One of the books we’re reading in grad school right now is called, Love and Logic: Teaching in the Classroom. We read a chapter last night that dealt with perceptions— addressing our perceptions as teachers and also examining the perceptions that students may be coming in with. The book made the statement that there are essentially as many “world views” as there are people in it—that we form our perceptions based off our own unique life experiences, and those perceptions influence literally everything we take in, think about, process, and respond to.
So: Being the loser in 5th grade makes me empathize with 5th grade losers.
Reading storybooks with my Grandma in a mountain cabin in front of a fire made me love storybooks.
Having my parents build me up and tell me that I could do anything made me confident as a student, and encouraged me to give school a banner effort.
Climbing trees in my backyard with my siblings as a kid makes climbing trees as a 24-year-old feel safe and reassuring.
Etcetera.
This is why “the first cut is the deepest,” as Cat Stevens first pointed out. When people fall in love for the first time, their frame of reference-- their “field of understanding”-- does not yet include the vocabulary to articulate heartbreak, so they give their hearts over unreservedly. At least, I did. If and when that relationship ends… A person’s field of understanding has suddenly, brutally, expanded. Their perception of relationships and the opposite sex is suddenly influenced by this new wrenching experience. Going forward, you find those with perceptions influenced by one too many heartbreaks… And perceptions get jaded. Maybe cynical.
This is why Israelis and Palestines continue to fight, maybe. They have only grown up on their own side, and have only experienced a life where persecution came from the other side. Their separate perceptions do not harbor objectivity in the same way that a child growing up in Nebraska cannot harbor an idea of what the ocean looks like.
When Heidi and I were in Cork, Ireland, we ate breakfast in our hostel common room one morning, and there was a cartoon playing on the TV. The sound was off, but I was able to follow the story. There was an Evil Dude and, for some reason, he was bent on spreading hatred and discord. Evil Dude brainwashed a middle-aged-dad-looking-Home-Dude and turned him into an Evil Cupid. Dad-Looking-Home-Dude/Evil Cupid then flew around and shot arrows at people. Once hit with an arrow, the victim vehemently hated the next person he or she set eyes on, and the world started erupting in fights and road rage and arguments. When a person was hit with an arrow, the hit person’s eyes turned black. Their hearts turned off. They became cruel.
In one case, a handsome guy that had been previously depicted as very vain got hit with an arrow, and the next thing he saw was his face in a mirror. His eyes turned black, and he was suddenly horrified with his own appearance. He remained just as handsome, but he hated himself—he cringed in humiliation and embarrassment, and wore a paper bag over his head. He tried shaving off his hair, and just descended further into cringing self-loathing.
It was a scary cartoon.
Heidi and I left the hostel common room just as things were starting to turn around, so I know there was some remedy, some happy ending to the story… But the familiarity of those blackened eyes remained with me. We view the world, sometimes, through these blackened eyes. And what’s concerning is that, if our perceptions are being filtered through those eyes, we’re never going to be able to see anything that could change the black to a gentler color. Our world becomes warped through marred perception.
If we indulge in self-loathing, it’s hard to imagine how we could ever find ourselves valuable.
If we are “blinded by love,” we can’t imagine the possibility of fault in the object of our affection.
If we become jaded, it’s hard to imagine hope.
Our perceptions become our world—even if our world is completely different from the objective truth. Like Plato’s cave, if we’ve only ever seen shadows on the wall, we will never understand the concept of dancing bodies behind us.
I don't want to live in a warped universe. I need friends who will call me out, and re-inform my perceptions. I need, as a teacher, to make sure I understand the shape of my students’ worlds before I try to influence it with my own. I need to talk with people that have different opinions than me, and read books that volunteer ideas clashing with my own. I need to travel, and encounter perceptions that have been informed by completely different life experiences and cultures. I need to pray for eyes that see clearly. I need to pray for protection for my heart.
And, I think I could maybe use a good tree climb too. See the world from just a bit higher up.
Jul 30, 2008
Jul 29, 2008
Someone Keyed My Car
Initial Shock: JOSIE! What happened to you??
Little Lost Lamb: What...? Who...? Why...? Where'd they go....?
See No Evil: Maybe it will come off. (Rub rub.) Maybe it will come off some other time.
Profane Fist-Shaker: A**-HOLE SHI*-WIPE MEANIE SCREW-UP FU**ER!
Mother Teresa: It was probably some lost depressed soul. They need help.
Weepy Hanky Clutcher: But I need help too! Do I really deserve to have another random crappy thing happen to me??
Apprentice Monk: What did I do? Is this karma or something? What cosmic being did I piss off?
Profane Buddha: Whatever, key-wielding twot. Karma will bite YOU in the a**.
WWJD: Okay, but really. I should probably pray for them.
Veruca Salt: BUT I DON'T WANT THIS TO BE THERE!
Zero Tolerance: I just feel so violated.
Poor Little Match Girl: Don't they see my car is in the school parking lot? Can't they tell I'm a student? Can't they figure out that probably means I don't have money to fix this stuff?
Yoga Master: This doesn't matter. This is just a car. It still runs. It will all be fine. I don't have to let this get to me.
3-Year-Old Hand Tugger: But why? Why would someone do this? I don't have any enemies. What was the point??
Practical Adult: I'll have to call insurance. I'll need to see if they could take care of it. I'll need to contact an auto-body shop. I'll have to look into getting a pot of paint. I'll need to call Honda about getting the right color.
Tired Worn Out Student: This is so lame.
Greta: Lather, rinse, repeat. All of the above.
Jul 22, 2008
Les Hommes
Pronounced: layz ohm
Means: The guys
A return to the traveling tales now. And humor. :) I actually hope these boys DO translate to blogging as well as they did in person... This may turn into a "you had to be there" blog, but we'll try. :)
Besides our blue-eyed Betsy, there were three particular people that had quite a bit to do with shaping our Paris experience. Specifically, these gentlemen:
From the left to the right, we have Mael, Sylvain, and then Max. Oh gosh, I'm laughing just looking at them.
I'll start with Sylvain, since he's where the connections start:
I met Sylvain about four years ago when I was studying abroad in London. He came to stay with my English host family because-- dontcha know?-- he's a world renowned art expert and had to do some research in London. Oh! Sure! He found out that I was planning to come to Paris later after school ended and asked me where I was staying. "Probably just a hostel," I offered, and without hesitating he responded, "Zat ees reediculous! You must stay weeth me and my familee!" ...OKAY! When staying with Sylvain and his family, I was impressed with his exquisite taste for all the finer things, and amused at his blatantly aristocratic leanings. At one point, he told me all about how the French Revolution was really not the best thing to have ever happened, and, in fact, King Louis actually contributed quite a lot in his day. I got the impression that, were Sylvain to have been around during the Revolution, he would have held his head high all the way to the Guillotine. :)
My description of him had Heidi initially a bit intimidated, even though I did my best to convince her of his darling demeanor and generous attitude. Our first meeting with him was enjoyable and very polite-- but I think Heidi might have continued to feel a bit intimidated by Sylvain's expertise and taste had we not thrown Max into the mix...
