25 hours in Japan
How to Spend all Your Money and Become Threat to NAtional Security
I decided for sure to visit Tokyo only 12 hours before I left my friend’s Taipei home for the airport. I had flown through Narita Airport three times prior and never left security, and I decided fourth time’s the charm. I had $120 left, and figured I could go several days off that (considering I spent $100 in Hawaii for 5 days, $100 camping Texas for 3 days).
Not knowing the local language or anyone in the world’s most expensive city, which houses 20+ million people, was more overwhelming than I anticipated.
I kicked things off by forgetting a bag with two dozen gifts and trinkets in Celine’s room. Oops.
I arrived at customs, where it seems the officials weren’t as excited about my spontaneous arrival and lacking a place to stay. After speaking to two officials, they cleared me for entry.
Sitting at the arrival’s gate, I scrambled to find the best cheap hostel and scribbled down directions before my computer battery died.
I hopped on the subway and spent the next 70 minutes riding past rural rice paddies, through urban block apartments and into metropolitan Tokyo. After patting myself on the back for a successful start, I got lost finding the hostel and asked 7 people for directions. One was a nice American guy who I exchanged contact info with, who was spending the summer abroad for his master’s in nutrition. Kansas archery instructor whose first time out of the country was here- go big then go home!
My hostel reservation never went through, but things worked out.
I decided to grab some local food before my evening venture into trendy Harajuku and bustling Shibuya. Grasping just costly this place was, I opted for the cheapest meal at the cheapest café in the affordable district I was staying in. Tried ordering from someone who worked there, silly me, when they showed me they don’t directly make them- a fancy vending machine chose my meal. I got rice & cabbage, some yellow stringy side dish, beef noodles with greens, and fried “pork” (fish) for 350 yen.
Public transportation stresses me out. For 19 years, I never needed to know or understand how to use it except for an occasional bus ride. Everyone who’s ever been to Japan that I know always tells me two things- everyone speaks English, and the metros are efficient yet easy.
Well, I spent the next hour inside the entryway, asking for subway help from approximately 40 strangers. I felt so helpless and frustrated that I started crying - not the first time in my last couple years of intense international public transportation use. Finding a private space to have a pity party is not ideal in these situations, as even the restroom costs money and has attendants.
Thankfully, night walking in the city is always a good time. I bought a rancid Asian mango cocktail in a can for 100 yen and wandered the most famous and influential areas of Tokyo. While trying to trick myself into thinking it was drinkable, I struck up a chat with a Frenchman while people watching at a famous crosswalk rush. Certain times of the day, thousands of people cross this intersection within one minute. I joined le mec franҫais and his fellow engineer friend, wandering Shibuya side streets to sit in a restaurant discussing politics, religion, French film and food.
Feeling better about my night, I confidently strode towards the metro to take the last one of the day. I ran across two young men dressed in hardcore/punk black threads, who through hand gestures revealed I was confidently striding away from the metro. They walked me to the platform, and turned out to be videographers at an upscale marketing company in the main square.
The hostel bed was easily the most comfortable twin sized bed away from bed ever! Down blanket, rice pillow, tall bottom bunk allowing comfortable upright sitting for the win.
Woke up to a man gagging himself for 10 minutes while brushing his teeth. I thought he was dying and almost threw up from the incessant hocking sound. In the lounge, I stocked up on free toast and tea on a traditional style low table, perched on a thin pillow over straw mats.
Then I walked to Asakusa, the historic area where geishas used to stroll around the most famous temple in Tokyo. I was equally intrigued by the various festival days (visit on a particular day and your prayer is worth 14,000+ prayers) as well as the automatic flushing hole in the ground. I saw a tourist ship that James Bond (Tom Cruise era technology) must have owned as a submarine, parked across the river from a giant sideways golden flame statue that looks like fresh poo.
En route to meet yesterday’s American friend, I walked past groups of rather fit Japanese men pulling rickshaw and a man dressed as a Tibetan monk, who gave me a blessing and tried, without success, to make me pay for it.
We set off for the imperial gardens, located outside the royal family’s residence. I was packed and ready to leave for the airport from there, dragging my suitcase behind me for a couple hours. Tired of messing with it, I stationed it near a tree so we could walk unencumbered for a bit. We agreed the Japanese are an honorable people who wouldn’t steal anything, so what was the worst that could happen?
Found a rock slab atop a mini waterfall to rest on. After getting bit 10 times by mosquitoes, within 15 minutes of leaving my bag, we moseyed back.
Well, the bag hadn’t been lonely.
5 imperial guards, 2 detectives, 1 police car, 1 unmarked car with 3 men in suits and many passersby were so thoughtful to keep it company. One male detective was even so nice to put on gloves, open it and gingerly check to see if it was ok.
Only the Japanese can make a high-threat potential bomb on the royal family’s grounds seem like a jovial and welcoming chat. Thank God, with some quick thinking and smiling, I went from Terrorist Who Planted A Bomb to Naïve Tourist who left it to take photos. Playing dumb American Day Tripper (and actual proof of non-suspect materials) got me out of a sticky situation.
We booked it out of there, and were tailed for a bit, we think. Leaving the grounds, two guards we hadn’t seen told me to hold onto my bag from now on- news travels fast at the royal palace, it seems.
What should have been an hour trip to the airport took two and a half hours, so I missed my direct connection to Houston. Getting a new ticket to San Francisco was quite the fiasco: what should have taken 4 employees to get me on the plane took 11 instead. I got the last seat on a flight to LA, and there encountered the rudest United employees yet. I waited for a particularly saucy gate attendant to leave for a minute, and talked another one into letting me on the plane.
I managed to spend all my $120, by purchasing only one cheap meal, a cheap hostel bunk and using public transportation.
All in a day’s work, friends.
the sea hates a coward
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
taiwan does well
Taiwan’s a nifty place. When you have a country with such strong history with China and old European colonial powers that is obsessed with Japan, things just go well. I was constantly marveling at teeny innovations for daily life, all of which are found spread out in other lands, but Taipei really deserves credit for the following:
*serenading garbage trucks: opera music announces their arrival
*no surprise beauty store: they let you try and sample every product before purchase! No money wasted on makeup that’s not your color or odd lotion consistency.
*umbrella shops all over: because people actually use them when it rains. Sold with 10% discount when not raining, which is thoughtful and reasonable
*adult sippy cup lids: adjustable to any drink container, these appropriately-wide, transparent silicon tops lift on and off the cup by a green protruding leaf stem
*a true convenience store: 7/11 here offers banking, laundry, utility bill payment, healthy and tasty food, seating areas like a café…
*hopeful- looking scratch offs: lottery tickets that look as happy as you hope to feel winning. For the first time in life, I was compelled to buy some, and I blame the overjoyed twin turnips at 100 yen a pop
*computer toilet: it reacts to the weather, your gender, and your drop-off size
*personalized public transport cards: use your own photo (not just a Josie & the Pussycats movie scene!)
*bicycle and car elevators: park in the one-slot-wide garage and a machine will lift it a couple floors. When you want it again, go to that floor, drive into a slot to be moved down the elevator, et voila!
*airport “escape chute”: I was not only amused by all the possible scenarios that cause one to need an “escape chute” at the gate, but also comforted that they thought to provide a solution for a “need” I didn’t know I may have
*first aid blimp: what faster way to find out where emergency health care is, than by floating a massive white balloon with a red cross on it above the first aid station?
*serenading garbage trucks: opera music announces their arrival
*no surprise beauty store: they let you try and sample every product before purchase! No money wasted on makeup that’s not your color or odd lotion consistency.
*umbrella shops all over: because people actually use them when it rains. Sold with 10% discount when not raining, which is thoughtful and reasonable
*adult sippy cup lids: adjustable to any drink container, these appropriately-wide, transparent silicon tops lift on and off the cup by a green protruding leaf stem
*a true convenience store: 7/11 here offers banking, laundry, utility bill payment, healthy and tasty food, seating areas like a café…
*hopeful- looking scratch offs: lottery tickets that look as happy as you hope to feel winning. For the first time in life, I was compelled to buy some, and I blame the overjoyed twin turnips at 100 yen a pop
*computer toilet: it reacts to the weather, your gender, and your drop-off size
*personalized public transport cards: use your own photo (not just a Josie & the Pussycats movie scene!)
*bicycle and car elevators: park in the one-slot-wide garage and a machine will lift it a couple floors. When you want it again, go to that floor, drive into a slot to be moved down the elevator, et voila!
*airport “escape chute”: I was not only amused by all the possible scenarios that cause one to need an “escape chute” at the gate, but also comforted that they thought to provide a solution for a “need” I didn’t know I may have
*first aid blimp: what faster way to find out where emergency health care is, than by floating a massive white balloon with a red cross on it above the first aid station?
taiwan: food diary
Besides having one of my favorite women on earth show me the best possible time in Taipei, the best part of my 5-6 days was eating. Taiwan figured I would want to eat as often as possible, so it was nice enough to arrange street food, corner cafes and restaurants everywhere at all hours… Celine and I shared 5-10 drinks and 10-15 dishes every day. Here are the high (and low) lights!
**Double-starred items were so incredible, I considered moving in with her.
DRINKS
Delicious:
**almond milk, from a pint carton, with tapioca flavored boba
*cold green tea topped with marshmallow fluff
*boba milk tea with herb jelly
**passion fruit juice and green tea, with passion fruit seeds and coconut jelly
*rose tea & sprite mock-tail
**varied fruit juice cocktail with burning sage: from Taipei’s leading dance club and upscale cocktail bar, on the top floors of a popular shopping mall
***anything with boba was automatically five times better
Neutral:
*natural soybean, red bean & peanut milks
*Taiwanese beer: new brew given out for free in the street. Being a tourist drinking the stuff, I was conspicuously and repeatedly photographed by
Vile:
*beet juice
*lime juice with unidentified white seeds
*traditional soda
*energy drink whose mascot is a ninja: free at the Dragon Boat Festival
FOOD
Worth remembering:
*cookie with green tea icing
*celine’s mom’s homemade breads (garlic; berry & walnut)
**dried mango, dried sweet olives, dried pork chips with almonds and sesame seeds: from a dried goods market
*Taiwanese taco: fluffy white dough wrapped around pork, lined with chopped peanut spread
*traditional grilled chicken & native islander pork kebab, bbq style: from man who threw spices around like a seasoned bartender
**milky shaved ice with fresh mangos, served on plate
*sweet potato fries doused with plum salt
**hot pot: beef and pork in 5 cuts, squid, octopus, duck ball, 10 veggies, and noodles cooked in 2 different sauces (spicy red and flavorful white)
**macadamia nut ice-cream
*peanut custard
*Kavalan aged whiskey: a high ranking whiskey in internationally renowned competitions, on blind taste tests
**peanut mochi, dusted with finely-ground peanuts
*street “pancakes”, shaped like eyeglass cases
**boba, traditional mochi, sweet potato mochi & almond flan- boiled and served over ice
**”steak”: chicken and beef served on sizzling cast-iron skillet, alongside creamy corn soup, noodles and a just-cracked egg, with sauce (mix of ketchup/bbq)
**”crepe”= giant waffle cone with mango ice-cream, homemade whip cream, pirouettes & cookies
Food I could do without:
*pork organ soup
*dense shortbread (petite-four shaped) with dark caramel filling; pineapple shortbread
*candied tomatoes stuffed with plums, on a stick: at the most famous Taiwanese night market
*sesame-filled croissant with seeds on top
*2 different plum desserts, of a gelatin consistency
*traditional breakfast pastries
*Taiwanese sausage, sliced horizontally and stuffed with mint and other veggies. Served alongside seasoned sticky rice of the same shape
