Sometimes it Rains in Portland

View from the Top

2010-03-23T10:55:00.004+03:00

I spend the days spinning and spinning myself around and around in a blur of craziness, tunneling further and further straight down. And, every night I climb back up, straight up. Sometimes I run. Sometimes I only have the energy to walk. I might pass a slow jogger in flip-flops. Or I might get passed by a sprinting whirl of spandex and chiseled muscles lunging and jumping up the hill. We have only sweat, struggle and determination in common.

At the top I stop to take in the view. The air is clear. The breeze is cool. I turn up my music and tune out. Hills doted with houses and high-rises roll along the horizon until they drip into the calm blue of Lake Victoria. I imagine taking a step off the hill. Falling for just a moment, until the wind catches and empowers me. Floating among the eagles and jet planes. Everything below me is small and inconsequential.

Only an orange sky can redirect my wandering mind. I turn, again facing the road I came up. Someplaces paved, always potholed and rough. My sweat stained clothes cling to my aching muscles. I smile at the others just arriving, fresh out of breath. Again tomorrow we’ll each leave our homes, our offices, emerging from behind big heavy gates. Tired and defeated, we’ll head up, straight up. Because the view from the top is always worth the climb.

I need carreer counseling...or maybe just counseling

2010-03-09T10:54:00.002+03:00

I have writer’s block. This happened shortly after I decided I wanted to be a writer. I like the idea of people asking me what I do and I say “I’m a writer.” It beats “uh…well…I don’t really do anything.” Or, “I’m currently a professional volunteer. What? No, I’m not 85, why do you ask?” Or, simply “I’m a slacker.”

Of course, the response “I’m a writer” is usually followed by “what have you written?” “Well, most recently I self-published a moving piece on tiny pools and phallic doughnuts.” Potential new friend slowly moves away…

It’s safe to say that whatever random career I try out next, I will hate it. I want to be an aid worker. I hate aid work. I want to be a writer. I have writer’s block. I want to be a surgeon. I will quite five minutes into my first surgery. “Can someone sew this guy back up?…I’m just not feeling this.” Just like I wanted to be a real estate investor. And, now I really wish my portfolio would burn down.

I just like the idea of doing things. I really don’t like to actually do them. I’m an ideas person. I’m not an implementer. I’ll come up with great ideas like the corner dishwasher; you go out and figure out how to make it happen. My only concern is that it be profitable. No, let’s just break even. The most important thing is that the factory be shaped like a giant corner dishwasher. I’ll have a legacy of unprofitable bars, coffee shops, housing developments, family-friendly strip clubs and dishwasher factories. And, I will have visited none of them. I’ll be too busy volunteering – stuck on some desolate island counting endangered sea turtle eggs, complaining daily and slowly developing a hatred for all sea life and the environment in general.

Having Fun

2010-02-01T11:36:00.000+03:00

It was after the lost and found chicken viewing, after the cockroach infestation, after the stool sample debacle, after the murky fish pond incident, after the second-degree flaming-building-burn that I received the email asking if I was “having fun over there.”

Am I having fun over here? I thought it seemed like a bit of an exaggeration as I stood in my workout clothes staring at the bare light bulb and dirty white walls of my bedroom. Somewhere I had once seen that you burn a fair amount of calories standing. So I stood, pondering, in my running shoes and sports bra.

I’m not not having fun. But, if I’m not not having fun, does that mean by default that I’m having fun? “I’m having an experience over here.” No, that sounds like something George Costanza would say in a panicky voice while flapping his arms. I flapped my arms a little bit and laughed out loud. I feared I might be loosing my mind. And I had definitely over-exerted myself.

I lay down on my neatly made bed. Someone came in every morning to make my bed, clean my bathroom, do my dishes, and wash my clothes. In the meantime, I sat alone at an expansive conference table and typed away on my keyboard. I had fallen into a weekend routine of coffee, lunch, shopping and then dinner or drinks with friends. I had bought overpriced books and borrowed movies for weekday evenings alone. I had started swimming or walking Tank Hill Road after work. It all seemed like not such a bad gig. But, was it fun?

I had started my workouts of swimming, walking to and from the gelato stand, or hardcore standing after my final pair of jeans failed to button. From the bed I could see the neatly washed and folded pile of jeans in my closet. They sat, waiting for the standing – now lying – to melt away the pounds. I normally like to workout, actually. But, the heat and constant illnesses have kept my energy and motivation low.

And, then it hit me. I imagined the frustration of pulling on my too-tight jeans while taking a deep deep breath into order to zip them up. They weren’t perfect. But, with a longish shirt, they were good enough. Not too dissimilar from my feelings about Kampala. Kampala is frustrating at times; it’s not a perfect fit. But, I’ve squeezed myself in and am making the most of it. I’m enjoying my time here. However, I’m still looking forward to the next city – one where I just slip in and have everything button up nicely.

“Hey, great to hear from you!” I wrote. “Yeah, I’m having fun over here.”

Thanks for asking.

Revenge

2010-01-28T09:22:00.001+03:00

Wriggling, arms flailing in the air, I left him to die face up in the middle of my kitchen. I couldn’t eat breakfast. I didn’t want to watch him struggle. Besides, had he been perusing my breakfast cereal in the night? His legs moved slower and slower each time I walked by to check on him. I assumed it was only a matter of time before he would stop moving all together. And, then, he was gone. Did he manage to right himself? Had someone else assisted in flipping him over? Or, had someone had the decency to put him out of his misery and dispose of the body? I looked for evidence of murder. A blood splatter. Body parts in the trash. Nothing. I looked around at the suspects. Only innocent faces stared back at me. I couldn’t ask about him. They’d all know I’d seen him and not done anything. Did they kill him? Or, had he gotten away? I started to panic. Would he come back for revenge? Something touched my leg and I jumped with a little screech. “Everything OK?” Andrew asked. “Yep.” I said dancing on my tiptoes. He gave me a strange look as I half-ran out of the building. Maybe it was the entire season of Homicide I watched late into the night. But, I just couldn’t shake the feeling he’d come back for revenge. When I least expect, I’ll turn around and there he’ll be: the 4-inch long, 2-inch wide cockroach. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

Livestock Practices of Karamoja

2010-01-15T16:37:00.002+03:00

Before I left I had a conversation with a friend about the adjustment period for living in a new country. It’s like a bell curve. Initially, you love it; then, you hate it; then, back to loving it. I’m on the upward slope to “hating it”. I miss good food. And decent transportation. And my friends. And good food. And, did I mention good food?

FOOOOOOOOOOOD.

Sure. I should be humbled by the fact that I’m in Karamoja for ten days. These are the people who live on one meal a day. But, now I’m wondering – is it from lack of access to food? Or, is it because the food here sucks? I’m down to one meal a day, too. And, if I could live, I’d be down to zero.

Dear Cliff,

How are you?

I’m dying here. So are other people. But, mostly, this is about me.

Please send bars immediately.

Thank you.

Love, Kristy

I have two granola bars and 14 cashew nuts left from the food I brought from Kampala. I have approximately five days left, so I’ll split the granola bars into threes, and ration the nuts – 2.25 per day. That combined with one meal of chewy meat and rice should suffice.

But, don’t get me wrong, I am adjusting to life in livestock country just fine. Meat hanging out in the open swarmed by flies? Sure. Four goat legs (disclaimer: goat body not included) lying in a shop doorway? Why not? Bull head (same disclaimer) lying next to a signpost looking my way? Well, hello there handsome.

A few nights ago there was a gathering in the courtyard of my guesthouse. Lots of men in traditional Karamoja dress. Colorful draped fabric and sometimes a cool hat with feather. Loud talking and one louder preacher. A fire is started. A cow appears. A metal sheet is set next to the cow. Oh dear. The cow is alive. The cow is not so much alive. The cow is roasting on the open fire. I contemplate vegetarianism.

Oh, yeah, I’m just fine. This is fun. Really, really fun.

Basic Photography 101

2010-01-06T15:47:00.006+03:00

Oh, what!? You can't tell that's a silverback gorilla? Do you have vision problems? Have you been drinking? Oh, wait, that's right, my camera choose to refuse to focus for the four hours that directly corresponded to my four hours in the jungle with the mountain gorillas. No problem, really, it's only a once in a lifetime opportunity not captured on film. No big deal. Just because there are only 640 left on Earth...and they're not in any zoos...really, that's OK. I don't need photos. It's burned in my memory. And, I have a nice little certificate to frame on my wall...next to twenty hazy photos of blurry black things among green stuff. Brilliant. Fuck you Art Wolfe; you have nothing on my photographic genius.

Rudolph in Red-Earthed Africa

2009-12-21T12:55:00.004+03:00

“I can see the wind is disturbing your hair,” the driver says. “It’s no problem,” I reply. My hair, now a knotted mess tied loosely behind my head, is indeed being disturbed. The blowtorch hot wind slaps against my face as it rips and torments my hair. The African sun pierces my exposed skin through the open window. The radio blares techno versions of Christmas songs as we fly down the red-earthed road. The pickup jostles over bumps and swerves in violent bursts to avoid the crater-like potholes. “Do you know this song?” I ask, “Rudolph, he’s a red-nosed reindeer.” “A reindeer with a red nose?” he asks curiously. He turns up the volume. We careen past bicycles that seem to be moving in slow motion, weighed down by oversized loads and small children. Somewhere in the world children are fast asleep tucked under heavy warm blankets. It is snowing in the dark of night. The moon reflects off the crisp white snow, illuminating pine trees littered with decorations. But here, there are no pine trees. The blue sky is vast and unending. It’s as though we could drive for days and the landscape would never change. We are almost airborne now as we chase towards the sun faster and faster in hopes of an endless day. I lay my head against the back of the seat. “Then one foggy Christmas eve...” rolls around in my sun scorched head. It all feels neither normal nor abnormal. It just is.

Anywhere but Bubbles

2009-12-11T12:58:00.004+03:00

"Anywhere but Bubbles" my friend requests. I ask around and get a few recommendations. They all seemed very Bubbles-ish. I had heard that the Kabalagala district could be really fun. I had also heard that it could be dangerous late at night. I was told not to go alone, be careful, etc., etc. It's a popular area for picking up sex workers. People occasionally get shot. That's OK, I think, as long as it's not me getting into trouble.

We meet at Capital Pub. (www.capitalpub.com) It's a huge bar, with three different levels. It is a little after 7pm. The bar is totally dead. There are maybe ten people scattered about. We have a beer, play an embarrassing game of pool (well, embarrassing for me) and then decide to go eat.

I want to try a Belgian place across from the US Embassy, so we decide to check it out. My friend seems to know where we are going, so I just follow along as we walk farther and farther up a relatively small, busy and very dark street. Finally, "OK, here's the Embassy." We're at the back. We need to be at the front. Why would it be on a desolate side street behind the embassy? The only way to the other side is back the way we came. "I am not supposed to take boda bodas," I say as we stand at the side of the road starring, but not moving, in the direction from which we came. "I know you're not." A boda boda pulls up. We look at each other.

Dinner was good, although I'm not sure what makes it Belgian. The Italian wine? The African king prawns? The fat drips over the top of my uncomfortably tight jeans. I know I shouldn't eat so much, but it isn't rice and beans and all things starchy and white and I just can't help myself. I know I shouldn't drink so much, but I'm having fun pairing celebrities with the wine - it's fresh, fruity and crisp like Zooey Deschanel - and I loose track of how much I've had.

A few beers and a bottle of wine later, we're back at the Capital Pub via an undisclosed mode of transportation. It is now who knows what time and the bar is packed. We are the only muzungus. We look around unable to tell who the prostitutes are and who's just out for a night on the town. We finish our beers and decide every woman must be a prostitute. "I like generalizations" my friend says, "and pop music." "You must be able to at least appreciate the Back Street Boys, right?" No, I think, but now the confessions are flowing as easily as the alcohol. I start to discuss phallic doughnuts. We've already plotted a money-making mass suicide cult.

The clock reads 4:44, but that surely can't be right.

At 9:30am a large white SUV pulls up to my gate. The back door opens. I get out. The guard is chatting with my co-worker out front. No one is ever out front. They look at me curiously. I think about trying to explain myself. Then I remember the more you protest, the guiltier you appear. I smile and walk inside. It's possible I had an early meeting. ...wearing the clothes I wore yesterday. ...alcohol and smoke emanating from my every pore.

I walk out of my bedroom and sit down at my desk. Same shirt. Fresh skirt. It's now 9:45. I am an hour and 45 minutes late. "Good Morning!" she says as she flips off her shoes and glides over to my desk. "Are you busy working?" She is smiling. Is it a sly smile, I wonder. "It's not as bad as it looks," I want to say. But, instead, "You look pretty today". And, she does look pretty. "Thank you." Another smile. Fingers tap my desktop. I look up and smile innocently.

Yes, I think to myself, Kabalagala is very dangerous...all kinds of people getting into all kinds of trouble.

'Tis the Season...for Robbery

2009-12-05T15:44:00.001+03:00

Apparently, crime increases in Kampala in December. Nothing says "I love you" like breaking and entering, stealing, selling stolen items on the black market and then purchasing gifts for your loved ones. That's what the holiday spirit is all about, right?

So, last night at about 2:00am our guard, Moses, was on the other side of the compound when three men crawled over the wall 15 feet from my bedroom window. I'm not sure how, as there are spirals of sharp barbed wire around the entire high walled compound. When Moses saw them, he locked himself into the other building and called for 'back-up', which is protocol. It is also protocol to text me what's going on and what to do, but I didn't have my phone. In addition, I had accidentally left my guest house unlocked. Whoops. Anyway, after lots of phone calls between MC and the police - similar to "where are you?", "we're there", "uh, no you're not" - they finally showed up. The perps had left the scene by then, of course. (Like my police lingo?) Apparently, the police had to go back to their 'station' (a.k.a. sad little shack) to get a vehicle and, you know, other things.

I'd love to tell you about how my adrenaline soared in both excitement and fear...or something like that. But, no. I slept through the whole thing. When I got up in the morning Moses was at my door to tell me the whole thing. He seemed excited. When I told him I'd left my door unlocked, he laughed and said "what!? I could have come in with you!" I imagined us siting on my bed eating chocolate and waiting for the police to arrive.

