulled the sliding door shut. I turned my back to the main road and exhaled. This was it. I was on my own. It was just me, and Mukono. I hopped across a gorge and started walking up the side road to the house. I didn’t feel naked or bare or revealed as I was walking, I’ve walked these roads many times before alone. But I felt somehow as if the world around me was frozen and I was moving through it. I knew something everyone around me didn’t: my group was gone. And it was so odd, moving along that road, everyone working and no one noticing. Nothing had changed for them, life continued just as it had two minutes ago, but for me, everything had changed. Tumbling up Jinja road to Entebbe was a van full of Muzungu’s that had been my source of companionship, laughter, discussion, during the past three weeks. The professors who had randomly caught my attention in the hallway two years ago and since became my mentors and opened up an entirely new world to me were gone and I would probably never see them again since I won’t be at BYU in the fall. Gone, gone, gone.
I won’t be lonely. I refuse. There’s no point. But…I am. A bit. I certainly know plenty of people in the area so I’m obviously not entirely alone, but from about 8pm onward, its me, myself, and I. Which is fine, I’ve certainly got plenty of work to get done. And I’ve got plans for the next three days to keep me occupied, but…it’s not quite the same, ya know? I can go places and do stuff and have occasional contact with people, but I don’t have Rachel or Caleb to tag along and share the experience with. It will be interesting though, I think. I feel a lot more focused on being here now than I was previously and maybe that’ll open up some new insight. Check back in a few days!
Thought
I was reading Rachel’s book, “In a Sunburned Country” (great book, the author is HILARIOUS, not kidding, I was crying from laughing so hard) and I had a small thought.
The author is giving accounts of some of the more ridiculous 18th and 19th century attempts to cross the outback (eg. the guy that lugged 3 boats all the way, or the guy that brought a Chinese gong and 2,000 lbs of sugar) and he mentioned some guy that was chosen for an expedition with no other qualifications other than a family name and big bank account.
And I realized, when its 1789 you’re on a boat to Tasmania, no one gives a darn about your wealth. It does you NO good. They certainly don’t have ATMs there. You can’t stop in the middle of the ocean to buy more supplies. And you definitely can’t change money over once you get there. It’s just you and whatever skills you have.
And wouldn’t that be an interesting experience. To leave all that behind. Here in Uganda, I know I have more than enough money in my account to get by, indulgently even. I know if I need anything, if anything were to happen, chances are, my money would help me wiggle out of it. So much of the “muzungu identity” revolves around having money; it effects your attitude towards things, how people treat you, basically your entire experience. But what if my “wealth” here meant nothing? What if I had only what I brought with me and was on the same par as everyone else? I think it would be a most valuable and interesting experience.
The author is giving accounts of some of the more ridiculous 18th and 19th century attempts to cross the outback (eg. the guy that lugged 3 boats all the way, or the guy that brought a Chinese gong and 2,000 lbs of sugar) and he mentioned some guy that was chosen for an expedition with no other qualifications other than a family name and big bank account.
And I realized, when its 1789 you’re on a boat to Tasmania, no one gives a darn about your wealth. It does you NO good. They certainly don’t have ATMs there. You can’t stop in the middle of the ocean to buy more supplies. And you definitely can’t change money over once you get there. It’s just you and whatever skills you have.
And wouldn’t that be an interesting experience. To leave all that behind. Here in Uganda, I know I have more than enough money in my account to get by, indulgently even. I know if I need anything, if anything were to happen, chances are, my money would help me wiggle out of it. So much of the “muzungu identity” revolves around having money; it effects your attitude towards things, how people treat you, basically your entire experience. But what if my “wealth” here meant nothing? What if I had only what I brought with me and was on the same par as everyone else? I think it would be a most valuable and interesting experience.
Blessing as a curse?
WARNING: CONTROVERSIAL
I’m still mulling a lot of this over, but it is an interesting thought.
Caleb and I had a pretty interesting discussion on the taxi out to one of the schools today (I think I’ve determined that intense conversations are the only type of dialogue I’m capable of…). Anyway. We talked about a lot of things, but one especially interesting point came up. Uganda, and this is something pretty much no one will deny, but Uganda is absolutely not hurting for resources. The soil is more fertile than they know what to do with. Crops literally grow wild here. It is, in a very literal sense, a land of plenty.
Talk to me about it and I’ll talk about mismanagement of land and misallocation of resources. It’s not that the resources aren’t there, they just aren’t getting to the people. The infrastructure isn’t strong enough to support the economy, which in turn is even further bogged down by massive inflation and unemployment, which isn’t helped AT ALL by the heads of state. Not that I’m entirely deterministic about it, but I will admit that I do think of the government and economy almost as living organisms which directly influence the tides of our lives/society, which in turn influence the government and economy. We are not ruled by our institutions. We rule them. But, sometimes we rule them poorly and it goes a bit Frankenstein on us. It’s a give and take, but one that I see as control coming in a more top-down sense. This might change as I learn more and wizen, but it’s how my mind is inherently geared to look at situations, it’s essentially why I’ve chosen the course of studies that I have: so that I can learn more about the function of government in people’s lives and hence how that government can be managed/run/etc. to improve the lives of “it’s” people.
Ok, now, talk to Caleb about it and he raises some interesting points. As background, he served his 2 year Latter-Day Saint mission in Uganda a couple years ago so not only has he spent a substantial amount of time living and working with the people, but lived looking at life here from a religious perspective. He’s considered things I haven’t especially given that with regards to this sort of stuff, I tend to be a staunch secularist. Caleb sees many of the issues here as a result of a lack of individual morality and integrity. If people would just live by the Christian principles they claim to accept, we wouldn’t see the type of people in power that we do. Whereas as I see a lot of the issues as results of having an imposed European modeled government dumped on a society where it didn’t jive with the culture, and thus there were gaps for people like Idi Amin to rise to power. If we can find a model that actually takes the society into account, things might work “better.” Rather, Caleb sees it as a problem with the society itself, and thus necessitates a change in the society. It’s two different perspectives, with some nuanced overlap.
What I did find especially interesting was Caleb’s point that because there are SO MANY resources growing here, it creates almost a sense of satisfaction and complacency that discourages discouraged workers from seeking out jobs. If you know you can grow enough to support your family on your little plot of land, why work to earn money to support the family? You could point to our “human nature” of being greedy (arguable, even though I’m no altruist) but then you add in the zillion issues that make education and finding a job such a struggle, and you find yourself sort of squished between not wanting to work and having no reason to work. I dunno. It’s interesting. It’s a different paradigm here with a different approach and perspective on life that I definitely don’t fully understand and thus can’t say a whole lot about. I think Caleb’s point leaves room for some questions, like why “struggle” is such a catch phrase here, everyone appears to be working so hard all the time just to get by (Caleb will say they actually aren’t working that hard, if you follow a Ugandan for a day, you see all the time they take breaks and chill and don’t work), or the people that DON’T have what they need to survive, that don’t have enough food, etc. But even, so, it raises an interesting question, could Uganda’s blessing of plenty actually be a curse?
I’m still mulling a lot of this over, but it is an interesting thought.
Caleb and I had a pretty interesting discussion on the taxi out to one of the schools today (I think I’ve determined that intense conversations are the only type of dialogue I’m capable of…). Anyway. We talked about a lot of things, but one especially interesting point came up. Uganda, and this is something pretty much no one will deny, but Uganda is absolutely not hurting for resources. The soil is more fertile than they know what to do with. Crops literally grow wild here. It is, in a very literal sense, a land of plenty.
Talk to me about it and I’ll talk about mismanagement of land and misallocation of resources. It’s not that the resources aren’t there, they just aren’t getting to the people. The infrastructure isn’t strong enough to support the economy, which in turn is even further bogged down by massive inflation and unemployment, which isn’t helped AT ALL by the heads of state. Not that I’m entirely deterministic about it, but I will admit that I do think of the government and economy almost as living organisms which directly influence the tides of our lives/society, which in turn influence the government and economy. We are not ruled by our institutions. We rule them. But, sometimes we rule them poorly and it goes a bit Frankenstein on us. It’s a give and take, but one that I see as control coming in a more top-down sense. This might change as I learn more and wizen, but it’s how my mind is inherently geared to look at situations, it’s essentially why I’ve chosen the course of studies that I have: so that I can learn more about the function of government in people’s lives and hence how that government can be managed/run/etc. to improve the lives of “it’s” people.
Ok, now, talk to Caleb about it and he raises some interesting points. As background, he served his 2 year Latter-Day Saint mission in Uganda a couple years ago so not only has he spent a substantial amount of time living and working with the people, but lived looking at life here from a religious perspective. He’s considered things I haven’t especially given that with regards to this sort of stuff, I tend to be a staunch secularist. Caleb sees many of the issues here as a result of a lack of individual morality and integrity. If people would just live by the Christian principles they claim to accept, we wouldn’t see the type of people in power that we do. Whereas as I see a lot of the issues as results of having an imposed European modeled government dumped on a society where it didn’t jive with the culture, and thus there were gaps for people like Idi Amin to rise to power. If we can find a model that actually takes the society into account, things might work “better.” Rather, Caleb sees it as a problem with the society itself, and thus necessitates a change in the society. It’s two different perspectives, with some nuanced overlap.
What I did find especially interesting was Caleb’s point that because there are SO MANY resources growing here, it creates almost a sense of satisfaction and complacency that discourages discouraged workers from seeking out jobs. If you know you can grow enough to support your family on your little plot of land, why work to earn money to support the family? You could point to our “human nature” of being greedy (arguable, even though I’m no altruist) but then you add in the zillion issues that make education and finding a job such a struggle, and you find yourself sort of squished between not wanting to work and having no reason to work. I dunno. It’s interesting. It’s a different paradigm here with a different approach and perspective on life that I definitely don’t fully understand and thus can’t say a whole lot about. I think Caleb’s point leaves room for some questions, like why “struggle” is such a catch phrase here, everyone appears to be working so hard all the time just to get by (Caleb will say they actually aren’t working that hard, if you follow a Ugandan for a day, you see all the time they take breaks and chill and don’t work), or the people that DON’T have what they need to survive, that don’t have enough food, etc. But even, so, it raises an interesting question, could Uganda’s blessing of plenty actually be a curse?
Chained
Grr.
I am chained to my computer. And I absolutely loathe it.
I both want and need to get away.
But every aspect of my life, especially at the moment, requires a computer. This blog is my journaling (or at least, a supplement to it), I have to email at least every other day to turn in work hours back at BYU, work with my dad on UNC stuff, figure out housing, loans, class schedules, etc. And I’m finishing up a research paper so I need my computer for that. And I’m starting data entry for my survey, which also requires a computer. What doesn’t require a computer!!!!
I am chained to my computer. And I absolutely loathe it.
I both want and need to get away.
But every aspect of my life, especially at the moment, requires a computer. This blog is my journaling (or at least, a supplement to it), I have to email at least every other day to turn in work hours back at BYU, work with my dad on UNC stuff, figure out housing, loans, class schedules, etc. And I’m finishing up a research paper so I need my computer for that. And I’m starting data entry for my survey, which also requires a computer. What doesn’t require a computer!!!!
I DECIDED!
I finally decided to officially transfer to UNC-Chapel Hill.
Be happy for me.
It’s been a long road and hard fight, but I got here and just made one of the biggest decisions of my life thus far.
I don’t know if I made the right choice, but I don’t really know that there is a right or wrong here. What I do know is that I made a choice. And I’m goin’ with it.
If everything plays out right, I’ll be double majoring in International and Area Studies and Economics.
Be happy for me.
It’s been a long road and hard fight, but I got here and just made one of the biggest decisions of my life thus far.