*pork-stuffed bread
**Double-starred items were so incredible, I considered moving in with her.
DRINKS
Delicious:
**almond milk, from a pint carton, with tapioca flavored boba
*cold green tea topped with marshmallow fluff
*boba milk tea with herb jelly
**passion fruit juice and green tea, with passion fruit seeds and coconut jelly
*rose tea & sprite mock-tail
**varied fruit juice cocktail with burning sage: from Taipei’s leading dance club and upscale cocktail bar, on the top floors of a popular shopping mall
***anything with boba was automatically five times better
Neutral:
*natural soybean, red bean & peanut milks
*Taiwanese beer: new brew given out for free in the street. Being a tourist drinking the stuff, I was conspicuously and repeatedly photographed by
Vile:
*beet juice
*lime juice with unidentified white seeds
*traditional soda
*energy drink whose mascot is a ninja: free at the Dragon Boat Festival
FOOD
Worth remembering:
*cookie with green tea icing
*celine’s mom’s homemade breads (garlic; berry & walnut)
**dried mango, dried sweet olives, dried pork chips with almonds and sesame seeds: from a dried goods market
*Taiwanese taco: fluffy white dough wrapped around pork, lined with chopped peanut spread
*traditional grilled chicken & native islander pork kebab, bbq style: from man who threw spices around like a seasoned bartender
**milky shaved ice with fresh mangos, served on plate
*sweet potato fries doused with plum salt
**hot pot: beef and pork in 5 cuts, squid, octopus, duck ball, 10 veggies, and noodles cooked in 2 different sauces (spicy red and flavorful white)
**macadamia nut ice-cream
*peanut custard
*Kavalan aged whiskey: a high ranking whiskey in internationally renowned competitions, on blind taste tests
**peanut mochi, dusted with finely-ground peanuts
*street “pancakes”, shaped like eyeglass cases
**boba, traditional mochi, sweet potato mochi & almond flan- boiled and served over ice
**”steak”: chicken and beef served on sizzling cast-iron skillet, alongside creamy corn soup, noodles and a just-cracked egg, with sauce (mix of ketchup/bbq)
**”crepe”= giant waffle cone with mango ice-cream, homemade whip cream, pirouettes & cookies
Food I could do without:
*pork organ soup
*dense shortbread (petite-four shaped) with dark caramel filling; pineapple shortbread
*candied tomatoes stuffed with plums, on a stick: at the most famous Taiwanese night market
*sesame-filled croissant with seeds on top
*2 different plum desserts, of a gelatin consistency
*traditional breakfast pastries
*Taiwanese sausage, sliced horizontally and stuffed with mint and other veggies. Served alongside seasoned sticky rice of the same shape
*pork-stuffed bread
Monday, June 4, 2012
Did You Know? Utah edition
I went to Utah to see my former English conversation partner, Jay, who is easily my favorite Saudi and Muslim friend. We drove across the entire state, north to south, within 30 hours to see Bryce Canyon National Park. My 5 days in mid-April traveling to, around, and from there helped get rid of some substancial ignorance.
Now I know...
...the state that birthed the highest percentage of porn stars is Utah
...one of the favorite imports to Saudi Arabia is a green Columbian vinegar-pepper sauce
...water & limestone & millions of years create "hoodoos," giant red rock formations that look like reverse stalagtites coming from the ground... and that they are difficult to climb
... Tropic is a inaccurately-named town perched among the highest elevations in Utah. Stayed one night there and woke up to a blizzard
... in a pinch, you can heat hookah coals with a blowdryer and use cheap motel fixtures to rig a half- functioning hookah pipe
... hiking a mile in a snow/hail storm is as tiring as hiking 5 miles in clear weather?
... Jay's two wheel drive car drives effortlessly at 11,000 feet of snow blanketing everthing in sight, but can get stuck at 8,000 feet in "Devil's Gorge" for several hours and almost fall off a cliff
... a Gucci keychain, that looks dated and is made of canvas, can cost $120 from a Texas outlet store? Jay thought it was a worthy investment
... while every Mormon I met outside of Utah wanted to dialogue about his or her faith, every Mormon I met in Utah avoided doing so. Jay, one of the most extroverted, easy going and talkative guys I know, doesn't have one friend in Utah who isn't a foreigner. You would think maybe an outside would make an easy conversion target, but apparently it designates coldness and loneliness
... by sitting in a natural sulphur spring in the mountains, I not only checked off a bucket list to-do but also visited the dangerous local place (body found there week before, Jay and friends photographed by old naked man)
... the center of Mormonism, the Temple Tabernacle, was designed within 4 days of the first pioneers arriving in Salt Lake City. SLC's current grid system of streets and buildings were planned within 9 days by Joseph Smith's "visions"
... only last year were restaurants and bars allowed to begin serving alcohol (previously a privlige for only private clubs)
... any alcohol over 3% BAC is "hard." Many beers have been made with 0-1.5% BAC to allow the temperate Mormon to indulge
... the Mormon church has the largest collection of genealogical records in the world. They are open every day, free to access, no appointment or limit or fee necessary
... Brigham Young had 27 wives and 54 kids
... in public every Mormon family was adorable, well behaved and seemingly happy
... even the official State Tourism Bureau's Salt Lake City guidebook- a government institution's publication for all guests- was biased. The first couple sentences describing Temple Square are spent whining about the unjust expulsion of the original Mormon sect from New England, and nurses a grudge the rest of the page
... the best place to sleep overnight in the Houston International Airport is Terminal D, gates 1-3. The music is better, the foot traffic minimal, contains a corner of priceless vending machines, nearby are free computers with unlimited internet, bathrooms and functioning wall outlets. Location near the USO gives a nice false security of safety, and wearing a "Don't Mess with Texas" shirt combined with green polar bear flannel pajama pants gives a great "back off while I'm rocking the sleep mask" vibe
Now I know...
...the state that birthed the highest percentage of porn stars is Utah
...one of the favorite imports to Saudi Arabia is a green Columbian vinegar-pepper sauce
...water & limestone & millions of years create "hoodoos," giant red rock formations that look like reverse stalagtites coming from the ground... and that they are difficult to climb
... Tropic is a inaccurately-named town perched among the highest elevations in Utah. Stayed one night there and woke up to a blizzard
... in a pinch, you can heat hookah coals with a blowdryer and use cheap motel fixtures to rig a half- functioning hookah pipe
... hiking a mile in a snow/hail storm is as tiring as hiking 5 miles in clear weather?
... Jay's two wheel drive car drives effortlessly at 11,000 feet of snow blanketing everthing in sight, but can get stuck at 8,000 feet in "Devil's Gorge" for several hours and almost fall off a cliff
... a Gucci keychain, that looks dated and is made of canvas, can cost $120 from a Texas outlet store? Jay thought it was a worthy investment
... while every Mormon I met outside of Utah wanted to dialogue about his or her faith, every Mormon I met in Utah avoided doing so. Jay, one of the most extroverted, easy going and talkative guys I know, doesn't have one friend in Utah who isn't a foreigner. You would think maybe an outside would make an easy conversion target, but apparently it designates coldness and loneliness
... by sitting in a natural sulphur spring in the mountains, I not only checked off a bucket list to-do but also visited the dangerous local place (body found there week before, Jay and friends photographed by old naked man)
... the center of Mormonism, the Temple Tabernacle, was designed within 4 days of the first pioneers arriving in Salt Lake City. SLC's current grid system of streets and buildings were planned within 9 days by Joseph Smith's "visions"
... only last year were restaurants and bars allowed to begin serving alcohol (previously a privlige for only private clubs)
... any alcohol over 3% BAC is "hard." Many beers have been made with 0-1.5% BAC to allow the temperate Mormon to indulge
... the Mormon church has the largest collection of genealogical records in the world. They are open every day, free to access, no appointment or limit or fee necessary
... Brigham Young had 27 wives and 54 kids
... in public every Mormon family was adorable, well behaved and seemingly happy
... even the official State Tourism Bureau's Salt Lake City guidebook- a government institution's publication for all guests- was biased. The first couple sentences describing Temple Square are spent whining about the unjust expulsion of the original Mormon sect from New England, and nurses a grudge the rest of the page
... the best place to sleep overnight in the Houston International Airport is Terminal D, gates 1-3. The music is better, the foot traffic minimal, contains a corner of priceless vending machines, nearby are free computers with unlimited internet, bathrooms and functioning wall outlets. Location near the USO gives a nice false security of safety, and wearing a "Don't Mess with Texas" shirt combined with green polar bear flannel pajama pants gives a great "back off while I'm rocking the sleep mask" vibe
Rep. of Georgia: My epicenter of unknowns
One thing God used my year in Saqartvelo for was to break any notion of control, dependability, and certainty I had in life. I’ve been trying to figure out how to express this to loved ones, especially Westerners like myself who have grown up and continue to enjoy determining our destinies. Best I came up with was walking us through a normal day for me in my town of Gurjaani, but it still doesn’t do it justice.
Wake up: usually before my alarm. The usual wake-up call is the sound of irate yelling and arguing (in reality, they’re only slightly perturbed; culturally, they act livid). The second-most common sound jolting me awake is host grandmother repeating pleas of “vai me!,” in a convincing tone indicative of near death. Maybe I slept through the ghame feeling cozy, maybe I woke up
repeatedly from shivering.
Weather: maybe there’s a blizzard that impacts the entire community’s functioning, maybe not. Maybe it will make me sick again, maybe not.
Ablutions: check the upstairs bathroom (what a blessing, not only one but two toilets and sinks in the house!). In this home, tskhali is a coy teenager- it may or may not come out of facets or flush toilets. Check to make sure urine on the floor is dry, and mentally catalog which bugs are excited to greet me this morning. Maybe have running water dabla (downstairs), regardless of whether it’s on markhla (upstairs) or not.
Hydration: maybe have drinking water. You know- the stuff my dance teacher (nationally acclaimed and internationally successful) told me not to drink while working out. The running water we have isn’t potable (fount a foot long tapeworm one day).
Maybe electricity. Maybe propane.
Maybe internet. No telling of its quality or length of life.
Downstairs: maybe strangers wandering around. The concrete walls, floors and ceilings did benefit me in this one way- I was always too cold to walk around the house indisposed for mixed company of folks I don’t know.
Clothing: maybe find my shoes and clothing, often moved or borrowed (both out of love) without asking.