Spa Day

2009-12-04T15:51:00.001+03:00

Yesterday I left work early and went for a pedicure and manicure, shopping and then dinner and drinks with the intern from Pader, who was in town for the day. I know it doesn't sound super exciting, but it was so nice to have a little pampering! (And, all for only about $14.) It doesn't take long to have feet so rough and hard that they are actually tougher than your flip flops. She told me a great story about how the manager for her office came up to her one morning and said "I hope you don't mind, but I've hired someone to come in and deal with your feet." An hour later a guy showed up with a bucket of beauty supplies. This is, by the way, is in a tiny little town in Northern Uganda. I'm just waiting for the day a make-up artist and hair stylist show up at the office for me.

Bacon Maple Bars

2009-12-02T10:33:00.002+03:00

There's nothing I enjoy more than rolling out of bed at 7:00am after a restful three hours of sleep. I feel refreshed and completely ready for the day. Not a single fucking person is annoying me in any way. You want to chat on my porch and listen to Whitney Houston on repeat? Awesome. That sounds great. Let's do that. That is in no way distracting me from my work. Oh, wait, I'm not working. I'm blogging. Carry on, then. However, let's be clear. When my work isn't finished on time or in a acceptable fashion it will, of course, completely be your fault. Yours and Whitney Houston's.

Anyway, now that we have successful placed blame for my own inadequacies onto a washed up 80's pop star... we can move on.

I recently had the following conversation:

Me: "[bla bla bla bla] my blog."
Not Me: "You have a blog?"
Me: "Oh, it's terrible. It has no nutritional value."

No nutritional value? I don't even know what I was attempting to say. But, at 4:00am, the conversation popped back into my head. At the same time my stomach was thinking "if we're awake anyway, why can't we be eating?", my brain was thinking "what kind of food might my blog be, were it food?"

Yes, that's right. This is going to be one of those 4:00am posts.

The consistent issue I have with my blog is this: I really want it to be an arugula and baby romaine salad with candied walnuts, dried cranberries and raspberry vinaigrette topped with plank-smoked salmon. The kind of meal you might dress up for, or, at least eat at the table. However, the reality is that my blog is a boxed Betty Crocker cake with Totino's frozen pizzas dividing each layer and finished with globs of canned frosting. It's best enjoyed in lounge pants in front of late night TV infomercials.

I mean, here I am, finishing up writing a report on the food security issues in the Karamoja region of Uganda. I could write a powerful and interesting post about their struggles with drought and insecurity. I could. But, am I? No. And, I actually dribbled granola all over my keyboard while looking at a table showing what percentage of people ate only one meal a day (a majority). The granola was my second breakfast of the day.

No, you'll find no profound insights into the human struggle here. When I lie awake at night I think about things like the penis shaped doughnuts at VooDoo Doughnuts. Yep. I was trying to think of some disgusting food con-cock-ion (hahahaha-I'm 12!) and VooDoo came to mind.

"Let's get Pix Patisserie and champagne!" you say.

"Yes, let's!" I reply. Yet, my car steers us towards beer and doughnuts.

And, as we stand in line at VooDoo we laugh about the bacon maple bars and the penis shaped raised doughnuts.

"That's so gross!"

"Who would buy those?!"

But, secretly, I'm thinking "I would". And, I imagine dropping you off at your house and coming back for that doughy phallic goodness. I'd drive aimlessly around town in my 19MPG turbo charged wagon, blasting top 40 hits. I'd head north on Front Ave, flying by my condo going 70, popping off a glazed ball and throwing it in my mouth as I cackle with delight...

...wait, did I just reveal too much? Uh, no, no. That's disgusting. I have never done that. Nor would I ever do that. No. I like locally sourced fruits and veggies and indie alternative and public transportation. Yep. Totally.

I am arugula. I am not canned frosting.

The Power of Electricity

2009-11-28T11:28:00.002+03:00

A lot of the things we do in our daily lives requires electricity. I know. I just blew your mind.

I woke up this morning to a blackout. Well, it wasn't really a black out, because it was day out. But, you know what I mean. First of all, I couldn't boil water for tea or coffee. Which, right there, can ruin a whole day of potential productivity. However, I'm not above sucking instant coffee straight out of it's pouch and chasing it with cold water. Remember, in college I'm the girl who chased whiskey with a glob of peanut butter on her finger. I'm resourceful. And classy.

Second, I didn't want to pull anything out of the fridge in order to conserve the cold. Although, I later found out that everything had frozen in the night, so it wouldn't have been a problem. But, I unknowingly ate plain granola with a spoon.

Uhm...so no cooking, no boiling water, no internet...what else? Well, this is turning out to be a fantastic post. I guess I don't do anything requiring electricity. Probably because I don't do anything period. My exciting plans for the weekend include going to the gym, the pool, the bookstore, and the mobile phone outlet. That's it. Oh, and getting some work done.

I started work a few days ago. For those of you who were unable to follow my confusing path to this point: I'm working for Mercy Corps in Kampala as a Information/Grants Officer. I am living at the compound. You walk out my bedroom door and the kitchen is to the left and my office is to the right. Amazingly, I have had no problems making it to work on time thus far.

Only one other person works in my little office and he's out of town for two or three more weeks. Everyone else works in the main building. I feel a little isolated; and, so far I've been a bit confused about what's going on. Partly it's due to the isolation, but mostly - I hope - it's just the newness of the whole situation.

In the evenings and on weekends it's just me and the guards - and maybe a gardener. The garden is really pretty and it will be nice to have the place to myself. I also discovered a gym and pool down the street, and I can always go to the Irish pub (Bubbles) if I need evening entertainment. But, for a while anyway, I really need to save some cash. I want to use the opportunity to get some work done, first of all. I really want to do a good a job here. Plus, what better excuse to read books I've wanted to read, learn a second language, write, work on projects in Portland, etc, etc.

Then, when I have some cash, I won't feel bad about taking a long weekend to go on safari or track mountain gorillas or whatever tickles my fancy.

Bed Bugs: Part II

2009-11-23T15:08:00.002+03:00

My day started around 1:30am with men pounding on my door. I hadn't really been asleep, as I was constantly awakened by the sensation of being bitten. I was sure that couldn't be the case, however. I was just being paranoid. I had switched beds and loaded on the bug repellent. And, not just any bug repellent - the good stuff. The stuff with "how to store pesticides" information on the back label. The stuff that burns through plastic. Yet, I kept feeling something on my leg.

Then, loud knocking.

I ignore it.

More loud knocking.

Go away! I silently scream.

"Kristy!?" KRISTY!?"

Are you fucking kidding me?

More knocking, more name yelling.

“YES!?” I yell back.

“Kristy, hello! Do you know where Tom is?”, it’s Jerry yelling through the door.

“NO! I have no idea!”

“OK, thank you. Sorry.”

For fuck’s sake, I think. Why would I know where Tom was? Did they think he was in here with me? How insulting.

Tom and Jerry’s real names are not Tom and Jerry. I’ve changed their name for anonymity. And, because I can’t remember what their names really are. I met them earlier in the day at the pool. The tiny pool was way over capacity at 8 people sitting around the edge. As much as I tried to ignore them and read my book in peace, it was a bit hard when we were elbow to elbow.

tiny pool photo, as requested

“Kristy, do you learn through reading or through life?” Jerry asks.

“Uhm, both?” I say.

He gives me a smug look.

“You don’t think you can do both?” I say.

“I like to learn out there” he says as he waves his hand around.

“So, you’re not much of a reader?” I say condescendingly.

Another smug look.

What? What was that about?

Then Tom offers me a beer, almost as if to apologize for his friend. “What are you reading, Kristy?” he asks.

This is the begining of a series of questions that last until about 10:30pm. (I met them at around 3pm, mind you.) Tom and Jerry are Indians serving as UN Peacekeepers in Goma, DRC. They and their friends are on holiday in Uganda. Jerry is a civil engineer who I eventually found to be quite…civil. Tom has no idea what he wants to be, but is reading self-help books to find his way.

One thing I’ve found with many Indians is they ask a lot of questions. A lot of questions that Americans would typically not ask. Or, not immediately and in rapid succession anyway.

What’s your name? Are you married? Why not? How old are you? And, not married? Why? What does your father do? What does your mother do? How many brothers and sisters do you have? How old are they? Are they married? What do they do? Why are you not married? Do you want to get married? Do you have a boyfriend? Why not? Do you want a boyfriend? But, you don’t have one? Why not? Where are you from? Do you live with your parents? Why not? How often do you talk to them? How much money do you make? And on and on and on...

All the questions are asked in such a way that you can actually see them putting together a mental picture of who you are and what they think of you based on your marital status and the profession of your parents. You are being interviewed. It’s as though they are sizing you up for themselves, their brother, their son, whoever…

It can be very exhausting. However, I did have much else going on so I talked to them throughout the afternoon. And, I eventually went for an early evening walk with Tom and Jerry. They were pleasant enough company. We walked through a poorer shanty neighborhood up to richer larger walled houses higher on the hill.

Tom slapped backs and shook hands with everyone he saw in uniform. Maybe it’s some secret camaraderie among security-types, because the guys in uniform didn’t seem as annoyed with the whole thing as I did.

Jerry continued to ask questions that seemed to be designed to annoy me.

“It’s common knowledge that women cannot read maps. Do you find this to be true?”

This was shortly before Tom asked for direction back to Chili’s (complete with back slapping through the taxi window) as Jerry and I stood and waited for him under the big sign that said “Red Chili’s Hideaway” with an arrow.

When we got back Tom and Jerry invited me to go out with them later. They were going “discothèque hopping”. I was hesitant, but decided that it could be fun. So, I agreed.

I showered and got ready, planning to meet up with them and their other friends a bit later. When I opened my door to leave I found Tom standing right in front of me. Even then I was wishing he didn’t know what room was mine.

“Kristy. Hello.”

“Hi, where are your friends?” I ask, looking around.

“They are waiting for us at the bar.”

Oh, good, I thought.

“So, Kristy. If you were to take me somewhere, just you and me, where would you take me?”

Oh, not good, not good at all.

“Uhm, Bubbles, the Irish bar” I said, trying to think of somewhere he would hate.

“Oh, Bubbles, yes, we have been there. We shall go to Bubbles.”

Crap.

So, we walk in to the Red Chili’s lounge and his friends are sitting around the bar. Tom hands his room key to a friend and then starts speaking in Hindi as everyone stares at me. Fantastic.

“OK, Kristy. Let us go.” Tom says as he quickly starts walking out of the bar.

I’m speed walking along behind him firing questions.

“What about your friends?” “Are they coming?” “Do they know where we’re going?” “Shouldn’t we tell them?” “Yes, let’s go back and tell them.”

Finally, Tom reluctantly follows me back into the bar.

“Let’s go – Bubbles!” I say to Jerry, waving him out of his seat.

He stands as if he’s coming, but quickly his smile turns and he sits back down. I turn around to see what Tom is doing. He’s standing innocently behind me.

Fuck. I really don’t want to go out with this guy alone. It’s not that I think he’s going to try something…OK, I think he’s going to try something. However, I don’t find him threatening, just annoying.

On the taxi ride there he’s bear hugging the driver from behind asking him if he knows where Bubbles is. (Everyone knows Bubbles, by the way. And, no idea where the name Bubbles O’Leary came from.) The driver gives me a look. I’m up front with him. I had sidestepped Tom holding the back door open for me. The driver seems to have sized up the situation in about two minutes. And, I think he’s wondering what I’m doing. So, I am, buddy.

The driver pulls up to Bubbles and Tom gets out. “How much, my friend?”

“15,000.”

Tom hands him a dollar through the window and asks “do you have change, my friend?”

“That’s one dollar!” I say. (Note: although you can pay for things in dollars, 1,900 shillings is approximately $1.)

Tom’s still waving the dollar in front of the driver, who looks at me like “seriously?” but says “$10 or 15,000 shillings.”

Tom’s still waving the dollar. I’m still saying “that’s one dollar.”

Finally I pay in shillings and give the driver a look that I’m hoping says “Gun it! Quick!” But, his foot remains on the break until I get out.

Bubbles is dead. We have a pleasant talk over beer (me) and juice (him). I feel a little bad for not wanting to come initially. However, it annoys me that his friends conveniently never showed.

Then he says, “I like you. You’re simple. And, homely."

That’s really nice. Thanks. I make it clear that I have a strict bedtime of 10pm. And, luckily the bar closes at 10 on Sundays anyway.

At 10:01, after everyone else has left and the chairs are being stacked, Tom finally goes in to close the tab. All I can see from the patio is an annoyed bartender and a waving one-dollar bill in front of him.

“Language barrier,” Tom says as he comes out much later.

“I think it’s a math barrier,” I say under my breath.

We taxi back to Chili’s where people are still up and drinking. Sadly, I have that 10:00 bedtime and it’s already 10:30. Sorry, Tom, I really must get my beauty sleep.

As he’s veering off of the path to walk me to my door I quicken my pace. I know he doesn’t have his room key. It’s with his friends, and they’re long gone. “Goodnight! See you in the morning” I say as I practically start sprinting for my door.

He and his friends are leaving at 8:00am tomorrow morning. I’ve said that I will probably see him before he goes. But, frankly, if I don’t make it up, I don’t make it up.

That was why I was so annoyed that later his friends are banging on my door thinking he would be in my room with me! Seriously? It reminded me of someone in India who warned me once that “men here, they see American women in movies and they think they are very loose.” Lovely.

So, back to my late night wake up knock. After Jerry and friends leave, I can’t even pretend to sleep. I get up, switch on the light and look down. BUG BITES! NEW bug bites – all over my legs! How could that be? Well, there’s no way I’m getting back in bed now. I pick up my BlackBerry; the red light is blinking. One new email at 12:43. It’s Tom; he wants to be my Facebook friend.

I ignore the request and Google “bed bugs”. Wikipedia tells me everything I need to know about bed bugs, including photos. After an hour of research, I’m convinced that the whole room, including my suitcase is swimming in bedbugs. They’re everywhere. And, I’m trapped in my room. I can’t leave. Tom is out there somewhere, wanting to be my friend.

So, I stand in the middle of the room. For approximately four hours. Doing nothing. Just standing. It is the most minimum contact with the surroundings I can think of.