I don’t know if I made the right choice, but I don’t really know that there is a right or wrong here. What I do know is that I made a choice. And I’m goin’ with it.
If everything plays out right, I’ll be double majoring in International and Area Studies and Economics.
It’s official
I’m doing more research. I’m under the same IRB as last year so it’s a bit of a tangential extension from last year. It’s basically a few survey questions about what party the students support, along with their family and friends affiliations, the sources of information that are important to their affiliation, and their level of interest in politics.
Whoooo hooooo I get to do more work when I get home! Yay for more hours starting at a computer screen and crunching numbers and pumping out papers.
But I am doing this, and I am grateful for the opportunity and will be glad I took advantage of it in the long run…hopefully. I’m doing it mostly out of insatiable personal curiosity, but let’s be honest, I’m sure hoping it’s good leverage on my grad school application. Heaven knows I’m going to need it.
Whoooo hooooo I get to do more work when I get home! Yay for more hours starting at a computer screen and crunching numbers and pumping out papers.
But I am doing this, and I am grateful for the opportunity and will be glad I took advantage of it in the long run…hopefully. I’m doing it mostly out of insatiable personal curiosity, but let’s be honest, I’m sure hoping it’s good leverage on my grad school application. Heaven knows I’m going to need it.
The world revolves around me.
Yes it does. At least our little research world we have going. I’m not sure how to explain it clearly and simply, but we set up shop in one of the classrooms at each school we go to (we are going to 8, selected by government/private, rural/urban, and large/small), with the projector screen (so the kids can point on the map where exactly they live, so Patrick and Steve can do their GIS intensive study of student distance from school), with Julie and Patrick in the center of the room behind their computers; Patrick manning the map, and Julie doing writing down GIS coordinates as students come up and point to the map and then doing data entry in her humungous excel table as completed surveys come in. Bordering the edges of the room are desks for students to come in and fill out the survey (with some of Julie’s networking questions, some of Steve’s GIS questions, some of Caleb’s sleep questions, and some of my political questions).
I know. My head was spinning the first 5 times Steve explained it to me.
Regardless, I feel like I’m dancing in circles around the room the entire day and it wasn’t until I sat down and thought about it that I realized, I’m the liason between every piece of the puzzle, not in an important way, I just didn’t realize how many things I was doing at once. I have to work with Caleb to time when new students come in and sit down for the survey. Then I have to work with the students to answer questions, while working with Steve to bring him students to point to the map as they get to a certain point on the survey (or finish it, there’s usually a bit of both going on at once). Then I have to bring the completed surveys to Julie, after checking for absolute completion. All while working with Stacy to pull students of certain demographics so he and Rachel can interview them for their own project on family leisure.
And it’s not like a straight forward bucket brigade of moving from point A to B, the students come in waves so at any given time, there are some just starting (who I have to orientate) some in the middle (who I have to bring to Steve and tell Stacy about) and some finishing (who I either still have to bring to Steve and then check over the surveys with Julie). So at any given time, I’m orchestrating the flow of students and surveys to 5 different people. It’s amazing it hasn’t broken out into absolute chaos yet.
I know. My head was spinning the first 5 times Steve explained it to me.
Regardless, I feel like I’m dancing in circles around the room the entire day and it wasn’t until I sat down and thought about it that I realized, I’m the liason between every piece of the puzzle, not in an important way, I just didn’t realize how many things I was doing at once. I have to work with Caleb to time when new students come in and sit down for the survey. Then I have to work with the students to answer questions, while working with Steve to bring him students to point to the map as they get to a certain point on the survey (or finish it, there’s usually a bit of both going on at once). Then I have to bring the completed surveys to Julie, after checking for absolute completion. All while working with Stacy to pull students of certain demographics so he and Rachel can interview them for their own project on family leisure.
And it’s not like a straight forward bucket brigade of moving from point A to B, the students come in waves so at any given time, there are some just starting (who I have to orientate) some in the middle (who I have to bring to Steve and tell Stacy about) and some finishing (who I either still have to bring to Steve and then check over the surveys with Julie). So at any given time, I’m orchestrating the flow of students and surveys to 5 different people. It’s amazing it hasn’t broken out into absolute chaos yet.
I’m going to kill Caleb!
Caleb is doing his research on student’s sleep patterns, with the hopes of connecting it to student’s school performance. Hard thing is, Ugandans don’t really care about time. One of his survey questions is a table with a box for each hour, starting at 9pm and continuing until 8am. There is a top row with the hours in Lugandan, a second row with the hours in English, and a final row for them to put an ‘X’ in each box for each hour they sleep.
Makes sense right?
NOPE.
If it weren’t for that bloody question that NONE of them understand, I could just hand out the survey, tell them to fill in the lines and circle the answers and be on my merry way.
But no. Instead, 20 times a day, like a broken record, I have to explain it to every single group of kids that comes in and tell them to “turn to the back of the sheet and find numba 10. Numba 10 is asking what? Numba 10 we want to know the numba of hours that you sleep at night. You see the table? There is a box for each hour. What we want is for you to put a tick in each box for each hour that you sleep at night, starting from when you fall asleep and continuing to put ticks in every box for every hour that you sleep, even until you are awake. So for me, if I sleep for 4 hours, I will put four ticks in four boxes, like so” and then motion to the blown up example that I have on my clip board.
But that’s just the start of it. Apparently my directions don’t work. I’ve tried a zillion different ways of explaining it and started to find ways that work better than others and things not to say, but still, every time, without fail, 80% of the students will either just put a mark for the hour when they first fall asleep (and nothing more) or put a mark when they fall asleep and then another one when they wake up.
So that means that I have to go around and re-explain the question to each student individually 3 different ways until they at least put more X’s in the boxes, even if they still don’t fully understand it. Over and over again, all day.
Caleb, thank you for making my life so easy.
(I’m not upset!!! And it’s not tiring! But, it’s easy to whine about)
Makes sense right?
NOPE.
If it weren’t for that bloody question that NONE of them understand, I could just hand out the survey, tell them to fill in the lines and circle the answers and be on my merry way.
But no. Instead, 20 times a day, like a broken record, I have to explain it to every single group of kids that comes in and tell them to “turn to the back of the sheet and find numba 10. Numba 10 is asking what? Numba 10 we want to know the numba of hours that you sleep at night. You see the table? There is a box for each hour. What we want is for you to put a tick in each box for each hour that you sleep at night, starting from when you fall asleep and continuing to put ticks in every box for every hour that you sleep, even until you are awake. So for me, if I sleep for 4 hours, I will put four ticks in four boxes, like so” and then motion to the blown up example that I have on my clip board.
But that’s just the start of it. Apparently my directions don’t work. I’ve tried a zillion different ways of explaining it and started to find ways that work better than others and things not to say, but still, every time, without fail, 80% of the students will either just put a mark for the hour when they first fall asleep (and nothing more) or put a mark when they fall asleep and then another one when they wake up.
So that means that I have to go around and re-explain the question to each student individually 3 different ways until they at least put more X’s in the boxes, even if they still don’t fully understand it. Over and over again, all day.
Caleb, thank you for making my life so easy.
(I’m not upset!!! And it’s not tiring! But, it’s easy to whine about)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Winds of Change
I was about to head into town when I paused at the front door. The air smelled different; denser, greener. I looked up just as a thick grey storm cloud swallowed up the friendly sun. As I stepped out the air became moist with tiny invisible rain drops. Hm. Weather is hard for me to predict here and I strained to see what the sky in the distance foretold. I couldn’t see through the trees so I climbed up to the balcony. The nearby sky was a swirl of white and grey, with only a few blue patches in the distance. But which way were the clouds moving? I couldn’t tell. They seemed stationary. A light breeze had kicked up and fluttered the palm fronds leftward. I looked right. A pots and pans crash of thunder collided above me and I could hear the metallic on-pour of rain in the distance. I still wasn’t sure. Was it moving my way? Would it pass quickly? I looked into the neighbor’s yard and saw a cat emerge from behind a tree. How was it acting? It took a few hesitant steps forward and turned its nose up to observe the air. Another slow half a step forward and it dashed back behind the tree. Hm. Bad sign? It was definitely raining lightly by this time, but the clouds were still only threatening. I looked out over the town as the hiss of wind and clamor of thunder whooshed through the trees, taking with it the sounds of the city.
The smell, the sounds, the air, all seemed to swirl together and I breathed in deep, swirling with it, feeling the coming change. The rain picked up a tad and I bailed down the balcony to the covered patio to continue watching. I couldn’t see the clouds anymore, but I could still hear the rain coming, like the shaking of big aluminum sheets used for sound effects. I watched absent-mindedly as light, causal drops of rain hit the stone wall sideways and darkened the stone in scattered spots. Like an artist throwing paint. Then, suddenly, in an equally artistic fury, the wall exploded with a splash of thick droplettes. The air picked of energy and the atmosphere became frenzied as the rains raced down in an untempered waterfall. The ground turned bright orange and glossy with wet as the drops fell hard and jumped up inches in the air. Big, fast drops plunked off the warped white railing of the balcony in all sorts of directions. The wheelbarrow seemed to be emitting sparks of water and the wall took on a quick staccato pace as the notes hit and then bounced off again. The sky continue to rumble and a loud explosion came from somewhere behind the house. I guess I would have to stay for the performance. Even if I was willing to brave the now muddy, slippery roads and the mosquitoes that would surely be swarming, I wasn’t likely to find any of the people I needed to visit with; Ugandans are deathly afraid of water and disappear inside at the first sight of rain. Wonder how long it’ll last…
The smell, the sounds, the air, all seemed to swirl together and I breathed in deep, swirling with it, feeling the coming change. The rain picked up a tad and I bailed down the balcony to the covered patio to continue watching. I couldn’t see the clouds anymore, but I could still hear the rain coming, like the shaking of big aluminum sheets used for sound effects. I watched absent-mindedly as light, causal drops of rain hit the stone wall sideways and darkened the stone in scattered spots. Like an artist throwing paint. Then, suddenly, in an equally artistic fury, the wall exploded with a splash of thick droplettes. The air picked of energy and the atmosphere became frenzied as the rains raced down in an untempered waterfall. The ground turned bright orange and glossy with wet as the drops fell hard and jumped up inches in the air. Big, fast drops plunked off the warped white railing of the balcony in all sorts of directions. The wheelbarrow seemed to be emitting sparks of water and the wall took on a quick staccato pace as the notes hit and then bounced off again. The sky continue to rumble and a loud explosion came from somewhere behind the house. I guess I would have to stay for the performance. Even if I was willing to brave the now muddy, slippery roads and the mosquitoes that would surely be swarming, I wasn’t likely to find any of the people I needed to visit with; Ugandans are deathly afraid of water and disappear inside at the first sight of rain. Wonder how long it’ll last…
Minor frustration
I’m slightly frustrated. Which is nothing new for me as it seems to be my perpetual state of being. Nonetheless, I was expecting to hit the ground running and instead have found this week to be a down week as my professors confirm appointments with the schools we will be researching at. I’ve had some work to keep me occupied, they needed me to find textbooks to give to the schools so that’s been a tiny project, but I’ve found myself otherwise unoccupied. Certainly I can find things to do to keep myself busy; sleep in till 9am, write my paper, design this new project, read Grapes of Wrath, lay out on the balcony, wander the market, cook with the house girls, journal and blog, etc. Today most of the group is out white water rafting but I stayed behind because, quite honestly, I just can’t justify spending the $125, for this at least (and I’ve been rafting before, more than once, and I went kayaking on the Nile here last time). So, I’m wrapping this up, then will stop by the tailors to get more details on a project I’ve sort of got going, and then swing by the local clinic to see if the HIV/AIDS director from last year is still around and willing to let me volunteer. Even so, given the amount of work ahead, I was anticipating long, intense, exhausting days and very much looking forward to it. Hopefully next week will be better…
I just can’t help myself
So I think I’ve decided to do more individual research. I don’t want to, all I really want is to chill and relax when I get home without the burden or stress of yet another paper to write. Publishing a second paper under the same IRB is only marginally more impressive than publishing just one paper, so there’s not a huge incentive there. I started college less than a month after graduating high school and have been in school, in some form or another, nonstop since that time over two years ago. I think it’s time for a break. I’m not burned out or frayed, but I do notice myself working less efficiently and taking luxurious breaks that I shouldn’t be, which is slowing me down overall. When I work, I work HARD. I think what I’m learning about myself is as far as efficiency, productivity, and quality of work is concerned, I need intense nonstop work, and then equally intense nonstop play. Mixing the two doesn’t bode well for me, I just end up being lazy all the time. So…a break would be nice so that I really can truly take a break and then pound dirt again.