Sauzme (breakfast): maybe. Food goes quickly in all Georgian houses, part of the reason why I joined the scarf-til-you’ll-almost-barf approach. Not that there is a shortage in the village, or not enough money for delicious hot puri (bread), it’s just that grocery shopping is viewed as something in no need of efficiency. Why not make at least two maghazia trips a day, 7 days a week?
Transport: Maybe get a ride (by car, 10 minutes), which even after a year never left at a dependable time. Maybe walk (45 minutes); maybe get stalked and sexually harassed by giji bichebi da qacebi, maybe not. Whenever it is I am finished teaching, maybe I get a ride home, in one of 4 different vehicles driven by two different men. Maybe I get a ride halfway home, either half. Maybe I walk.
School: Ah, the epicenter of unknowns. No one can predict school start and end time, class length, amount of classes, their chronological order, classroom location(s), lessons (homework, test days, attendance, planning, comprehension), behavior discipline plan, extracurricular functions that cancel classes, if the principal is present or out shopping, if there is enough firewood, matches and chalk for the day, if I'll be served alcohol and how much I'll be expected to down…
Tualeti skolashi: I discovered 2 two truths my first day of school: I would adore these children, and that that I would never use the tualeti. I’ve visited 17 countries (legally, another 2 hiking across the border illegally) and used over a hundred holes-in-the-ground or “Turkish toilets” to take care of business, but the guaranteed worst of them all in appearance, privacy, lighting, t.p. availability, hygiene and smell was at my 2011 workplace. The majority of fellow foreign teachers in Georgia match my sentiment about their schools’ facilities. Good news- our reports to the governments revealed this health and sanitation problem the capital-dwellers were shocked to learn still pervaded all rural areas, so toilets were promised in every school by the end of that year. I would include a “maybe” in guessing if this would happen, but the well-intentioned Ministry of Science & Education, for now, cannot be counted on.
Lunch & Dinner: maybe food when I arrive sakhlshi mid afternoon, maybe food at night, maybe not either. I define food as things I can eat with only minor molding, bug prevalence, animal parts with at least a fraction of meat on them, and preferably something I didn’t just eat the last 9 meals in a row. My government contract includes two meals a day, and whenever food was at hand, I was instructed with gusto to chame, chame! Maybe there’s a suphra (feast) that lasts 6 hours when I get home.
Social life: Georgian ambush is inevitable, but still somehow unpredictable. Getting summoned by physical force into homes of people who don’t understand my language and whose ena I barely understand can last from a couple minutes to 4 hours.
Maybe have contact with foreigners. We don’t have voicemail on our phones, somehow no one in Georgia does, and often our texts or calls don’t go through. If we call each other, the phone knows when we’re in the middle of a good chat and disconnects. If our phone provider is working, that is. Maybe I meet up with those who live in the surrounding area- depends on at least a dozen factors we each only half control.
Chemo kartveli ojaxi- lapareke?: maybe helpful communication with host fam. Depends on how soon they decide to hang up on me while I’m in midsentence telephonshi, or if they call or text at all, or share major day and life updates. Depends on my translation ability, and if my host sister refuses to translate for me all day because she’s re-doing her hair for the 12th time. Depends on how drunk host dad is, as far as coherence and decision making go- he’s still good to me even after hours of cognaci da tcha-tcha.
Travel: maybe public transport is running. There’s no schedule for the first or last marshrutka, the mini-bus with maxi-sensory overload, in all directions. No guarantees it will stop for you, or if you will have a seat. If you’re a female, maybe an old man sitting next to you will explicitly reveal himself or follow you. Taxis are slightly more dependable in their general existence, but no telling what your fare is (even if you know the going rate and confirm it before entering the manqana).
Puli: Say I want a grand hour about town, drinking chai capheshi. I need money- but have no way to know when I will be paid and how much that will be, until I check my account in person and it just appears at some point. Maybe there is money in the ATM and in the bank- maybe both have run out of money, due not to robberies but to incompetence and transitioning from a third to second world banking institution. With said money in hand, maybe it will be accepted by store owners (most places in the country don’t accept plastic because of the informal market economics’ prevalence). If the cashier doesn’t have correct change (often no cash whatsoever), they won’t take your money or give you what you’re trying to purchase.
Eating out: at Gurjaani’s Kakheti Café, only 5 kitchen-prepared snack-meals are available, but often any number of them are unavailable, with no notice, until no further notice.
Sixvaruli (love): Maybe someone will get married tomorrow, or today. I called my best Georgian girl friend and she answered... at her wedding reception. This metropolitan architect had been engaged to her bank representative and MBA-studying boyfriend for khuti dghes (5 days!)
Maybe I’ll unknowingly get set up with a Georgian man. My host family was progressive, especially for the rural areas, in only asking why I wasn’t married yet a couple times a week (instead of several times daily) and supporting my decision to marry a man who has a job and understands my language (surprisingly a rarity).
Friends' maybes: Not my lot, but quite common were the "maybes" of being kicked out your host family and home, rodent infestation in the bedroom, coming home to the body of your host cousin on the kitchen table (for a week of funeral rites during which the deceased stays at home), having money and treasured imports stolen from your room by the family, being let out of the house or not, surprise visit from the President Misha to your school...
All these things I couldn’t put stock in, but there are some wonderful things guaranteed to happen on every normal day like this. I would be told “kargi/lamazi/magari gogo xar” (you’re a good/pretty/cool girl) by people I did and didn’t know. I would be greeted with the shyest, most genuine and most affectionate smiles by the bavshebi (kids) at school. The mountains’ stark majesty was unavoidable, and they astounded me daily. I would be asked questions about myself, because people cared or were curious about my country, my culture, my family and Texas. So I don’t regret my year there at all, but praise God for how much stronger and more grateful I am because of it.
Wake up: usually before my alarm. The usual wake-up call is the sound of irate yelling and arguing (in reality, they’re only slightly perturbed; culturally, they act livid). The second-most common sound jolting me awake is host grandmother repeating pleas of “vai me!,” in a convincing tone indicative of near death. Maybe I slept through the ghame feeling cozy, maybe I woke up
repeatedly from shivering.
Weather: maybe there’s a blizzard that impacts the entire community’s functioning, maybe not. Maybe it will make me sick again, maybe not.
Ablutions: check the upstairs bathroom (what a blessing, not only one but two toilets and sinks in the house!). In this home, tskhali is a coy teenager- it may or may not come out of facets or flush toilets. Check to make sure urine on the floor is dry, and mentally catalog which bugs are excited to greet me this morning. Maybe have running water dabla (downstairs), regardless of whether it’s on markhla (upstairs) or not.
Hydration: maybe have drinking water. You know- the stuff my dance teacher (nationally acclaimed and internationally successful) told me not to drink while working out. The running water we have isn’t potable (fount a foot long tapeworm one day).
Maybe electricity. Maybe propane.
Maybe internet. No telling of its quality or length of life.
Downstairs: maybe strangers wandering around. The concrete walls, floors and ceilings did benefit me in this one way- I was always too cold to walk around the house indisposed for mixed company of folks I don’t know.
Clothing: maybe find my shoes and clothing, often moved or borrowed (both out of love) without asking.
Sauzme (breakfast): maybe. Food goes quickly in all Georgian houses, part of the reason why I joined the scarf-til-you’ll-almost-barf approach. Not that there is a shortage in the village, or not enough money for delicious hot puri (bread), it’s just that grocery shopping is viewed as something in no need of efficiency. Why not make at least two maghazia trips a day, 7 days a week?
Transport: Maybe get a ride (by car, 10 minutes), which even after a year never left at a dependable time. Maybe walk (45 minutes); maybe get stalked and sexually harassed by giji bichebi da qacebi, maybe not. Whenever it is I am finished teaching, maybe I get a ride home, in one of 4 different vehicles driven by two different men. Maybe I get a ride halfway home, either half. Maybe I walk.
School: Ah, the epicenter of unknowns. No one can predict school start and end time, class length, amount of classes, their chronological order, classroom location(s), lessons (homework, test days, attendance, planning, comprehension), behavior discipline plan, extracurricular functions that cancel classes, if the principal is present or out shopping, if there is enough firewood, matches and chalk for the day, if I'll be served alcohol and how much I'll be expected to down…
Tualeti skolashi: I discovered 2 two truths my first day of school: I would adore these children, and that that I would never use the tualeti. I’ve visited 17 countries (legally, another 2 hiking across the border illegally) and used over a hundred holes-in-the-ground or “Turkish toilets” to take care of business, but the guaranteed worst of them all in appearance, privacy, lighting, t.p. availability, hygiene and smell was at my 2011 workplace. The majority of fellow foreign teachers in Georgia match my sentiment about their schools’ facilities. Good news- our reports to the governments revealed this health and sanitation problem the capital-dwellers were shocked to learn still pervaded all rural areas, so toilets were promised in every school by the end of that year. I would include a “maybe” in guessing if this would happen, but the well-intentioned Ministry of Science & Education, for now, cannot be counted on.
Lunch & Dinner: maybe food when I arrive sakhlshi mid afternoon, maybe food at night, maybe not either. I define food as things I can eat with only minor molding, bug prevalence, animal parts with at least a fraction of meat on them, and preferably something I didn’t just eat the last 9 meals in a row. My government contract includes two meals a day, and whenever food was at hand, I was instructed with gusto to chame, chame! Maybe there’s a suphra (feast) that lasts 6 hours when I get home.
Social life: Georgian ambush is inevitable, but still somehow unpredictable. Getting summoned by physical force into homes of people who don’t understand my language and whose ena I barely understand can last from a couple minutes to 4 hours.
Maybe have contact with foreigners. We don’t have voicemail on our phones, somehow no one in Georgia does, and often our texts or calls don’t go through. If we call each other, the phone knows when we’re in the middle of a good chat and disconnects. If our phone provider is working, that is. Maybe I meet up with those who live in the surrounding area- depends on at least a dozen factors we each only half control.
Chemo kartveli ojaxi- lapareke?: maybe helpful communication with host fam. Depends on how soon they decide to hang up on me while I’m in midsentence telephonshi, or if they call or text at all, or share major day and life updates. Depends on my translation ability, and if my host sister refuses to translate for me all day because she’s re-doing her hair for the 12th time. Depends on how drunk host dad is, as far as coherence and decision making go- he’s still good to me even after hours of cognaci da tcha-tcha.
Travel: maybe public transport is running. There’s no schedule for the first or last marshrutka, the mini-bus with maxi-sensory overload, in all directions. No guarantees it will stop for you, or if you will have a seat. If you’re a female, maybe an old man sitting next to you will explicitly reveal himself or follow you. Taxis are slightly more dependable in their general existence, but no telling what your fare is (even if you know the going rate and confirm it before entering the manqana).
Puli: Say I want a grand hour about town, drinking chai capheshi. I need money- but have no way to know when I will be paid and how much that will be, until I check my account in person and it just appears at some point. Maybe there is money in the ATM and in the bank- maybe both have run out of money, due not to robberies but to incompetence and transitioning from a third to second world banking institution. With said money in hand, maybe it will be accepted by store owners (most places in the country don’t accept plastic because of the informal market economics’ prevalence). If the cashier doesn’t have correct change (often no cash whatsoever), they won’t take your money or give you what you’re trying to purchase.
