i need more air quotes to tell this properly.

May I please plead the case that I am 100% Little Miss Cultural Relativism most of the time, but even when you can blend in fairly well with the language and lifestyle of a place, being North American comes with a mentality that doesn't always match that of our Southern compatriots. It doesn't mean that anyone is "right" or "wrong," we're just "different." And sometimes that gets a little "confusing."

I know what the word "work" is in Spanish, but that doesn't mean I know what people mean when they say it. So Marlo and I got "jobs" in Wayruro Hostel after chatting with the owners Julio and Jesus about their plans to open up a bar. A week ago, our understanding was that they wanted to repaint everything, design a menu, stock the bar (currently only filled with beer and what looks like a bottle of coca liquor older than I am), and have a party to celebrate Pisco Sour Day (Saturday), a day as big as the 4th of July for Peruvian-types.

This is when I first realized that for as much as people from the States complain about "deadlines," WE FREAKING LOVE THEM. We thrive on them. Marlo and I immediately perked up at the thought of throwing a killer Saturday night in a brand-new bar. We jumped behind a blender to practice our Pisco Sours, came up with a drinks list, designed a paint scheme, talked with their designer for a menu plan, and made mental notes about how much work we could accomplish before Saturday night. Who doesn't love a good project? Especially when it leaves you time to surf in the mornings?

We quickly realized that we weren't operating on South American time. By Thursday, when the designer still was only showing up sporadically and the paint we picked hadn't been bought, we asked Julio if Pisco Sour Day was a real thing or WHAT.

Us: "BTW, Julio, when you told us to invite people, we did. Lots of them."

Julio: "Shit."

He then went to yell at Jesus for telling the Americans to do things, "because then they actually do them! You can't talk to people from the States like you talk to people here."

OKAY! We are now officially going to REALLY TRY to start operating on South American time, which means that we'll be celebrating Pisco Sour Day roughly six weeks late.

death road; or, how i almost fell off a cliff

La Paz began on a rocky note, but after I got over the fact that I was entirely without my winter wear, I decided that I was in heaven (ie. finally back in civilization) and spent the rest of the week sitting in a hot tub with hilarious Israelis, continuing the attempts to breathe normally at 3600 meters, and eating quinoa soup. Once I regained my emotional capacities after the vomit chorus on the way into town, I made the executive decision to mountain bike the most dangerous road in the world in the spirit of pretending to train for a triathlon. I find this quite impressive considering the only biking I've done since middle school was to and from yoga class this year (a straight shot on Latona, and sometimes I cheated and rode on the sidewalks even then).
Death Road takes you through waterfalls, through overflowing rivers, nearly careening off cliffs when you get too cocky and start going really fast, and descends 3000 meters from freezing, foggy La Paz into balmy, jungly Coroico. I had a couple of Aussie friends with me on the trip, and the rest of our group was either Brazilian or deaf, but almost dying together really brings people together and I left the mountain with a new arsenal of ASL signals and Portuguese phrases. Additionally, I somehow got the entire relationship history of a sweet guy from Rio who spoke English like I speak Hebrew and discovered a butterfly the size of my bike wheel.

The day ended with a buffet lunch and a pool overlooking the mountains, which I'm not sure is normal for triathlon training, but something I'd like to incorporate into my normal routine either way. Death Road conquered, check please.

pat and rush don't speak for me.

The newspapers here, like they are all over the world, are currently filled with sobbing Haitians and headlines like "DIA NEGRO EN HAITI." My heart hurts even thinking about what it must be like for that place right now, and it's stunning when someone can react to such a terrible event with anything less than utter compassion.

Pat Robertson does not speak for me. Rush Limbaugh definitely does not speak for me. I find them both to be often more in love with their own opinions than with the truth.

That being said, I have opened my own mouth countless times in a way that was careless, and at times hurtful. I just didn't get blasted because I'm not famous. People are dumb, but reacting to each other with more fury won't help. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it looks like to seek shalom, and while I hope that people whose voices are far-reaching will use words wisely, I also hope that people will show me grace, and also firmness, when I say things that are out of line.

raton de dientes.

Transcript of a real Spanish conversation I had with my tutor JuanJose today:

JJ: "So then the raton de dientes comes and leaves money under your pillow."
Me: "Excuse me?"
JJ: "You know, when you lose a tooth, and a little mouse comes and takes it from you while you sleep."
Me: "Right. So in the States, we have a Tooth Fairy. A pretty, clean fairy."
JJ: "Oh. Well we're a lot poorer than you guys. We have the Tooth Mouse."