But I’m just too damn curious. I’m absolutely dying to better understand why students are FDC and their parents are NRM (political parties) and what the heck implications that has on the political future of the country. FDC is newer and more radical, NRM is the old Museveni party. Museveni’s been around for almost 30 years, but the scrapping of the Movement system (single party democracy) ended only recently and there’s only been one presidential election since that time. So now all these new political parties are cropping up and younger kids, who can vote, seem to be eating it up. Why is that? And what does that mean? It’s so different here because in the states political affiliation is largely longitudinal, passed on generationally. Here, there seems to be a bit of a generation gap. Does that mean political affiliation is more lateral, coming from peers? I’m dying to know. I’ve got my professors talked into letting me slip in a survey with their research which will give me a sample size of about 400 students from a variety of schools in the district. Sweet. If that doesn’t work out, I might stay behind a couple weeks to go to the schools on my own and conduct interviews. Right now though, I’m hoping for the survey because not only is it easier, but if I use Likert scales, I can do a quantitative project, whereas last year I did qualitative. It’d be nice to get experience in both since they have slightly different methodological approaches. And hey, let’s be honest, running a chi-square test and a few regressions is a TON faster than sitting and transcribing every little word of an interview!
But I’m just too damn curious. I’m absolutely dying to better understand why students are FDC and their parents are NRM (political parties) and what the heck implications that has on the political future of the country. FDC is newer and more radical, NRM is the old Museveni party. Museveni’s been around for almost 30 years, but the scrapping of the Movement system (single party democracy) ended only recently and there’s only been one presidential election since that time. So now all these new political parties are cropping up and younger kids, who can vote, seem to be eating it up. Why is that? And what does that mean? It’s so different here because in the states political affiliation is largely longitudinal, passed on generationally. Here, there seems to be a bit of a generation gap. Does that mean political affiliation is more lateral, coming from peers? I’m dying to know. I’ve got my professors talked into letting me slip in a survey with their research which will give me a sample size of about 400 students from a variety of schools in the district. Sweet. If that doesn’t work out, I might stay behind a couple weeks to go to the schools on my own and conduct interviews. Right now though, I’m hoping for the survey because not only is it easier, but if I use Likert scales, I can do a quantitative project, whereas last year I did qualitative. It’d be nice to get experience in both since they have slightly different methodological approaches. And hey, let’s be honest, running a chi-square test and a few regressions is a TON faster than sitting and transcribing every little word of an interview!
Bus or taxi? Real life econ
So apparently someone figured out that buses can transport more people for less money than taxis. So they set up a bus stop at one of the main squares in Kampala. We were walking around it looking for a taxi one evening and there must have been…oh gosh, upwards of a thousand people, standing around, hoping to catch a bus. Meanwhile, empty taxi’s were driving by. Crazy, eh? There were so many people, completely filling the long sidewalk and wrapped all the way up and around the corner. All to save the few hundred shillings by taking a bus. We weren’t able to locate a taxi going to Mukono so we went back to the huge taxi park (I have pictures up from last year, it’s a massive arena shaped parking lot crowded to the brim with taxis, it really is an experience to try to navigate your way through, it’s so crowded and disorienting, and has its own certain scent of…wet dirt, trash, and oil. I’ve been there many, many times and have yet to see another muzungu walking around, it’s all locals) Anyway, we found the Mukono spot but…no taxis! We had to wait a bit and when one drove up people RAN to the taxi. It was me, Caleb, and Rachel. I made the bad call of trying to swoop in from the side and just kept getting shoved farther to the side away from the sliding door; Caleb basically had to throw his whole body in front of the door to open up a space for me to slip in (poor guy, the number of idiotic muzugu mistakes I make that he has to cover for me for!). Amazingly, we all got spots on the taxi. Or not so amazingly. I looked around and realized the taxi was at minimum capacity of three to a bench, no one was double seated. At this time of day in Kampala they usually try to get 4, even 5, people to a bench. Had buses really crowded out the market that much? Apparently.
I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last though. Just thinking about it a bit on the way back, I became curious how this would play out over the next couple months. The buses might be the better option right now, sure. But as the buses take over the transportation market, the taxis will start going out of business and subsequently start charging more to cover their costs, until the loss becomes so big they have to leave the market altogether. We were already starting to see it happen (it would make sense for them to charge less to try to compete with the buses, but we are starting to see them charge more). But then what? Then the buses have a monopoly on transportation and can’t boast themselves to be a cheap alternative to taxis. Rather, they can become more competitive among themselves and drive up the prices. Because they can. Before long, buses will be just as expensive as the taxis used to be, assuming gas stays relatively the same price and there isn’t some amazing increase in production technology or whatever. I don’t know. I might be comparing apples to oranges and I’ve never been great at econ, but it seems to make sense to me that while the buses might be a great alternative now, it’s only temporary. But then, since when do western economic models hold true in the developing world? Anything could happen.
I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last though. Just thinking about it a bit on the way back, I became curious how this would play out over the next couple months. The buses might be the better option right now, sure. But as the buses take over the transportation market, the taxis will start going out of business and subsequently start charging more to cover their costs, until the loss becomes so big they have to leave the market altogether. We were already starting to see it happen (it would make sense for them to charge less to try to compete with the buses, but we are starting to see them charge more). But then what? Then the buses have a monopoly on transportation and can’t boast themselves to be a cheap alternative to taxis. Rather, they can become more competitive among themselves and drive up the prices. Because they can. Before long, buses will be just as expensive as the taxis used to be, assuming gas stays relatively the same price and there isn’t some amazing increase in production technology or whatever. I don’t know. I might be comparing apples to oranges and I’ve never been great at econ, but it seems to make sense to me that while the buses might be a great alternative now, it’s only temporary. But then, since when do western economic models hold true in the developing world? Anything could happen.
Uganda: one year later
Ok, I thought this would make a nice complement to “My life: one year later” and I have had several observations, but…I’ve only been here 5 days (oh wow, it feels longer than that, in a good way). I’m still observing and will get back if and when some of my initial perceptions are confirmed.
Many things seem the same, I’m amazed that I keep bumping into people I met last year. The same house girls are still here (which is actually unusual). The same shoe lady still has her shop in Kampala. The same chapatti guy is still in the same place every day, selling hot chapat for 200 shillings. Caleb ran into Lamec, our boda driver last year, and I really need to track him down and see how the family is. Apparently the guys in the chapel I went to last year are asking about me so I might have to make an appearance before I leave.
Some things are a little different. And I think that things will become clearer when I go back to some of the schools I interviewed at last year. Mountain Dew is everywhere now. The Celtel phone company has been replaced by some new Zani company. A few new industrial companies have come in just outside Mukono; apparently Mukono is on the rise as a new industrial hub. Roads that were under construction last time are finished now. Buses! Buses are crowding out the taxi business! It’s fascinating real life economics. Ok, pause. I gotta talk about this a bit.
Many things seem the same, I’m amazed that I keep bumping into people I met last year. The same house girls are still here (which is actually unusual). The same shoe lady still has her shop in Kampala. The same chapatti guy is still in the same place every day, selling hot chapat for 200 shillings. Caleb ran into Lamec, our boda driver last year, and I really need to track him down and see how the family is. Apparently the guys in the chapel I went to last year are asking about me so I might have to make an appearance before I leave.
Some things are a little different. And I think that things will become clearer when I go back to some of the schools I interviewed at last year. Mountain Dew is everywhere now. The Celtel phone company has been replaced by some new Zani company. A few new industrial companies have come in just outside Mukono; apparently Mukono is on the rise as a new industrial hub. Roads that were under construction last time are finished now. Buses! Buses are crowding out the taxi business! It’s fascinating real life economics. Ok, pause. I gotta talk about this a bit.
My life: one year later
Where to start. Returning to the same place a year later definitely gives pause for some reflection and introspection. A lot of my thoughts are as yet un-nuanced with specific words and even more are somewhat disconnected. Even so, it’s sort of amazing to look back on the last year. It requires squinting hard to see way off into the distance, because SO MUCH has happened in the last year. It feels more like 5 years. I could go on for several paragraphs about all I’ve done in the last year; classes that have changed my…life, Model UN, work, transfer applications and acceptances (and wait-lists), research conference after research conference, it goes on and on. Not to mention all the experiences I’ve had outside of an institutional context, the things I’ve thought about, done, tried. The experiences had, the lessons learned. Love, lust, and loss. Surprising triumph, and pathetic failure. Great and amazing moments, moments of anguish and deep frustration.
It’s also interesting to see where I’m at with the people in my life a year later. The ups and downs I’ve been through with certain people. How close I’ve gotten to certain people. The people that have drifted away slightly. And the people that are in my life now that I didn’t even know existed this time last year. Wow.
One thing I seem to have found myself saying to myself over and over again throughout the last year is, “there is no way I could have done this a year ago.” And that’s been amazing and liberating to realize and watch myself doing all these things I never thought I could have done, which in turn has increased my self-efficacy to levels of being able to face daunting situations and say, “I can do this.” Some things over the year have been bigger and label worthy of “accomplishment” and other things are smaller personal victories that probably only I could appreciate fully. Regardless, I think I’m much more self-assured now. More strong, confident. Definitely a ton more independent. Still just as insatiably determined as ever, but now with more self-motivation and initiative, meaning I actually get up and make things happen rather than sitting around thinking about it forever. I’m still super lazy and undisciplined, but maybe more self-disciplined in some ways. I think my perception of the world has expanded in consequence, as I’ve grown more strong and confident, I’ve been able to branch out and be a lot of different places and meet a lot of people and have a wider variety of experiences. It still takes me a long while to trust people, but I think I’m growing less skeptical; people are…people. Human. And are usually willing to help and work together. Looking back on the “little girl” I was freshman year brings thoughts of being small and scared of the world in a lot of ways. Many of the same old frustrations and contradictions and complications of my life still prevail, I certainly have a very, very long way to go and a mile long list of things to work on, but at least I can somewhat see the ground I’ve covered in the last year. Now I need to stop gawking and marveling and keep trekking forward!
It’s also interesting to see where I’m at with the people in my life a year later. The ups and downs I’ve been through with certain people. How close I’ve gotten to certain people. The people that have drifted away slightly. And the people that are in my life now that I didn’t even know existed this time last year. Wow.