Max is Sylvain's brother and the most hilarious, lively, entertaining caricature I may have ever met. Within minutes of being in our company, he was poking fun of his big brother, pretending to fall asleep when Sylvain talked about anything, and Sylvain, in turn, threw it right back at him. When Max rhapsodized about food (he's a nutritionist and a CHEF!), Sylvain interrupted with jesting interjections. Like so:
MAX (to Heidi): So, you see-- we have dis cheese... And CHEESE--
SYLVAIN: Is made from MEELK...
MAX: Oui, of course, and it--
SYLVAIN: And it's WHIIITE...
MAX (giving up and playing along): And, you know, it comes from COWS...
SYLVAIN: Or GOATS...
MAX: And you gonna EAT it with BREAD...
SYLVAIN: Which comes from WHEAT...
They both made each other ridiculous, and in turn, made us ridiculous with laughing. And, whereas Sylvain's accent is proper and Parisian, Max has somehow been influenced with some John Wayne-- speaking all of his "i's" as a Southern "a." Like, "We gonna have two thangs."
Mael was the last to arrive-- the cousin of Max and Sylvain. Sylvain had told us girls that Mael was coming to visit as a distraction from some recent heart-break, and requested that we do our best to distract him. We whispered back that we thought we could certainly manage that. Before the end of the weekend, the initially reserved Mael was making face flaps with the rest of us, and taking over as the head of our group to teach us how to cha cha and mambo. He spoke English about the same way I spoke French (read: willingly, but with lots of clutching for words in the air) and we made each other laugh as we bumbled over teasing each other.
But see now... At this point-- this is where I can't even attempt to put them into blogging form. How could I?? It would take too long to describe the stories behind Sylvain attempting the seduction of a duck with a piece of strawberry tart... Or of Max leaning out the second-story window with a towel over his head, waving a scroll and yelling, "You weeel FIIIND your GEEFTS!!!" (You will find your gifts!) ... It would be too difficult to describe WHY exactly I was imitating a Velociraptor on the train platform, or why it took us about 15 different determined attempts to take a picture "Abbey Road" style in Chantilly. I can't do justice to the conversation around Max's decadent dinner table about dogs versus cats, because I could never replicate everyone's different accents and hand motions, and furthermore, I can't explain just how funny it was to be taught the Mambo and the Cha Cha by Mael at 2am on the Paris streets, on the night before Bastille day.
I can't do those stories justice. But I can say: these gentlemen made our last four days in Paris the best of the entire trip. And I can certainly provide the face flap pictures. Those are too good to keep in a drawer.
MAX:
SYLVAIN:
MAEL: (Mael's is especially horrific-- keep in mind that these are handsome boys!! Face flaps just CANNOT be rivaled for uglificating)
BETSY: (Nice touch with the cross eyes, dear!)
MISS HEIDI:
And, last but not least, Myself. In fine flapping form:
Nous aimons les hommes. Et nous allons toujours!
Means: The guys
A return to the traveling tales now. And humor. :) I actually hope these boys DO translate to blogging as well as they did in person... This may turn into a "you had to be there" blog, but we'll try. :)
Besides our blue-eyed Betsy, there were three particular people that had quite a bit to do with shaping our Paris experience. Specifically, these gentlemen:
From the left to the right, we have Mael, Sylvain, and then Max. Oh gosh, I'm laughing just looking at them.
I'll start with Sylvain, since he's where the connections start:
I met Sylvain about four years ago when I was studying abroad in London. He came to stay with my English host family because-- dontcha know?-- he's a world renowned art expert and had to do some research in London. Oh! Sure! He found out that I was planning to come to Paris later after school ended and asked me where I was staying. "Probably just a hostel," I offered, and without hesitating he responded, "Zat ees reediculous! You must stay weeth me and my familee!" ...OKAY! When staying with Sylvain and his family, I was impressed with his exquisite taste for all the finer things, and amused at his blatantly aristocratic leanings. At one point, he told me all about how the French Revolution was really not the best thing to have ever happened, and, in fact, King Louis actually contributed quite a lot in his day. I got the impression that, were Sylvain to have been around during the Revolution, he would have held his head high all the way to the Guillotine. :)
My description of him had Heidi initially a bit intimidated, even though I did my best to convince her of his darling demeanor and generous attitude. Our first meeting with him was enjoyable and very polite-- but I think Heidi might have continued to feel a bit intimidated by Sylvain's expertise and taste had we not thrown Max into the mix...
Max is Sylvain's brother and the most hilarious, lively, entertaining caricature I may have ever met. Within minutes of being in our company, he was poking fun of his big brother, pretending to fall asleep when Sylvain talked about anything, and Sylvain, in turn, threw it right back at him. When Max rhapsodized about food (he's a nutritionist and a CHEF!), Sylvain interrupted with jesting interjections. Like so:
MAX (to Heidi): So, you see-- we have dis cheese... And CHEESE--
SYLVAIN: Is made from MEELK...
MAX: Oui, of course, and it--
SYLVAIN: And it's WHIIITE...
MAX (giving up and playing along): And, you know, it comes from COWS...
SYLVAIN: Or GOATS...
MAX: And you gonna EAT it with BREAD...
SYLVAIN: Which comes from WHEAT...
They both made each other ridiculous, and in turn, made us ridiculous with laughing. And, whereas Sylvain's accent is proper and Parisian, Max has somehow been influenced with some John Wayne-- speaking all of his "i's" as a Southern "a." Like, "We gonna have two thangs."
Mael was the last to arrive-- the cousin of Max and Sylvain. Sylvain had told us girls that Mael was coming to visit as a distraction from some recent heart-break, and requested that we do our best to distract him. We whispered back that we thought we could certainly manage that. Before the end of the weekend, the initially reserved Mael was making face flaps with the rest of us, and taking over as the head of our group to teach us how to cha cha and mambo. He spoke English about the same way I spoke French (read: willingly, but with lots of clutching for words in the air) and we made each other laugh as we bumbled over teasing each other.
But see now... At this point-- this is where I can't even attempt to put them into blogging form. How could I?? It would take too long to describe the stories behind Sylvain attempting the seduction of a duck with a piece of strawberry tart... Or of Max leaning out the second-story window with a towel over his head, waving a scroll and yelling, "You weeel FIIIND your GEEFTS!!!" (You will find your gifts!) ... It would be too difficult to describe WHY exactly I was imitating a Velociraptor on the train platform, or why it took us about 15 different determined attempts to take a picture "Abbey Road" style in Chantilly. I can't do justice to the conversation around Max's decadent dinner table about dogs versus cats, because I could never replicate everyone's different accents and hand motions, and furthermore, I can't explain just how funny it was to be taught the Mambo and the Cha Cha by Mael at 2am on the Paris streets, on the night before Bastille day.
I can't do those stories justice. But I can say: these gentlemen made our last four days in Paris the best of the entire trip. And I can certainly provide the face flap pictures. Those are too good to keep in a drawer.