It’s now 5am. I move to sitting on the small side table. It’s wicker, and sags dramatically as I’m sitting.

5:30am. I awaken suddenly. A bed bug! I jump up. OK, it’s just a chip in the wall paint. I risk it and sit on the floor. I research new hotels – the more luxurious the better – on my Blackberry.

6:00am. I go through my luggage, picking up each piece of clothing. I scrutinize each piece, looking for any sign of bugs.

7:30am. I’m so freaking tired. I lay down on the cold hard concrete floor using a recently inspected pair of dirty jeans for a pillow. I’m cold, but wearing clothes seems dangerous. I finally fall asleep.

8:15am. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Are you fucking kidding me!!?

I stay silent.

KNOCK, KNOCK. “KRISTY!?” “KRIIIIIIISTY!?”

Go away!

More knocking, more yelling my name. It’s Tom this time.

So, first of all, my room is 10’x10’. Second, the window is open and the door is about 1” thick. And, third, you can tell if someone is in the room or not by how it’s locked. So, clearly I’m there. Clearly, I’m ignoring him.

After MORE name calling and knocking, finally I think he’s given up.

“Excuse me, miss? Yes, miss, will you please come here for a moment?” I hear him say.

“Yes?”, it is one of the housekeepers.

“Yes, thank you. Hello. Will you please knock on her door and ask for Kristy?” he says.

What the FUCK!?

“She must be there. She’s sleeping, I think. Don’t you think she’s sleeping?” the very reasonable woman says.

“But, it’s 8:15, she needs to get up,” Tom says.

“WHAT!?” I scream.

“Hello! Kristy! Yes, are you sleeping?”, Tom says.

“YES!”

“Are you getting up now?”

“NO!”

“Are you still sleeping?”

“YES!”

“OK, will you come out for a moment?”

“WHY!? WHAT?”

“Come out for a moment.”

“I’m sleeping! What?”

“Ah, I see you through the window. What are you doing on the floor?”

What!? Get the fuck out of my window.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I am leaving.”

“OK.”

“Will you get up?”

Silence.

“I am leaving.”

“OK.”

He stands outside for another minute at least and then leaves.

I hear the housekeepers snickering.

Am I a complete bitch? Yes. Is he fucking insane? Yes.

9:00am, I’m up and ready to check out.

I walk straight into the ‘private’ managers’ office.

“I need my credit card run. I would appreciate my last two night removed from my bill as I was eaten alive in my sleep,” I say as I shove my hideously disfigured arm in the manager’s face.

He recoils. I imagine a scene where I scream “You did this to me! Look at it! Look at it!” while pulling up my shirt and forcing him to see my bite riddled back. Unfortunately, it was unnecessary as he silently removed the nights from my bill.

My mood improves a bit as my taxi winds its way up through the hills. I call out roads I know like a crazy person. “This is the road Mercy Corps is on.” “Oh, that’s the corner my boda boda driver left me at.” “Hey, Tank Hill Road! I’ve been here!” In my defense, my driver seemed equally excited that I knew where we were.

Finally, at twelve noon, we pull up to a beautiful hotel overlooking Lake Victoria and Kampala. At $95 a night it’s totally out of my budget. I don’t care. That is why there are credit cards. For stupid people like me.

“You got here quickly,” the receptionist says with a smile.

“Yes, I was just at Red Chili’s when I called,” I say without thinking.

“Oh, I see.”

What does that mean? She knows! She saw the bites on my arms. She knows I’m riff raff. If I were a cartoon I’d have swarms around me like Pig Pen.

I am disgusting.

She smiles again and pulls my contaminated luggage down the hall to my room. It’s a beautiful room with…my own bathroom! As the door closes behind her, I sigh with relief.

I take everything out of the suitcase and put it away in the closet. Then, I take the hottest shower I can stand. I shave for the first time in weeks. I throw my on swimsuit and stand in front of the bathroom mirror. My entire back is covered it red welts. SO gross.

I put a ridiculous outfit on: Long sleeves. Pants. A scarf. It says, “hey, this 95 degree weather is pretty chilly, yes?”

It’s 1:30pm. I’m walking to the full size swimming pool. I lie down on a cushioned chaise lounge in the shade. I make eye contact with no one. Slowly, I start to feel human again.

Bed Bugs

2009-11-22T11:27:00.004+03:00

I woke up this morning with little red bites all over my back and arms. The women at the bar confirmed it: bed bugs! They laughed at the look on my face which basically said: Gross!!!!

No wonder I slept horribly! I was being eaten alive. Yucky! Make it go away! Ewwwwwwwww..

Anyhoo... I had another one of my reoccurring dreams regarding packing and luggage. I decided that I've had it enough lately that I should get to the bottom of what my brain is trying to tell me. I don't really believe that dreams can predict the future, but I do believe they are our subconscious's way of telling our conscious mind something. However, I don't quite know why the two can't communicate some other way than with cryptic messages sent through dreams.

I think our subconscious mind is really the smart one. It's not swayed or affected by the day to day goings on in the world. It's raw emotions and gut instincts. It knows exactly what's going on and how we feel about it. It holds the ugly truth. Which, apparently, is too much for us to handle. So, we trudge through life with our conscious mind over-thinking things. Our conscious mind is always coming up with excuses, painting a pretty haze over a crap situation. Our conscious mind is like the friend who won't tell us the truth, because it doesn't want to hurt our feelings. So, our subconscious is forced to wait until we fall asleep to talk to us.

(Side note: It's itchy...so itchy! Yuck, yuck, yuck!)

OK, back to my reoccurring dream. It is always about packing. Sometimes I'm packing to move, sometimes to travel. But, I've never got it all together. I'm running late and I just can't get it all packed up in time. Last night I was in the parking lot at the airport. My parents were there and some other people in my life were popping in and out. I was late for my flight - I think, I couldn't remember when the flight actually was - and I wasn't packed properly. I just had a bunch of crap in this car. I didn't even have the right luggage. I was packing crap into random inappropriate luggage - like a huge golf bag. My parents were criticizing my packing skills (this doesn't take any effort to interpret). So, I finally have my golf bag packed with absolutely nothing I need and rush into the airport. The airport is part grocery store part airport and I can't figure out where to check in or even what airline I'm flying. And, then I start crying and wake up.

The parents piece is easy, my mom had just sent me an email once again asking if I was getting paid for my volunteer position. And, my dad just stands idly by making 'slacker' and 'work ethic' comments. Why they don't see the value in volunteering is beyond me. But, I've decided to ignore, rather than confront them. Confronting only turns the comments passive aggressive.

So, on to the rest of the dream. I use Dream Moods to interpret my dreams. I think it's a pretty good starting point for "inner dialogue". (I sound like a self-help book.) Here's what I found:

Packing

To dream that you are packing signifies big changes ahead for you. You are putting pass issues and/or relationships to rest and behind you. Alternatively, it represents the burdens that you carry.

To dream that you are packing, unpacking and packing and unpacking again, represents chaos in your life. You are having trouble juggling various components of your life. You are carrying around too many burdens but have trouble letting go some of these burdens. Consider what unfinished business you have to tend to. Try to resolve these issues so they can finally be put to rest.

Luggage

To see or carry luggage in your dream, symbolizes the many desires, worries, responsibilities and needs that you are carrying with you and weighing you down. You need to reduce your desires and problems and alleviate the pressure you are putting on yourself. Perhaps you feel that you are being held back by past emotions or issues. Alternatively, luggage symbolized your identity and sense of security. To dream that you lose your luggage, represents a lost identity. Consider how you feel when you discovered that your luggage is lost. If it is a positive reaction, then it signifies an opportunity for you to start fresh. If your reaction is negative, then it suggests that you are feeling lost.

Late

To dream that you are late, denotes your fear of change and your ambivalence about seizing an opportunity. You may feel unready, unworthy, or unsupported in your current circumstances. You may be overwhelmed or conflicted with decisions about your future. You feel time is running out and that you do not have time to accomplish all the things you want.

So, my chaotic life is weighing me down, but I'm scared and ambivalent about doing anything to change it. In summary:

Dear Dreamer,

You're fucked up.

Love,

Dream Moods.com

PS: What's with the red bumps all over your body?

Great. Sounds about right.

Plans for a Sunny Saturday

2009-11-21T11:43:00.003+03:00

It is a glorious glorious day in Kampala. I'm not sure if it's summer or winter here... we're slightly north of the equator, so I guess that makes it winter. Regardless of the official season, I'm deeming it a beautiful summer day. The sun in shinning through blue skies, the breeze is cool and someone is singing in a rhythmic melodious tune that reminds me of prayers from a mosque. Perfection. Well, almost. It's hot and sunny and putting on clothes and shoes just seems wrong. I long for the beach culture of wearing as little as possible pretty much anywhere and anytime. But, alas, I will wear clothes. And, I'm sure my neighbor appreciates that. We were siting outside discussing his dissertation on the history of HIV/AIDS in Africa. It might have been awkward to discuss condom use and the Pope with me in my underwear. Anyway, I have no intention of going anywhere. That just seems hot. No, I intend to sit in the shade of the sweet smelling honeysuckle and read my novel and then lie in the intense African sun until my skin can't take another second and plunge into the tiny pool. That's the day's grand plan.

Wishing you warmth and blue skies where ever you are.

Happy Weekend!

Withdrawl Symptoms

2009-11-19T12:05:00.004+03:00

Ugh.

I’m trying to wean myself off of eight cups of coffee a day. I’ve only had one cup of instant coffee. No thick rich Ugandan coffee in a French press today. Sadness.

Too much coffee was making me a bit…crazy. But, not enough coffee is making me a bit…bitchy. It’s a delicate balance.

Yesterday I walked around looking at crafts, drinking coffee, looking at crafts, drinking coffee, shopping at the most expensive Woolworths I’ve ever seen and then going home.

My eyes itch, my throat stings and my nose is runny. Yet, not runny enough to avoid the smell of burning trash.

Every morning I am greeted by a little surprise in the toilet from someone who has not discovered the flush lever. It taunts me from across the room while I try to shower.

The internet is slow as fuck. 18 download hours remain on the one episode of Dexter I have been slowly downloading over the past 5 days.

My skin feels disgusting with a layer of thick sunscreen and toxic bug lotion over a tight sunburn.

The dog lying under my feet keeps farting.

The 800lb hog standing outside my room was making threatening gestures at me this morning.

Holy fuck, now it smells like someone’s manufacturing rubber next door. I’m glad I turned in my recalled water bottle tainted with 0.00001% BPA before I left. I wouldn’t want anything toxic in my system.

OK…that’s all I can think to bitch about at the moment. Which, actually, reminds me that things really aren’t that bad.

I just need some coffee.

Taking Risks

2009-11-17T15:46:00.004+03:00

Today started off a bit gray and cloudy, with sad news from home in my inbox. I so wished I could transport myself across the continents with the blink of an eye...if only just to give a hug or two.

A hot shower and several cups of filtered Ugandan coffee did nothing to wipe away the haze. And, after a confusing conversation at the bar, I set off for a meeting with the Mercy Corps country director. I had thought that I was discussing my destination with a special hire (a non-shared taxi) driver. However, after gathering my things I walked quickly through the mist-slowly-turning-to-rain only to discover... I was taking a boda boda. A boda boda is a motorbike for hire. They are known for being very dangerous. And, although occasionally the driver wears a helmet - you don't. Women are supposed to ride side-saddle, but I didn't and I think it's OK for Mzungu (foreigners). Anyway, as I was riding along I was thinking two things: one, thankfully I have emergency evacuation insurance and, two, can you effectively use an umbrella on the back of a motorbike? No, would be the answer to the latter. Anyway... We were going fast. They roads are terrible. We were weaving in and around traffic. And, did I mention that it was raining? Then we ran out of gas and I was left at the side of the road. Twice. The driver promised to come back, which he did. But, for 10 minutes I stood on the corner in the rain having no idea where I was while everyone starred curiously. Of course, the second I got to the offices the rain stopped. But, it was too late; I managed to look somehow both totally windblown and drenched. As usual, I really know how to make a first impression.

Anyway, the meeting with the Country Director went well. I was just hoping for some advice; but, wound up with a job offer of sorts. He was planning to hire an intern to help with writing and editing reports and PR pieces. Perfect. I can do that. And, I just so happen to already be here. He just needs to get final approval from HR at headquarters back in Portland. It sounded like he had already tentatively asked about having volunteers and they said it was "discouraged", etc., etc., but didn't actually say no. So, that's promising. Taking the risk and coming anyway might have actually paid off.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Then, of course, there's the job in Rwanda. Part of me feels bad; but, that part is for the NGO in Rwanda only. I don't feel bad about backing out on the woman in the UK. She still wants me to pay an additional almost $600 to complete the placement. Plus, I have to pay for housing and a plane ticket there and back. Ridiculous. And, it's not as though I've been working towards this placement for a long time - it was a total fallback. Yeah, that's what I'm telling myself. No guilt. But, I was supposed to meet up with the executive director today sometime. I don't have confirmation from Mercy Corps one way or another yet. But, you know what? I just went for it. I emailed the Rwanda people and told them sorry, I couldn't afford it. Which is totally true. I am beyond broke. Plus, as I was wandering about agonizing over the situation, I saw a flyer for an American woman looking for a roommate for $100/mo. And, I thought, hey, even if Mercy Corps doesn't work out, there are plenty of other organizations. I can just get a cheap room and hang out. Whatever happens, it will be an adventure, right?

And, I'm all about adventures, remember? Yep, that's why I'm sitting in the bar watching Benny and Joon.

Yes? Can I help you with something?

2009-11-17T12:13:00.002+03:00

I got this look right after I caught him eating a wicker chair.

(I'd post more, but this took about 20 minutes to upload)

Cultural Growth

2009-11-15T10:35:00.003+03:00

I think it's only a matter of time before I'm world renowned for my travel adventures.

Yesterday afternoon I sat in the lounge and watched a Jessica Simpson movie. Yeah. There were a few of us. We all had books or laptops to pretend we weren't. And, if one of us got up or looked around the rest of us would look down.

''Travel as a political act means choosing to travel in a way that broadens your perspective. You can travel in a way that’s just relaxing, recreational, hedonistic — and that’s fine. It doesn’t change you. I like to travel in a way that makes me a better citizen of the planet." - Rick Steves

Totally, Rick. Totally. I hear ya. I mean, two weeks ago I would never have considered watching a Jessica Simpson movie. And, here I am, broadening my perspective. Awesome.