One thing I seem to have found myself saying to myself over and over again throughout the last year is, “there is no way I could have done this a year ago.” And that’s been amazing and liberating to realize and watch myself doing all these things I never thought I could have done, which in turn has increased my self-efficacy to levels of being able to face daunting situations and say, “I can do this.” Some things over the year have been bigger and label worthy of “accomplishment” and other things are smaller personal victories that probably only I could appreciate fully. Regardless, I think I’m much more self-assured now. More strong, confident. Definitely a ton more independent. Still just as insatiably determined as ever, but now with more self-motivation and initiative, meaning I actually get up and make things happen rather than sitting around thinking about it forever. I’m still super lazy and undisciplined, but maybe more self-disciplined in some ways. I think my perception of the world has expanded in consequence, as I’ve grown more strong and confident, I’ve been able to branch out and be a lot of different places and meet a lot of people and have a wider variety of experiences. It still takes me a long while to trust people, but I think I’m growing less skeptical; people are…people. Human. And are usually willing to help and work together. Looking back on the “little girl” I was freshman year brings thoughts of being small and scared of the world in a lot of ways. Many of the same old frustrations and contradictions and complications of my life still prevail, I certainly have a very, very long way to go and a mile long list of things to work on, but at least I can somewhat see the ground I’ve covered in the last year. Now I need to stop gawking and marveling and keep trekking forward!
Psycho-analyze this.
It’s funny how many things are upside down and backwards for me here. One weird thing is that I dream here. A lot. Back home it’s super, super rare if I am conscious of dreaming and when I do its usually some intense nightmarish type scenario along the lines of being caught in some impossible situation, cornered on every side with nowhere to turn and the future of the world resting on my shoulders. Or something along those lines.
But in Uganda I dream almost every night and have the most random dreams. I still remember dreaming about shopping at Wal-Mart last time I was here. And I don’t even shop at Wal-Mart. The one I had the other night actually is beginning to make more and more sense in context of my life at the moment but it still was ridiculous. Holding a few details back, it was along the lines of my friend’s frat had decided to go co-ed and I was apparently applying to join but nervous about the fact that I didn’t go to the same school so neither of us really discussed it because we weren’t sure how it was going to play out. I just remember sitting on his desk in one corner of the room staring at the application and him huddled in conversation with some other people at the other corner of the room, like I wasn’t even there. Then, suddenly, on the same campus (that wasn’t mine) I was in a cafeteria type place (sure looked like UNC though) and eating lunch with random people I had met just walking around but was really frustrated by the salad bar because they had apparently gotten rid of lettuce because it was so light and they wanted to get you to take more of the heavy toppings because you paid for the salad by the ounce. Man, I was ticked about that. And then the salad ended up costing $16. For a salad?! Do you see how ridiculous this dream was?
Why is that? Why do I dream so frequently and randomly here? Less stress? More things on my mind? Sub-consciously missing home?
But in Uganda I dream almost every night and have the most random dreams. I still remember dreaming about shopping at Wal-Mart last time I was here. And I don’t even shop at Wal-Mart. The one I had the other night actually is beginning to make more and more sense in context of my life at the moment but it still was ridiculous. Holding a few details back, it was along the lines of my friend’s frat had decided to go co-ed and I was apparently applying to join but nervous about the fact that I didn’t go to the same school so neither of us really discussed it because we weren’t sure how it was going to play out. I just remember sitting on his desk in one corner of the room staring at the application and him huddled in conversation with some other people at the other corner of the room, like I wasn’t even there. Then, suddenly, on the same campus (that wasn’t mine) I was in a cafeteria type place (sure looked like UNC though) and eating lunch with random people I had met just walking around but was really frustrated by the salad bar because they had apparently gotten rid of lettuce because it was so light and they wanted to get you to take more of the heavy toppings because you paid for the salad by the ounce. Man, I was ticked about that. And then the salad ended up costing $16. For a salad?! Do you see how ridiculous this dream was?
Why is that? Why do I dream so frequently and randomly here? Less stress? More things on my mind? Sub-consciously missing home?
I’m here! I’m here!
After a drive to the Dusseldorf airport from Cologne, a three hour layover at the Dubai airport, and a two hour nap on the plane parked in Addis Ababa, I stepped off the plane and onto the Entebbe runway. I breathed in the thick air, tried to ignore the thick swarm of bugs, and looked around at the palm trees blowing gently in the wind, the lapping waters of Lake Victoria just feet from the runway, and people walking slowly with jerry cans along the road leading to the familiar rich green rolling hills in the distance. Alright, I was back. Walking into the vaguely familiar airport I was trying to decipher how I felt. I noted a bit of relief, after traveling around essentially for the last three months, most particularly the last two weeks, I was finally at the final destination I had been working towards. It didn’t feel weird. Rather, it felt pretty…normal.
Feeling comfortable and normal has pretty much been the prevailing emotion since I’ve been here. I was slightly concerned about feeling like the rest of the group was missing, since it’s just Caleb and I that are back this year and I’m staying in the same house, same room, as I did with a bunch of other girls last year. While little random things do bring up memories of last year, I’m glad that they do feel like two very separate, distinct experiences and thus I’m able to be here without feeling like something is missing. Absolutely no insult intended to the girls who aren’t here right now, heaven knows they are great and amazing and I definitely miss them, I think it’s more that I’m (fortunately) able to focus on the here and now. Because of that, life here sort of feels just like life as usual. Back to the cold showers, shaving my legs with my Dad’s old electric razor, a diet almost solely of carbs and fat, etc. etc. It doesn’t feel rough, it doesn’t feel strange or unusual…it just is. But without a sense of complacency or apathy. It almost odd to consider as I’m standing around the back of the house brushing my teeth that this is the exact spot a year ago where I brushed my teeth everyday for two months. Or as I’m walking along the roads in town to think about the number of times I’ve walked these roads before, last year. It feels interesting and distant, maybe because I’ve changed so much in the last year that it’s almost like looking back on a different person, different life.
Regardless, I’m here, safe and sound, readjusted, and loving it.
Feeling comfortable and normal has pretty much been the prevailing emotion since I’ve been here. I was slightly concerned about feeling like the rest of the group was missing, since it’s just Caleb and I that are back this year and I’m staying in the same house, same room, as I did with a bunch of other girls last year. While little random things do bring up memories of last year, I’m glad that they do feel like two very separate, distinct experiences and thus I’m able to be here without feeling like something is missing. Absolutely no insult intended to the girls who aren’t here right now, heaven knows they are great and amazing and I definitely miss them, I think it’s more that I’m (fortunately) able to focus on the here and now. Because of that, life here sort of feels just like life as usual. Back to the cold showers, shaving my legs with my Dad’s old electric razor, a diet almost solely of carbs and fat, etc. etc. It doesn’t feel rough, it doesn’t feel strange or unusual…it just is. But without a sense of complacency or apathy. It almost odd to consider as I’m standing around the back of the house brushing my teeth that this is the exact spot a year ago where I brushed my teeth everyday for two months. Or as I’m walking along the roads in town to think about the number of times I’ve walked these roads before, last year. It feels interesting and distant, maybe because I’ve changed so much in the last year that it’s almost like looking back on a different person, different life.
Regardless, I’m here, safe and sound, readjusted, and loving it.
Too clingy
Good heavens I was clinging to “civilization” about the last…week before I left. I realize I’m jumping the gun by saying this at this point, but it’s funny in retrospect because I was so incredibly bracing myself for getting here, and then I got here, and now I’m wondering what I was bracing myself for! But wow, that last week, I indulged myself. Ice cream, cheeseburgers, anything I remembered randomly craving last time. Sleeping in, long hot showers, straightening my hair, driving myself places, cooking for myself what I wanted when I wanted, wearing pants instead of skirts…I clung to every last shred of it. Although, I will admit, I think I was justified in clinging to the hot showers! Everything else though, meh.
I like driving in Europe!
Rather than take the train (meaning having to lift and lug all of Sandra’s luggage, and mine for that matter) we accepted a ride with our Dutch friend who was driving home and basically had to pass through Cologne on his way. I suppose I had room to be hesitant and Sandra kept asking me over and over again if I was ok with it, but quite honestly, I didn’t have any weird feelings or bad vibes on the matter. I didn’t know Martin super well, but I was impressed by how open, honest, and genuine he was in conversation. He didn’t try to persuade you of anything, nor did he present himself in any certain light or attempt to make a certain impression…he was as he was. I had a number of people tell me not to accept the ride and even told him straight up while we were sitting around the night before that I had a lot of reasons to take the train instead. He admitted that I had every right to feel that way given that I didn’t know him very well, but reassured me that I would get to my destination.
So…we threw our stuff in the trunk and headed off! Good heavens Europeans take their time with travel. Every two or three hours he needed to stop for a café break or just something to break up the day. What was probably an 8 hour drive took us about 12. Although, I’ll admit, randomly stopping in Lyon for lunch and exploring a bit afterwards was really enjoyable. After Lyon he asked if I wanted to drive (Sandra couldn’t because she doesn’t know how to drive stick…YET.) which I a little too eagerly agreed to. I was both surprised and impressed with how nicely that little Volvo drives; perfectly smooth clutch, and lots of get up and go. I was so proud that I drove from Lyon to Luxembourg! The rules are a little different but even Martin remarked how quickly he was able to relax with me behind the wheel. He also remarked how aggressive my driving is, which is partially true, I was a little more aggressive because I could get away with it on the European roads, good heavens they push their way through, but it is true I’m much more an offensive than defensive driver. 5 years and zero accidents though! (more than enough speeding tickets though…yeesh…). It was really an enjoyable drive, most, if not all, the experience I’ve had with long drives has either been alone or with just one other person so it was nice to have the company and long conversation/interrogation about current European perspectives on Europe, the EU constitution/treaty of Lisbon, other European countries, and the rest of the world. If you know me, you know part of nature is to be untrusting and skeptical (just another contradiction in my life; I think positively of humanity, but at the same time think everyone is out to get me. It’s complicated.) so the act of really, truly trusting someone is an exceptionally rare occurrence. But Martin, I think he is one who can be trusted.
He also offered to let me drive to the Dusseldorf airport from Cologne after we got to Germany so I can officially say I’ve driven 180km/hr on the Autobond! Sweeeeet.
So…we threw our stuff in the trunk and headed off! Good heavens Europeans take their time with travel. Every two or three hours he needed to stop for a café break or just something to break up the day. What was probably an 8 hour drive took us about 12. Although, I’ll admit, randomly stopping in Lyon for lunch and exploring a bit afterwards was really enjoyable. After Lyon he asked if I wanted to drive (Sandra couldn’t because she doesn’t know how to drive stick…YET.) which I a little too eagerly agreed to. I was both surprised and impressed with how nicely that little Volvo drives; perfectly smooth clutch, and lots of get up and go. I was so proud that I drove from Lyon to Luxembourg! The rules are a little different but even Martin remarked how quickly he was able to relax with me behind the wheel. He also remarked how aggressive my driving is, which is partially true, I was a little more aggressive because I could get away with it on the European roads, good heavens they push their way through, but it is true I’m much more an offensive than defensive driver. 5 years and zero accidents though! (more than enough speeding tickets though…yeesh…). It was really an enjoyable drive, most, if not all, the experience I’ve had with long drives has either been alone or with just one other person so it was nice to have the company and long conversation/interrogation about current European perspectives on Europe, the EU constitution/treaty of Lisbon, other European countries, and the rest of the world. If you know me, you know part of nature is to be untrusting and skeptical (just another contradiction in my life; I think positively of humanity, but at the same time think everyone is out to get me. It’s complicated.) so the act of really, truly trusting someone is an exceptionally rare occurrence. But Martin, I think he is one who can be trusted.
He also offered to let me drive to the Dusseldorf airport from Cologne after we got to Germany so I can officially say I’ve driven 180km/hr on the Autobond! Sweeeeet.