MAX:
SYLVAIN:
MAEL: (Mael's is especially horrific-- keep in mind that these are handsome boys!! Face flaps just CANNOT be rivaled for uglificating)
BETSY: (Nice touch with the cross eyes, dear!)
MISS HEIDI:
And, last but not least, Myself. In fine flapping form:
Nous aimons les hommes. Et nous allons toujours!
Jul 18, 2008
Down Deep
A disclaimer: to those of you who have become accustomed to Lavied’unefille providing breezy, chipper tales of far off yonders… Beware the blog below. It is not that. Promise: a return to the humorous after this one, as there are more traveling tales to tell, and some quite entertaining. But not tonight.
Last year, when I was studying for the exam that would supposedly prove my mettle as a potential English teacher, I pillaged online Sparks Notes for summaries of classic novels that I had yet to read. The title of one such novel was, “Things Fall Apart.” I don’t remember anything else about the novel except that it had something to do with Africa. The title, however, has remained in my memory.
Things fall apart. The phrase came to mind aplenty while traveling: We’re lost; we don’t know where we’re staying; we don’t know how to get there; we can’t find gelato. Things fall apart.
The phrase has come to mind, in greater fist-clenching resonance, since being home.
I think of Einstein’s theory of thermodynamics—isn’t that the one? Where he claims that everything progresses toward chaos? Not toward greater order and harmony—but rather toward discord. Toward pieces. I think of the Garden wilting into Desert, our once pristine ozone becoming cluttered and choked. I think of glittering empty space filling with debris, I think of a Pangea being ripped and torn into seven lonely parts. I think of Native American chiefs becoming casino owners, I think of faith disappointed and questioned, I think of glaciers breaking, of stars dying, of leaves separating from their maternal branches and falling to frosted ground.
Things fall apart.
I think of this. I think of the crushing situation that Heidi and I’ve returned to which I’ve yet to specify on this public blog. Is that irksome? It must be; I apologize for the cryptic scenery. But: I don’t want to specify it yet on this public blog. It looks like a severed smoking tree, split down the middle, lightening still buzzing on the ground. That’s about what we’re dealing with. Except with people.
Is this growing up? The dealing with the falling apart of things, important things, is this maturity? Today I pictured myself as a well, being carved with great cuts deeper into the earth--- more room for depth of sorrows, and simultaneous heights of joy. As a child, maybe I just had room for trinkets. Now, I’m afraid there’s room for dying stars to find a grave in, and it seems so devastatingly adult to consider what souls must expand for. It makes me feel alone.
---------
There’s a Psalm that’s been going through my head as I’ve been wading through this; it’s one that Annie happened to offer up independently to me too, for comfort. The first time I ever read Psalm 46, I pictured some apocalyptic movie with a young preacher dude as a hero. I pictured him rising up above the rubble, gripping the hands of those less steady even as the winds roared around him and fiery wreckage fell from the sky. This is the battle cry he yells in the midst of it all:
God is our refuge—an ever-present help in times of trouble! Therefore we will NOT fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea—though its waters roar and foam, and the mountains quake with their surging…! Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall—He lifts His voice—the earth MELTS…! Be still—be still— and KNOW that He is God!
I love that the “Be still” command comes within chaos. As these things are crumbling, as my soul’s well must deepen to accommodate further grief and surprise, I am told to rest, to be still, to trust, and to wait. My foremost prayer through all of this has been, simply “Oomph.” The image in my head is just the lifting up of a BIG big weight, and asking that it be taken from me. Be still. As things fall apart, be still, and be rescued.
Deep calls to deep
In the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.
By day the LORD directs his love,
at night his song is with me—
a prayer to the God of my life.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him.
My Savior and my God.
Things fall apart.
I hope to be rescued.
Last year, when I was studying for the exam that would supposedly prove my mettle as a potential English teacher, I pillaged online Sparks Notes for summaries of classic novels that I had yet to read. The title of one such novel was, “Things Fall Apart.” I don’t remember anything else about the novel except that it had something to do with Africa. The title, however, has remained in my memory.
Things fall apart. The phrase came to mind aplenty while traveling: We’re lost; we don’t know where we’re staying; we don’t know how to get there; we can’t find gelato. Things fall apart.
The phrase has come to mind, in greater fist-clenching resonance, since being home.
I think of Einstein’s theory of thermodynamics—isn’t that the one? Where he claims that everything progresses toward chaos? Not toward greater order and harmony—but rather toward discord. Toward pieces. I think of the Garden wilting into Desert, our once pristine ozone becoming cluttered and choked. I think of glittering empty space filling with debris, I think of a Pangea being ripped and torn into seven lonely parts. I think of Native American chiefs becoming casino owners, I think of faith disappointed and questioned, I think of glaciers breaking, of stars dying, of leaves separating from their maternal branches and falling to frosted ground.
Things fall apart.
I think of this. I think of the crushing situation that Heidi and I’ve returned to which I’ve yet to specify on this public blog. Is that irksome? It must be; I apologize for the cryptic scenery. But: I don’t want to specify it yet on this public blog. It looks like a severed smoking tree, split down the middle, lightening still buzzing on the ground. That’s about what we’re dealing with. Except with people.
Is this growing up? The dealing with the falling apart of things, important things, is this maturity? Today I pictured myself as a well, being carved with great cuts deeper into the earth--- more room for depth of sorrows, and simultaneous heights of joy. As a child, maybe I just had room for trinkets. Now, I’m afraid there’s room for dying stars to find a grave in, and it seems so devastatingly adult to consider what souls must expand for. It makes me feel alone.
---------
There’s a Psalm that’s been going through my head as I’ve been wading through this; it’s one that Annie happened to offer up independently to me too, for comfort. The first time I ever read Psalm 46, I pictured some apocalyptic movie with a young preacher dude as a hero. I pictured him rising up above the rubble, gripping the hands of those less steady even as the winds roared around him and fiery wreckage fell from the sky. This is the battle cry he yells in the midst of it all:
God is our refuge—an ever-present help in times of trouble! Therefore we will NOT fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea—though its waters roar and foam, and the mountains quake with their surging…! Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall—He lifts His voice—the earth MELTS…! Be still—be still— and KNOW that He is God!
I love that the “Be still” command comes within chaos. As these things are crumbling, as my soul’s well must deepen to accommodate further grief and surprise, I am told to rest, to be still, to trust, and to wait. My foremost prayer through all of this has been, simply “Oomph.” The image in my head is just the lifting up of a BIG big weight, and asking that it be taken from me. Be still. As things fall apart, be still, and be rescued.
Deep calls to deep
In the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.
By day the LORD directs his love,
at night his song is with me—
a prayer to the God of my life.
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him.
My Savior and my God.
Things fall apart.
I hope to be rescued.
Jul 17, 2008
Returning
I'm at this bustling, sunny, warm Queen Anne cafe right now-- achieving splendid success in my first grad school attempt at procrastinating. I was worried I might have lost the knack since being an under grad... But no. Still got it. Got it strong. Live strong. Like Lance.