Weekend Assignment

2009-11-14T09:15:00.004+03:00

Friends, I have a few simple tasks for you this weekend:

1. Turn on your computer, open MS Word and type the following:

Dear (supervisor's name),

Thank you for the wonderful opportunity you have given me at (company name). However, it has recently come to my attention that life is short. Too short to spend the next 20 years sitting in a (cubicle/office/bulldozer). Therefore, I regret to inform you that I will be resigning my post effective immediately.

Sincerely,

(your name)

2. Print, address, stamp, send

3. Sell all possessions (well, keep underwear and a few outfits and maybe some DVDs)

4. Rent / Sell house

5. Buy airline ticket to Africa

Done? OK, good. See, that was easy. Just 5 simple steps.

I will pick you up at the airport and we will start our road trip around Africa. What? Oh, right, volunteering. Fuck that. The world is hopeless. Why bother giving back?

There was a couple here last night that I totally fell in love with - and not just because she was cute and he was tall, dark, handsome and tattooed. They are driving around Africa in their pretty red Land Cruiser/Rover/Something. How awesome would that be??! I totally wanted to hide in the back of their truck.

In all seriousness, I really think it would be an amazing experience. And, it would be very affordable. And, soooo fun. I just need a few co-conspirators.

So, what are you waiting for? Come on! Let's go road tripping across Africa!!!

Travel Blogging, Day 2: Failure

2009-11-13T09:48:00.002+03:00

I slept from 8:30pm to 12:30am. The rest of the night I spent lying in bed completely awake, thinking about increasingly weird things, slogging to the toilet five times, staring out my window at the tiny pool, photographing said tiny pool, laughing at tiny pool photos, and then going back to weird thoughts.

I know I'm supposed to be travel blogging...but, I'm not very good at doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Besides, I have nothing travel related to report. I'm so insanely tired. I can barely read my computer screen - I have the font set at "85-year-old cataract patient". It took me 5 minutes to remember the difference between cataract and cardiac. My coffee did nothing. It looks stormy out. And, it's Friday the 13th. I could likely be struck by lightening - or a truck. I think it's best if I just stay in the compound and do exactly what I did yesterday afternoon: read (if my eyes will focus) and stand in the tiny pool.

OK, it is thundering loudly and absolutely pouring out. I'm really not going anywhere. Excellent excuse. Thank you, Mother Nature.

So, since I have nothing better to do, I will share with you some of the odd thoughts from last night. A look into the inner workings of my brain: an exciting and scary tale for Friday the 13th.

I was wishing that I had a USB port in the side of my head so that I could download thoughts from my head directly into my computer. I thought someone should really invent that. I could invent that. I have great inventive ideas. One of which is the corner dishwasher. Think about how great that would be for tight fits in small kitchens. It would look like a lazy susan, with circular turning dish racks and a 90-degree folding door. I've actually given this a lot of thought. The thing that excites me the most is not the fame or fortune that will come from revolutionizing the dishwashing industry, it's the factory. The factory will be designed to look like a giant corner dishwasher. Similar to the basket factory that looks like a giant basket. That exists, right? I remember it from Architectural History class. Or, maybe I dreamed it while asleep at the back of Architectural History class. I can't remember. Anyway, I even have drawings. (Do I have drawings for the $450,000 piece of bare land I've been siting on for 2 years? No. Do I have drawings of a giant corner dishwasher factory? Of course.)

From there I thought about how the more tired I am, the more brilliant I believe my ideas to be. I still remember an all-nighter a friend and I pulled in high school. We were entering the State Championship for some science fair. Our project was on cryogenics. I can only assume my friend teamed with me because I'm fun and creative, not because I had any knowledge or interest in the science behind cryogenics. My only interest was in actually being cryogenically frozen - the sooner the better. (An interest that lasted until the Austin Power movie came out and ruined it for me.) Anyway, it was 2am the day of the fair, we were tired, and we hadn't even started our display. At first we were worried. How would we ever finish? Then, around 4am our lack of progress became hilarious. How funny would it be that we had the worst display on display? Then, when we finally loaded the project into the back of my mom's car at 7am, we were convinced we were brilliant. How could we not win? Of course, once the sleepless haze wore off, we realized the display was crap.

This was around the time last night that I turned my attention to the tiny pool. Why was it so tiny? Was it someone's brilliant 4am idea? Did the architect write the wrong scale on the construction drawings? Did the owner see a photo in a magazine and not read the notice that said "actual size"? Did they run out of money halfway through pool construction? As I stood in the tiny pool yesterday afternoon, I realized I had exaggerated its size only slightly. It's about 8'x12' and the 'deep end' is 4' deep. It did feel really nice, though. And, there were monkeys playing in the trees, so the experience includes entertainment.

All of which brought my thoughts back to travel blogging. In the tiny pool, watching the wildlife, I was acutely aware of the huge cement wall that separated me from the 'real world'. If I wasn't out there, why was I here at all? I could have stayed in Portland, renewed my 24hr Fitness membership and stood in the shallow end of their pool each afternoon...saving time and money. Maybe they'd even paint monkeys on the wall for me. Brilliant idea.

Real Blogging: First Attempt

2009-11-12T11:55:00.000+03:00

So, I've vowed to turn this into a 'real' travel blog starting...now. What would a real travel blogger blog about? First impressions? Exciting adventures? Interesting people met?

Well, it's well established that I don't have exciting adventures, so that's out. And, I haven't met many people yet. I guess that leaves first impressions.

I got into Entebbe late Monday night and took a taxi into Kampala. It was dark, so I couldn't see much, but my first thought was that it reminded me of India. Not the people, but the architecture and infrastructure - or lack there of.

I got a total of 2.5 hours of sleep Monday night and 'woke' early to hazy skies and a hazy mind. I choked down breakfast of eggs, bread, warm yogurt and oddly pink sausage before heading out for a walk. I walked around the city center and then back to the hotel. It was busy, but not chaotic. There are lots of traffic circles (good urban planning) but pedestrians are left to fend for themselves (bad urban planning). I know I'm a bit of a power walker, but it felt like everyone walks incredibly slow. Maybe I should take a lesson, since when I arrived back at my hotel and exclaimed "I'm hot!", the house keeper smiled and said, "yes, I can see that. You're welcome." I looked in the mirror and I was bright red with huge sweat circles. Pretty. Oh, and I forgot deodorant, so I'm sure I am smelling lovely as well. The "you're welcome" at the end of statements is a little confusing to me. People say it a lot, and I'm not sure why. It makes me feel like I should be thanking people constantly. "The sky is blue. Thank you." "Yes, with white clouds. You're welcome."

Later, I went to Garden Center, which is sort of a western style mall with a grocery store and several banks. I discovered that none of the ATMs take my card - which seriously sucks. I luckily had some Euros that I exchanged so I could buy water and lunch. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when that runs out.

I met a woman at the airport who recommended I stay at Red Chilli - a hostel a bit outside of town. She said a lot of ex-pats stay there and they have a good night life. So, today I switched from my hotel to Chilli's. Not for the night life as much as the much cheaper room ($20 vs. $60). Of course, it's definitely a $20 room. And, the bathroom (not en suite) is...uh...worthy of shower shoes. But, hey, I can drink $1 beer starting from 7am. If I could afford $1 beer. And, there's a pool! Yeah, it's 4'x5' and about 12" deep; but it's a pool, damn it.

What else? Oh, I got an email from the woman setting up my job an hour before I left Portland. (Thanks?) I'm set to go to Rwanda on 20th November. My future boss will actually be in Kampala next week for the International Conference on Family Planning. I have been emailing him about meeting up. His English is better than any 2nd language of mine, but it still makes me laugh. He emailed saying I should "call [him] Sunday, or [he] will come into [my] hotel tonight". I assume he wasn't meaning to threaten me.

Well, that was a sad attempt at first impressions, huh? But, that's all I've got.

I'll write more later, pending something interesting happening - like me punching the girl snapping her gum and snorting loudly across the room from me. I've gotten 8 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours and my only coffee has been instant Starbucks granules mixed with cold water. Don't fuck with me.

Goodbyes

2009-11-07T02:37:00.000+03:00

I'm trying to keep my bag under 15kgs. I can pack four novels or one book of poetry. My beloved Complete Works of Pablo Neruda weighs 2.2 lbs. So, along with all my other Portland friends, I will have to say goodbye to Pablo.

I spent a good part of the afternoon reading over my favorites: Solitude, Suburbs, Love Poem 20, To The Traveler... But, maybe this is most fitting to share with you:

Goodbyes

Goodbye, goodbye, to one place or another,
to every mouth, to every sorrow,
to the insolent moon, to weeks
which wound in the days and disappeared,
goodbye to this voice and that one stained
with amaranth, and goodbye
to the usual bed and plate,
to the twilit setting of all goodbyes,
to the chair that is part of the same twilight,
to the way made by my shoes.

I spread myself, no question;
I turned over whole lives,
changed skin, lamps, and hates,
it was something I had to do,
not by law or whim,
more of a chain reaction;
each new journey enchained me;
I took pleasure in place, in all places.

And, newly arrived, I promptly said goodbye
with still newborn tenderness
as if the bread were to open and suddenly
flee from the world of the table.
So I left behind all languages,
repeated goodbyes like an old door,
changed cinemas, reasons, and tombs,
left everywhere for somewhere else;
I went on being, and being always
half undone with joy,
a bridegroom among sadnesses,
never knowing how or when,
ready to return, never returning.

It's well known that he who returns never left,
so I traced and retraced my life,
changing clothes and planets,
growing used to the company,
to the great whirl of exile,
to the great solitude of bells tolling.

-Pablo Neruda

Decisions, Decisions

2009-11-04T02:48:00.000+03:00

I don't make decisions well.

It's not the little decisions with which I have problems. I can handle a decision about sushi versus Indian. Because, even if I have sushi tonight, there's always an opportunity for Indian tomorrow. It's the big decisions. The life changing ones.

Sure, you could argue that sometimes one little decision - like where to eat - can significantly change your life. The man of your dreams is alone at the sushi counter; but you'll never meet him because you're being rushed to the hospital after tainted tandoori chicken. Those are the unseen possibilities. I'm talking about the decisions we make when we consciously know what we are giving up.

The easiest example is romantic relationships. When we commit ourselves to dating one person, we give up the right to date everyone else. And, that can be scary to a lot of people. (This can also be a part of a larger phobia I have dubbed "The Grass is Always Greener Complex" and have done much research on it with friends, ex-boyfriends and mortal enemies.) But, of course, when you don't commit to one person you are also giving something up. You give up all the great benefits and comforts of being in a relationship.

Now, the flip side is having no choices. Would that make life easier? If we grew up in a culture where arranged marriage was the norm would you really be satisfied? Or, would you just think you should be satisfied?

And, what about the people who get so overwhelmed with all this that they make no choices. That's essential a choice. And, then you're really giving everything up.

So, can we really have it all? No, of course not. And, why do we think we need it all? Is that the curse of American culture? We are so bombarded by choices - usually presented as needs - that we can't make decisions about anything.

It's sometimes hard to distinguish between what other people - whether the media, friends or family - think you want and what you really want. I guess the key to successful decision making is just really listening to your instincts and recognizing when something feels right. And, hopefully, you won't even miss all the things you gave up along the way.

Did that make any sense? Well, it made me feel better anyway.

Why I Abuse Panda Bears

2009-10-30T22:07:00.000+03:00

When I was younger - much younger - I did something wrong. I can't remember what. I just know it was bad enough that my mother told me I couldn't watch Rudolph on TV that evening. I would have to stay in my room. I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. I remember it very clearly.

I used to have a WWF poster on the back of my bedroom door. (No, I wasn't into wrestling! World Wildlife Fund.) It was a photo of a panda bear eating bamboo. I stood at the closed door and pounded and pounded on that poor panda bear. And screamed. And cried. For hours and hours. My mom, who generally caves if I'm obnoxious enough, stood her ground and never gave in.

Every year since leaving my parents' house, I have called my mom sometime in early December. "Hi Mom. I just wanted to let you know that Rudolph is on TV tonight. And, I'm watching it. And, there's nothing you can do about it." We laugh; it's our little joke.

But, the sad reality is that if I had a panda bear poster on the back of my door right now, I'd beat the shit out of it while screaming and crying. Why? Because I didn't get my way. And, I like to get my way. And, I see no reason why the rest of the world can't comply with my very simple desire to be able to do what I want, when I want.

I will have to wait several months if I want to go to Uganda. I don't want to wait several months. I want to go now. I can go to Rwanda immediately. But, I don't want to go to Rwanda anymore. Why? Because I'm a child.

I intend to fly to Uganda next weekend regardless. I've already had one temper tantrum with Alaska Airlines' partner desk. I'm scared to call them back; I'm pretty sure there are some not so nice notes next to my name. What I'm going to do when I get to Uganda, I don't know. Siting on the beach and eating $1 mashed plantains and beans for the rest of my life is sounding pretty good right now.

So, I will spend the weekend trying to find maturity...and my old panda bear poster.

Won't you help stop panda bear abuse? Visit WWF for more information.

Dear Paris,

2009-10-27T08:30:00.000+03:00

I'm sorry I won't be seeing you again. I was truly looking forward to it. I know I wasn't the best guest the last few times I visited. I said some horrible things about you. And, for that I'm sorry.

You were nothing but kind to me. Feeling vulnerable in the dead of night, you showed me safety. You showed me sun when my own skies were dark. You showed me beauty when all I could see was ugliness.

I didn't appreciate you. I blamed you. I wanted to step through your gates and start fresh. I wanted you to make me over new. But, every time I turned a corner you reminded me of who I used to be and who I had become. I wasn't that different than the lonely 15-year-old girl who had wandered your street so many years ago. She was just starting to realize how disappointing the world can be. And, there I was - almost two decades later - having allowed that utter disappointment to push me down.

I cursed you. It will be better somewhere else I thought angrily as my train sped out of your city limits. But, the cool blue salt water of paradise only stung the wounds you'd helped reopen. I realized if I covered them up and kept running they would never heal. So, I laid on the sharp rocky shore and exposed them to the scorching sun. Then I dove in again and again and again. Each time deeper than the last. Until, finally, it didn't sting quite so badly.