Eating out: at Gurjaani’s Kakheti Café, only 5 kitchen-prepared snack-meals are available, but often any number of them are unavailable, with no notice, until no further notice.
Sixvaruli (love): Maybe someone will get married tomorrow, or today. I called my best Georgian girl friend and she answered... at her wedding reception. This metropolitan architect had been engaged to her bank representative and MBA-studying boyfriend for khuti dghes (5 days!)
Maybe I’ll unknowingly get set up with a Georgian man. My host family was progressive, especially for the rural areas, in only asking why I wasn’t married yet a couple times a week (instead of several times daily) and supporting my decision to marry a man who has a job and understands my language (surprisingly a rarity).
Friends' maybes: Not my lot, but quite common were the "maybes" of being kicked out your host family and home, rodent infestation in the bedroom, coming home to the body of your host cousin on the kitchen table (for a week of funeral rites during which the deceased stays at home), having money and treasured imports stolen from your room by the family, being let out of the house or not, surprise visit from the President Misha to your school...
All these things I couldn’t put stock in, but there are some wonderful things guaranteed to happen on every normal day like this. I would be told “kargi/lamazi/magari gogo xar” (you’re a good/pretty/cool girl) by people I did and didn’t know. I would be greeted with the shyest, most genuine and most affectionate smiles by the bavshebi (kids) at school. The mountains’ stark majesty was unavoidable, and they astounded me daily. I would be asked questions about myself, because people cared or were curious about my country, my culture, my family and Texas. So I don’t regret my year there at all, but praise God for how much stronger and more grateful I am because of it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Why are you on the Camino?
This is the most common question asked among fellow walkers/pilgrims (maybe second to “where did you start?”) and by loved ones (maybe second to “were you lonely?” and “how were your feet?”).
It’s a great conversation starter- depending on the responder’s choice, it can be a casual filler or life story sharing time.
It’s good practice, too. At the Compostela office in Santiago, where each pilgrim turns in official Camino “passports” stamped daily to prove authenticity, all are asked this question on the record (en espagňol and in writing, at that). Confessing religious or spiritual reasons gets you a fancier document of completion than claiming neither motive.
I loved hearing people’s responses as this came up while hiking or sharing dinner together each day.
Many were Spaniards, completing a life goal or annual tradition. “The 3 Amigos” live near Barcelona and trekked together. They are retirees with wives and grown children back home, enjoying a month of tongue-in-cheek humor and afternoon rum concoctions. One has walked this path 23 times already! All 3 walked faster than me every day! How humbling.
Another older man, affectionately deemed the “Anti-Buddha,” lost his job this past winter. He’d always wanted to do the walk, but never found the time. This spring, stumped by financial worries, it seems was the perfect time.
He wasn’t the only one on employment hiatus. The first pilgrim I met in Leon, an American math genius, quit his finance job after compromising his ethics for too long. Immediately after finishing the Camino, he moved from one American coast to the other to start fresh.
In Fonfria, I briefly met a South Korean guy who used to design vehicles and doesn’t know what he will do next.
On the way to Rabanal I met a disagreeable French Canadian who had the opposite problem- too much work. He owns a music production company, and months of 80 hour work weeks forced him to step back for a couple months to re-evaluate.
A more amiable Québécois man I met in Melide was burnt out from work. He’s been laboring for 25 years to reforest his region, and decided on walking a fourth Camino to unwind.
For two bricklayers, this was part of the job. Following an 800 year tradition of the trade, these guys were to travel the world for several years, studying and learning other methods of their craft. Spain was the last of many countries of which they strode around, in quite eye-catching and somewhat impractical garb: thick tan vests, tan corduroy pants with trim, white pirate/ English noblemen tunics, hiking/work boots, and a study brown hat in a U.S. Park Ranger style. We stayed at the same hostels for about a week, and though I tried I never saw them in pajamas or sporting another look. Their stories fascinated me, especially juxtaposed with their love for American muscle cars and Lady Gaga.
Many hostel and restaurant owners were former pilgrims who gave up their life before the Camino and decided to make their mission and living on the Camino. At the “end of the world” in Finisterra, the hostel manager was a former Madrid taxi driver who joined the Camino and never went back home. He’s had a hard time accepting his responsibilities of sleeping in the hostel with us, after living like a hippy hobo/ extended camper on the shore of Death Coast for the winter.
The most controversial Camino-convert I had the odd pleasure of meeting was Davit. After stumbling uphill 15k alone, I met this handsome Spaniard, who lives outside an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, offering free juice, water and snacks to passersby. He wears no deodorant, shoes or underwear; rings a large bell and gives out hugs when pilgrims arrive and depart; and tells how God provides for him as he earns and owns nothing. This is after he got addicted to hard drugs, lost his riches and abandoned his wife and children (who he still does not support in any way). His shocking stocking-up in another town’s chain supermarket, in snappy professional clothing, rumored free loving with female pilgrims and soap opera past made for many dinner conversations among pilgrims.
Most walkers (and bicyclers and pack-animal riders, to be inclusive) had some spiritual or religious goal. Some only half-joked that this medieval Catholic practice of pilgrimage as penance for sin would grant them the okay into heaven and a history cleared of sin.
My Swiss friend, a former boxer and current homeopathic doctor, was raised Catholic but believes all paths lead to the same God. His Swedish cinema-enthusiast hiking buddy hadn’t even heard the basic outline of the Christian faith before. One morning, I joined morning prayers led by several Korean nuns. One night, I shared a room with a Muslim Palestinian guy studying medicine in Italy.
The pilgrim who was most forthcoming and openly humble about his faith status was a Norwegian man with summer-day blue eyes and a matching plaid button down shirt. This former banker was on disability for anxiety problems. He confided in me that his life was going great- he had impeccable control over things- but it is eating at his soul. He grew up trying to please people and perfect his behavior, and he was good at it, which led to an insatiable need to control everything around him. As a Christian, he spent years trying to earn God’s love, which he had only recently learned was a gift not dependant on actions. He hoped backpacking a second Camino, living simply day to day, would help God’s peace resonate deeper.
For some folks it is pure holiday adventure, a grand hike. And rightfully so- it’s a well developed trail and adopted lifestyle that requires no maps and technology, with food and lodging options of all varieties available every couple kilometers, for over 1,000 kilometers!
Panting into Astorga, I joined 3 Germans who were all from different towns but incidentally all police investigators. None of them were drawn to the faith element or history of the Camino. One girl my age is the daughter of a local wine maker (the best in the area, naturally) and a traditional folk dance instructor on weekends. She saw a special about the way on TV and convinced her friend to tag along. They cherished the last weeks before they began packed schedules in law enforcement, chain-smoking between downing soda and chocolate donuts across Spain.
And what better way to deal with a romantic predicament than poetically walking across Spain? A 21 year old Frenchman was trying to decide if he should propose to his girlfriend or not. He practiced his English and me my French over wine and yummy olive tapas. He loves her dearly, they’ve been together 3 years, but he doesn’t care about marriage and won’t have a means to provide for her the way he thinks he should for several more years. He decided to go for it!
A 30-something Dutch woman was on the other side of the spectrum, marriage ended. They met and married soon after graduating school, and he grew cruel and abusive, so they divorced. She met another man, who also broke her heart. This was her first big travel venture in life alone, to wrestle with memories and heal. She mentioned repeatedly she was swearing off men for years and years (unless they were attractive, nice, and it was purely sexual).
I answered spiritual and religious reasons officially on the Compostela, and can boil down my reasoning to two motives: challenge and appreciation.
I’d never done anything like this before, and had placed this kind of physical experience on a pedestal. I realized I felt physically and internally incapable of this simple, consistent, voluntary challenge. Which meant of course that I wanted to do it, to prove my doubts wrong and grow stronger.
2011 was the roughest year so far of my short-lived 23 on this big rock, in every possible aspect (relationships, family, physical health, distance, living conditions, hygiene, mental health, spiritual exhaustion, non-existent finances, rotten employer, unstable workplace, gender-related assault, fewest comforts and control…). 2012 has been an extended gift of breathing deeper and easier. I’m just so grateful for my lot, and can see marked improvements from last year’s experiences. I didn’t go on the walk as a break, as a stimulant, to decide something important, to escape, to find something in particular. I was motivated by happiness and joy. And what a blessing to be able to have this as my reality, and to see and marvel at it!
What a wonderful state to be in, walking in silence (alone or with people), with an easy-going contentedness giving spring to my steps.
It’s a great conversation starter- depending on the responder’s choice, it can be a casual filler or life story sharing time.
It’s good practice, too. At the Compostela office in Santiago, where each pilgrim turns in official Camino “passports” stamped daily to prove authenticity, all are asked this question on the record (en espagňol and in writing, at that). Confessing religious or spiritual reasons gets you a fancier document of completion than claiming neither motive.
I loved hearing people’s responses as this came up while hiking or sharing dinner together each day.
Many were Spaniards, completing a life goal or annual tradition. “The 3 Amigos” live near Barcelona and trekked together. They are retirees with wives and grown children back home, enjoying a month of tongue-in-cheek humor and afternoon rum concoctions. One has walked this path 23 times already! All 3 walked faster than me every day! How humbling.
Another older man, affectionately deemed the “Anti-Buddha,” lost his job this past winter. He’d always wanted to do the walk, but never found the time. This spring, stumped by financial worries, it seems was the perfect time.
He wasn’t the only one on employment hiatus. The first pilgrim I met in Leon, an American math genius, quit his finance job after compromising his ethics for too long. Immediately after finishing the Camino, he moved from one American coast to the other to start fresh.
In Fonfria, I briefly met a South Korean guy who used to design vehicles and doesn’t know what he will do next.
On the way to Rabanal I met a disagreeable French Canadian who had the opposite problem- too much work. He owns a music production company, and months of 80 hour work weeks forced him to step back for a couple months to re-evaluate.
A more amiable Québécois man I met in Melide was burnt out from work. He’s been laboring for 25 years to reforest his region, and decided on walking a fourth Camino to unwind.
For two bricklayers, this was part of the job. Following an 800 year tradition of the trade, these guys were to travel the world for several years, studying and learning other methods of their craft. Spain was the last of many countries of which they strode around, in quite eye-catching and somewhat impractical garb: thick tan vests, tan corduroy pants with trim, white pirate/ English noblemen tunics, hiking/work boots, and a study brown hat in a U.S. Park Ranger style. We stayed at the same hostels for about a week, and though I tried I never saw them in pajamas or sporting another look. Their stories fascinated me, especially juxtaposed with their love for American muscle cars and Lady Gaga.
Many hostel and restaurant owners were former pilgrims who gave up their life before the Camino and decided to make their mission and living on the Camino. At the “end of the world” in Finisterra, the hostel manager was a former Madrid taxi driver who joined the Camino and never went back home. He’s had a hard time accepting his responsibilities of sleeping in the hostel with us, after living like a hippy hobo/ extended camper on the shore of Death Coast for the winter.