Let me tell you something.
I have seen so many things over the past five weeks. You've seen them-- you've been looking at this blog. Heidi and I have clambered over mountain tops, we've slept on racing trains, we've roasted on Italian cliffs, we've gorged ourselves on the finest French delicacies, we've danced until dawn in small Irish towns, and we've guessed and soared and laughed and wondered and wept and sighed.
And now I am home... I am back to what is, supposedly, familiar. I honestly hadn't given "home"-- in the SEATTLE sense-- much thought. I thought of my family, I thought of grad school. I didn't picture what it would be like. I didn't consider whether or not returning would be good or bad or beautiful or new. I just thought, "HOME NOW, HERE WE GO." Better ramp up. Here we go.
This is what it is like:
I rode my bike to school yesterday, and I rode it home. I passed happy, fit Seattleites on the trail-- I was greeted by them and congratulated on the mutual enjoyment of the warm weather. I crossed the Fremont bridge and took in a big breath of water mountain view. I smelled the coming black-berries and remembered discovering that smell last year, and the huge host of sentiments attached to it. I realized that I've been BACK, in Seattle, for a year. I rode my bike, and I LIKED riding my bike, and I liked thinking of myself as a bicycle commuter, because that is what happy fit environmental Seattleites do, we ride bikes, and I was riding my bike, and I was in THIS culture, and I knew that I was a successful person in THIS culture, because I was Burke-Gilmaning.
This afternoon, I am in this sunny cafe, and there are "Adam" comic strips on the cafe wall because the comic that writes "Adam" comes here to drink coffee. I am drinking a macchiato, which is similar to the tiny espresso shots that Heidi and I drank in Europe, but it's stronger, because Seattlites have attitude about espresso and we like to be the toughest, most resilient coffee drinkers ever. This is MY culture-- these are MY people. There are people sitting outside in the adirondack chairs, because it's a sunny day, AND YOU DON'T WASTE THAT.
It's so heart-warmingly familiar.
I'm in school again, and I'm stressed again, and I have homework again. I have books to read, and skills to prove. This too, is familiar, and I love it. I love having my brain stuffed for six hours, and then leaving for some sweet Seattle spot to stuff in some more on my own. I love the intake-- I love returning to this. I haven't been a student for two years. I haven't been a Seattleite for five weeks. I'm back in both, and it's like returning to a hug.
It's such a surprise. I'd forgotten. I hadn't expected. I LOVE this. I do miss the traveling-- especially in the worst school moments when everything is crashing on my head-- but I'm blown away by how much I love what I've come back to. I didn't even do the reflection/analyzation that I usually do either! This warmth has totally snuck up on me-- like a friend holding a flower behind his back and then producing it with a grin and a flourish. See?? Like it?? And I do.
Circumstances are not easy-- I didn't return home to the lowest branch on the tree, I have a daunting climb ahead of me this year-- both in the personal and intellectual spheres. But there is warmth and familiarity and loveliness to cushion the difficulties. I'm so thankful for that.
This is MY culture. This is MY place. This is something new, and it's something I know so well. This is what's ahead of me. This is what I get to embrace.
Let me tell you something.
I have seen so many things over the past five weeks. You've seen them-- you've been looking at this blog. Heidi and I have clambered over mountain tops, we've slept on racing trains, we've roasted on Italian cliffs, we've gorged ourselves on the finest French delicacies, we've danced until dawn in small Irish towns, and we've guessed and soared and laughed and wondered and wept and sighed.
And now I am home... I am back to what is, supposedly, familiar. I honestly hadn't given "home"-- in the SEATTLE sense-- much thought. I thought of my family, I thought of grad school. I didn't picture what it would be like. I didn't consider whether or not returning would be good or bad or beautiful or new. I just thought, "HOME NOW, HERE WE GO." Better ramp up. Here we go.
This is what it is like:
I rode my bike to school yesterday, and I rode it home. I passed happy, fit Seattleites on the trail-- I was greeted by them and congratulated on the mutual enjoyment of the warm weather. I crossed the Fremont bridge and took in a big breath of water mountain view. I smelled the coming black-berries and remembered discovering that smell last year, and the huge host of sentiments attached to it. I realized that I've been BACK, in Seattle, for a year. I rode my bike, and I LIKED riding my bike, and I liked thinking of myself as a bicycle commuter, because that is what happy fit environmental Seattleites do, we ride bikes, and I was riding my bike, and I was in THIS culture, and I knew that I was a successful person in THIS culture, because I was Burke-Gilmaning.
This afternoon, I am in this sunny cafe, and there are "Adam" comic strips on the cafe wall because the comic that writes "Adam" comes here to drink coffee. I am drinking a macchiato, which is similar to the tiny espresso shots that Heidi and I drank in Europe, but it's stronger, because Seattlites have attitude about espresso and we like to be the toughest, most resilient coffee drinkers ever. This is MY culture-- these are MY people. There are people sitting outside in the adirondack chairs, because it's a sunny day, AND YOU DON'T WASTE THAT.
It's so heart-warmingly familiar.
I'm in school again, and I'm stressed again, and I have homework again. I have books to read, and skills to prove. This too, is familiar, and I love it. I love having my brain stuffed for six hours, and then leaving for some sweet Seattle spot to stuff in some more on my own. I love the intake-- I love returning to this. I haven't been a student for two years. I haven't been a Seattleite for five weeks. I'm back in both, and it's like returning to a hug.
It's such a surprise. I'd forgotten. I hadn't expected. I LOVE this. I do miss the traveling-- especially in the worst school moments when everything is crashing on my head-- but I'm blown away by how much I love what I've come back to. I didn't even do the reflection/analyzation that I usually do either! This warmth has totally snuck up on me-- like a friend holding a flower behind his back and then producing it with a grin and a flourish. See?? Like it?? And I do.
Circumstances are not easy-- I didn't return home to the lowest branch on the tree, I have a daunting climb ahead of me this year-- both in the personal and intellectual spheres. But there is warmth and familiarity and loveliness to cushion the difficulties. I'm so thankful for that.
This is MY culture. This is MY place. This is something new, and it's something I know so well. This is what's ahead of me. This is what I get to embrace.
Jul 15, 2008
Oh Yeah... Real Life
Things that are amazing:
My own bed.
Places to PUT things. (I love having places to PUT things!!!)
The shower at my Grandpa's house.
Reacquainting myself with my wardrobe.
Having a cell phone to CALL PEOPLE WITH.
Things that are not:
The millions of logistics that go in hand with starting grad school- oh that's right-- TODAY.
Not having Heidi right next to me.
No more Paris patisseries.
No more Paris.
More intelligent de-briefing/summing up later on... For now... I'm still jet-lagged. What?
My own bed.
Places to PUT things. (I love having places to PUT things!!!)
The shower at my Grandpa's house.
Reacquainting myself with my wardrobe.
Having a cell phone to CALL PEOPLE WITH.
Things that are not:
The millions of logistics that go in hand with starting grad school- oh that's right-- TODAY.
Not having Heidi right next to me.