Photo from ESI

I wanted to show you that I'm healing quite nicely. This time, I wanted to walk your streets with my head held high. Alone but not lonely. Confident and composed. Light and free.

And, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for showing me hospitality. Thank you for showing me truth and possibility. Thank you for showing me true beauty. You're so much more than a glossy postcard would have one believe.

Until we meet again, Paris.

A Call to Action

2009-10-18T21:15:00.000+03:00

There has been a lot of recent controversy over whether Obama deserved his Nobel Peace Prize. Some felt that it was too soon; he hasn't done anything yet. Others saw it as a call to action. I, too, was shocked by the announcement. But, not because of what Obama has or hasn't done. I was shocked that, once again, I was passed over. Every year I wait for the announcement: I've won the Nobel Prize, the Pulitzer, the $25 in free Trader Joe's food... And, every year it's a huge disappointment.

True, I have only written five sentences of my Pulitzer prize winning novel. And, OK, I don't even fill out the Trader Joe's tickets. But, if getting two arguing people together to drink beer in your backyard is the kind of peacekeeping that gets you a Nobel prize... I could legitimately be in the running. Next, Obama, I would send a fruit basket to Iran. But, not just any fruit basket, one of those cute ones with the fruit dipped in chocolate and arranged like flowers. OMG, Ahmadinejad is going to L-O-V-E it.

Anyhoo. Speaking of world peace... Friday night I went to hear Nicholas Kristof speak on his new book (written with wife Sherly WuDunn) Half the Sky. Six hundred Portlanders filled the Bagdad Theater for the talk. Kristof, who's from Portland, is a compelling speaker. He's very knowledgeable and obviously passionate about the topic of women's empowerment. (He could probably have a proficient conversation with a Mercy Corps donor.) I was moved by his stories and his call to action.

He didn't just tell depressing stories. He didn't just tell stories of overcoming odds. He talked about the reality of the world we live in. He talked about the little things we can do to make real change. He told of how one goat transformed an illiterate little girl into a college graduate.

OK, you know what? This is why I will never win an award. I'm already tired of writing this post. I don't have skills of persuasion. But, I might very well have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. I drifted off thinking about how the girl/goat story would make an excellent children's book. Then I was winning the National Book Award for Janati and the Goat. And, what do you know, I'm on The Daily Show again... "It's always fascinating to have you on the program, Kristy," Jon gushes. "Thank you, Jon; I always try to squeeze you into my busy speaking schedule," I'd say as I nervously readjusted the strap of my new $250 shoes made by a young girl in Bangladesh for 50 cents.

So, yeah. Read the book. Be inspired. Do something meaningful.

The Littlest Bird

2009-10-14T22:03:00.000+03:00

The crispness of fall has taken a turn toward just plain cold. The rain is pelting my window. Somewhere in the city a Hawaiian Airlines billboard is going up. And, yes, it's time again for this little bird to fly south.

I'll let someone else speak for me today.

The Littlest Bird
song by The Be Good Tanyas

Well I feel like an old hobo,
I'm sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as the summer day
Now the summer days are through
You pass through places
And places pass through you
But you carry 'em with you
On the souls of your travellin' shoes

Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And i'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways one of
these days soon
And I'll sing

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs...

Well it's times like these
I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin' footsteps of a wanderin' child
And I'm lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin these blues with a warble and a trill
But I'm not too blue to fly
No I'm not too blue to fly cause

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs...

Well I love you so dearly
I love you so fearlessly
Wake you up in the mornin' so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin' blues
I got the wanderin' blues
And I don't wanna leave you
I love you through and through

Oh I left my baby on a pretty blue train
And I sang my songs to the cold and the rain
I had the wanderin' blues
And I sang those wanderin' blues
And I'm gonna quit these ramblin' ways
One of these days soon
And I'll sing...

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs....

I don't care if the sun don't shine
I don't care if nothin' is mine
I don't care if I'm nervous with you
I'll do my lovin' in the wintertime

A day of Rest, Relaxation and Research

2009-10-11T20:56:00.000+03:00

It's a shame we just have this one life. There is so much to do, yet so little time. I want to go to here and work. No, I want to go there and play. I want to be a writer. No, I want to be a designer. Oh, fuck it. I am just going to sit here on my ass surfing the net and giving thanks for infinite tomorrows.

The Mercy Corps launch this weekend was a great success (according to me). I am proud to have been even a small part of that success. Friday was an amazing fall day. The Skidmore Fountain plaza was blanketed by sun as a large group of supporters gathered in front of the new headquarters. Flags from all the countries currently served by Mercy Corps cascaded over the window cells. A little additional festive adornment for an already stunning building.

By nightfall, the building was aglow in excitement and activity. Around 700 guests flowed through the front doors to support the organization, drink, eat and see the new digs. The building, which just received LEED Platinum status, has a natural beauty. It is open and light; filled with reclaimed wood, homey area rugs and stunning photography. As cheesy as it sounds, I feel a great sense of inspiration emanating from those photographs. As I walk through the offices, I'll catch a glimpse of a herdsman standing under the expansive African horizon or an Indian woman transporting water on her colorfully wrapped head. And, for a brief moment I'm back in rural India, or dreaming of what it might be like in Africa.

Karamoja region, Uganda (photo from IRC)

I will miss going into Mercy Corps' beautiful new offices every day. I was just starting to get to know people and get into the groove. At the ribbon cutting my boss asked me if I was going to apply for her job. (She's leaving.) I laughed. And, she said "I'm serious!" I don't think I'm qualified; nor do I think I want a job that doesn't allow me to travel. But, it was flattering and for a brief moment I imagined.

But, I have other plans. I just made the decision to go to Uganda. I'm very excited about it. I don't have all the details yet, but I think I will be in the northeastern Karamoja region. Right now the area is enduring a serious drought. It doesn't get the same amount of rainfall that the rest of Uganda gets. I've spent the morning researching. I also did some additional research on the NGO I'll be working for... and, oh, jesus. Literally. I was told that although it is a Christian organization, it's OK that I'm not Christian. However, their career section of their website talks about "Christian faith" as their number one requirement. That's alright, I thought. Habitat for Humanity says that, too. And, they're not insane. But, then I dug deeper. They elaborate the requirement of Christian faith to say that you must be willing to participate in group prayers and bible studies, etc., etc. Uh, no. No, I will not be willing. "Please don't be crazy Christians," I am silently begging. "I really want to work for you."

Well, a problem for sure. But, probably a problem for tomorrow.

P.S. I don't want to offend my vast and highly diverse readership...so, I should say that I don't think all Christians are crazy. Just some. I don't want to be part of an organization that, for instance, promotes abstinence as the best way to eliminate AIDS. That's crazy talk. And, I don't have a problem with group prayer as long as I'm not required to be part of the group. I will sit silently in the next room contemplating my fascination with African witchcraft while making a list of people I'd like to put curses on. Oh, wait, maybe I'm the crazy one??

Ramona Falls

2009-10-05T07:37:00.000+03:00

The sound of the wind rustled through the moss-covered trees of the Mt. Hood wilderness. The trail was soggy. The air was cold. And, there was...snow. The first weekend in October and just before the falls we encountered a fresh covering of snow. A lovely fall hike. Beautiful scenery. And, a bit of sadness. The thought that I won't be here for winter snow.

What Can You Bring to the Table?

2009-09-24T03:02:00.000+03:00

women dancing at the Pakistan/India border

I've been working at Mercy Corps since returning to Portland. They just moved into a beautiful new building on Front Ave. and are having opening events on October 9th. I'm the 'launch monitor' (no, launch not lunch). It's my job to get invites out and rsvps back and organized, etc. for all the launch events. RSVPs come in as emails or voice mails. When people have questions, it's part of my job to respond and help them out. It's not rocket science, but then again, I'm not a rocket scientist, am I? I'm an urban planner. Spreadsheets and bullshit are my game.

So...I got a phone call from a donor wanting me to call her back and help her decide which events she should attend. It seemed like an easy task, so I didn't hesitate to call her back. It took about 20 seconds to help her decide to attend the launch party versus the ribbon cutting. It's free cocktails versus boring speeches. The choice is obvious. Then she starts telling me about her recent hiking adventures with a local retired-person hiking group. Clearly she's bored. Lucky for her, so am I. We talked for 15 minutes or so about hiking around Oregon. Then she asks if I'd heard the President's speech on NPR. I hadn't. So, we discussed that a bit.

Eventually we got back to talking about the event and Mercy Corps. This is where she caught me totally off guard and things took an unfortunate turn:

Donor: So, what are the big issues Mercy Corps is working on now?
Me: (long pause) Well, Pakistan and...uh...DRC...
Donor: DRC is....?
Me: Democratic Republic of Congo, formerly Zaire
Donor: Oh, OK, yes, what are the issues there?
Me. Well...there's...uh...rape. A lot of rape. And...uh...war. War. Yeah, quite a bit of war. So, rape and war, really. Not good things, you know?
Donor: Oh...no, uh... no

This is when she asks me what I do for Mercy Corps exactly and the conversation ends.

Of course, as soon as I hung up the phone I could think of a million different things going on that Mercy Corps is working on. One of the things I find most exciting is women's empowerment. It has been shown that one of the best ways to improve the lives of everyone is through educating girls and women. Beyond the significant contributions women can and have made to society, everyone deserves an education. And everyone deserves to live in a world free of gender based violence and discrimination. But do I talk passionately about any of these things? No. I blandly throw out rape and war as if I'm trying to think of what I need from the grocery store. Rape and war. Pickles and onions. What is wrong with me?

Mercy Corps' new campaign on women's empowerment is One Table. "What can you bring to the table?" they ask. For me, apparently not much. But, maybe you can bring something?

Check out these sites:

http://onetable.mercycorps.org/
http://www.halftheskymovement.org/

Global Serenity

2009-09-19T21:01:00.000+03:00

Well, you can't really see this photo, can you? The boat says "Global Serenity". I just happened to notice it while walking along the waterfront the other day and liked it enough to come back with a camera. I tried to write something meaningful regarding global serenity to no end. So...yeah, here's a photo of half a boat. Enjoy.

I wish I were pregnant

2009-09-15T09:18:00.000+03:00

...because otherwise I'm just fat.

I have somehow managed to pack on 10+ pounds since returning to the States. I don't get it. I started to do some online research on rapid weight gain. I'm sure it's related to some disease. It can't possibly be poor diet and exercise. That's crazy talk.

This is what I have discovered: you can find 'proof' and testimonials online to substantiate pretty much anything. Maybe I really am pregnant. Maybe aliens abducted me in the middle of the night and impregnated me. I'm sure there is some forum or blog post out there with 214 comments like "omg. so glad u 2 were ubducked. lol! think bby will b fm marz. lol." Or, "Hi, thank you so much for your post. I, too, was abducted. I went to my doctor and he said there was no way. Thank you. Thank you for telling women what they can't find out from the medical establishment."

Really. I'm only slightly exaggerating here.

Unfortunately, I'm like 2 percent crazy. There was a one week period in the dead of rainy, dark Portland winter that I sat in my windowless attic and watched four seasons of the medical drama House. All at once. I was convinced that I had any number of strange diseases all combining in my body to form one Super Disease. Symptomless, of course.

House's patients quite often have diseases they picked up in tropical or third-world countries. Hmm...maybe I'm on to something. Maybe I have a rare disease from India or Thailand or Malaysia. Maybe I'll just continue to expand and expand until I explode like the blueberry girl in Willy Wonka. Well, in that case, there's no use in cutting down on fats or increasing exercise. That would just be fruitless. I'm a goner.

I'm glad I have a fourm like this to discuss my new found disease. If you're also dying from currycoconutbreakfastbuffetblueberrygirlitis, please leave a note.

image from http://plasma-snake.deviantart.com/art/Blueberry-Girl-59989670?offset=10

Wanderlust

2009-09-03T18:28:00.000+03:00

I wake
The newness of you
Our best face forward
Eager for acceptance
A fresh shower
My best dress
Shining in early light
Craving the heart of you
I explore your streets
Fearful of misstep
Impatient for the real
Beyond steel and glass
Faded paint
A door ajar
Your dark alleys revealed
What once was
What could be
Thoughts of new beginnings
Allowing me safe passage
A lost sole confident
Navigating with ease
A familiar face
Excitement becomes comfort
Seasons change with time
Rains wash away welcome
Monument doors close
Shop windows boarded
Anticipation of the next visitor
Our constant search for the new

Friday Afternoon

2009-08-15T01:52:00.000+03:00

It's just been one of those days. The kind of day where the weather matches your mood. It's not that I'm in a bad mood, just a little cloudy. I sat down on the patio to drink a cup of tea and suddenly three hours have passed. I'm scanning design blogs for decorating ideas I'll never implement and planning my next adventure using the Mercy Corps website as if it were a travel guide.

Anyway, I came across this quote and thought I'd post it. (You know how I love Thoreau.) It's nothing new, but it's inspiring nonetheless.

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams - live the life you've imagined." -Thoreau

Flying high in northwest India

Really?

2009-08-12T00:51:00.000+03:00

Really Portland? I write this nice little tribute to you. To your rivers. To your bridges. To your mountains. To your beauty. And, how do you repay my kindness? You fucking rain on me as I walk home.

Sometimes it Doesn't

2009-08-11T23:22:00.000+03:00

The breeze blew across the river's calm. It creating a hint of a ripple as is picked up the crisp coolness that blew through my window and across my sleeping body. It was almost as sweet as waking to a gentle kiss on my bare shoulder. My eyes fluttered open and scanned their surrounds. Briefly confused and then, 'oh yes' I remembered. I was alone in a big king size bed with clean white sheets. Waking to company is always lovely, of course. Depending on the company. But, I was relishing the freedom of being sprawled out dead center.

I rolled out of bed and quietly pattered upstairs and out to the rooftop patio. It looked as though it hadn't had company in quite some time. The plants sat sun scorched and thirsty in their pots. The once bright red Adirondack chairs had faded to a dull shade of loneliness. I carefully brushed them off and moved them to the side. I rolled out my yoga mat and began to go through the motions, careful not the break the morning stillness. Even the low hum of the morning commute seemed distant.