The most controversial Camino-convert I had the odd pleasure of meeting was Davit. After stumbling uphill 15k alone, I met this handsome Spaniard, who lives outside an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, offering free juice, water and snacks to passersby. He wears no deodorant, shoes or underwear; rings a large bell and gives out hugs when pilgrims arrive and depart; and tells how God provides for him as he earns and owns nothing. This is after he got addicted to hard drugs, lost his riches and abandoned his wife and children (who he still does not support in any way). His shocking stocking-up in another town’s chain supermarket, in snappy professional clothing, rumored free loving with female pilgrims and soap opera past made for many dinner conversations among pilgrims.
Most walkers (and bicyclers and pack-animal riders, to be inclusive) had some spiritual or religious goal. Some only half-joked that this medieval Catholic practice of pilgrimage as penance for sin would grant them the okay into heaven and a history cleared of sin.
My Swiss friend, a former boxer and current homeopathic doctor, was raised Catholic but believes all paths lead to the same God. His Swedish cinema-enthusiast hiking buddy hadn’t even heard the basic outline of the Christian faith before. One morning, I joined morning prayers led by several Korean nuns. One night, I shared a room with a Muslim Palestinian guy studying medicine in Italy.
The pilgrim who was most forthcoming and openly humble about his faith status was a Norwegian man with summer-day blue eyes and a matching plaid button down shirt. This former banker was on disability for anxiety problems. He confided in me that his life was going great- he had impeccable control over things- but it is eating at his soul. He grew up trying to please people and perfect his behavior, and he was good at it, which led to an insatiable need to control everything around him. As a Christian, he spent years trying to earn God’s love, which he had only recently learned was a gift not dependant on actions. He hoped backpacking a second Camino, living simply day to day, would help God’s peace resonate deeper.
For some folks it is pure holiday adventure, a grand hike. And rightfully so- it’s a well developed trail and adopted lifestyle that requires no maps and technology, with food and lodging options of all varieties available every couple kilometers, for over 1,000 kilometers!
Panting into Astorga, I joined 3 Germans who were all from different towns but incidentally all police investigators. None of them were drawn to the faith element or history of the Camino. One girl my age is the daughter of a local wine maker (the best in the area, naturally) and a traditional folk dance instructor on weekends. She saw a special about the way on TV and convinced her friend to tag along. They cherished the last weeks before they began packed schedules in law enforcement, chain-smoking between downing soda and chocolate donuts across Spain.
And what better way to deal with a romantic predicament than poetically walking across Spain? A 21 year old Frenchman was trying to decide if he should propose to his girlfriend or not. He practiced his English and me my French over wine and yummy olive tapas. He loves her dearly, they’ve been together 3 years, but he doesn’t care about marriage and won’t have a means to provide for her the way he thinks he should for several more years. He decided to go for it!
A 30-something Dutch woman was on the other side of the spectrum, marriage ended. They met and married soon after graduating school, and he grew cruel and abusive, so they divorced. She met another man, who also broke her heart. This was her first big travel venture in life alone, to wrestle with memories and heal. She mentioned repeatedly she was swearing off men for years and years (unless they were attractive, nice, and it was purely sexual).
I answered spiritual and religious reasons officially on the Compostela, and can boil down my reasoning to two motives: challenge and appreciation.
I’d never done anything like this before, and had placed this kind of physical experience on a pedestal. I realized I felt physically and internally incapable of this simple, consistent, voluntary challenge. Which meant of course that I wanted to do it, to prove my doubts wrong and grow stronger.
2011 was the roughest year so far of my short-lived 23 on this big rock, in every possible aspect (relationships, family, physical health, distance, living conditions, hygiene, mental health, spiritual exhaustion, non-existent finances, rotten employer, unstable workplace, gender-related assault, fewest comforts and control…). 2012 has been an extended gift of breathing deeper and easier. I’m just so grateful for my lot, and can see marked improvements from last year’s experiences. I didn’t go on the walk as a break, as a stimulant, to decide something important, to escape, to find something in particular. I was motivated by happiness and joy. And what a blessing to be able to have this as my reality, and to see and marvel at it!
What a wonderful state to be in, walking in silence (alone or with people), with an easy-going contentedness giving spring to my steps.
Monday, April 16, 2012
where the sidewalk ends
Camino truths:
How to backpack 240 miles across Spain and not lose weight, while losing everything else; how to downgrade technology and hygiene; how to surrender and also discover small treasures at airports
-snoring Korean men: a friend warned me about this phenomena, but I thought that even she (an unprejudiced travel pro if there ever was one) was overdramatizing the situation. Folks, add this to the stereotype that Koreans are always snapping (high quality) photos. One night in a hostel lower bunk bed, I was startled awake by my body shaking, from its core- the remarkable and unintentional efforts of a middle aged man named Juan whose naval cavity strength reverberated from the upper bunk of a bed across the room from me. Equally surprising and memorable was when his friend, the day before, stuck his finger in my puss-oozing foot blister to administer a cream I hadn’t asked for.
-forgetting everything: not just the usual foam ear plugs and writing pens (check, double check). I’m talking my parents’ camera, which I walked an extra mile to recover. My journal, left on a regional bus. My iPod.
Most irritating of all, my wallet, which I discovered was missing when I tried buying bread at a panaderia. I left it back in Villafranca’s albergue, a solid 20k behind me. I prayed God would send me sympathetic motorists, and quickly, who would safely transport me to and from my remote village location. My prayer was answered almost immediately, by 3 different Spanish men. The first spoke English and was a bank director, the second a hostel worker, the third an old gentleman cruising to music from an 80’s shoulder boom box. Two tried to buy me coffee, and all three got out of the car and personally delivered my backpack to the door of my destination. I think being a lone female in off-tourist season wearing a knee brace helped my case.
-traveling joint pain: First the left knee, injured from cliff jumping in Sicily a couple years ago, reminded me of its high maintenance after walking 34k mostly down a steep mountain. Then the right, which was busy overcompensating for the left. Right hip, making up for both jacked up knees. Left hip, just to keep things balanced. Also, my new chiropractor thinks I have some torn nerves along my spine. All I have to do is take a deep breath, and my back pops in a couple places.
-stupidity and rudeness from my countrymen: I met only 5 Americans in 3 weeks on the Camino. The first was the best- superhuman walking speed, more knowledgeable than a history book, open, and kind among other things. The others proved to be the worst people I met on the Camino: three 20-something’s from different states that were fake, pompous, and hateful. The last was a polite 73 year old pilgrim, who wound up sleeping in a jail cell for a night as a result of not understanding Spanish, abandoning hope of finding lodging, and sympathetic policemen who didn’t want him to freeze on the street.
-declining clothing cleanliness: I brought 2 pairs of clothing, wearing both every day. After day 1 of walking, I got cleaned up then set out to hand-wash my clothes in the proper sink. By day 5, after walking an average of 8 hours each day, spending another 45 minutes washing clothes wasn’t so appealing. I overheard wisdom from a Swedish friend singing Johnny Cash in the showers- why not multitask cleaning my body and clothes? After 2 weeks, I gave up on even wetting them, just spraying perfume strategically.
-walking through hail is more enjoyable than rain. Moving through hail is like playing Mario in a video game, dodging those Venus Flytraps’ fireballs- only slightly dangerous, but still fun. Moving through rain is like involuntarily picking at a scab past the point of satisfaction and into regret for ever thinking it could work out for you.
-“green”= excuse to be cheap. Initially arriving in Spain, I applauded the motion-sensor bathroom technology as a means to reduce energy and wastefulness. But after sprinting from light switch to commode to rush nature’s call (which shouldn’t be rushed in the first place) and it turning off before removing necessary garments, I began to wonder. Once I was showering next to 3 others (different stalls) in a monastery’s shared bathroom with 4 toilets, 3 sinks, 1 clothes washing station and the light went out after being on for 1 minute. Is it really rational to think that a room with those facilities would only need 1 minute of light at a time? Also, there were always soap and paper towel dispensers, neither ever stocked.
-no machines: I used a combined 40 minutes internet over 3 weeks, had no phone for 2 weeks, and used no transport of any kind (minus the hitching to and from where I had already walked) for 2 weeks
-no weight or mass loss:
*24-34km walking each day, PLUS
*carbs for energy + house red wine+ local chocolate liquor + northern Spain’s pork obsession + my usual 2-3x daily sweets (this time mostly flan variations and Santiago almond caked with powdered sugar), PLUS
*daily surplus of fruits and veggies, none of which seemed to have effect,
EQUALS looking exactly the same (and it was only a couple weeks of intense exercise)
-a priest’s blessing, great start & finish to Camino: before walking my first day, a friend took me to Saint Isidore’s chapel in León. The priest, who spoke only his mother tongue (like most Spaniards), realized by our giant packs we were peregrinos and motioned us to the first row pew by the altar. He brought out English translations of a prayer in honor of this saint, asking God to protect our bodies and bless our souls along the journey. We were humbled and excited.
At the final walking destination, Cathedral of Santiago, I was blessed by another priest during communion.
-meeting extraordinary and lovely people: I went alone, knowing I wouldn’t really be alone. If anything, I met too many folks worth spending time with that I didn’t get enough time to process while in country.
-starting the Sabbath with wine: and not through communion. The first Saturday was in Astorga, where I added a bottle of 1 euro vino tinto to my groceries with the assurance of 3 friends to help drink it that night. We wound up with the biggest feast I had on the Camino, the per-head price including bottles of various delicious regional alcohol. Not wanting to overdo it, I decided to save the bottle for the next day. But why carry a liter of wine for 8 hours when it can be ceremonially shared with friends before hiking instead? I convinced 2 Swiss gents and 2 German gals to swap swigs at 8:30am, two of which added the wine to their water for subtle flavor throughout the day.
The second Saturday night was spent in Ferreira, cooking pasta and eating chocolate with German Dori and Lisa. Lisa jokingly reminded me to save some for the next morning, per tradition, and we drank from a symbolic glass in my right hiking boot the next morning before our walk.
The last Sabbath was spent finishing a bottle of the Bailey’s-like chocolate liquor as a sleep aid on a night bus and in the airport outside security.
-airport item swaps: coming to Spain, I brought a pair of TSA-approved scissors (less than 4 inch blades). Coming back to the U.S., they were apprehended in Madrid (though they had made it into the same airport 3 weeks prior).
I was glad my special mystery-fruit preserve, the size of a brick, wasn’t considered a liquid; after all, it was a food souvenir to accompany the 10 pains aux chocolats I would nibble on for months. Newark security agents didn’t agree, and chunked my beloved brick.
On the up-side, I found a sleeping bag in the women’s restroom trashcan in Madrid and claimed it. My friend who loaned me her lightweight sleeping bag and did the Camino spoke of a Trail of Stuff- people realizing they were carrying unnecessary weight and dumping useful cargo on the side of the path for others. Because I joined in the beginning of the season and during the last third of the way, I didn’t get to see this; imagine my surprise in discovering a purple woman’s mummy sleeping bag, lightweight, for cold conditions, of good quality.