No more Paris patisseries.
No more Paris.
More intelligent de-briefing/summing up later on... For now... I'm still jet-lagged. What?
Jul 13, 2008
Nous Allons Returner a Demain!!
Prounounced: nooz ah-lon reh-turn-ay ah deh-mahn
Means: We're coming home tomorrow!!
Strange but true... These five weeks are actually finished. Paris has been fantastic-- a beautiful, historical, legendary city that has been enhanced by some of the best company yet-- our Chamonix love, Betsy, and now we're staying with my French friend Sylvain, his hilarious brother Max, and elegant cousin Mael. Fantastic, hilarious men, all. :)... Also made dreamysodreamy by some of the best cuisine yet. No, I take it back: THE best cuisine yet. Which, you all understand by now, is SAYING something!!
Will post more pictures upon our return-- arguing with a slow internet connection at the moment-- but wanted to acknowledge the impending plane ride and departure from this most excellent continent. Coming home is something we've looked forward to with simultaneous excitement and reluctance... But that makes sense, right?? We have missed home, the familiarity, our friends, and especially our family... But we've had an amazing time. We have met amazing people. We've had a blast, and (miraculously) still love and enjoy each other after 35 days of non-stop proximity. We have been taken care of, and truly blessed. Expect us to come home happy and full of stories to tell.
And also, a teeny bit rounder. :)
See you soon!
Means: We're coming home tomorrow!!
Strange but true... These five weeks are actually finished. Paris has been fantastic-- a beautiful, historical, legendary city that has been enhanced by some of the best company yet-- our Chamonix love, Betsy, and now we're staying with my French friend Sylvain, his hilarious brother Max, and elegant cousin Mael. Fantastic, hilarious men, all. :)... Also made dreamysodreamy by some of the best cuisine yet. No, I take it back: THE best cuisine yet. Which, you all understand by now, is SAYING something!!
Will post more pictures upon our return-- arguing with a slow internet connection at the moment-- but wanted to acknowledge the impending plane ride and departure from this most excellent continent. Coming home is something we've looked forward to with simultaneous excitement and reluctance... But that makes sense, right?? We have missed home, the familiarity, our friends, and especially our family... But we've had an amazing time. We have met amazing people. We've had a blast, and (miraculously) still love and enjoy each other after 35 days of non-stop proximity. We have been taken care of, and truly blessed. Expect us to come home happy and full of stories to tell.
And also, a teeny bit rounder. :)
See you soon!
Jul 9, 2008
Chortles to Herself
So, THIS:
(Arles, France)
Plus these:
(Interlaken, Switzerland)
Plus lovely cones of this (with friends Sherry and Amanda):
(Cinque Terre, Italy)
Plus some of these:
(Cork, Ireland)
And also these:
(Paris, France)
And yummies like THIS-- (was a Nutella crepe-- forgot to photograph pre-consumption):
(Paris also)
...Results in SOME SERIOUS DOUBLE CHINS!!!:
That amazing photograph provided Heidi, me, and our friend Betsy that we met in Chamonix (current hostess in Paris) endless laughter last night. (Incidentally, as I write this, we are in her apartment, listening to "The Lonely Goatherd" from Sound of Music and eating chocolate Nutella on crackers.) Oh yeah-- and that's the Eiffel Tower behind us. YAAAAAY, the Eiffel Tower!!!!
We also enjoyed making horsey faces:
And I, talent that I am, found out that I can actually make a double-chin AND a horsey mouth at the same time:
And so it was that, in one fell swoop, the girl had managed to shatter any semblance of allure or prior vanity that she had ever attempted to maintain. "Can I do that without reservation?" she mused pensively, her brow furrowed in question. "Can I really show all those hideous pictures to the internet world, without any attractive ones to even attempt a rebuttal in favor of me being a cute girl?" She thought long and hard. "No," she decided. "I cannot."
Therefore, a cute pic of Heid-Beid and I in Ireland to prove to you that we are not, in fact, 800 pounds:
********
Funny story: Today, Heidi and I were enjoying ourselves at Montmartre's famous artists' square, (Translation: probably the most touristy part of all Paris, where poor shmucks like us get completely enamored with artists' romantic paintings of Paris, and completely lose financial restraint in frenetic rosy-eyed art-purchase-gobbling) ...and Heidi was considering one painting in particular next to a tall, tan fellow. She teased him, "You're not going to steal my painting are you?" He laughed and said, "Oh no, you go right ahead!" Narrowed my eyes: looked at him. I 'ave seen zees one before...
"Heidi... isn't that David Hasselhoff?"
She looked at him. Whispered. "No. I don't think so. Just a look-alike."
"But... he's tall, and tan... And he's about the right age... Isn't it?? I think it might be David Hasselhoff!!"
"No. Maybe? No. I think it's just someone who looks like him."
Later, Heidi saw the same tall, tan, strapping fellow being mobbed in the larger square. He was laughing and saying, "Half way across the world!!" I didn't see the mob, but I imagine him flexing for the crowd. Ha ha, yeaaaah, it's MEEEE, David Hasselhooofffff!!!
It was totally him. We totally perused for art next to David Hasselhoff. And. We didn't get a picture or an autograph. Because. We are like cool Parisians who let celebrities live their lives. Not silly girls who don't realize they're standing next TO THE BAYWATCH KING.
********
Alright, a few more pics to finish this blog off, just so you can see firsthand the gorgeous scenery we found in Ireland:
And here, our Irish chickies: Lorna (birthday girl) on the middle-left, and Laragh on the middle-right. We love them.
We're having an awesome time in Paris. Doing a whirlwind tour of the major sites tomorrow. Loving our hostess Betsy-- so fun to get to reunite with her again, after Chamonix!! We're in the final countdown now... Four more days!!
(Arles, France)
Plus these:
(Interlaken, Switzerland)
Plus lovely cones of this (with friends Sherry and Amanda):
(Cinque Terre, Italy)
Plus some of these:
(Cork, Ireland)
And also these:
(Paris, France)
And yummies like THIS-- (was a Nutella crepe-- forgot to photograph pre-consumption):
(Paris also)
...Results in SOME SERIOUS DOUBLE CHINS!!!:
That amazing photograph provided Heidi, me, and our friend Betsy that we met in Chamonix (current hostess in Paris) endless laughter last night. (Incidentally, as I write this, we are in her apartment, listening to "The Lonely Goatherd" from Sound of Music and eating chocolate Nutella on crackers.) Oh yeah-- and that's the Eiffel Tower behind us. YAAAAAY, the Eiffel Tower!!!!
We also enjoyed making horsey faces:
And I, talent that I am, found out that I can actually make a double-chin AND a horsey mouth at the same time:
And so it was that, in one fell swoop, the girl had managed to shatter any semblance of allure or prior vanity that she had ever attempted to maintain. "Can I do that without reservation?" she mused pensively, her brow furrowed in question. "Can I really show all those hideous pictures to the internet world, without any attractive ones to even attempt a rebuttal in favor of me being a cute girl?" She thought long and hard. "No," she decided. "I cannot."