As effortless as the river below me, my body flowed through Surya Namaskar. I repeated it again and again until my muscles responded and awakened. In my final stretch I held mountain pose. My mind focused on the strength of the bridge in front of me. A literal mountain was barely visible below its massive steel arches. The mountain seemed quaint in the wake of the Himalayas in which I had perfected these moves. It all seemed attainable. Conquerable.

Flopping my then limber body into one of the chairs, I let my eyes flutter back shut. The sun's rays had finally reached my quiet haven, warming my already flush cheeks. Orange and red dots danced across my eyelids. I sighed deeply. Ah, Portland, it's good to see you again.

Coffee Shop Boredom

2009-08-10T23:09:00.000+03:00

I have nothing to do. I am doing nothing.

I should…

I could…

But,

I don’t…

Frustration with one’s self is completely avoidable. Which is why I find it so unavoidably frustrating.

I fail to try. If I try, I might fail.

What if I get what I want – and then, don’t want what I get?

So I do nothing. And, nothing happens.

hotel maya: Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

2009-08-01T18:31:00.000+03:00

Late-Stage Mental Retardation: Part II

2009-08-01T16:58:00.000+03:00

I can’t remember what caused me to post yesterday about my downward spiral towards late-stage retardation. I think I just sat down to write and “I’m retarded” popped onto the page. And, seeing as I couldn’t think of anything more brilliant to write, I went with it.

Today, I am feeling stupid because I spent ten times more money than I thought I had. I don’t know if you were aware – but 0.3 and 0.03 are not the same. Who knew? I know. So, 0.03 is the exchange rate in Thailand where I was last week. This week I am in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The exchange rate here is 0.3. And, I am having some problems adjusting.

First of all, I knowingly spent too much money on my hotel room. $100/night. That’s a lot. But, it’s $100 a night for a four (maybe five?) star hotel. It is SO nice and really really cool. I couldn’t resist. I even considered one night at the Ritz Carlton ($200/night) just so I could say things like: “Oh, you’re at the hostel in Chinatown? That’s nice. I’m at the Ritz Carlton.”

Now I can only say things like: “Oh, your hotel has a swimming pool? That’s nice. I have a hydrotherapy pool, actually.” (Swimming pools are so 2008. Please.)

Anyway, unlike Bangkok, I’ve actually been inspired to leave my hotel and explore the city. Today I walked to China town and the Central Market. I WALKED to China town and Central Market. It was hot and muggy and I got blisters. Normally I like walking. But, it was hot and muggy and I got blisters. Plus, I didn’t want to spend the money on a cab and public transport didn’t go anywhere near where I wanted in to go. (Thanks a lot urban planners. Nice work.)

I didn’t buy anything in China town. There were a lot of watches, bags, shoes – mostly knock-offs. I wish I knew someone who was actually interested in brand names. I personally hate those stupid Louis Vuitton purses that just have the brand symbol printed all over it. It’s says, “Hi, I’m the kind of person who spends hundreds – maybe thousands – on a leather bag”. In other words, “Hi, I’m a fucking idiot.” Especially since I could get the same bag for $2 in Kuala Lumpur and most people wouldn’t know the difference. But, even at $2 I wouldn’t carry one of those stupid purses around. (You carry one, don’t you? Shit. I knew it. Sorry. They’re OK, I guess. If you’re the type of person who would stay at the Ritz Carlton.)

Next, I went to the Central Market. It was much more my style. Lots of handcrafts and local art. Some of it was crap. Some I recognized from India. There was a really cool dark dusty shop packed with Buddhas. I REALLY want a standing Buddha. The shop owner was scary, though, so I moved along. I came across a stand selling Batik fabric and ended up spending over an hour pouring over all their fabric. There were some amazing pieces. * I bought eight large (approx. 2’x3’) pieces. This is where I’m stupid. I thought I was spending under $50. Nope. I’m a dumbass. $500.

Originals. Hand painted. One-of-a-kinds. Collectables.

Tears. Regret. Frustration. Poverty.

So, next on to lunch. (At least my yummy noodle soup and ‘cold white coffee’ was only $3.) And, then I found an “art house gallery and museum of ethnic arts”. The place was split into two large shops. On one side was the gallery showing a Chinese painter’s work. I loved one of his paintings. I had bright bold colors. Too bad I’d just spent a small fortune on fabric. The other side was the ‘museum’. The owner was there and followed me around talking to me about each piece. He has been an art collector for 20+ years and has some amazing things. About half were for sale and the other half was his private collection. Many of the pieces were from tribes in Borneo. (Borneo, by the way, is my next MUST GO TO spot.) Others were from tribes in Malaysia. There were masks and gods and coffins and all kinds of fascinating things. I didn’t know anything about the indigenous people of Malaysia.

And, he also had a standing Buddha that was gorgeous. And, a reclining Buddha. He even seemed willing to bargin. But, no, poor me was, well, poor.

Anyway, let’s sum up. I’m walking on my toes like a wannabe ballerina because I have blisters on my heels. I’m also limping because walking on my toes has caused blisters on the bottoms of my big toes. Said injuries were caused because I didn’t want to spend the – turns out - $1.80 for a cab. Ironically, however, I have spent $500 -ten times more than I wanted to- on batik fabric because I can’t do simple math. To cheer myself up I have bought myself chocolate ice cream which I proceed to spill down my white tank top – a lovely addition to the large sweat stains. So, there I am trying not to get run over as I hobble through traffic on my way back to the hotel and I can’t help but think a large pink helmet is exactly what I need.

*”Batik is a very versatile fabric art and it’s various forms of technique depends on the creativity of the Batik artist, though the basic techniques and the equipments are the same as it requires the use of wax, dye colour, the drawing tools such as canting and brush.”

Late-Stage Mental Retardation: Part I

2009-08-01T02:52:00.000+03:00

I’m like a mental Benjamin Button. As I age I slowly get stupider and stupider. As a child I excelled in the Talented and Gifted program. I graduated from college on the dean’s list with minimal effort. And yet, somehow, over time I’ve progressed – or regressed, rather – into a woman who has problems working light switches in foreign countries. “E-lec-tric-ity you say? Oh cool! I think they’re developing something similar in the States.”

“It’s like the lights aren’t really on. You know, up here” people whisper as they look and me and then point to their own head. Or, I assume that’s what they say. It’s generally in a language I’m too stupid to pick up even the basics of. “Oui, oui.” “Merci!” I say confidently to the local merchant in rural India. Even he’s aware that my pronunciation is a bit off. Or, sometimes, I just babble incoherently in a jumble of foreign-sounding words. Like when I attempt to purchase a bus ticket from a bookie in a gambling office. Not until way too long into the conversation did it occur to me that the sheets covering the walls were not bus schedules. Cardinals and Yankees are sports teams, not strangely named bus companies. A non-retarded person might have been clued in right away that 42:65 is a score and not a legitimate departure time anywhere on this planet.

And, speaking of time. There is a clock in my hotel room. A clock with hands. Four hands. So, there is the minute hand, the second hand, the hour hand. What the fuck is the fourth hand for? I can't figure it out. Have I really become so stupid that the basics of telling time escape me?

So, yeah, my future looks bright. Bright like the shine of my hot pink helmet awkwardly riding sidesaddle on my then useless head. I’ll decorate it with fun Hello Kitty stickers to distract your eyes from my camel-toe-tight plaid leggings and oversized ‘Stanford’ sweatshirt ironically stained with my own drool. You will smile politely as you wait for me to be strapped into my “special” seat, not completely sure if one of my rove eyes is looking your way.

I’ve already acquired and become quite attached to a pair of bright red sneakers with easy to use Velcro closures. They make a fun sound as I repeatedly and methodically open and close them, waiting patiently for the 42:65 express bus.

Laura Ashley Takes a Thai Lover

2009-07-29T17:12:00.000+03:00

Out of breath after five short laps, I clutch the cement lip of the pool trying to catch my breath. I’m exhausted. From what, I have no idea. To say I’m living in the lap of luxury is a bit of an exaggeration. However, I’m hardly living hard. I swim every morning. Afternoons are spent reading, writing or walking aimlessly. I’ve managed to be in Thailand for ten days and learn absolutely nothing about Thailand.

My first, and only, cultural site visited was the Jim Thompson house. There is even a bit of irony in that I choose to visit the home of an American. He was an architect who came to Thailand, fell in love with the country and stayed. He started a silk trading company, reviving the silk industry. His home is a collection of traditional Thai buildings with some Western influences. It is a really beautiful place now tucked among crap architecture of the 70’s and 80’s. Jim (as I like to call him) had an amazing collection of antiques – paintings, sculptures, furniture, and ceramics. As much as I loved all his pieces, I was excited to get to the gift shop. However, I didn’t love any of the textiles for sale. Jim Thompson silk is like the love child of Laura Ashley and a small tacky Thai man. (I don’t know why he needs to be small, but he does.) I can only assume it was better before Jim disappeared.

Yep, Jim disappeared in Burma (or was it Malaysia?) while on a hike. He left one morning and never returned. He was 61. Which is significant because his horoscope by a spiritual leader – framed in his study – told him to be wary of the year he was 61. I wondered if he’d chosen to disappear. It was a bit too coincidental for me. Non-the-less, I spent a bit of time looking up my horoscope in the gift shop after the tour. Apparently, being born in the year of the rabbit is not as lucky as one might think – you know, given the rabbit foot and such. Anyway, after determining that I was essentially screwed I gave up delving any deeper and took the skytrain home for a nap and maybe an afternoon swim.

All Natural Skin Exfoliation: FREE!

2009-07-28T18:26:00.000+03:00

I’ve never had any sort of exfoliation treatment at a spa, but I imagine they generally try to leave one or two layers of skin attached to your body. The ocean’s free treatments, however, are not that kind. I’ve visited the ocean for spa-like treatments before. Once, while surfing in Hawaii, I unknowingly signed up for the “Washing Machine” package deal. Your body is twisted and turned into all kinds of amazing yoga moves right before you are scraped across the ocean floor. The sand nicely removes the top layer of layer of skin leaving you smoother and more evenly toned. The added bonus is, when you are finally violently tossed ashore, you are left with a rejuvenating ‘yey, I’m still alive’ feeling. However, treatments take on a bit more sadistic feel when the ocean bottom is coral.

You could argue that it’s my own fault for snorkeling through a coral bed covered by a mere three-feet of water. But, I think the blame is really on the ocean. It lured me in with promises of easily accessible sea life viewing. Anyway, as if I didn’t already hate the way my legs look in a bikini before ‘coral exfoliation’, they are now attractively spotted with red gashes surrounded by bruises in lovely shades of yellow, green, blue and purple. My favorite is the one on my upper outer thigh. Since it’s a bit swollen, it both calls attention to and accentuates my saddlebags. Oh, and did I mention that I had borrowed the snorkel gear from an attractive man who was reading on the beach chair next to mine? Yep. He either was too nice to say anything or didn’t notice the blood running down my legs as I returned the equipment. Another amazing first impression. Terrific.

Koh Tao, Thailand

2009-07-23T18:25:00.000+03:00

Pee Your Pants Excitement in Bangkok

2009-07-22T00:14:00.000+03:00

I’m sitting in…uh…well…Starbucks. In Bangkok. Yep. I’m very adventurous. Actually, my hotel doesn’t have wireless, so I’m paying $5 to use the internet for an hour here. Really!? Don’t they realize that’s like three meals in India?

I have done almost nothing since getting here. I act like I’m recovering from something. I have no idea what. The 20-hour workweek? The three prepared meals a day? The personal drivers? I have gotten exactly what I wanted – a big bed with crisp clean white sheet, a hot shower to feel clean again, a swim in a cool pool, a fruit smoothie, and a big bowl of muesli and yogurt. Life is good.

It’s been overcast since I got here and today there was a downpour. But, it hasn’t kept me away from the pool. And, since I haven’t left a five-block radius from my hotel, it hasn’t affected anything else either. Tonight I am venturing out to Cabbages and Condoms. It’s a restaurant whose profits go to sex education and fighting the sex trade. I’m kind of excited. And, it’s about 8 blocks away, so I’m really stepping out of my comfort zone going.

I was going to take the train tomorrow to Koh Tao – an island known for its diving. However, the weather report says it’s supposed to be raining all week. I might just stay in town through the weekend and actually see some of the sights. Plus, I think I might have mentioned that I’m being lazy…

Again, I haven’t really experienced the culture, but I have noticed a lot of white men with young Thai women in tow. It’s horrible, but I automatically assume the women are prostitutes or some kind of mail order brides. I overhead and observed a few couples in which they seemed to know nothing about each other. But, really, it’s a huge generalization.

I'm missing my new friends from India. And, of course, it goes without saying that I miss my old friends, too. And, like the social inept woman that I am, I missed my opportunity for a new friend in Thailand. When I was filling out my exit slip some guy asked to use my pen. I just handed it over and didn’t pay any attention to him. I didn't even look at him. I just stood there spacing off as he filled out his entire form next to me. Of course it wasn't until he was walking away that I finally looked at him and realized that he was extremely hot. And, I’d totally ignored him. I looked for him after security. I thought maybe I could come up with something really clever to say while wandering the duty-free shop. "Come here often?" "I've always wanted 20lbs of KitKats for $80; what about you?". But, I never saw him. I figured what’s the point, it’s not like I’d see him again. Then, as I’m boarding the plane, I realize he’s behind me. I spent the whole flight trying to catch his eye. He was about 12 seats behind me, so he never saw me and I just looked like a crazy person turning around in my seat every ten minutes. Then, as I’m in line for a taxi, I see him in front of me. He turned around and smiled as he was getting into a cab. But, of course, it took me a second to realize what was happening, so all he saw was me starring blankly at him in my misshapen t-shirt and dirty pajama pants. Nice. Anyway, what's my point? I don't have one. It's just annoying that I'm so clueless and have no powers of observation. Who knows what kinds of opportunities I'm missing out on.

OK, the coffee is catching up to me. I'm about to pee my pants - or skirt if you want to get technical. But, I only have this one hour to use the internet and I just can't waste any time using the restroom. So...I'll just sit here and tap along to the beat of the music really really really enthusiastically.