The reason we didn’t see much of Nice
Our first day in Nice we planned to take a beach and city exploration day. Then it rained. So we swapped up our plans and decided to head off to Eze and Monaco. The bus ride out was so spectacular that when it was sunny our second (and last) day, we decided to head out to Eze again, just for the coastal drive along the way (the Dutch guy with a car from our hostel in Marseille had caught up to us at this point…long story…). Sandra and I really enjoyed Eze, it was small and only took a few hours to really see, but the winding streets were incredibly enjoyable nonetheless. And incredibly hard to photograph. Oy, difficult lighting. Narrow, winding streets with all sorts of weird rooftops throwing the light around in all sorts of weird shady ways, I hardly took any pictures because I just knew my camera couldn’t do what it needed to get the shots to turn out decently. Oh well. Wandering the alleyways was great, as the was the drive out and back, and driving made it especially great because we could see a great coastal view and randomly pull over the car to hop out and take in the scene. Great scenes; dramatically steep craggy coastline dropping straight into the deep blue med sea, going off into the distance until water blended perfectly with sky. Build me a villa on one of those cliffs, please and thank you!
Hostel Review: Villa de Saint-Exupery, Nice
After a long and windy road out of the Nice, we pulled up to a tiny little gate. Entering found us a…oh gosh, I don’t even have the words to explain it the right way…well, the building was L-shaped, open to a gravel parking lot. One guy came up to help me carry my bag to the reception desk and upon thanking him I got a, “no wurries!” I turned back in confusion as he walked away…aussie? We walked up to the desk and I heard chatter, in English, but with a slightly different pace and was welcomed with a hearty, “good’ay!” Yep. This place was run by a load of aussies! And as it later turned out, Brits and New Zealanders. It was a strange new world we’d stepped into. The guy at the desk picked up the phone and said, in a very poor accent, “parlez-vous anglais?” and then handed off the phone to the one guy in the room that spoke French like it was a baby with a dirty diaper. Posters lined the walls with possibilities for outdoor excursions; canyoning, water skiing, rapelling, everything. We were shown to the “chapel” (we think because of the stained glass wall on the inside) which was a huge two-story vaulted ceiling room buzzing with American radio music and chatter of people chilling on the couches or at the 24 hour open access computers with free internet (and wi-fi throughout the entire complex).
I could go on about this place for a long time, trying to explain the unique vibe it had. It was almost like…the ultimate summer camp for young adults. I felt like every other person we talked to was Aussie, but there were also several Londoners , and they were all pretty much your young, university aged, bright-eyed adventurous back-packers, which was a change after the spread of continents, age groups, and walks of life at the Marseille hostel. While the diversity of Marseille fascinated me, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say I felt more chill and comfortable here. It was really weird hearing all the English though, sort of like a bubble world, detached from the fact that we were still in France. Probably the only downside to the place. Dinner was AMAZING. The chef must have been a retired gourmet chef or something because the food truly was sublime and we were getting fed risotto or salmon for a scant 5 euro. House beer is just a euro, but I swear everyone was walking around with a bottle of bring-your-own-wine in hand. From about 6pm to upwards of 2am The Chapel is loud and comfortably crowded and buzzing with music and voices. And let’s be honest, it was an attractive crowd, but then I’ll admit my preferential bias; throw me a tall, slightly scruffy brunette with an aussie accent and at least half a personality and I’m likely to start giggling like a school girl, nondiscriminate of my relationship status. It sort of amused me how many girls look like they got dressed up just for dinner and hanging out in the chapel afterwards, I can only imagine how many hookups were probably going on under the radar.
Ok, good food, incredibly social…what else…oh. The rooms. We were in two rooms. The first of which I think I described to Sandra as a WWII underground bunker. It was a winding series of two connected bunk beded rooms, but the rooms had an in house bathroom and shower room, and plenty of space for luggage storage. The second room we were in was smaller and more…quaint, with bathrooms just down the hall.
I seriously could go on a lot longer singing my praises to the place, given how social it is, it looks like it would be a great place to work, if it weren’t for having to go through the trouble of getting a bloody working visa, I’d probably be seriously looking into going back for work after Uganda (I still have no clue what I’m doing with my life July/August). In any case, if you’re ever in Nice…stay at Villa Saint-Exupery. The staff is super accommodating and friendly, the vibe is chill and social, and the amenities are great, new, and super clean.
I could go on about this place for a long time, trying to explain the unique vibe it had. It was almost like…the ultimate summer camp for young adults. I felt like every other person we talked to was Aussie, but there were also several Londoners , and they were all pretty much your young, university aged, bright-eyed adventurous back-packers, which was a change after the spread of continents, age groups, and walks of life at the Marseille hostel. While the diversity of Marseille fascinated me, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say I felt more chill and comfortable here. It was really weird hearing all the English though, sort of like a bubble world, detached from the fact that we were still in France. Probably the only downside to the place. Dinner was AMAZING. The chef must have been a retired gourmet chef or something because the food truly was sublime and we were getting fed risotto or salmon for a scant 5 euro. House beer is just a euro, but I swear everyone was walking around with a bottle of bring-your-own-wine in hand. From about 6pm to upwards of 2am The Chapel is loud and comfortably crowded and buzzing with music and voices. And let’s be honest, it was an attractive crowd, but then I’ll admit my preferential bias; throw me a tall, slightly scruffy brunette with an aussie accent and at least half a personality and I’m likely to start giggling like a school girl, nondiscriminate of my relationship status. It sort of amused me how many girls look like they got dressed up just for dinner and hanging out in the chapel afterwards, I can only imagine how many hookups were probably going on under the radar.
Ok, good food, incredibly social…what else…oh. The rooms. We were in two rooms. The first of which I think I described to Sandra as a WWII underground bunker. It was a winding series of two connected bunk beded rooms, but the rooms had an in house bathroom and shower room, and plenty of space for luggage storage. The second room we were in was smaller and more…quaint, with bathrooms just down the hall.
I seriously could go on a lot longer singing my praises to the place, given how social it is, it looks like it would be a great place to work, if it weren’t for having to go through the trouble of getting a bloody working visa, I’d probably be seriously looking into going back for work after Uganda (I still have no clue what I’m doing with my life July/August). In any case, if you’re ever in Nice…stay at Villa Saint-Exupery. The staff is super accommodating and friendly, the vibe is chill and social, and the amenities are great, new, and super clean.
Nice is nice! (and I’m criminally unoriginal with my puns)
To be quite honest, we didn’t see much of Nice. Which I lament, because I have the feeling it was a city I could easily fall in love with. In a lot of ways, it stands in contrast to Marseille. From what I saw, (disclaimer reiterated, I didn’t see much), it seems that Nice has the ritz and glamour, and posh pretentiousness typical of southern France. Posh pretentiousness I might not be so big a fan of, but after roaming the city a bit, I think I’m to the point where I sort of can’t deny my love of the dramatic and glamorous. Which sounds pathetically superficial, but hey, at least I’m honest with myself. I think a better way to put it might be that I just have a very strong appreciation for quality; for things that are done well, things that are well taken care of, things that strive to be the best they can be. Couple that with my love of a great atmosphere and comfort in a tropical climate, and I can almost explain away my interest in Nice.
Regardless, upon arrival we got in our luxury grade Lexus taxi, driven by a driver with matching Louis Vuitton belt and shoes (although he had a cheap watch and non-designer sunglasses, I couldn’t figure it out), who tied his price rates to the head rest with an Hermes ribbon and drank Pelligrino for bottled water. Just people watching at the train station, the crowd seemed well dressed, which only proved more to be the case as we watched out the windows of the taxi. The streets were lined with well taken care of cafes and restaurants, plazas were wide, open, and flower laden. Buildings with apartments on the upper floors has the typical clothes hanging from the balcony, but the buildings were ornately ornamented, brightly painted, and it seemed like every window had a basket of flowers in it. After the grey, graffiti of Marseille, it was like arriving at the and I was eating it up. We never did take a day to explore the city more up close, I guess I’ll just have to go back some day…
Regardless, upon arrival we got in our luxury grade Lexus taxi, driven by a driver with matching Louis Vuitton belt and shoes (although he had a cheap watch and non-designer sunglasses, I couldn’t figure it out), who tied his price rates to the head rest with an Hermes ribbon and drank Pelligrino for bottled water. Just people watching at the train station, the crowd seemed well dressed, which only proved more to be the case as we watched out the windows of the taxi. The streets were lined with well taken care of cafes and restaurants, plazas were wide, open, and flower laden. Buildings with apartments on the upper floors has the typical clothes hanging from the balcony, but the buildings were ornately ornamented, brightly painted, and it seemed like every window had a basket of flowers in it. After the grey, graffiti of Marseille, it was like arriving at the and I was eating it up. We never did take a day to explore the city more up close, I guess I’ll just have to go back some day…
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Who the heck am I?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a long time, along with “what am I doing with my life?” And I found myself wondering again as I stood on the metro the other day and looked down at my strappy eco-friendly hiking-happy sandals, green cargo pants, long white linen tunic, bold African printed hobo bag, and henna-ed hands.
I am not the person I was two years ago. Not even one year ago.
Knowing that seems to bring on a sense of…release. Unlatched from the entrapments of a previously narrowly confined life. I don’t look back with spite, but rather with amusement at the long, windy path. I’ve become stronger on my own, more developed in character, broader in horizons, more open in thought, and much more confident and comfortable with myself.
The details of my chosen path don’t need to be specifically divulged at this time, but I do know that I’m very happy with the person I’ve become and that while I’m probably less sure than ever of where I’m going or what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Probable lack of self-esteem aside, I am confident that as I make decisions and learn to better follow my heart, I’ll end up in a place I’m happy with. This might sound overly optimistic, I tend to have an overly optimistic view of the world in general (due to general inclinations towards optimism, not so much naivety, if anything, I become more optimistic the more I learn about the world), but judging from the path I’ve taken, one I never would of fathomed I would take, it seems to be working for me so far. We’ll see where I end up, but for now, I’m enjoying the journey.
I am not the person I was two years ago. Not even one year ago.
Knowing that seems to bring on a sense of…release. Unlatched from the entrapments of a previously narrowly confined life. I don’t look back with spite, but rather with amusement at the long, windy path. I’ve become stronger on my own, more developed in character, broader in horizons, more open in thought, and much more confident and comfortable with myself.
The details of my chosen path don’t need to be specifically divulged at this time, but I do know that I’m very happy with the person I’ve become and that while I’m probably less sure than ever of where I’m going or what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Probable lack of self-esteem aside, I am confident that as I make decisions and learn to better follow my heart, I’ll end up in a place I’m happy with. This might sound overly optimistic, I tend to have an overly optimistic view of the world in general (due to general inclinations towards optimism, not so much naivety, if anything, I become more optimistic the more I learn about the world), but judging from the path I’ve taken, one I never would of fathomed I would take, it seems to be working for me so far. We’ll see where I end up, but for now, I’m enjoying the journey.
Provence
We actually woke up before 9am yesterday and headed out to Aix-en-Provence for market day. I was more than a little excited since if there was any part of France I’ve been absolutely dying to see, it’s Provence. Aix was certainly much different than I expected, but was really truly enjoyable nonetheless. It’s not a tiny Provencal town by any means, but it quaint nonetheless. Sandra and I were shocked to find Hermes, Longchamp, and other upper crust designer stores lining the narrow and winding streets. It certainly provided a contrast to the village feel of the huge flea and produce market. The market went on for several blocks and was absolutely overflowing with sausages, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, honey, bread, flowers…it was spectacular to meander under the colorful umbrellas and sample all sorts of goodies. The flea market was unexpectedly impressive as well, I was anticipating junky random nick-nacks that no one needed and cheap clothes, instead I found racks stuffed with pretty summer dresses, leather shoes, an array of tunics and blouses, and fabulous hand crafted jewelry.