I unrolled it to make sure I wasn’t accidentally signing up as a drug mule, or that it was actually ripped. It smelled as good or better than all my fabric items did, and I had space, et voila.
How to backpack 240 miles across Spain and not lose weight, while losing everything else; how to downgrade technology and hygiene; how to surrender and also discover small treasures at airports
-snoring Korean men: a friend warned me about this phenomena, but I thought that even she (an unprejudiced travel pro if there ever was one) was overdramatizing the situation. Folks, add this to the stereotype that Koreans are always snapping (high quality) photos. One night in a hostel lower bunk bed, I was startled awake by my body shaking, from its core- the remarkable and unintentional efforts of a middle aged man named Juan whose naval cavity strength reverberated from the upper bunk of a bed across the room from me. Equally surprising and memorable was when his friend, the day before, stuck his finger in my puss-oozing foot blister to administer a cream I hadn’t asked for.
-forgetting everything: not just the usual foam ear plugs and writing pens (check, double check). I’m talking my parents’ camera, which I walked an extra mile to recover. My journal, left on a regional bus. My iPod.
Most irritating of all, my wallet, which I discovered was missing when I tried buying bread at a panaderia. I left it back in Villafranca’s albergue, a solid 20k behind me. I prayed God would send me sympathetic motorists, and quickly, who would safely transport me to and from my remote village location. My prayer was answered almost immediately, by 3 different Spanish men. The first spoke English and was a bank director, the second a hostel worker, the third an old gentleman cruising to music from an 80’s shoulder boom box. Two tried to buy me coffee, and all three got out of the car and personally delivered my backpack to the door of my destination. I think being a lone female in off-tourist season wearing a knee brace helped my case.
-traveling joint pain: First the left knee, injured from cliff jumping in Sicily a couple years ago, reminded me of its high maintenance after walking 34k mostly down a steep mountain. Then the right, which was busy overcompensating for the left. Right hip, making up for both jacked up knees. Left hip, just to keep things balanced. Also, my new chiropractor thinks I have some torn nerves along my spine. All I have to do is take a deep breath, and my back pops in a couple places.
-stupidity and rudeness from my countrymen: I met only 5 Americans in 3 weeks on the Camino. The first was the best- superhuman walking speed, more knowledgeable than a history book, open, and kind among other things. The others proved to be the worst people I met on the Camino: three 20-something’s from different states that were fake, pompous, and hateful. The last was a polite 73 year old pilgrim, who wound up sleeping in a jail cell for a night as a result of not understanding Spanish, abandoning hope of finding lodging, and sympathetic policemen who didn’t want him to freeze on the street.
-declining clothing cleanliness: I brought 2 pairs of clothing, wearing both every day. After day 1 of walking, I got cleaned up then set out to hand-wash my clothes in the proper sink. By day 5, after walking an average of 8 hours each day, spending another 45 minutes washing clothes wasn’t so appealing. I overheard wisdom from a Swedish friend singing Johnny Cash in the showers- why not multitask cleaning my body and clothes? After 2 weeks, I gave up on even wetting them, just spraying perfume strategically.
-walking through hail is more enjoyable than rain. Moving through hail is like playing Mario in a video game, dodging those Venus Flytraps’ fireballs- only slightly dangerous, but still fun. Moving through rain is like involuntarily picking at a scab past the point of satisfaction and into regret for ever thinking it could work out for you.
-“green”= excuse to be cheap. Initially arriving in Spain, I applauded the motion-sensor bathroom technology as a means to reduce energy and wastefulness. But after sprinting from light switch to commode to rush nature’s call (which shouldn’t be rushed in the first place) and it turning off before removing necessary garments, I began to wonder. Once I was showering next to 3 others (different stalls) in a monastery’s shared bathroom with 4 toilets, 3 sinks, 1 clothes washing station and the light went out after being on for 1 minute. Is it really rational to think that a room with those facilities would only need 1 minute of light at a time? Also, there were always soap and paper towel dispensers, neither ever stocked.
-no machines: I used a combined 40 minutes internet over 3 weeks, had no phone for 2 weeks, and used no transport of any kind (minus the hitching to and from where I had already walked) for 2 weeks
-no weight or mass loss:
*24-34km walking each day, PLUS
*carbs for energy + house red wine+ local chocolate liquor + northern Spain’s pork obsession + my usual 2-3x daily sweets (this time mostly flan variations and Santiago almond caked with powdered sugar), PLUS
*daily surplus of fruits and veggies, none of which seemed to have effect,
EQUALS looking exactly the same (and it was only a couple weeks of intense exercise)
-a priest’s blessing, great start & finish to Camino: before walking my first day, a friend took me to Saint Isidore’s chapel in León. The priest, who spoke only his mother tongue (like most Spaniards), realized by our giant packs we were peregrinos and motioned us to the first row pew by the altar. He brought out English translations of a prayer in honor of this saint, asking God to protect our bodies and bless our souls along the journey. We were humbled and excited.
At the final walking destination, Cathedral of Santiago, I was blessed by another priest during communion.
-meeting extraordinary and lovely people: I went alone, knowing I wouldn’t really be alone. If anything, I met too many folks worth spending time with that I didn’t get enough time to process while in country.
-starting the Sabbath with wine: and not through communion. The first Saturday was in Astorga, where I added a bottle of 1 euro vino tinto to my groceries with the assurance of 3 friends to help drink it that night. We wound up with the biggest feast I had on the Camino, the per-head price including bottles of various delicious regional alcohol. Not wanting to overdo it, I decided to save the bottle for the next day. But why carry a liter of wine for 8 hours when it can be ceremonially shared with friends before hiking instead? I convinced 2 Swiss gents and 2 German gals to swap swigs at 8:30am, two of which added the wine to their water for subtle flavor throughout the day.
The second Saturday night was spent in Ferreira, cooking pasta and eating chocolate with German Dori and Lisa. Lisa jokingly reminded me to save some for the next morning, per tradition, and we drank from a symbolic glass in my right hiking boot the next morning before our walk.
The last Sabbath was spent finishing a bottle of the Bailey’s-like chocolate liquor as a sleep aid on a night bus and in the airport outside security.
-airport item swaps: coming to Spain, I brought a pair of TSA-approved scissors (less than 4 inch blades). Coming back to the U.S., they were apprehended in Madrid (though they had made it into the same airport 3 weeks prior).
I was glad my special mystery-fruit preserve, the size of a brick, wasn’t considered a liquid; after all, it was a food souvenir to accompany the 10 pains aux chocolats I would nibble on for months. Newark security agents didn’t agree, and chunked my beloved brick.
On the up-side, I found a sleeping bag in the women’s restroom trashcan in Madrid and claimed it. My friend who loaned me her lightweight sleeping bag and did the Camino spoke of a Trail of Stuff- people realizing they were carrying unnecessary weight and dumping useful cargo on the side of the path for others. Because I joined in the beginning of the season and during the last third of the way, I didn’t get to see this; imagine my surprise in discovering a purple woman’s mummy sleeping bag, lightweight, for cold conditions, of good quality.
I unrolled it to make sure I wasn’t accidentally signing up as a drug mule, or that it was actually ripped. It smelled as good or better than all my fabric items did, and I had space, et voila.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
These boots are made for walking
I’m currently writing on a subdued but steady adrenaline rush. Paying $35 to go from Corpus Christi, Texas to Madrid, Spain and back could be an influence. Or that I officially got tickets and decided to do this yesterday. And that in less than 2 hours I’m away from internet access and all technology for 2.5 weeks, and I haven’t finished packing. There’s also the whole walk one or two hundred miles on the most famous trekking pilgrimage, The Camino, in the world thing I’ll be starting Friday morning, too. And that I’m carrying everything I need with me, apx 15-20 pounds only. Plus, I’ve never been to Spain, and I’ll be huffing and puffing in spring flowers through villages in the countryside.
This is a rare instance for me- no need to say “long story short,” and then make a long story longer than necessary. I started thinking seriously about doing this trek a week ago, due to hearing stories from a couple folks who’ve done it, watching a movie and doing research. And I leave town today. Ta-da!
The plan: Corpus to Houston to Dallas tonight. Staying with my friend Lauren, whose advice and gear saves me hours and hundreds of dollars. Our only plan for tonight: imparting of wisdom in how to use athletic tape. Leave Wednesday Dallas to Houston to New York to Madrid, arriving Thursday mid-morning. Then a bus to Leòn, where I’ll get my pilgrim’s passport, probably buy and begrudgingly use my first walking stick, and stay at a hostel run by Benedictine nuns. Friday, hit the trail!
Here’s a map: http://images.altiplanobooks.be/images/9783763348350B.jpg
So it’ll take me around 2 weeks to walk to Santiago de Compostella. Look online for details- there is an arguably unreasonable amount of information that will explode across your computer screen with its ancient history and hiking traditions. Hopefully I’ll have the extra 2 days to walk to the ocean!
Expectations: walking 20-30 kilometers per day most days, a body that hates my spirit of adventure, being alone but meeting other pilgrims, varied weather, stumbling through survival Spanish, probably not looking thinner/more muscular afterwards
The only thing I bought specifically for this trip was hiking boots. For a great price :) Yesterday :/
What I’m bringing:
-Bible &
-head lamp, 1 sq. inch
-the most minute size of toiletries known to mankind
-moleskin and themed band-aids of awesomeness, 4 pairs of socks (varying thickness and materials), 2 different kind of insoles (and I’ll still get blisters in spite of it all)
-2 sets of clothes, beanie, hankie, rain jacket
-flip-flops
-decent over-the-counter pill supply
-journal, pen & sharpie
-miniature scissors
-tweezers
-ultra-light (>1 lb), compact sleeping bag
-sham wow compact towel
-foam ear plugs & face mask
-camera & iPod (and their chargers)
-smallest and lightest possible backpack
-water bottle & trail snacks
-a small rock, from the beloved railroad tracks & Oso Bay, a couple miles from the house I grew up in: “In Spain they were called milladoiros, and were placed there by pilgrims to show the route for those following. This practise was thought to have originated with a pagan rite to invoke the protection of pagan spirits who protected travellers. There is a tradition on the Camino to bring a stone from home and rub all your fears, hurts and sorrows into the stone which you can place at the base of the Cruz de Ferro.”
-oyster shell, a half mile from the same house, on the Laguna Madre: http://otherspain.com/pages/writing/scallop.asp
That’s it, no mas! Walking stick aside, this is all that I’m wearing and using and buying for 3 weeks across a foreign land. So excited!!!*
Please pray for:
*my health. 22 was a bad age for my health, and the past couple weeks of being 23 my new chiropractor told me I probably have a pinched nerve(s?) in my lower back. So, lots of walking, carrying my stuff, and sleeping in sub-par hostel bunk beds, it’s not looking too good. And with the varying amounts of rain and temperature extremes, I don’t want to get bronchitis, which I get annoyingly frequently in similar conditions.