Goel’s Chicken World (A Poultry Oriented Unit)

2009-07-15T05:25:00.000+03:00

After an evening of laughing a bit too hard at all the incorrect attempts at English translations on our dinner menu (a bootle of beverage anyone?), we came across this place. Or, I should say, we came across this unit.

Of all the hilariously random signs in India, it is my favorite.

Afghani Chicken Violence

2009-07-09T17:24:00.000+03:00

Explosions. Violent explosions. I had spent the entire night/early morning lying on the bathroom floor vomiting Afghani chicken and butter naan into a large plastic bucket. I had loved them both so… and this was how they treated me? To say relations were strained was an understatement.

Getting What You Asked For: India

2009-06-24T19:12:00.000+03:00

Remember how I was bitching about rain, wishing for sun and heat and dreading monsoon season? Well, one of the 42 million Hindu gods must have received my letter of complaint. The sun is out and it is HOT in India. Too hot. Sweat in the shade hot. Wishing for rain hot.

I arrived in India Saturday morning at 3:30am. It really could have been any time on any day. I left Croatia on a Friday morning, flew to Paris where I spent a few days before flying to London. In London I spend half an afternoon and half a night waiting for my last minute flight to San Francisco. In San Francisco I conferred with homeland security, applied for and received my visa, bought a new bag, sent my old bag home, drank more Starbucks in three days than I have in my whole life and then flew back to London. After 12 hours in London I got back on the plane to Doha and then on to Delhi. At one point I remember touching down and for a few moments I had no idea where I had just arrived. But, the strangest thing of all is, as I sat in one of the many airports I realized I was enjoying myself. The only negative part of all the travel was my heavy carry on. If not for that, I could have just kept going.

Of course, I didn't keep going. After one final ride into the mountains on a “plane-let” (small two propeller plane), I arrived in Palampur, India. India is just as I imagined it. I know people talk about having 'culture shock', but nothing has really surprised me yet. Traffic is insane. There are cows in the streets. Lots of stray dogs. Lots of poverty. Lots of trash. Delhi was not a place I'd want to live - it's chaotic and felt like about 150 degrees. But, the mountains are a bit slower pace and so beautiful. The markets are still busy and not 'clean' by U.S. standards, but I'm loving them.

Palampur is known for its tea production; but, our compound is actually surrounded by rice fields. I think we are at around 5,000 ft in elevation. The Himalayas jute up behind us and are truly breathtaking. They make the Rockies and Cascades look like foothills. A few people have been hiking in the mornings and have been finding stunning views just a few minutes up from our compound. I have yet to be able to drag myself out of bed at 6:00 to join.

Two people in my group have come down with stomach viruses. Not fun. My roommate was at the doctor all morning and was even on an IV for a while. Another volunteer fainted yesterday at work. I am surprised that my sensitive stomach has made it this far with only a few minor issues. I think it helps that we have cooks that make all our meals for us. And, because of my onion allergy, I always have my own special dishes to the side. I feel very pampered.

And, the food is SOOOO good. Even in the intense heat (did I mention it was hot here?) I've been eating a ton. "This is the best I've even had," comes out of my mouth a lot. Good thing for the expandable Hammer pants.

I am required to wear a traditional Salwaar Kameez: long tunic, MC Hammer pants and scarf. I have only bought one so far - in Delhi - and the whole outfit was $30. I'm having the rest made here in Palampur, because it's much cheaper (yep) and I could pick out my own fabric. They feel fantastic in the heat and lack of A/C. Just standing I can feel the streams of sweat pouring down my back. And, sitting? Yeah, that's the lovely feeling of having just wet yourself.

My volunteer placement is at a primary school - kindergarden through 9th grade. I'm teaching computers, english and environmental studies to 3rd, 6th and 9th graders. The school system is chaotic and ridiculous. I feel like I'm being totally ineffective. I wish I could just videotape my day for you so you could understand what a day is like. And, a 'day' is really only four hours.

The first day you observe the seasoned volunteers and/or teachers. By the second day you’re just thrown in. My last class is third graders and they are so hard to manage. Today was better, but yesterday was awful. I can give a presentation in front of a hundred adults and have them yell at me at the end with no adverse reactions on my part. But, third graders? They make me want to cry.

All in all, the first week has flown by.

Gray skies are gonna clear up...

2009-06-02T07:50:00.000+03:00

It rained in Paris; then it was beautiful and I left. It rained in Antwerp; then it was beautiful and I left. It's raining in Croatia; but it is supposed to get beautiful... then I leave for India, where it will be the beginning of monsoon season. Does anyone see a pattern here?

Like the weather, my trip started out a bit rainy. I had horrible insomnia-inducing jet lag of the "Lost in Translation" variety. I angered myself by getting involved in a situation I swore to myself I wouldn't be a part of again. Basically, I was homesick and lonely and knee-deep in "what am I doing with my life" self-pity.

"Kristy, I get the feeling you're not really getting into the spirit of things over there" a friend wrote. Uh, no, I wasn't. And, what really was the problem, I thought? I had wanted to spend six months traveling and seeing if I wanted to live abroad somewhere or spend half the year away and half the year in Portland. That sounds exactly like what I'm doing. What was to complain about?

Did I really think inspiration was going to hit within the first two weeks? And, had I ever been hit by inspiration? No, I hadn't. The idea was, and still is, to experience what it's like to be away for six months. To experience volunteering. To experience whatever comes up that I want to do. And, if I don't like it, I don't like it. At least I can say I tried. But, to not enjoy myself along the way is ridiculous. I am very lucky to have the opportunity to explore my options - and explore the world. I've worked hard to get here. And, I intend to soak up every last drop of this experience until I'm drenched from head to toe in a monsoon-like downpour of...

OK, anyway...the forecast is for sunny skies over this girl's head.

And, thanks to everyone who held out an umbrella when I needed it.

Thoreau again

2009-05-26T09:56:00.000+03:00

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

- Henry David Thoreau

Thinking about Thoreau

2009-05-25T10:53:00.000+03:00

I saw Thoreau's name in passing a few days ago. I had been feeling the desire to sit outside of society and place judgement. I thought of Walden and how lovely it would be to sit lakeside and dream and ponder and wish for better things in the world beyond the trees. I, too, wish life were simpler. I wish we could slow down and enjoy the little things. I wish we had time to think about what we wanted and who we wanted to be. And, I wish we had time to stop and think about not just ourselves, but our friends and even those who aren't our friends. We live in a society marred by convenience. We want to fill our lives to the extent that we never have time to sit and contemplate and look around. What if we all just stopped for a moment. Would we like what we saw? Or, would we really see anything different than you might see lakeside? We are a part of nature, afterall; we are just animals. And animals are instinctually self preserving. Nature is just as cruel and selfish as civilized society. It just has an air of simplicity and dignity we seem to have lost.

As I was walking around thinking about this, I was also thinking about how nice it would be to have a giant to-go coffee in my hand...and how much more I could see and get done if I could just jump in my car...and how much I missed Trader Joe's ready-made pretty much anything. So, really, I was missing the U.S. for all the reasons I so often complained about. Apparently, even Thoreau walked into town on a regular basis for a little convenience.

Sometimes it Rains in Paris, too

2009-05-13T12:33:00.000+03:00

It's 1:00am in Paris. The rain is falling gently on the empty cobble stoned streets. The busy city suddenly feels quiet. Even the prostitutes and discotech crowd seem to have gone home to sleep. Yet, my tired body has been overtaken by my very active mind and I remain awake.

The radio station I'm streaming announces the traffic report for Portland, and it doesn't even sound real. It doesn't feel like I'm a million miles away from Portland as much as it feels like Portland is a million miles away from me. And, I guess that's why I'm here. Portland has felt a million miles away for a long time. Even when I was standing in the middle of it. Yet, here I sit trying to shake this stab of heartache.

And, why should there be traffic in Portland anyway? Shouldn't life have just stopped there when I left? Is there a way to cryogenically freeze an entire town - only to be unfrozen when I deem appropriate?

It's nearing 2:00am now. Fuck. My body is aching for sleep, but I know my mind won't stop fretting if I lay down now. It's too warm. Now it's too cold. And, the fan is loud. This pillow is misshapen. What's that noise? Where is that light coming from? Oh, the phone is blinking, I must have a message. What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

What am I going to do with the rest of my life? I don't know. And, I see no reason why must I figure it all out now. However, for my body's sake, I will indulge my mind.

I have been thinking about what I really want to do. I mentioned to a friend recently that I missed "feeling important" from a work prospective. I miss project management. In addition, I miss feeling like I'm a part of something that is making a difference. No, I'm not a doctor or exactly saving lives. No one will call out in a crisis "is anyone here an urban planner?!" and I'll come running as the crowds part for me. But, I do think my work has made a positive difference in a lot of places. So, I think I'd like to volunteer or in some way be a productive member of society again. Even if I just become a part-time member, I'll be happy.

2:30am. The fan is sending a cool breeze my way. Its gentle hum is masking any occasional noise. As I switch off the light, even my phone is dark. And, the pillow looks lovely and soft.

Courage

2009-04-10T05:44:00.000+03:00

I just finished an overdue homework assignment. Last July my friends Christina and Robert were married. In lieu of gifts guests were asked to write about courage. Sadly, it has taken me almost a year to figure out what courage means to me.

About four years ago my life sounded much like a bad country song. My dog had just died, divorce was imminent, I hated my job... During a visit to Central Oregon, I decided to go on a hike to Moraine Lake. It was one of my favorite places to go with my dog, Yogi. We would sit lakeside and daydream away our cares. Of course, because I'm me, I left for the hike without a compass, map or really any logical supplies. I think maybe I had a Cliff bar. I knew the trail well; so, I wasn't deterred when I got to the turn off and it was snow covered.

Maybe I should have been deterred...I wound up getting lost on the way back, just as the sun started to set. I ran like a maniac through the darkening woods, tripping and bleeding and running. Finally, I found my way out and ran, again like a manic - but this time a smiling maniac, down the highway to my waiting car. I sat down on a log next to my car and giggled to myself as tears rolled down my cheeks. I was proud of myself. I had overcome fear and an incredibly poor sense of direction. And, I'd done it myself.

I had been feeling sorry for myself as I wasted away the day lakeside. But, suddenly, as I sat there in the dark empty parking lot, I was happy. Life is kind of like a trail through the woods. Some people stick to the well worn path. They live confidently. They know where they are going and have getting there all mapped out. Then there are those of us that choose the 'path less travelled'. It's the little side trail, maybe a bit overgrown, that catches our attention. It is not on any map. There is no sign telling us the final destination. Or how long it will take us to get there. It's an adventure. Sure, we will be slowed down clearing brush out of our way. We will trip over the occasional root. There will be scratches; and we may end up with a few scars. But, I'm convinced that's it all worth it. There is unbelievable beauty to discover when you map your own destiny. And, there is an strange satisfaction in knowing you're walking into the unknown.

Now, four years later, I feel like I'm at a crossroads in my life again. This time it feels different, though. Where before I saw myself on a path in the woods, I now see myself in the middle of a desert. The wind blew away the path leading me here. There is no going back - only forward. And, forward is in any which direction I choose. As I spin around, the horizon is the same where ever I look. I imagine myself - a bit manic again - running through the sand towards... well, who knows!?

Anyway, all this to say that to me courage is about taking leaps into the unknown. And, marriage is a bit of a leap like that, isn't it? I'm so happy that too people as great and special as Christina and Robert have found each other. When they got married, they took each other's hand and stepped forward onto a new path.

Like most of my homework assignments, I feel this needs some more work; however, since long overdue, I guess I will have to turn it in as is...

Courage

I have spent too long

at the lake again

dreaming away the afternoon

Thoughts of you

cloud the otherwise blue sky

A sudden chill of loneliness

jolts me back to reality

The crisp white snow

the crystal clear water

now take on an eerie dullness

The sun is dangerously close

to slipping away

like the fantasy of you

If only it would hold on

just a little longer

I search for the right path

in the ever darkening shadows

Fear's breath burns my back

Running, stumbling

I cry out for you

But my voice only echos

as I pick myself up again

The leaves beneath me

do not comfort my falls

The hard earth speaks

an uncomfortable truth

about life without you

These cuts and bruises

stinging my pride

are healed only through

the strength of my own tears

I find courage in the solitude

of the setting sun

Confidence outruns fear

gently propelling me forward

Once ominous shadows

reveal infinite possibilities

I burst into the clarity

of the impending moonlight

and there you are

You have waited for me

to find my own way

just as you have found yours

The sun gives way to the moon

as my needs fade to desires

I take your hand in mine

and together

we step into the darkness

Beware of Mirrors and Black Cats

2009-03-13T23:21:00.000+03:00

It's Friday the 13th and I'm lying low for two reasons. One, I pulled/tore/injured-in-some-way my hamstring and knee. Instead of just going to the doctor, I'm going to do nothing. It will either heals on its own, or my muscles will atrophy as I steadily gain 200lbs sitting on the couch watching E!. It will be a proud day when the fire department has to remove my whale-like body through the roof of my house with the jaws of life.

The second reason I'm lying low is that I am oddly superstitious. I don't know why. I have never been in any way affiliated with a religion; maybe I, too, just need something ridiculous and illogical to explain away my inadequacies.

I'm convinced that something will go wrong today. If I do nothing, then nothing will be done. However, doing nothing could also have negative consequences. So, regardless of what I do today, it will be the wrong decision in some way. But, of course, no decision is also bad, and is in a way, a decision in its self. This all makes it very hard to function like a normal person. (Not that I typically have a lot of experience functioning like a normal person.)

I'm making perfect sense, right? It makes sense that when a street light goes out above me, it's bad luck. Or, walking under a ladder. Or, breaking a mirror. Those damn mirrors! I'm always breaking them. Just when my 7 years of bad luck is almost up - crack! - another broken mirror.

I guess superstitions are my own little religion. God has a plan for some people. Whether things go right or wrong, it's always because God willed it. So, I see nothing wrong with assuming that I'm not where I want to be in my life solely because of mirrors, street lights, black cats and Friday the 13ths. It in no way could have anything to do with the fact that I'm lazy, unmotivated and untalented.

Kristy Dates the World - now available at Powell's!