After the market, we caught the train to Arles, famous as one of Van Gogh’s main haunts. Apparently he painted more than 200 canvases of the city and I was itching to see the real thing. Quite honestly, we didn’t find much. Arles is about half the size of Aix and aside from a humongous Asian tour group, pretty much seem to be locally dominated, which was….refreshing. There is supposedly a “Van Gogh trail” but all we found were a few markers in the sidewalk pointing in vague directions with no definite destinations. We did spot where he painted “Starry night over the Rhone” which was pretty neat for an art nerd like myself.
After the market, we caught the train to Arles, famous as one of Van Gogh’s main haunts. Apparently he painted more than 200 canvases of the city and I was itching to see the real thing. Quite honestly, we didn’t find much. Arles is about half the size of Aix and aside from a humongous Asian tour group, pretty much seem to be locally dominated, which was….refreshing. There is supposedly a “Van Gogh trail” but all we found were a few markers in the sidewalk pointing in vague directions with no definite destinations. We did spot where he painted “Starry night over the Rhone” which was pretty neat for an art nerd like myself.
I only sort of love Marseille
I really loved Barcelona, the town area we were in felt really safe to me and I loved the bright, bold vibe of the local culture. Marseille, to me, has been big, dirty, and a monotone of grey buildings. Sandra, on the other hand, didn’t seem to enjoy Barcelona as much and apparently didn’t feel safe the entire time. Whereas, she is absolutely LOVING Marseille, feels right at home, and perfectly safe. It’s interesting. I spent a bit of time trying to figure out what made the difference, and wasn’t really able to pin point it, but Sandra losing her passport within our first hour in Barcelona was a huge stressor and she admits it biasing her against the safety of the city. Additionally, Marseille is filled with a incredible mix of people from all over the world, especially Africa. I can see hints of the “whatever man” attitude carried over, which creates a really fascinating and unique local culture of North meets South, but nonetheless, I think because I can see that I’m a little more apprehensive. Sandra has remarked on not noticing that so much, but remarked that she was apprehensive in Barcelona because she can see into and understand the Hispanic culture more clearly than I, and thus could see the danger spots more clearly. I guess the reverse is true for me here in Marseille.
Regardless, it is a fascinating city with a truly unique atmosphere, bustling with people from all walks of life. Arab and African Muslims walk side by side on the street, Moroccan restaurants stand next door to Irish pubs, and you never seem to hear the same language twice walking around. And all of this is superimposed over the framework of a French city, yet stands somewhat delocalized from the typical French culture.
The nightlife offers pretty much anything your heart desires from pubs, bars, hookah, clubs, salsa, disco…literally, anything. During the day the tourists flock to the beaches, which are pebbly but the Mediterranean waters are an intensely amazing share of blue, which stands out especially against the grey mountains in the background.
Regardless, it is a fascinating city with a truly unique atmosphere, bustling with people from all walks of life. Arab and African Muslims walk side by side on the street, Moroccan restaurants stand next door to Irish pubs, and you never seem to hear the same language twice walking around. And all of this is superimposed over the framework of a French city, yet stands somewhat delocalized from the typical French culture.
The nightlife offers pretty much anything your heart desires from pubs, bars, hookah, clubs, salsa, disco…literally, anything. During the day the tourists flock to the beaches, which are pebbly but the Mediterranean waters are an intensely amazing share of blue, which stands out especially against the grey mountains in the background.
I love Barcelona
Granted, we didn’t get to see that much of the actual city other than the major architectural landmarks (I love travelling with a bunch of architecture students who drool over scale models and can match architects to buildings better than I can political leaders to countries). The town area where our hostel was, was absolutely adorable and great for wandering. Park Guell was also really nearby, although the main entrance was closed so we pretty literally had to climb a mountain to sneak in the back, but it was a really neat experience. I’ve got a lot of respect for Gaudi and his daring to dream and imagine and see the world as he saw it, what a unique perspective the man must have had to look at a space and turn it into what he did.
We were in a group of 7, and it really was a great group of kids. Although I didn’t really have time to think about it, I guess there was room for concern about feeling like a 7th wheel hanging out with a bunch of kids that have been through the stress of studio together for two years, but quite honestly, I didn’t feel like an outsider at all. And thankfully, others in the group remarked on how well I just blended right into the group as well. There certainly were dynamics within the group, which was actually nice because it was big enough that we could get space from parts of the group if we needed, but small enough that we could also all feel united. I’m really grateful that I was able to mesh so well, I suppose I don’t care so much about feeling like an outsider (although I certainly don’t enjoy it, especially with my general yearning for a sense of belonging) but mostly I’m glad it wasn’t awkward for the other kids and that they were able to enjoy having me around. I really miss them! It seriously sucks to meet cool new people and have them disappear out of your life so quickly, I’ll have to make sure to drop by studio sometime when I next visit their campus.
As a whole, the city was great. I love the gypsy vibe, the bright colors, and bold designs. The sun was an overly welcome reprieve after rainy and dreary Paris. The people were friendlier and more welcoming as well. It was a bit frustrating for me because I don’t speak a word of Spanish, let alone Catalan so I was completely incapable of talking to people, which was frustrating, but luckily we had three Spanish speakers in the group that were able to do the talking for me at restaurants and asking for directions and such.
Recommendation: we took a day at Sitges beach and it was awesome. The sand was incredibly warm and soft, the waves just the right height for cooling off, and the meandering, brightly painted streets were overflowing with surprisingly great shops and restaurants.
We were in a group of 7, and it really was a great group of kids. Although I didn’t really have time to think about it, I guess there was room for concern about feeling like a 7th wheel hanging out with a bunch of kids that have been through the stress of studio together for two years, but quite honestly, I didn’t feel like an outsider at all. And thankfully, others in the group remarked on how well I just blended right into the group as well. There certainly were dynamics within the group, which was actually nice because it was big enough that we could get space from parts of the group if we needed, but small enough that we could also all feel united. I’m really grateful that I was able to mesh so well, I suppose I don’t care so much about feeling like an outsider (although I certainly don’t enjoy it, especially with my general yearning for a sense of belonging) but mostly I’m glad it wasn’t awkward for the other kids and that they were able to enjoy having me around. I really miss them! It seriously sucks to meet cool new people and have them disappear out of your life so quickly, I’ll have to make sure to drop by studio sometime when I next visit their campus.
As a whole, the city was great. I love the gypsy vibe, the bright colors, and bold designs. The sun was an overly welcome reprieve after rainy and dreary Paris. The people were friendlier and more welcoming as well. It was a bit frustrating for me because I don’t speak a word of Spanish, let alone Catalan so I was completely incapable of talking to people, which was frustrating, but luckily we had three Spanish speakers in the group that were able to do the talking for me at restaurants and asking for directions and such.
Recommendation: we took a day at Sitges beach and it was awesome. The sand was incredibly warm and soft, the waves just the right height for cooling off, and the meandering, brightly painted streets were overflowing with surprisingly great shops and restaurants.
Vignette: First night in Marseille
Sitting on the kitchen counter, back against the open window frame, and the cool sea breeze carrying in layered sounds of cars, people, drums, and Arabic music in the distance. Feet swinging beneath the counter; bread and cheese in one hand, a glass in the other. The lighting is warm and the vibe comfortable as total strangers from around the world sit around and swap stories of travels through French villages, Spanish romances, Italian jails, and Irish politics. An interesting intersection is found in this little room, close yet removed from the hustle and bustle of the city center.
Hostel Review: London Connection, Marseille
We are using Marseille as sort of our home base for the first leg of our journey, Nice being the second half. It’s a pretty central area with lots of the common Provencal villages just a quick bus or train ride away. The hostel is just a 5 minute walk from the train station and a 5 minute walk from the main street for the city. It’s tuck away up a rambling street that looks just like every other street with no indication of arrival other than a small tab next to the buzzer reading “London Connection.” Located on the second floor, up a very narrow, windy staircase (try that with a big suitcase) it feels somewhat like your sneaking off to Anne Frank’s annex or something. The hostel is more like a modified apartment, with a long narrow hallway that connects bunker rooms on either end, with the manager’s office, kitchen, and bathroom in the middle. It’s really quite nice having a kitchen, Sandra and I are both starting to feel tight for money so it makes it easy to run to the market and cook dinner and keep the leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. The bathroom has pretty big main area with mirrored wall, a sink (with hand soap!), two shower stalls, and two toilette rooms. It’s a bit awkward opening the door to go in and wash your hands because you are never quite sure if someone is going to be changing in the middle of the room, but no close encounters so far. The two owners are very personable and interesting characters, they both love to talk for hours about every little inch of everything to see and do in Marseille, how much it costs and how to get there. They also know the surrounding area really well and are great for random secrets of things for exploring Provence.
Hostel Review: Auberge de Junesse, Barcelona
Up a pretty steep and windy hill about a quarter of a mile from the Vallcarca metro station you’ll spot a break in the wall with two huge turquoise painted iron gates. Granted, turquoise being my favorite color, I was biased before I even set foot on the property, but even so, it’s a decent hostel. The outside looks a bit like a Spanish villa meets Greek ruin: tall stately white columns in front of a “5 over 4 and a door.” Walk in and suddenly you’re in a Moroccan paradise. Gold and red and cobalt blue pop out in geometric designs with Arabic inscriptions along the wall. The rooms are just your plain group bunkers, but the nice thing is they have big cubby type lockers to put your luggage in during the day. The common bathrooms are much like your average dorm bathroom with stall showers, sinks, and toilettes. Breakfast in complimentary and threw me back to my elementary/middle school cafeteria days, especially because of the humungous groups of travelling kids that were there while we were there. The location isn’t super central to the main city and there’s not a lot of food nearby, but all of that is just a quick metro ride away. The upside is that it’s a completely adorable hillside village area with tons of young families and elderly people, all of which create a sense of a safer environment than maybe some other places.
Bronser au Soliel
I’m tan! YAY! Butttt….I made the mistake of applying suntan lotion in VERY uneven amounts and am currently about 6 different shades of light, medium, and dark. Guess it just means I need to go back to the beach to even it out!
It WILL work out
I’m considering starting a section for “life lessons,” since I seem to have a lot of them (I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes). But for now, I do feel like remarking on a lesson that seems to have been especially important for me as of late: it will work out. It took several months of hearing it repeatedly from a friend for the point to really hit home, but now that it has…woah. Total change of perspective. I used to spend hours and hours and fathomless amounts of energy worrying about possible outcomes of things that were happening in my life, trying to push and force it to go the direction I wanted and then being completely caught off guard when things didn’t turn out the way I wanted to. Now I feel that rather than spending time worrying about the outcome, take to heart the concept that no matter what happens, things will work out and thus there is no need to worry. Once an understanding of that is gained, it becomes easier to fret less and “deal” more. It allows one to keep a level head and move forward confidently, rather than spazzing out and losing control of the situation. This isn’t to say not to care about life or what happens, but rather, don’t worry about it. Further, this isn’t to say “do nothing” but rather, do what can and needs to be done and know that whatever happens, happens and no matter what, life goes on, and usually for the better, even if we don’t realize it at the time.
Sick
I would like to announce to the world that I am sick. I had a hunch it would happen before I left, not quite sure what basis I had for having a hunch, but I did, and I’m glad because I packed a whole bottle of Clor-tabs and about a week’s worth of decongestants. I’m slightly miserable and have next to no energy, but….whatever. I think my biggest concern at the moment is doing everything possible to get better as fast as possible so that my immune system isn’t down when I get to Uganda. Heaven only knows what diseases I’ll be susceptible to if that’s the case. I don’t even want to think about it…
Stability
exploring and wandering, seeing what I find. I like being in new and different places, having new experiences, meeting new people, etc. But one thing I think I’m beginning to realize is that while I might have an incredibly wandering mind, my body is more inclined towards the stability of consistency. Between five research conferences, a Model United Nations competition, two college visits (technically 4, but two were on the way to conferences), driving home cross country with two more visits along the way, and then barely a week at home…I haven’t been in the same place for more than a week and a half consecutively since the middle of February. That’s a long time to be on the move. For me, at least.