*People I’ll meet: that we would be blessings for each other, through sharing guide books, stories, laughing, fatigue, whatever
*Safety: more from myself than any creeper (in human, insect or animal form), and also in traveling
*Whatever it is I’m going to take away from this internally. Also that I would resist the urge to take pieces of nature as souvenirs that are historical/rare and illegal to take (pretty difficult)
This is a rare instance for me- no need to say “long story short,” and then make a long story longer than necessary. I started thinking seriously about doing this trek a week ago, due to hearing stories from a couple folks who’ve done it, watching a movie and doing research. And I leave town today. Ta-da!
The plan: Corpus to Houston to Dallas tonight. Staying with my friend Lauren, whose advice and gear saves me hours and hundreds of dollars. Our only plan for tonight: imparting of wisdom in how to use athletic tape. Leave Wednesday Dallas to Houston to New York to Madrid, arriving Thursday mid-morning. Then a bus to Leòn, where I’ll get my pilgrim’s passport, probably buy and begrudgingly use my first walking stick, and stay at a hostel run by Benedictine nuns. Friday, hit the trail!
Here’s a map: http://images.altiplanobooks.be/images/9783763348350B.jpg
So it’ll take me around 2 weeks to walk to Santiago de Compostella. Look online for details- there is an arguably unreasonable amount of information that will explode across your computer screen with its ancient history and hiking traditions. Hopefully I’ll have the extra 2 days to walk to the ocean!
Expectations: walking 20-30 kilometers per day most days, a body that hates my spirit of adventure, being alone but meeting other pilgrims, varied weather, stumbling through survival Spanish, probably not looking thinner/more muscular afterwards
The only thing I bought specifically for this trip was hiking boots. For a great price :) Yesterday :/
What I’m bringing:
-Bible &
-head lamp, 1 sq. inch
-the most minute size of toiletries known to mankind
-moleskin and themed band-aids of awesomeness, 4 pairs of socks (varying thickness and materials), 2 different kind of insoles (and I’ll still get blisters in spite of it all)
-2 sets of clothes, beanie, hankie, rain jacket
-flip-flops
-decent over-the-counter pill supply
-journal, pen & sharpie
-miniature scissors
-tweezers
-ultra-light (>1 lb), compact sleeping bag
-sham wow compact towel
-foam ear plugs & face mask
-camera & iPod (and their chargers)
-smallest and lightest possible backpack
-water bottle & trail snacks
-a small rock, from the beloved railroad tracks & Oso Bay, a couple miles from the house I grew up in: “In Spain they were called milladoiros, and were placed there by pilgrims to show the route for those following. This practise was thought to have originated with a pagan rite to invoke the protection of pagan spirits who protected travellers. There is a tradition on the Camino to bring a stone from home and rub all your fears, hurts and sorrows into the stone which you can place at the base of the Cruz de Ferro.”
-oyster shell, a half mile from the same house, on the Laguna Madre: http://otherspain.com/pages/writing/scallop.asp
That’s it, no mas! Walking stick aside, this is all that I’m wearing and using and buying for 3 weeks across a foreign land. So excited!!!*
Please pray for:
*my health. 22 was a bad age for my health, and the past couple weeks of being 23 my new chiropractor told me I probably have a pinched nerve(s?) in my lower back. So, lots of walking, carrying my stuff, and sleeping in sub-par hostel bunk beds, it’s not looking too good. And with the varying amounts of rain and temperature extremes, I don’t want to get bronchitis, which I get annoyingly frequently in similar conditions.
*People I’ll meet: that we would be blessings for each other, through sharing guide books, stories, laughing, fatigue, whatever
*Safety: more from myself than any creeper (in human, insect or animal form), and also in traveling
*Whatever it is I’m going to take away from this internally. Also that I would resist the urge to take pieces of nature as souvenirs that are historical/rare and illegal to take (pretty difficult)
stop in the name of love
***Disclaimer: Jesus, during the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 6:16-18, reminds that fasting is a private thing. Only hypocrites play-up sacrifice for admiration from others, and God doesn’t reward this. Psalm 51:17 says that even our best self-inflicted penance doesn’t solve disconnection from God. “You do not desire a sacrifice, or I would offer one. You do not want a burnt offering. The sacrifice you desire is a broken spirit. You will not reject a broken and repentant heart, O God.”
This post is about sacrificing one simple and good thing for about 6 weeks to stimulate reflection and communication with Providence. The goal was to remove something from daily life that forces me to remember where my joy comes from, and how wonderful life is because of this source. It’s not a declaration of my holiness or an assumption that I understand the meaning of life; if anything, it proves the opposite.
This Lent season, for 40 days, I’m not singing.
Which is actually a relief for many around me, who don’t often remind me of my lack of talent (bless my heart, right?). It’s a strange practice to “give up” or “sacrifice” the 40 days before Easter.
On Ash Wednesday I went to Catholic mass with my dad. I’m not Catholic, but Protestant; however, as I’m currently without a church home, it made more sense to experience this service with my father. And with the Roman Catholic international church body, as the same words, rhythms and order of the service is the same in Bolivia, Belgium and Brunei cathedrals.
During mass, the father reminded us that in determining what to do without, it should foremost be about cleansing us of our sins, our simultaneous self-destruction and outward-infliction of decay. After this, the most common mentality towards Lent is penance. For many Americans, this means volunteering up one (or several) of the thousands of privileges we are blessed by.
So, me not-singing came as a wild card, as far as resolutions go. It’s not intrinsically sinful. It’s not a pride problem, as I never sing publically (except with gusto for bi-annual karaoke), and don’t secretly fancy I could be the next American Idol. It’s not something that I can physically remove from my being or household, and it doesn’t impact anyone (except the occasional passerby that gets a startling sneak peak of enthused shouting and dancing through my car windows). Singing is innate joy for me. It is my favorite form of emotional expression when I’m alone or around a couple loved ones.
But this year, I’m appreciating another side of Easter. Longing.
I’m familiar with waiting, and waiting on God (not good, but experienced in it). However, I don’t really yearn for God. More specifically, as someone who believes a guy named Jesus was the ultimate prophet and savior, I don’t much crave his wisdom, encouragement, or humbling. Easter is the celebration of Jesus being this Jewish superhero, rising from the dead, one of religion’s greatest controversies over the last couple millennia…
…but I was born in 1989. The religious services I’ve attended don’t wind up with a “Well, here’s hoping this King of the Jews comes one day. It’s only been several hundred years of waiting for God to fulfill the promise he’s coming, but I guess we’ve got more time to go. Here’s what we think he may be like, but we’re not actually sure.”
I grew up in church. I’ve never had to wait on fulfillment of a promise from God, that this Perfect Person was coming to save me. He left earth a loooong time ago. Not the case for his first followers, who were pretty perplexed, full of doubt and devastated when he was killed/martyred.
I can’t imagine what it would be like. Whether someone had a religious background or didn’t before following this man, they sacrificed life choices, time with family, inheritances, careers, social standing, reputations, financial security, stability, and their souls to a guy who promised the world. Then he died (and relatively young).
What kind of misery and regret, swirling through a haze of confusion and mourning, did they experience? He spoke in riddles about coming back to life, but his followers were just as surprised when he showed up 3 days later in the flesh. Even his bff Thomas- love this and totally relate- didn’t believe his eyes when he saw his formerly-dead Lord, so Jesus invited him to stick his fingers through the crucifixion holes in hands.
So Lent is a time in-between for his followers of old and of present. Jesus was already born, but hadn’t yet championed mortality and came back to earth after 3 days to prove he was 100% human while bring 100% divine. Singing and humming is one the deepest, common joys for me, so for now I’m straining to be silent. Because if Easter represents joy fulfilled, and Lent is anticipating the resurrection, this is one way I can remember the longing.
This post is about sacrificing one simple and good thing for about 6 weeks to stimulate reflection and communication with Providence. The goal was to remove something from daily life that forces me to remember where my joy comes from, and how wonderful life is because of this source. It’s not a declaration of my holiness or an assumption that I understand the meaning of life; if anything, it proves the opposite.
This Lent season, for 40 days, I’m not singing.
Which is actually a relief for many around me, who don’t often remind me of my lack of talent (bless my heart, right?). It’s a strange practice to “give up” or “sacrifice” the 40 days before Easter.
On Ash Wednesday I went to Catholic mass with my dad. I’m not Catholic, but Protestant; however, as I’m currently without a church home, it made more sense to experience this service with my father. And with the Roman Catholic international church body, as the same words, rhythms and order of the service is the same in Bolivia, Belgium and Brunei cathedrals.
During mass, the father reminded us that in determining what to do without, it should foremost be about cleansing us of our sins, our simultaneous self-destruction and outward-infliction of decay. After this, the most common mentality towards Lent is penance. For many Americans, this means volunteering up one (or several) of the thousands of privileges we are blessed by.
So, me not-singing came as a wild card, as far as resolutions go. It’s not intrinsically sinful. It’s not a pride problem, as I never sing publically (except with gusto for bi-annual karaoke), and don’t secretly fancy I could be the next American Idol. It’s not something that I can physically remove from my being or household, and it doesn’t impact anyone (except the occasional passerby that gets a startling sneak peak of enthused shouting and dancing through my car windows). Singing is innate joy for me. It is my favorite form of emotional expression when I’m alone or around a couple loved ones.
But this year, I’m appreciating another side of Easter. Longing.
I’m familiar with waiting, and waiting on God (not good, but experienced in it). However, I don’t really yearn for God. More specifically, as someone who believes a guy named Jesus was the ultimate prophet and savior, I don’t much crave his wisdom, encouragement, or humbling. Easter is the celebration of Jesus being this Jewish superhero, rising from the dead, one of religion’s greatest controversies over the last couple millennia…
…but I was born in 1989. The religious services I’ve attended don’t wind up with a “Well, here’s hoping this King of the Jews comes one day. It’s only been several hundred years of waiting for God to fulfill the promise he’s coming, but I guess we’ve got more time to go. Here’s what we think he may be like, but we’re not actually sure.”
I grew up in church. I’ve never had to wait on fulfillment of a promise from God, that this Perfect Person was coming to save me. He left earth a loooong time ago. Not the case for his first followers, who were pretty perplexed, full of doubt and devastated when he was killed/martyred.
I can’t imagine what it would be like. Whether someone had a religious background or didn’t before following this man, they sacrificed life choices, time with family, inheritances, careers, social standing, reputations, financial security, stability, and their souls to a guy who promised the world. Then he died (and relatively young).
What kind of misery and regret, swirling through a haze of confusion and mourning, did they experience? He spoke in riddles about coming back to life, but his followers were just as surprised when he showed up 3 days later in the flesh. Even his bff Thomas- love this and totally relate- didn’t believe his eyes when he saw his formerly-dead Lord, so Jesus invited him to stick his fingers through the crucifixion holes in hands.
So Lent is a time in-between for his followers of old and of present. Jesus was already born, but hadn’t yet championed mortality and came back to earth after 3 days to prove he was 100% human while bring 100% divine. Singing and humming is one the deepest, common joys for me, so for now I’m straining to be silent. Because if Easter represents joy fulfilled, and Lent is anticipating the resurrection, this is one way I can remember the longing.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
"Don’t take your guns to" ...California?