I almost fell out of my chair from laughing so hard.

movie night.

Movie theater by our house: looks like a jet plane inside. You give them 12 pesos, they give you a ticket to sit in the. longest. theater ever. Like NFL football field long. And only about ten seats wide.

The experience was quite globalized. We listened to the movie in German, read it in Spanish, and I whispered the English translations to Marlo.

Entre Nosotros won a bunch of awards in Germany, but we both hated it. Especially the ending.

la felicidad

Buenos Aires is not an aptly named city. As soon as your plane lands, the "New York of South America" hands you a fine film on your lungs and a halo of smog, like getting lei'd on Oahu. The grime follows you around (save for brief respites if you can get to a Palermo park) and relentlessly reminds you that you are trading being clean for being in a place that is always alive. Last weekend, the two of us welcomed with open arms the rolling clouds of a three-day storm that blanketed the city with cool rain, kept us up at night with pounding thunder and brought lightning that criss-crossed the sky with astonishing frequency. We put on our jackets and happily took advantage of an October weekend that felt like home (except that people don't have rain gear here. They still wear their pretty clothes and just carry an umbrella).

You always expect to be happy when travelling, but sometimes dirt wears you out before you're ready. And other times, an endless summer storm comes along and makes you feel peaceful again.

Other things that have cleared the smog the first two weeks:

• Last Thursday, I found myself at a tiny restaurant eating pancetta out of a pumpkin and discussing politics and religion with a bilingual socialist revolutionary. I met Diego at Cafe Victoria (this is the view, which I will never cease to be delighted with) and we met up for coffee/dinner not long after. Diego is a fascinating character with the energy of a kindergartner and the drive of Eugene Debs, who went from being "a Christian militant to an atheist" because he couldn't justify the world he saw with the world Christianity presupposes (I'll have to write about that conversation another day). As we chatted in the corner of the tiny restaurant, a pinstriped and graying man walked in with a gorgeous blonde and belted out a perfect note, which was promptly matched from behind the bar by a dusky voiced woman with long hair and a massive grin. The warmup notes then turned into a full-fledged tango show for a restaurant that was empty... besides us. My Malbec swirled in the glass, the music filled in the cracks between the bricks, and I realized again what a lucky girl I am. "Para ella!" the woman called out, gesturing to me, la americana, and the guitarrista struck up a folk song to wrap up. Yep, nights like this are how I can justify quitting my job...
  
  
• Marlo and I got cool again when we stayed out till 9 am. No one needs to know that it was an accident, or how excited we got when we left the party to discover a light sky. Our throats scratchy from smoking hookah, our ears ringing from the Colombian band that changed our lives, we got so energized from our all-nighter that we dragged Martin across the city on foot to go see the Floralis. GREAT PLAN, ladies. We were so tired by the time we got there that we had to taxi home. So much for being 19 again.
  
• I was wandering the side streets in San Telmo for some quality time with my camera when I glanced up and got a wave from a guy standing on his front porch, a wrought-iron jut peeking out of a wall full of flowers. It was such a beautiful building but I was too shy to take his picture, so I just grinned and kept walking. Halfway up the next block, I heard someone calling to me so I turned around to see the same fellow jogging towards me. Picture a young, Argentine version of Cosmo Kramer and we are on the same page with Esteban. He ended up walking me back to my neighborhood (don't worry ya'll, we took main streets to avoid creepstering) and I was pleased to finally meet someone who didn't speak English. For a mile or so, we had the most pleasant, unexpected chat about the relative merits of working vs. travelling ("Pero no tiene ritmo!"--"Without work, there's no rhythm to life!"). I told him how much I loved the architecture in the city right when we hit a block surrounded by bland, terrible apartments, and we laughed at how 1970s architecture was nothing to write home about. "But it's also a sad city," he explained. "All of our beautiful buildings are just imitations of the same ones in Europe; we are always trying to copy other people." How nice it was, to take a walk and have a chat with someone I'd never met before and would never meet again, and not worry about places to be or time to be spent doing other things.

Another week and a half left in this massive city of dirt, and I can't wait to see what little storms await us next.

conversation, with cigar.

prep.