Admittedly, I lamented having to leave, which yes, I know sounds bratty, but whatever. I really wanted to just sit in my room, alone and peaceful without a care in the world. Instead, I’m weaving between airports and train stations, sleeping on the floor, sleeping in bunkbeds, in Paris one day, Barcelona the next, and Marseille shortly thereafter…It’s fine, but it is admittedly taxing.
I find it amusing that once I get to Uganda, it’ll be my longest time in the same place. Interesting, eh? Guess it sort of makes it seem like home…I’m looking forward to it.
Admittedly, I lamented having to leave, which yes, I know sounds bratty, but whatever. I really wanted to just sit in my room, alone and peaceful without a care in the world. Instead, I’m weaving between airports and train stations, sleeping on the floor, sleeping in bunkbeds, in Paris one day, Barcelona the next, and Marseille shortly thereafter…It’s fine, but it is admittedly taxing.
I find it amusing that once I get to Uganda, it’ll be my longest time in the same place. Interesting, eh? Guess it sort of makes it seem like home…I’m looking forward to it.
Keep Your Eyes to Yourself
I’m still struggling to train myself not to make eye contact with people. It’s a bit funny, because I didn’t think I did very much, I usually don’t notice when I pass people I know because I don’t really focus specifically on any one thing. I guess I make eye contact more than I thought I did though because it’s sure taking effort to keep my eyes to myself. Learning to stop checking out guys is one thing, but what amuses the heck out of me is I didn’t realize how much attention I pay to what people wear. I’m constantly taking note of outfits people are wearing; layers, fabrics, colors, cuts, accessories. Guys and girls alike. Not like “checking them out” but more noting with interest, learning about clothes and styles, and getting ideas.
Amusing, eh? But really not good. We were at a store in Barcelona and this rat pack of two guys and two girls walked in, all of them dressed head to toe like they had just came from an Urban Outfitters photoshoot. It was so interesting to see them in the store, among the throngs of mediocrity. I ended up trying on sunglasses next to one of the girls and noticed some really cool henna on her hand and I turned my head to get a better look at the design, it looked like a peacock with feathers going up each finger. I instinctively turned around, like you do when you feel someone watching you, to find one of the guys standing in the background full on STARING at me, wide-eyed and unblinking as if to say, “stop looking at her.” Good heavens boy, are you really that territorial about probably the most non-homosexual girl on the planet looking at your girl’s henna? I brushed it off and kept moving about the store but it was definitely a lesson learned: keep your eyes to yourself.
Amusing, eh? But really not good. We were at a store in Barcelona and this rat pack of two guys and two girls walked in, all of them dressed head to toe like they had just came from an Urban Outfitters photoshoot. It was so interesting to see them in the store, among the throngs of mediocrity. I ended up trying on sunglasses next to one of the girls and noticed some really cool henna on her hand and I turned my head to get a better look at the design, it looked like a peacock with feathers going up each finger. I instinctively turned around, like you do when you feel someone watching you, to find one of the guys standing in the background full on STARING at me, wide-eyed and unblinking as if to say, “stop looking at her.” Good heavens boy, are you really that territorial about probably the most non-homosexual girl on the planet looking at your girl’s henna? I brushed it off and kept moving about the store but it was definitely a lesson learned: keep your eyes to yourself.
I'm not quite sure how to say this
I’m weary of using overly specific examples for sake of sounding b*tchy but I do feel like this has been an important part of my trip. Basically, it’s interesting travelling again after Uganda. I don’t quite have enough clarity of perspective to pin point how I used to travel compared to now, but I do know I can clearly see how my perspective on situations and my surroundings has changed, significantly. I guess one thing I didn’t realize, or care about, at the time was how rough Uganda was, relatively speaking. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, it was my first time in a developing country and I had no standard to compare it to. I also, and I’m not sure how to say this, but I guess I go into “survival” mode pretty easily; I’m not particularly attached to my physical belongings and I don’t at all mind having to go without or be resourceful. I guess maybe one way to put it is that I’m more invested in having the local experience than I am having an imposed experience with all the comforts of home. I also don’t flip out when things are different. Maybe that makes me a bit stoic. I occasionally wonder at my lack of reaction to things, but just as frequently I don’t see the point in exerting the effort at the expense of a level head. I dunno. Even I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I think there is some sense to what I’m trying to say.
Une Promenade
I had a few days in Paris before Sandra was done with her classes, leaving me to my own devices during the day. I’d gone out alone in Uganda a few times, and thus derived some confidence from that, but even so, Paris is not Kampala. In many ways, Paris is much milder; less people coming up and approaching you, people actually obey the traffic signs and stay in their lane, there are fewer beggars, and people actually put their trash in trash bins. Even so, Paris is much larger and I had no cell phone like I did in Uganda. If anything happened to me, that was it, POOF gone, no more Sole Searching.
But that was being ridiculous. I shoved my Mom’s stern, concerned voice out of my head and took the metro up to Les Halles, where I got off and began to wander along the Seine. It had been cold and rainy the whole time I’d been there, but for an hour or so, during my wandering, the clouds cleared and the sun came out just briefly enough to set the banks alight with pastel shades of yellow, pink, blue, and green. I soaked in the beauty of the scene as I meandered under tall trees casting intricate shadows of branches and leaves on the sidewalk. A few fishermen could be spotted and tour boats flowed up and down the river at a causal, lazy pace. I ended up walking around the outside of the Louvre for a bit to grab a few photo shots and was really quite sad to find the Tullerie Gardens were closed. I then headed over to Mussee D’Orsay, one of my favorite art museums for the cool space it’s in and the amazing collection of impressionist work, a genre my mom made sure to immerse me in as a child. Cassatt, Degas, Monet, Manet…all were familiar names from childhood. I specifically wanted to get a shot of the clock on the top floor, it’s an intensely cool clock and I was dying to see how it would photograph (turned out great), in my brief run through the building, I made a quick stop to pay homage to Degas “Le petite ballerina” statue, which was one of my favorites during my ballet years.
But that was being ridiculous. I shoved my Mom’s stern, concerned voice out of my head and took the metro up to Les Halles, where I got off and began to wander along the Seine. It had been cold and rainy the whole time I’d been there, but for an hour or so, during my wandering, the clouds cleared and the sun came out just briefly enough to set the banks alight with pastel shades of yellow, pink, blue, and green. I soaked in the beauty of the scene as I meandered under tall trees casting intricate shadows of branches and leaves on the sidewalk. A few fishermen could be spotted and tour boats flowed up and down the river at a causal, lazy pace. I ended up walking around the outside of the Louvre for a bit to grab a few photo shots and was really quite sad to find the Tullerie Gardens were closed. I then headed over to Mussee D’Orsay, one of my favorite art museums for the cool space it’s in and the amazing collection of impressionist work, a genre my mom made sure to immerse me in as a child. Cassatt, Degas, Monet, Manet…all were familiar names from childhood. I specifically wanted to get a shot of the clock on the top floor, it’s an intensely cool clock and I was dying to see how it would photograph (turned out great), in my brief run through the building, I made a quick stop to pay homage to Degas “Le petite ballerina” statue, which was one of my favorites during my ballet years.
Dress Code
A word to the wise: never wear shorts in Paris. Never. It was our last night in Paris and the group was finally done with their intense and exhausting courses and itching to get out and go do something. As the group was getting ready, I realized how incredibly inadequately packed I was for the European stint of my trip. I had tried to make the clothes I packed as compatible with both legs of the trip as possible, but I seem to have paid extra attention to the Africa bit. I stared down at my suitcase filled with cargo pants, long basic skirts, plain tee shirts, and hiking sandals in bemused frustration. Shorts. I had shorts for the beach. I had no nice shirts, but I had packed one that was a little less not nice than the rest. My sandals wouldn’t work, but my shower flip flops just might. No jewelry, no straightener or curling iron for my hair. When the group came into the room, one of the girls actually asked if I was going to get ready or not, even though I had already made my best attempt. Long story short, we wandered around the Bastille area searching for a discoteque, to no avail, and ended up on a very crowded and very sketchy street. I soon realized that every guy in the place was staring at my legs and I had never felt more like a piece of meat in my life. And I don’t even have nice legs. They’re these pale, flubbery, unshapely, things that REALLY should not be publicly exposed. After hours of wandering aimlessly, the group split off and I went with the portion that had decided to head home. At 2am, even if we did find a good place, I figured it would be full of enough sketchy people to make it not worth the money or the while. We ended up getting followed by two unrelenting guys on the way the taxi stand, one of which would not get away from me and when I didn’t respond to his questions, credit carded me. And it was more than a simple hand graze. I didn’t freak out, like the other girls in the group, who quite honestly, quickly began to annoy me with their astonishment and exasperation with the situation and proceeded to complain about every little thing. Chill girls. Focus. Get a taxi, get home. No sense complaining or freaking out. (Fingers crossed they aren’t reading this)
Nonetheless. Never wear shorts out in Paris.
Nonetheless. Never wear shorts out in Paris.
La Grande Entrance
After a whirlwind of a chaotic and unfortunately stressful week, I found myself at the Orlando airport with my parents in tears as I set off for…an indefinite period of time, seeing as I have yet to book my return ticket since I’m not quite sure when I’m coming back or where in the world I will be at the time. Blushing with embarrassment as they hovered near the glass windows behind security, waving hugely and incessantly, I filed through the masses and found myself flung into the open space near the tram. This was it. From here on out, I was alone. Feeling slightly naked but independent I stepped forward with what felt like especial strength. I’ve dealt with being alone, in numerous senses of the word, enough in the last two years that I’ve become somewhat impervious to the sentiment of loneliness and find myself rather grateful for the solitude of my own mind and the sense of confidence I’ve garnered.
A groggy few hours later, I and I was at JFK and longing to hop a cab and explore the city. It felt so strange to be so near, yet so far from a city I’d found easy to enjoy and be myself in. Maybe I just missed shopping in SoHo though. Regardless, after a wander over to baggage claim (I’d bought two separate tickets and had to switch airlines) and a three hour wait for my flight, during which time I found the SWEETEST little Indian toddler who kept wandering over to my seat outside Au Bon Pain. She had the brightest eyes, which would completely light up every time I made eye contact with her and then her whole face would break into a smile…it amused me to no end, little kids are such a thrill, they have such fascinating personalities, so open, raw, untainted…
I couldn’t sleep on the flight, even though I hadn’t slept the night before due to delayed packing and anxiety, and after Slumdog Millionaire, a few episodes of Sex and the City, and a playlist of Kanye, Kid Cudi, and T-Pain, I abruptly found myself in Dublin. Two weeks in Ireland two years ago, and I’d never set foot in Dublin. I’ve heard I hadn’t missed much, but I again found myself feeling cooped up in the airport, longing to explore what was outside it. It was a rather awkward and boring stint, the waiting area was full of briefcase and newspaper laden business men and I had no idea where or what to look at while I waited. During a time killing exploration, a lady approached me asking what gate her flight was at since it wasn’t printed on the ticket. I noted the name of the city and asked if it was in Germany. Her response was, “that’s what YOU call it,” I quickly corrected myself with, “err, Deutschland, sorry!” but she still seemed annoyed and quickly left look elsewhere for help.
Finally the plane took off and I hovered near the window waiting for sight of Paris. An interesting wave of relief washed over me as the plane touched down and I was again back in a city I’d come to love a long four years ago. My last trip marked a major turning point in my life, and I was curious to see what it would be like this time around. I gulped down my nervousness as I pulled out the sheet of paper I’d printed at the last second with a paragraph of directions and small sketch of a street map with a circle where the hotel was supposed to be. That was it, I’d flown a quarter of the way around the world and had nothing but a sheet of paper filled with unfamiliar names and roads that would hopefully get me to my destination. The paper seemed heavy in my hands.