Therefore, a cute pic of Heid-Beid and I in Ireland to prove to you that we are not, in fact, 800 pounds:
********
Funny story: Today, Heidi and I were enjoying ourselves at Montmartre's famous artists' square, (Translation: probably the most touristy part of all Paris, where poor shmucks like us get completely enamored with artists' romantic paintings of Paris, and completely lose financial restraint in frenetic rosy-eyed art-purchase-gobbling) ...and Heidi was considering one painting in particular next to a tall, tan fellow. She teased him, "You're not going to steal my painting are you?" He laughed and said, "Oh no, you go right ahead!" Narrowed my eyes: looked at him. I 'ave seen zees one before...
"Heidi... isn't that David Hasselhoff?"
She looked at him. Whispered. "No. I don't think so. Just a look-alike."
"But... he's tall, and tan... And he's about the right age... Isn't it?? I think it might be David Hasselhoff!!"
"No. Maybe? No. I think it's just someone who looks like him."
Later, Heidi saw the same tall, tan, strapping fellow being mobbed in the larger square. He was laughing and saying, "Half way across the world!!" I didn't see the mob, but I imagine him flexing for the crowd. Ha ha, yeaaaah, it's MEEEE, David Hasselhooofffff!!!
It was totally him. We totally perused for art next to David Hasselhoff. And. We didn't get a picture or an autograph. Because. We are like cool Parisians who let celebrities live their lives. Not silly girls who don't realize they're standing next TO THE BAYWATCH KING.
********
Alright, a few more pics to finish this blog off, just so you can see firsthand the gorgeous scenery we found in Ireland:
And here, our Irish chickies: Lorna (birthday girl) on the middle-left, and Laragh on the middle-right. We love them.
We're having an awesome time in Paris. Doing a whirlwind tour of the major sites tomorrow. Loving our hostess Betsy-- so fun to get to reunite with her again, after Chamonix!! We're in the final countdown now... Four more days!!
Jul 5, 2008
Ye Heavenly Lord, Grant Me the Stamina of an Irish Lass
Currently sitting at the kitchen table of one Lorna O'Neill while she counts up her 21st birthday money (currently at 1,600 euro-- apparently turning 21 is quite the lucrative occasion!), and Heidi sits beside me enjoying minestrone soup and homemade soda bread. How much do we love being in a home in a small Irish town with a darling Irish family? Quite a bit.
A run down of our time in the Emerald Isle thus far:
June 3rd, 6:30pm: Arrived in Cork, landed down at our hostel. Finagled some cell phone use from the beautiful Russian desk keeper; texted our other Irish friend Laragh to let her know we'd arrived. Called her then on a pay phone in the lobby and had several frantic unsuccessful tries with the foreign machines. WORK, damn ye! Enjoyed a Guinness and a cidre at the hostel bar during which we said several times to each other WE ARE IN IRELAND HEEEEY; then met up then with Laragh and her boyfriend, Brian. Caught up as best as could be accomplished while deciphering gloriously thick Irish accents.
June 4th, 5:30 am: Woke up to hideous loud snoring. Am I the only one this bothers? Looked around to see other five dorm-mates awake-- the girl beside me on the other top bed shook her hands over her head, GAAAH. Leaned over to tell the bald bearded perpetrator below me: 'Scuse me sir-- you're snoring quite loudly. Maybe you could sleep on your side?' Went back to bed.
7:30am: Heidi wakes up to find same bald, bearded man sitting in his underwear, all fleshy white and hairy, counting out pills and sorting through small metal things.
8:00am: I wake up to see same bald, bearded man on the floor, clothed in skimpy shorts, taking things out of his wallet and putting them back in. Oh the glorious random world of hostels.
10:00am: Meet up with Laragh; explore Cork. She shows us a SPECTACULAR discount store, and I buy everything. Almost.
1:00pm: Start the drive to Cork with Laragh's boyfriend Brian. Drive down windy, skinny Irish roads at 80 mph. Not kidding. I was watching the speedometer, and there was a miles guage as WELL as a kilometer guage. I focus on distant green hills and try to lapse into daydreams to quiet my protesting tummy.
5:00pm: Meet Laragh's family. Have tea, with biscuits and tarts. Look out the window every five minutes and exclaim yet again over the unbelievably beautiful view we have of the coast and the rugged green before it. Have brown bread and fresh, wild, barbequed salmon. Watch a misty gale take over the sky, and then watch it whip the land outside with fierce winds and rain. Shiver with delight. Shivery shiver.
9:30pm: Get ready for the birthday bash. We are gorgeous. And rain-coated.
10:30pm: Arrive at the birthday party, which is at a pub PACKED with Irish lads and lasses. Also parents, and grand-parents, and small children. There's a one man band in the corner, and pints crash together in toasts every five minutes. Whisky! Guinness! Cidre! Rum! Pints! Half-pints! Gallons! Buckets!
June 5th, 12:00am: Heidi is romanced by a 18-year-old who is crushed to learn she's engaged. I am romanced by a 25-year-old who can't seem to remember I'm nursing a dislocated shoulder when he ineptly tries to dance with me. We make friends, and immediately forget their names. Lorna is given 21 kisses by 21 blokes, and is made to do a hilarious dance with a willing male participant.
1:00am: They play Springsteen's "BOOORRN IN THE USA!!" and Heidi and I point to ourselves, happily. Others do too. Everyone knows each other here, and it's easy to spot the foreigners-- we are Lorna's American friends that everyone has heard about. Haha!
2:00am: I am fading, and watch the chattering, giggling 7-year-olds around me in disbelief. How are they standing??
3:00am: The music has stopped, but the party is still moving forward with gusto, and people are going back to the bar for drinks. Heidi and I stand bleary-eyed in a corner, half-heartedly dealing with Romancers One and Two.
3:30am: Lorna's mom is leaving with her 9-year-old sister, and Heidi and I jump at the chance to go home too. We crawl into bed at 4:00am, exhausted.
12:30pm: Wake up. Have breakfast/lunch with Lorna's mom and younger siblings-- she apparently is still at the pub, or a house nearby. Breakfast is cereal with tea, and fresh soda bread and marmalade. Yay. Yay for Irish food. Yay.
1:30pm: Go for a walk together out towards the coast and feel overwhelmed. No wonder Ireland is still full of folklore and legends-- this is the stuff of fairy tales! Everything is LUSH, and green, and gorgeous-- the hills are rolling, the stones rise up, the water looms blue and wild. We see wild flowers everywhere-- shy wild fushias, gentle foxgloves, cackling thistles, eager butter-cups, and so many more I can't name. It's unbelievable. It's beautiful. I have been to Ireland before and remember it as one of my favorites-- once again, I find myself besotted.
3:00pm: Lorna arrives home and informs us she wasn't able to get to bed until "Half six." She tells us not to worry though-- we'll take naps, and shower, and have some coffee so that we can go out again for the REALLY big party tonight which will leave the old folks and kidlins at home. What? Another one?? A BIGGER one??