2009-02-20T06:24:00.001+03:00

I was discussing my trip abroad today and the topic of writing a book came up. I know what you're thinking: everyone and their mom thinks they can travel around the world and write a book. However, I've spent enough time at Powell's to know that, in fact, apparently everyone can write a book and get it published regardless of talent or interesting topics. So, I see no reason why my boring and poorly written memoir cannot also grace the shelves. And, since I'm from Portland, maybe my book will even get special attention at Powell's, like a little construction paper star that says "local author!" taped below it. It will be a huge hit, because, in Portland it's all about shop local, buy local. From there, it will be back around the world on my book tour that will culminate with my highly anticipated appearance on The Daily Show. Jon Stewart and I will have wildly wicked and witty banter. He will proclaim me the best guest ever and then offer me my dream job as a Daily Show correspondent.

Wait...what was I talking about? The book, yes. So, I was talking about wanting to write a book. Most of my ideas are around interviewing interesting people and then putting the interviews together in a book. (Check out Gig - a great book from which this idea was borrowed.) They would all be tied together, of course, by some profound conclusion I'd come to on the human psyche.

I first thought about interviewing strangers. One of my favorite pastimes is people watching. I like to try to figure out people's stories from afar. I particularly like people that stand out just a bit. "One of these kids is not like the others..." Why is the clean cut, straight-laced Intel employee wearing pressed everything - and white cowboy boots? Why is that guy rubbing rosary beads while he stands at the bar talking and drinking with his friends. Why are these guys standing on the street corners in Istanbul with a scale? (Seriously, I need to know this one. Why? Why do I need to have 8-10 opportunities to weigh myself throughout the day? Especially in a city teaming with Turkish delight.) Anyway, I thought writing a book would be a great excuse to talk to these people and get to the bottom of what makes them tick. But, I don't know, maybe it would be disappointing. Maybe the stories I make up for them are more interesting.

Then, I thought about interviewing ex-pats. It sways between any ol' ex-pat and ex-pats I admire. I particularly admire people who travel abroad, see people/animals/environments in need, set up organizations and then stay to live and work in the community. How fabulous. And, I don't mean the Bill Gateses of the world. Yeah, he's doing great work and all, but I'm particularly interested in the people who didn't have money when they started their foundations. The guy from Three Cups of Tea is a good example. Except, dude, going to the library and picking up a couple of How To books could have saved you A LOT of time.

The third and latest idea was suggested to me after a discussion on the behavior of men from different cultures. It was suggested that I date different men from different countries and cultures as I travel around the world and then write a book. "Now that's a book I'd buy!" she said. Well, it certainly wouldn't be boring research. It takes my notion of "just fucking around the world" to a different level. (kidding, kidding, I said 'date', just date...) I had joked some time ago about only interviewing good-looking men, but this actually sounds really interesting. Discovering cultural differences is one of the things I love most about travel. Maybe I could write off all my dinner and drinks. Or, maybe they would be bought for me. Or, not. Maybe no one would want to date me solely for research purposes. (especially since no one seems to want to date me for non-research purposes) Maybe it would be offensive. Maybe not. See, we don't know these things. We need to find out.

Of course, there are some flaws in this plan. I abhor first dates. I'm terrible at small talk. My foreign language skills are crap. I've never asked a guy out. And, I spend most evenings trying not to make eye contact with strange men. So, the question is, could I really spend the next year sidling up to guy after guy, batting my eyelashes and saying "so...I'm writing this book..."

Trust and Balance

2009-02-16T05:07:00.000+03:00

I spent my day Friday recovering from Thursday night and Friday night recovering from Friday day.

And, my favorite thing to do on a Friday night at home is to watch Bill Moyers on PBS. Yes, you heard me correctly. Anyway, this Friday he had on the poet Nikki Giovanni. She was amazing. I was so moved by everything she said and loved her poetry. Her latest book is called Bicycles. During the interview, Bill Moyers asked her why bicycles:

“Well, when I grew up, you learned to ride a bicycle by getting on a bicycle. Which means you're going to fall off. And love and life and bicycles are about trust and balance. It's about riding it and believing that this thing that doesn't make sense for you to be on, can move.”

Trust and balance. If I were searchable and had keywords, those would be mine.

…OK…well, I was going to expand on that, but my evening is starting earlier than expected. When faced with blogging vs. showering, I’ll go with showering.

I recently dated this guy who used to irritate me by saying “because I’m a Cancer…” bla bla bla. So, I’ll be irritating and leave you with this: Obviously trust and balance is important to me, because, after all, I’m a Libra.

Here's one of my favorite poems by Nikki Giovanni:

Choices

If i can't do

what i want to do

then my job is to not

do what i don't want

to do

It's not the same thing

but it's the best i can

If i can't have

what i want . . . then

my job is to want

what i've got

and be satisfied

that at least there

is something more to want

Since i can't go

where i need

to go . . . then i must . . . go

where the signs point

through always understanding

parallel movement

isn't lateral

When i can't express

what i really feel

i practice feeling

what i can express

and none of it is equal

I know

but that's why mankind

alone among the animals

learns to cry

-Nikki Giovanni

What are you smiling about?

2009-02-04T23:44:00.000+03:00

Sleep is for weaklings. I've evolved beyond the need. With enough strategically planned shots of caffeine, I can go days without sleep. I suddenly have an extra 8 to 10 hours of free time. Think of all that I could accomplish in that time. I could finally make it through an entire edition of The Economist before the next week's comes. I could update my QuickBooks files. I could open and go through the box labeled 'important' that I packed back in 2001. I could cross off one, maybe even two things on my to-do list. There are so many options.

Unfortunately, sometimes there are kinks to be worked out in the early stages of evolution. For instance, I have uncontrollable hand tremors. That, combined with my dark, puffy eyes makes me look a bit like a tweaker. And, my dream of being a neurosurgeon is probably out. It's a sacrifice. Then there's the little issue that I hate everyone. Everyone. Except you, of course.

I've spent the day waiting for someone to piss me off. Just waiting for a reason to tell someone to fuck off. Yet no one is obliging me. Everyone is being nice. It's so fucking annoying. Even on the Avenue of Roses, drivers were polite. Doors were held open for me. The barista actually smiled. The neighborhood's latest future serial killer wasn't lurking in my bushes. Not even one annoying high school student stepped into the crosswalk in front of my car.

I've squeezed myself into my tightest jeans, slipped on my highest heels and put on my Anna Wintour sunglasses. It's my Super Bitch disguise. I like to look and feel the part. I've spent the last hour sulking at the coffee shop. I'm sitting in the corner giving people the evil eye, hoping they'll bite. But, as of yet, nothing. Maybe I should take off the sunglasses.

In the meantime, I've doodled a lovely little piece of artwork. I think it would look nice screen printed on a t-shirt. I've put a lot of work into it; it's very ornate. And, it makes a nice statement. It says "Fuck You".

So, anyway, everyone is Mr. and Ms. Fuckin' Sunshine today. I guess I'll just have to go home and hate people on T.V. There's no shortage of idiots there. And, possibly, I should rethink my foray into evolutionary advancements.

Oh my gosh, wait! Someone just sat down smacking their gum obnoxiously loud. Fantastic. FANtastic! This could be the break I've been waiting for...

Away at Sea

2009-02-02T06:33:00.000+03:00

I woke up the other morning to a little sliver of sunshine coming in my window. Through the crack in the shade I could only see blue sky. For a brief moment I laid there imagining I was someplace warm and exotic. At first I was on a beach somewhere south of the equator and then I drifted to the crowded streets of a far-off city. Sadly, reality woke me up before I had the chance to acquire a tan-line or settle into a sidewalk cafe.

I generally try not to daydream too much about traveling. It causes a serious increase in procrastination during my already highly unproductive days. However, this weekend I am at the beach and can't help myself. There is something about the beach. The warm sun on my skin melts my cares away and it's as if the gentle rhythm of the waves smoothing the golden sand sets my mind a drift.

So, with my mind out at sea, let's explore some of the places it might wash ashore, shall we? My itinerary for the next year keeps changing; however, there are a few places I know I want to go.

Istanbul, Turkey

I spent a week in Istanbul in October. Aside from my accommodations, I LOVED it. I loved the architecture. I loved the colors and patterns and textures. I loved the grand scale of the buildings. I loved the intimate neighborhoods and the bustling bazaars. I loved the food. I loved the people. I even loved waking up early to the melodious call to morning prayer.

I could completely see myself living in Istanbul. However, I only spent a week there. So, before I make an offer on the Aya Sofia, I'm thinking I might rent a flat for a couple of months. Although I always try to spend some time just wandering around away from the tourist areas, it's hard to really get a feel for a place without spending time there.

Marrakesh, Morocco

The other place I could see myself living is Marrakesh, Morocco. However, I have never actually been there. There are a few places in Africa that I've had a lifelong fantasy about. My fantasies are completely unrealistic, of course. And, I know a few people who have been a bit disappointed with Morocco. But, then I see photos like the one to the right and I can't imagine that life could possibly not be fabulous. Don't you want to sit in the sun and sip cocktails with me on my rooftop garden?

So, I will explore Morocco for myself and see what I think. If I like it, I will stay for a few months. Beyond Marrakesh, I have to go to Casablanca. I really have no idea what Casablanca is like, but I'm guessing it's probably not swimming in swanky cocktail bars with glamorous women and men in uniform. I wonder if someone has cashed in on the movie and opened a bar called Rick's. I'm sure it would be cheesy and horrible - like Cheers in Boston. I would probably be too embarrassed to go. I'll search out the Hard Rock Cafe instead.

(photo credit: www.stylefiles.com)

Borocay, Philippines

It's no secret that I love my tropical beaches. And, likewise, anyone who has had to endure the Portland winters with me knows how much I love the sun. Even though the years of lying on my parents' roof slowly rotating my body in the sun like a rotisserie chicken have finally caught up with my skin, I still like lying on the beach feeling as though the hot sun is soaking all the way through to my soul. It's worth looking like a walking handbag in the future. Anyway, I have one friend originally from the Philippines and one friend who lived there for a few years. They both had great things to say and recommended Boracay Beach. I've done no research beyond looking at photos. But, if it really looks like the photo above, that's all I need to know. I'm there. (photo credit: www.boracaybeach.ph)

Well, I'm afraid my mind just washed ashore back in good old Newport, Oregon. I guess I have no choice but to enjoy the present moment: a.k.a. stuffing my face with chowder, razor clams and chips. (Did I mention my pants fit better in my daydreams?)

Ode to Optimism

2009-01-24T01:22:00.000+03:00

Sweet optimism, how I miss you
I miss lying next to you
Your warm embrace
The morning sun
cascading over my window sill
I miss your gentle touch
as the day fades away
Your breath on my neck
like a cool evening breeze
Tomorrow, you whisper
Tomorrow
But, tomorrow never comes
And, I grow weary
Your promises never kept
You betray me
and I betray you
Lying with denial
A harsh bedfellow
All consuming
Sweet lies tickle my earlobe
I dream of the sun
Dancing in its golden rays
A pretty picture
painted with the blinds drawn
But denial has since left me
Unreliable
Unfaithful
One day I wake to rain
gently tapping
My window a monotonous canvas of grey
Apathy crawls in beside me now
Uninvited
Unwelcome
Unopposed
Its caress sends shivers down my spine
Cooling my soul
The blinds remain drawn
The sun's soothing touch
remains at bay
I'm with another now
But, I think of you often
I blame you not
Life chipped away your fragile facade
Exposing a truth
neither of us wanted to realize
I wonder if the sun will come
cascading over my window sill
Oh how I miss
your warm embrace
Sweet optimism

Mission Accomplished

2009-01-21T10:24:00.000+03:00

I'm thinking about hanging a big banner from my roof reading "Mission Accomplished". That way, every time I come home I can be reminded of all that I've achieved in the past year. Let's see, I've... uhm... I've... oh, wait, I've done nothing. Things are pretty much exactly the same as they were a year ago. Well, with the exception of a little more sun damage, a flagged passport and a significantly smaller bank balance.

The past several years I haven't made new year's resolutions. It's obviously working well (hence the banner); but, it seems like this mission might need a bit more direction - I need to shock and awe.

So, on this glorious day of hope and change, I've come up with the following New Year's Resolutions:

1. Finish what you've started. (This is kind of funny; I started my resolutions several days ago. I stopped writing after typing 'finish what you've started' and left to do something else. Enough said...)

2. Create something called a "budget". My financial backers have begun to get wary of my last minute vacations and large year-end bonuses. My company is mismanaged, doesn't keep up with industry trends, and has a shoddy product. So, I'm assuming it's only a matter of time before someone comes along to bail me out. In the meantime, I'll try to look busy creating a budget.

3. Get more learned. Apparently your brain starts to deteriorate if you don't use it enough. I've started to get tongue-tied with words over 2-syllables. Basic math escapes me. Although I had The Economist and Metropolis in my bag, I chose to read a two-year-old copy of People while waiting for the dermatologist this morning. I then proceeded to have a Tarzan/Jane-style conversation with her. "Benign good? Ma-lig-nant bad?" I need to renew my interest in PBS and chapter books.

4. Make decisions. Or not. Whatever. Maybe. Not only do I struggle to make decisions at all, the ones I do make are generally bad. And, I always know they're bad. I can't tell you how many situations I've gone into thinking "this is not going to end well". But, I do it anyway. For instance, let's say I'm, I don't know, thinking about bringing lawn care to my neighbor's yard. I'll do some research and ask all my friends their opinion. Do you think it's a good idea? All evidence and advice will point to "no". So, naturally, I'll immediately storm over the fence and start spraying pesticides everywhere.

5. Eliminate flip-flopping. I'm leaving for 6-months. No, I'm moving for a year. I'm moving to Buenos Aires. No, I'm moving to Istanbul. Next month. No, the month after that. Or, maybe... Ahhh! I even annoy myself. Either move abroad already or STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. If, on January 1, 2010, I am still living in Portland and talking incessantly about my plans to go abroad for an extended period of time please take me out back and shoot me. This may sound dramatic, but I'm pretty sure after FOUR YEARS of listening to me talk about traveling, my friends will rejoice in rolling my bullet-riddled, yet silent, body into the Willamette. (Note: Apparently Robert has the plastic wrap and car for the job.)

I think that's a solid platform to start with. Can I do it? Yes, I can.

"So long as I'm the president, my measure of success is victory -- and success." --George W. Bush, on Iraq, Washington, D.C., April 17, 2008