“A young cowgirl named Megan Marie
grew restless on the Gulf
A girl filled with wonderlust
who really meant no harm
She changed her clothes and shined her boots
and combed her dark hair down
And her mother (should have) cried as she walked out
Don't take your guns to town, daughter
leave your guns at home, Meg
don't take your guns to town”
Johnny Cash’s Billy Joe ended up getting shot in a shoot out in the Big City. Things clearly went better for me in California, which is almost a four letter word in my head, but left a bitter taste in my mouth.
My first rendezvous with California was in 2007, when I flew to L.A. and reunited with fellow teen missionaries I had met in China the summer before. They were wonderful, but I saw firsthand how nasty Hollywood was. It took me a couple years to figure it out, but I left the state in a funk due to unrealistic expectations of the place and its people.
I went again a year later, after my only college boyfriend broke up with me on the phone, before Christmas. I decided to test out my first car (bought 10 days beforehand), and take advantage of a month without work and college courses, on a restless cross country road trip meant to distract my heart. 3,500 miles later, I learned my friends in California weren’t friends anymore.
These were forgivable So Cal offense. But on the next two trips, it went too far: California stripped me of my gun (and my perceived gun).
Before my last semester of college, in the summer of 2010, I applied for internships across the world. I prayed God would only open one door, to guide me where he wanted me and when. Lo and behold, puzzling Providence sent me to L.A. for a couple months. Maybe it would be good for mine and California’s fragile relationship: I hoped against intuition that living as a local and touring So Cal would mend our fragile bond.
Not so much. I wound up feeling more homesick than when I lived in France. I line danced to Lady Gaga with gay urban cowboys at aptly named Oil Can Harry’s. I experienced infamous standstill highway traffic, at 3am, on a weeknight. To be fair, I camped in the Sequoias by myself (first time going solo, success!), developed a love for Santa Monica and Venice beaches, and spend some unforgettable days with even more unforgettable people.
It seems I trusted my employer and designated mentor a little too much, responding to their questions about my safety with confidence in the company of my grandpa’s revolver. I guess L.A.P.D. aren’t even allowed to carry firearms anymore, due to its controversial history, and only local S.W.A.T. are packing heat. Appalled at my gumption, they threatened to end our contract and send me back to Texas, or to take my gun away, which most gun-owners agree, is like taking a firstborn child away. Sunrise of the first morning I was eligible to move back, I drove Pas to Pas in 14 hours, straight: not looking back in the rearview at Pasadena, I sped on to El Paso.
I promised myself I’d avoid this wonderful state that, for many reasons, continues to represent a joy-sucking vacuum to me. Then my best friend moved to San Diego.
I spent several days with her north of the city, then several in the Gaslamp Quarter with another friend at a hostel, and flew back to Texas after a week. I arrived a bit late to the San Diego Airport and joined the masses waiting to inch through security. There was such a delay in getting people through that they were calling people to the front of the line based on departure times (mine was first, which heightened my awareness of how little time I had to get on the plane).
I already had the belt, jewelry, shoes and sweater off; laptop was out of its case in my hands; my liquids were separated in the permitted baggie before I got to the airport. This girl had it in the bag.
Which was exactly the problem. Chrissy gave me an early birthday present of an iron key holder, in the shape and scale of a revolver. My hand-me-down Samsonite was stopped on the conveyor belt as the TSA screening agent gasped. She called over an agent, and I instantly knew: good Lord above, they think it’s a real gun.
“Can I help you guys find something in my bag?,” I asked, hoping to speed things up.
They ignored me, and whispered back and forth. They called over an older supervisor, who stared at the screen for a minute.
My panic subsided when I thought he was using this opportunity as a teaching tool for novice and dense employees, as he said “You can tell it’s not real because you can see through it…”
But they kept staring at the screen. And then agent #3 got on a walkie talkie, requesting backup. Two people had made it through the x-ray scanner like me, and were waiting on my suitcase to clear so they could grab their things. A long, irritated line of other travelers threatened me with their eyes, still back on the other side.
Agent #4 came up, and he was even older than the ones before. He made a show of putting gloves on, and got on his cell phone. A passive aggressive lady behind me chuckled painfully, “So you’re the one holding up the line, huh?” I stuttered out an embarrassed apology.
Agent #3 had stepped away and back to his pay grade, but threw in his two cents.”It could be worse. It could be real.” After staring at him for a while I concurred, “Yes, you’re right. If it was real, this would be a real problem.”
But it wasn’t. And they knew it! But they treated it like a real firearm- not saying any buzz words to give away what it is, not touching the bag, not talking to me or listening to my description of the “item.”
Agent #5 responded to #4’s call from a flip phone. After repeating the same process, finally, someone touched my bag! He was the oldest of them all, and moved like it. He brought my bag over to the official “you’re in trouble” table.
Before even opening the zipper, he explained how my birthday present was liable to make me check my bag, get strip-searched, have the real police called, get arrested, have a date with a judge, pay a fine. Oh, and miss my flight, which was minutes from heading out. I hastily agreed to whatever he wanted, to move things along.
Fortunately, my “one and only option” transitioned into an agreeable option #4.
“Don’t show this to anyone in the airport or on the plane, so you won’t have to dispose of it, and can still make your flight.” Not having planned to show strangers my latest wall decoration anyways, I respectfully agreed and booked it over to my gate. I like to think that no one behind me in line missed their flights, either...
Somehow, I made it out of California once with the real revolver and yet again with a fake one. The natives were shocked at my possesions, but too afraid to do anything except scowl to my face and say things behind my back. Not going to try for a third strike, that’s for sure!
grew restless on the Gulf
A girl filled with wonderlust
who really meant no harm
She changed her clothes and shined her boots
and combed her dark hair down
And her mother (should have) cried as she walked out
Don't take your guns to town, daughter
leave your guns at home, Meg
don't take your guns to town”
Johnny Cash’s Billy Joe ended up getting shot in a shoot out in the Big City. Things clearly went better for me in California, which is almost a four letter word in my head, but left a bitter taste in my mouth.
My first rendezvous with California was in 2007, when I flew to L.A. and reunited with fellow teen missionaries I had met in China the summer before. They were wonderful, but I saw firsthand how nasty Hollywood was. It took me a couple years to figure it out, but I left the state in a funk due to unrealistic expectations of the place and its people.
I went again a year later, after my only college boyfriend broke up with me on the phone, before Christmas. I decided to test out my first car (bought 10 days beforehand), and take advantage of a month without work and college courses, on a restless cross country road trip meant to distract my heart. 3,500 miles later, I learned my friends in California weren’t friends anymore.
These were forgivable So Cal offense. But on the next two trips, it went too far: California stripped me of my gun (and my perceived gun).
Before my last semester of college, in the summer of 2010, I applied for internships across the world. I prayed God would only open one door, to guide me where he wanted me and when. Lo and behold, puzzling Providence sent me to L.A. for a couple months. Maybe it would be good for mine and California’s fragile relationship: I hoped against intuition that living as a local and touring So Cal would mend our fragile bond.
Not so much. I wound up feeling more homesick than when I lived in France. I line danced to Lady Gaga with gay urban cowboys at aptly named Oil Can Harry’s. I experienced infamous standstill highway traffic, at 3am, on a weeknight. To be fair, I camped in the Sequoias by myself (first time going solo, success!), developed a love for Santa Monica and Venice beaches, and spend some unforgettable days with even more unforgettable people.
It seems I trusted my employer and designated mentor a little too much, responding to their questions about my safety with confidence in the company of my grandpa’s revolver. I guess L.A.P.D. aren’t even allowed to carry firearms anymore, due to its controversial history, and only local S.W.A.T. are packing heat. Appalled at my gumption, they threatened to end our contract and send me back to Texas, or to take my gun away, which most gun-owners agree, is like taking a firstborn child away. Sunrise of the first morning I was eligible to move back, I drove Pas to Pas in 14 hours, straight: not looking back in the rearview at Pasadena, I sped on to El Paso.
I promised myself I’d avoid this wonderful state that, for many reasons, continues to represent a joy-sucking vacuum to me. Then my best friend moved to San Diego.
I spent several days with her north of the city, then several in the Gaslamp Quarter with another friend at a hostel, and flew back to Texas after a week. I arrived a bit late to the San Diego Airport and joined the masses waiting to inch through security. There was such a delay in getting people through that they were calling people to the front of the line based on departure times (mine was first, which heightened my awareness of how little time I had to get on the plane).
I already had the belt, jewelry, shoes and sweater off; laptop was out of its case in my hands; my liquids were separated in the permitted baggie before I got to the airport. This girl had it in the bag.
Which was exactly the problem. Chrissy gave me an early birthday present of an iron key holder, in the shape and scale of a revolver. My hand-me-down Samsonite was stopped on the conveyor belt as the TSA screening agent gasped. She called over an agent, and I instantly knew: good Lord above, they think it’s a real gun.
“Can I help you guys find something in my bag?,” I asked, hoping to speed things up.
They ignored me, and whispered back and forth. They called over an older supervisor, who stared at the screen for a minute.
My panic subsided when I thought he was using this opportunity as a teaching tool for novice and dense employees, as he said “You can tell it’s not real because you can see through it…”
But they kept staring at the screen. And then agent #3 got on a walkie talkie, requesting backup. Two people had made it through the x-ray scanner like me, and were waiting on my suitcase to clear so they could grab their things. A long, irritated line of other travelers threatened me with their eyes, still back on the other side.
Agent #4 came up, and he was even older than the ones before. He made a show of putting gloves on, and got on his cell phone. A passive aggressive lady behind me chuckled painfully, “So you’re the one holding up the line, huh?” I stuttered out an embarrassed apology.
Agent #3 had stepped away and back to his pay grade, but threw in his two cents.”It could be worse. It could be real.” After staring at him for a while I concurred, “Yes, you’re right. If it was real, this would be a real problem.”
But it wasn’t. And they knew it! But they treated it like a real firearm- not saying any buzz words to give away what it is, not touching the bag, not talking to me or listening to my description of the “item.”
Agent #5 responded to #4’s call from a flip phone. After repeating the same process, finally, someone touched my bag! He was the oldest of them all, and moved like it. He brought my bag over to the official “you’re in trouble” table.
Before even opening the zipper, he explained how my birthday present was liable to make me check my bag, get strip-searched, have the real police called, get arrested, have a date with a judge, pay a fine. Oh, and miss my flight, which was minutes from heading out. I hastily agreed to whatever he wanted, to move things along.
Fortunately, my “one and only option” transitioned into an agreeable option #4.
“Don’t show this to anyone in the airport or on the plane, so you won’t have to dispose of it, and can still make your flight.” Not having planned to show strangers my latest wall decoration anyways, I respectfully agreed and booked it over to my gate. I like to think that no one behind me in line missed their flights, either...
Somehow, I made it out of California once with the real revolver and yet again with a fake one. The natives were shocked at my possesions, but too afraid to do anything except scowl to my face and say things behind my back. Not going to try for a third strike, that’s for sure!
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