God, give us strength!
A run down of our time in the Emerald Isle thus far:
June 3rd, 6:30pm: Arrived in Cork, landed down at our hostel. Finagled some cell phone use from the beautiful Russian desk keeper; texted our other Irish friend Laragh to let her know we'd arrived. Called her then on a pay phone in the lobby and had several frantic unsuccessful tries with the foreign machines. WORK, damn ye! Enjoyed a Guinness and a cidre at the hostel bar during which we said several times to each other WE ARE IN IRELAND HEEEEY; then met up then with Laragh and her boyfriend, Brian. Caught up as best as could be accomplished while deciphering gloriously thick Irish accents.
June 4th, 5:30 am: Woke up to hideous loud snoring. Am I the only one this bothers? Looked around to see other five dorm-mates awake-- the girl beside me on the other top bed shook her hands over her head, GAAAH. Leaned over to tell the bald bearded perpetrator below me: 'Scuse me sir-- you're snoring quite loudly. Maybe you could sleep on your side?' Went back to bed.
7:30am: Heidi wakes up to find same bald, bearded man sitting in his underwear, all fleshy white and hairy, counting out pills and sorting through small metal things.
8:00am: I wake up to see same bald, bearded man on the floor, clothed in skimpy shorts, taking things out of his wallet and putting them back in. Oh the glorious random world of hostels.
10:00am: Meet up with Laragh; explore Cork. She shows us a SPECTACULAR discount store, and I buy everything. Almost.
1:00pm: Start the drive to Cork with Laragh's boyfriend Brian. Drive down windy, skinny Irish roads at 80 mph. Not kidding. I was watching the speedometer, and there was a miles guage as WELL as a kilometer guage. I focus on distant green hills and try to lapse into daydreams to quiet my protesting tummy.
5:00pm: Meet Laragh's family. Have tea, with biscuits and tarts. Look out the window every five minutes and exclaim yet again over the unbelievably beautiful view we have of the coast and the rugged green before it. Have brown bread and fresh, wild, barbequed salmon. Watch a misty gale take over the sky, and then watch it whip the land outside with fierce winds and rain. Shiver with delight. Shivery shiver.
9:30pm: Get ready for the birthday bash. We are gorgeous. And rain-coated.
10:30pm: Arrive at the birthday party, which is at a pub PACKED with Irish lads and lasses. Also parents, and grand-parents, and small children. There's a one man band in the corner, and pints crash together in toasts every five minutes. Whisky! Guinness! Cidre! Rum! Pints! Half-pints! Gallons! Buckets!
June 5th, 12:00am: Heidi is romanced by a 18-year-old who is crushed to learn she's engaged. I am romanced by a 25-year-old who can't seem to remember I'm nursing a dislocated shoulder when he ineptly tries to dance with me. We make friends, and immediately forget their names. Lorna is given 21 kisses by 21 blokes, and is made to do a hilarious dance with a willing male participant.
1:00am: They play Springsteen's "BOOORRN IN THE USA!!" and Heidi and I point to ourselves, happily. Others do too. Everyone knows each other here, and it's easy to spot the foreigners-- we are Lorna's American friends that everyone has heard about. Haha!
2:00am: I am fading, and watch the chattering, giggling 7-year-olds around me in disbelief. How are they standing??
3:00am: The music has stopped, but the party is still moving forward with gusto, and people are going back to the bar for drinks. Heidi and I stand bleary-eyed in a corner, half-heartedly dealing with Romancers One and Two.
3:30am: Lorna's mom is leaving with her 9-year-old sister, and Heidi and I jump at the chance to go home too. We crawl into bed at 4:00am, exhausted.
12:30pm: Wake up. Have breakfast/lunch with Lorna's mom and younger siblings-- she apparently is still at the pub, or a house nearby. Breakfast is cereal with tea, and fresh soda bread and marmalade. Yay. Yay for Irish food. Yay.
1:30pm: Go for a walk together out towards the coast and feel overwhelmed. No wonder Ireland is still full of folklore and legends-- this is the stuff of fairy tales! Everything is LUSH, and green, and gorgeous-- the hills are rolling, the stones rise up, the water looms blue and wild. We see wild flowers everywhere-- shy wild fushias, gentle foxgloves, cackling thistles, eager butter-cups, and so many more I can't name. It's unbelievable. It's beautiful. I have been to Ireland before and remember it as one of my favorites-- once again, I find myself besotted.
3:00pm: Lorna arrives home and informs us she wasn't able to get to bed until "Half six." She tells us not to worry though-- we'll take naps, and shower, and have some coffee so that we can go out again for the REALLY big party tonight which will leave the old folks and kidlins at home. What? Another one?? A BIGGER one??
God, give us strength!
Jul 4, 2008
Last Post is Finished Now!
And will hopefully make more sense, provide more humor, enjoyment, etc.
We are now in Ireland, after a (mostly) seamless day of travel! The one hiccup came at check-in for Ryan Air, when we realized we would have to check not only Heidi's back pack but also my guitar... 60 euros later... Ouch.
Today we go to a teeny town on the southern Irish coast called Castletownbere for-- what? A birthday party!! Which won't involve fireworks unfortunately, but should involve plenty of festive behavior. And Guinness. Definitely Guinness.
More to come later!
We are now in Ireland, after a (mostly) seamless day of travel! The one hiccup came at check-in for Ryan Air, when we realized we would have to check not only Heidi's back pack but also my guitar... 60 euros later... Ouch.
Today we go to a teeny town on the southern Irish coast called Castletownbere for-- what? A birthday party!! Which won't involve fireworks unfortunately, but should involve plenty of festive behavior. And Guinness. Definitely Guinness.
More to come later!
Jul 2, 2008
Another Photo Montage for Your Privileged Viewing Enjoyment:
Bonjour mes amis.
We are back in France.
Which.
We.
LOVE.
Italy was gorgeous. How many times have I been told that the Cinque Terre is some of the most gorgeous terrain on this earth? Many times indeed, she nodded emphatically to herself. And it was! But let me tell you something friends. With Italy? Come Italians. And with Cinque Terre? Comes a 5 hour layover for a train connection through Hell-- one that map makers seem to think is known by the deceptively benign title of La Spezia. She shuddered, and gagged-- throwing up just a tiny bit in her mouth. Then resumed typing.
You really want to know my honest feelings about La Effing Spezia? Here. In technicolor:
Okay, but we'll get to that in a minute. First the good things about our Italian soiree, which-- all in all-- made dealing with even La Spezia worth it.
We have the beach---that there yonder is the first of the 5 Terre, called Riomaggiore:
Well, rocks more so than beach, but still-- a spot to incur sunburns galore:
We have the spectacular views from the hike: -- WHAT viws!!
The mid-hike luncheon with our darling friends Sherry (left) and Amanda. Oh-- the girl in the middle? That would be Heid Beid. Who, as we have discovered, has an amazing aptitude for falling asleep ANYWHERE. A true spiritual gift when traveling! Luckily we found a place that didn't mind our profusely sweating, gasping, sports bra/bathing-suit-clad selves.