The train seemed to take forever but I managed to find the stop that switched me to the metro. I found the metro and got on the correct direction. Two small victories in my book. Getting off the metro was another story. As I followed sign after sign marked “sortie” I had to tackle staircase after staircase with my heavy suitcase, which seemed heavier with each long haul up a set of stairs. I’d been rather proud of myself for packing just one suitcase, and a regular sized one at that, for two months in a place where I had to bring pretty much every life necessity, and then some, with me. I quickly began going through my suitcase in my head and eliminating all the things that suddenly seemed a burden. Did I really need to pack a scented candle for the room (I would have killed for an air freshener last time)? Did I really need TWO towels? Were four softballs for the neighborhood kids too much? Did I really need shampoo AND conditioner? Oh well. Many, many, infinite thanks to the people who had the kindness to help me up that labyrinth of stairs.
I emerged on street level and was affronted by a whizzing bustle of cars and horns and pedestrians, cafes, restaurants, buildings…it all seemed to whirl around me as I stood there with my suitcase in one hand and the rolled up piece of paper in the other. Rue D’Alesia. Ok, found it. But which way? A droit? Ou au gauche? Droit. Go. And I walked. And walked, and walked. If I passed Rue des Plantes, I’d gone too far. How far away could it be? What the heck scale was this map too? In passing, I caught the eye of a lady in a deserted bouglangerie and made a U-turn to go back and ask directions. Good, she understood my accent, and I understood hers. As much as I hate the Parisian accent, you can’t hate its unornamented understandability. She laughed a bit as she told me I would not find the street I was looking for if I continued in the direction I was going and had a ways to go, the opposite direction, before I found it. Pulling deep for energy, I retraced my steps. At a huge circle round that split off 5 different ways, I went the wrong way twice before finding the correct road. Where were all the street signs in this city? Just give me a road name! PLEASE! Completely exhausted, I crashed on a bench with a bunch of old people to try to regain some strength before resuming my search. I was quickly reminded that the French do not make eye contact as I watched a man stroll by on a really interesting bike. I forget the details of it, I think one wheel was bigger than the other, and received an irked glance as I observed with interest. Whoops.
I got up to continue searching. By this time, I had two pesky blisters emerging on my suitcase hand, and the folded edges of the paper were frayed from my fidgeting. Just a bit more. After passing three other hotels, I found it. Now what? I’d arrived early and Sandra was still in classes. I was planning on crashing on the floor, but sneaking in my luggage was still a piece we hadn’t nailed down. Oh well. Here goes nothing. I walked in and waited to be addressed. I said I was looking for a friend but didn’t know what room she was in. The lady looked it up and directed me to the third floor. Of course I knew she wasn’t there, but I played dumb anyway. I waltzed up with my luggage and found the cleaning lady closing the door on the room I was trying to get into. Shoot. Leaving my luggage in the hall, I went back down. What to do, what to do….well, might as well give it a shot. I told the lady my friend wasn’t in the room and I thought she might still be in her class and could I have a key to the room so I could drop off some things I had in my luggage for her. With a simple nod, the lady handed me a key! Sweet, I was in.
I entered the room and found it eerily still and empty. I surveyed the existing explosion of luggage and plopped down on one of the beds. Shower. I needed a shower. I organized myself in the bathroom and reached to turn on the shower. The hand held shower head was resting on one of the ledges and without thinking, I pulled the lever to turn it on. It came to life as it jumped off the ledge, spraying a swirl of water in every possible direction. My first reaction was to jump back, away from it, but I caught myself and forced myself forward, towards the spraying snake. I grabbed it, turned it off, and surveyed the damage. The floor was glisteningly wet, the walls were dotted with droplettes, and the door had streaking trails of water from top to bottom. Whoops. Good thing I packed two towels after all!
After the highest water pressure shower I’ve ever had and three pairs of wet socks I had to change because I kept stepping in the one wet spot on the carpet (if you know me, you know I make the same mistake over and over again before doing something constructive about it), I crashed on the bed and completely passed out. I awoke with a confused start to the sound of a slammed door and two very confused, unfamiliar faces peering at me. I was incredibly groggy and it took me a second to think of the right questions to get the information I needed and put the puzzle pieces together. The girls were with the study abroad group, but had switched rooms with Sandra and Alice and didn’t exactly know what room they were in, but it was probably either the 3rd or the 6th floor. They seemed a bit disgruntled by the upset in their day, but were polite about it nonetheless. I got out as quickly as I could get my stumbling self out and headed back down to the front desk, who of course told me they could be of no further assistance. I resigned to waiting. Thankfully, Sandra arrived soon enough and after a round of introductions, I was led to the correct room, right next door to the room I had previously made my Goldilocks-esque appearance. Finally, I was officially in Paris.
A groggy few hours later, I and I was at JFK and longing to hop a cab and explore the city. It felt so strange to be so near, yet so far from a city I’d found easy to enjoy and be myself in. Maybe I just missed shopping in SoHo though. Regardless, after a wander over to baggage claim (I’d bought two separate tickets and had to switch airlines) and a three hour wait for my flight, during which time I found the SWEETEST little Indian toddler who kept wandering over to my seat outside Au Bon Pain. She had the brightest eyes, which would completely light up every time I made eye contact with her and then her whole face would break into a smile…it amused me to no end, little kids are such a thrill, they have such fascinating personalities, so open, raw, untainted…
I couldn’t sleep on the flight, even though I hadn’t slept the night before due to delayed packing and anxiety, and after Slumdog Millionaire, a few episodes of Sex and the City, and a playlist of Kanye, Kid Cudi, and T-Pain, I abruptly found myself in Dublin. Two weeks in Ireland two years ago, and I’d never set foot in Dublin. I’ve heard I hadn’t missed much, but I again found myself feeling cooped up in the airport, longing to explore what was outside it. It was a rather awkward and boring stint, the waiting area was full of briefcase and newspaper laden business men and I had no idea where or what to look at while I waited. During a time killing exploration, a lady approached me asking what gate her flight was at since it wasn’t printed on the ticket. I noted the name of the city and asked if it was in Germany. Her response was, “that’s what YOU call it,” I quickly corrected myself with, “err, Deutschland, sorry!” but she still seemed annoyed and quickly left look elsewhere for help.
Finally the plane took off and I hovered near the window waiting for sight of Paris. An interesting wave of relief washed over me as the plane touched down and I was again back in a city I’d come to love a long four years ago. My last trip marked a major turning point in my life, and I was curious to see what it would be like this time around. I gulped down my nervousness as I pulled out the sheet of paper I’d printed at the last second with a paragraph of directions and small sketch of a street map with a circle where the hotel was supposed to be. That was it, I’d flown a quarter of the way around the world and had nothing but a sheet of paper filled with unfamiliar names and roads that would hopefully get me to my destination. The paper seemed heavy in my hands.
The train seemed to take forever but I managed to find the stop that switched me to the metro. I found the metro and got on the correct direction. Two small victories in my book. Getting off the metro was another story. As I followed sign after sign marked “sortie” I had to tackle staircase after staircase with my heavy suitcase, which seemed heavier with each long haul up a set of stairs. I’d been rather proud of myself for packing just one suitcase, and a regular sized one at that, for two months in a place where I had to bring pretty much every life necessity, and then some, with me. I quickly began going through my suitcase in my head and eliminating all the things that suddenly seemed a burden. Did I really need to pack a scented candle for the room (I would have killed for an air freshener last time)? Did I really need TWO towels? Were four softballs for the neighborhood kids too much? Did I really need shampoo AND conditioner? Oh well. Many, many, infinite thanks to the people who had the kindness to help me up that labyrinth of stairs.
I emerged on street level and was affronted by a whizzing bustle of cars and horns and pedestrians, cafes, restaurants, buildings…it all seemed to whirl around me as I stood there with my suitcase in one hand and the rolled up piece of paper in the other. Rue D’Alesia. Ok, found it. But which way? A droit? Ou au gauche? Droit. Go. And I walked. And walked, and walked. If I passed Rue des Plantes, I’d gone too far. How far away could it be? What the heck scale was this map too? In passing, I caught the eye of a lady in a deserted bouglangerie and made a U-turn to go back and ask directions. Good, she understood my accent, and I understood hers. As much as I hate the Parisian accent, you can’t hate its unornamented understandability. She laughed a bit as she told me I would not find the street I was looking for if I continued in the direction I was going and had a ways to go, the opposite direction, before I found it. Pulling deep for energy, I retraced my steps. At a huge circle round that split off 5 different ways, I went the wrong way twice before finding the correct road. Where were all the street signs in this city? Just give me a road name! PLEASE! Completely exhausted, I crashed on a bench with a bunch of old people to try to regain some strength before resuming my search. I was quickly reminded that the French do not make eye contact as I watched a man stroll by on a really interesting bike. I forget the details of it, I think one wheel was bigger than the other, and received an irked glance as I observed with interest. Whoops.
I got up to continue searching. By this time, I had two pesky blisters emerging on my suitcase hand, and the folded edges of the paper were frayed from my fidgeting. Just a bit more. After passing three other hotels, I found it. Now what? I’d arrived early and Sandra was still in classes. I was planning on crashing on the floor, but sneaking in my luggage was still a piece we hadn’t nailed down. Oh well. Here goes nothing. I walked in and waited to be addressed. I said I was looking for a friend but didn’t know what room she was in. The lady looked it up and directed me to the third floor. Of course I knew she wasn’t there, but I played dumb anyway. I waltzed up with my luggage and found the cleaning lady closing the door on the room I was trying to get into. Shoot. Leaving my luggage in the hall, I went back down. What to do, what to do….well, might as well give it a shot. I told the lady my friend wasn’t in the room and I thought she might still be in her class and could I have a key to the room so I could drop off some things I had in my luggage for her. With a simple nod, the lady handed me a key! Sweet, I was in.
I entered the room and found it eerily still and empty. I surveyed the existing explosion of luggage and plopped down on one of the beds. Shower. I needed a shower. I organized myself in the bathroom and reached to turn on the shower. The hand held shower head was resting on one of the ledges and without thinking, I pulled the lever to turn it on. It came to life as it jumped off the ledge, spraying a swirl of water in every possible direction. My first reaction was to jump back, away from it, but I caught myself and forced myself forward, towards the spraying snake. I grabbed it, turned it off, and surveyed the damage. The floor was glisteningly wet, the walls were dotted with droplettes, and the door had streaking trails of water from top to bottom. Whoops. Good thing I packed two towels after all!
After the highest water pressure shower I’ve ever had and three pairs of wet socks I had to change because I kept stepping in the one wet spot on the carpet (if you know me, you know I make the same mistake over and over again before doing something constructive about it), I crashed on the bed and completely passed out. I awoke with a confused start to the sound of a slammed door and two very confused, unfamiliar faces peering at me. I was incredibly groggy and it took me a second to think of the right questions to get the information I needed and put the puzzle pieces together. The girls were with the study abroad group, but had switched rooms with Sandra and Alice and didn’t exactly know what room they were in, but it was probably either the 3rd or the 6th floor. They seemed a bit disgruntled by the upset in their day, but were polite about it nonetheless. I got out as quickly as I could get my stumbling self out and headed back down to the front desk, who of course told me they could be of no further assistance. I resigned to waiting. Thankfully, Sandra arrived soon enough and after a round of introductions, I was led to the correct room, right next door to the room I had previously made my Goldilocks-esque appearance. Finally, I was officially in Paris.
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