Heidi felt a little more bashful when we finished the hike and were heading to dinner, so did what she could to add a demure cover up to her hiking ensemble. One REI quick dry towel later, and the lady was ready for the ball. Or, at least for a glass. :)
And-- I told you about the angels, here they are. The most magical moment of our Cinque Terre stay:
A few other friends we met at the new hostel-- you know, the one up the cliff:
We went into town and watched the final Eurocup Game with these fine gents, who were all surprised at how old I was. 'You started playing guitar when you were in your THIRD year of college?? I haven't even LIVED that yet!!' Thanks boys. Thanks.
Now the icky parts of our Italian adventure. I GIVE YOU, THE MAN THONG:
THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENT OF HOW IT FEELS TO CLIMB OVER 200 STAIRS TO GO TO BEDDIE BYE:
THE SIGN IN LA EFFING SPEZIA WHICH I RAN INTO THAT DID ITS BEST TO RE-DISLOCATE MY SHOULDER:
THE LAYOVER IN MILAN WHICH WAS IN A DIRTY, SMELLY, TRASH-FILLED STATION, WHICH WAS EXTENDED BY 40 MINUTES DUE TO A DELAYED TRAIN:
THE BIZARRE SLEEPING SITUATION ON THE WEIRD TRAIN THAT RESULTED IN TWO SWEDISH MEN SLEEPING 16 INCHES ABOVE US, AND ARM RESTS JUTTING DOWN INTO OUR MID-SECTIONS:
What you don't see is the two hours we spent wandering La Spezia in 100 degree heat, looking for an internet cafe. You don't see the eight sets of wrong directions we received on the way. You don't see the nickel sized blister on my right heel, or the three little ones on my left. You don't see the countless Italians who romantically mauled each other, and then were crazy rude to us. You don't see the 38 plus hours of travel it took us to get from Cinque Terre to our current spot, Rennes. You don't see Heidi and I waiting for our first lay over in La Spezia to END, consoling ourselves with ice cream and singing, 'We! Both! Hate! La Spay-zia! It drives! Us! Eff-ing Cray-zia!' Except, I'll be honest-- we didn't censor ourselves. We dropped the actual F bomb, many times. We were FUDGING FED UP.
But now, ah, tres bien mes amis!! We are back in France! Back in the land of patisseries and lovely accents!! Back where I know how to communicate just a little! Back where ticket men on trains will cheerfully chat with us about where we're from, and our travel plans! Back where people keep their tongues reasonable distances away from other tongues, except presumably, behind closed doors! Back where there are lovely sights like Mont St. Michel to see!
We head to Ireland tomorrow (what?? I know, random!) to attend the birthday party of some darling Irish girls we first met in Nice. We anticipate a fantastic break in the language barrier, and plenty of down home Irish culture. Then, back to Paris for a week (yay!!)and then home!!
Love to all-- thanks for reading! :)
We are back in France.
Which.
We.
LOVE.
Italy was gorgeous. How many times have I been told that the Cinque Terre is some of the most gorgeous terrain on this earth? Many times indeed, she nodded emphatically to herself. And it was! But let me tell you something friends. With Italy? Come Italians. And with Cinque Terre? Comes a 5 hour layover for a train connection through Hell-- one that map makers seem to think is known by the deceptively benign title of La Spezia. She shuddered, and gagged-- throwing up just a tiny bit in her mouth. Then resumed typing.
You really want to know my honest feelings about La Effing Spezia? Here. In technicolor:
Okay, but we'll get to that in a minute. First the good things about our Italian soiree, which-- all in all-- made dealing with even La Spezia worth it.
We have the beach---that there yonder is the first of the 5 Terre, called Riomaggiore:
Well, rocks more so than beach, but still-- a spot to incur sunburns galore:
We have the spectacular views from the hike: -- WHAT viws!!
The mid-hike luncheon with our darling friends Sherry (left) and Amanda. Oh-- the girl in the middle? That would be Heid Beid. Who, as we have discovered, has an amazing aptitude for falling asleep ANYWHERE. A true spiritual gift when traveling! Luckily we found a place that didn't mind our profusely sweating, gasping, sports bra/bathing-suit-clad selves.
Heidi felt a little more bashful when we finished the hike and were heading to dinner, so did what she could to add a demure cover up to her hiking ensemble. One REI quick dry towel later, and the lady was ready for the ball. Or, at least for a glass. :)
And-- I told you about the angels, here they are. The most magical moment of our Cinque Terre stay:
A few other friends we met at the new hostel-- you know, the one up the cliff:
We went into town and watched the final Eurocup Game with these fine gents, who were all surprised at how old I was. 'You started playing guitar when you were in your THIRD year of college?? I haven't even LIVED that yet!!' Thanks boys. Thanks.
Now the icky parts of our Italian adventure. I GIVE YOU, THE MAN THONG:
THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENT OF HOW IT FEELS TO CLIMB OVER 200 STAIRS TO GO TO BEDDIE BYE:
THE SIGN IN LA EFFING SPEZIA WHICH I RAN INTO THAT DID ITS BEST TO RE-DISLOCATE MY SHOULDER:
THE LAYOVER IN MILAN WHICH WAS IN A DIRTY, SMELLY, TRASH-FILLED STATION, WHICH WAS EXTENDED BY 40 MINUTES DUE TO A DELAYED TRAIN:
THE BIZARRE SLEEPING SITUATION ON THE WEIRD TRAIN THAT RESULTED IN TWO SWEDISH MEN SLEEPING 16 INCHES ABOVE US, AND ARM RESTS JUTTING DOWN INTO OUR MID-SECTIONS:
What you don't see is the two hours we spent wandering La Spezia in 100 degree heat, looking for an internet cafe. You don't see the eight sets of wrong directions we received on the way. You don't see the nickel sized blister on my right heel, or the three little ones on my left. You don't see the countless Italians who romantically mauled each other, and then were crazy rude to us. You don't see the 38 plus hours of travel it took us to get from Cinque Terre to our current spot, Rennes. You don't see Heidi and I waiting for our first lay over in La Spezia to END, consoling ourselves with ice cream and singing, 'We! Both! Hate! La Spay-zia! It drives! Us! Eff-ing Cray-zia!' Except, I'll be honest-- we didn't censor ourselves. We dropped the actual F bomb, many times. We were FUDGING FED UP.
But now, ah, tres bien mes amis!! We are back in France! Back in the land of patisseries and lovely accents!! Back where I know how to communicate just a little! Back where ticket men on trains will cheerfully chat with us about where we're from, and our travel plans! Back where people keep their tongues reasonable distances away from other tongues, except presumably, behind closed doors! Back where there are lovely sights like Mont St. Michel to see!
We head to Ireland tomorrow (what?? I know, random!) to attend the birthday party of some darling Irish girls we first met in Nice. We anticipate a fantastic break in the language barrier, and plenty of down home Irish culture. Then, back to Paris for a week (yay!!)and then home!!
Love to all-- thanks for reading! :)
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