South America is exactly one month away. Departure feels imminent, but first there are shots. There are visas. There are verbs to remember how to conjugate so we say "catch a bus" instead of "have our way with a bus." There are hippy names to invent for ourselves so we can fit into the place we're living in Buenos Aires (we saw pictures of bongos. People who are not Matthew McConaughey still play the bongos! I'm as shocked as you are!). From now on, please refer to us as "Moon Flower" and "Peace Wart."

Last week, Marlo spent the 8 am hour buying "underwear we can wash in a river that will dry in ten minutes!" and tear-away Adidas track pants. People keep asking us how prep is going-- at this point, six months in South America is looking like a camping trip with Kopachuck Middle School, Class of 1998.

Moving On.

"I'd say 'anytime', but I know I can't follow through on a statement like that."

"I know. I know."

What stings the fingers like a closed door? What holds a more bittersweet taste on the back of the tongue than something that never happened and that wasn't supposed to happen anyway? Time marches on. "The stars, in their firmament, behave like stars." But rooms never explored contain the strange, dusty musk of a life that can only be lived once. This is both disconcerting and comforting a la vez. I am glad for only so many options. And I also grieve for being able to follow so few.

Crush.

Timothy Padraic Sullivan, I have a crush on you.

http://americainshort.wordpress.com/

Talking to 15 Year Olds

Real conversation between me and my darling Little Sister (recently 15) today, outside Safeco Field:

Me: Do you want me to take a picture of you in front of the Home Plate sign?

Kirsten: IDK.

Me: Does that mean "I don't know" or did you mean to say "IDC," meaning you don't care?

Kirsten: Oh. I guess I meant to say "IDC." (wanders off while I wait for the light to change)

...30 seconds later...

Kirsten: Hello?! Aren't you going to take my picture?

She had assumed a seductive pose against a flower pot with the stadium as her backdrop. "IDC" means "yes please," as I learned today.

We are exactly ten years apart, and I love Kirsten so much for so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that she is a walking, talking time capsule of who I was at her age. Ten years of social polishing make it so I can now say, "Yes, please" and "No, thank you" and a thousand other phrases expressing how I really feel (and a thousand more that I am trying to learn), but which she doesn't have in her arsenal yet. I love her nerves in social situations, love the way she holds situations and thoughts in her hands and examines them closely, like little bugs caught in a garden, love the way she is becoming the person she is meant to be in front of my very eyes (despite immense roadblocks and challenges that threaten her at every turn). She is a teenager, in all her glory, and I just want to scoop her up and let her know that absolutely everything will work out for her if she can just get through this awkward phase.

I want to say that I can't wait for the day when we both laugh together over the fact that she used to communicate with three-letter acronyms, but that would make it sound like I'm not enjoying the journey. And not just hers-- one of the great things about having a Little who is old enough to keep track of time with you is that one day, she will be able to laugh with me at my own foibles of my mid-twenties, and we can marvel together at how much we have changed. Until then, I will keep growing in my understanding of communication via abbreviations.

sentences need not apply

As someone who lives and breathes words more every day, who feels incomplete without some kind of literary food and feels more at home than ever when language plays a central role in what I'm doing, it makes me uncomfortable to say this: lately, words haven't really done justice to the quiet peace that I have found washing over me as I find more and more contentment with my job, my home and with my place in the world. It's an unexpected blessing and I can't really hope to describe it well.


Sometimes words are too frail for thoughts.

Monologue

Michael is quiet around the other boys, mostly because he's younger and doesn't fit in as well. I left Dee, Tommy and Ryan in the living room to wash a few dishes in the kitchen, and Michael followed me in with his headphones firmly planted in his ears. He pulled one earbud out and sat at the table, silently staring at his mp3 player as I hummed at the sink.

Michael is the kind of kid who won't say anything for an hour and then come out with a sharp comment that just throws me into fits of laughter, especially when no one else hears it. I asked him a few questions, got shrugs or monosyllabic answers. Without really noticing, I launched into a detailed monologue on everything I like about Michael. After my fifth or sixth point, I glanced over and realized he wasn't even listening to me! I grinned over my shoulder at him and squealed, "HEY! You aren't even hearing a word I'm saying!"

He smiled his smirky little grin that I love so much and said quietly, "Yes I am!"

I don't think these kids hear often enough how much they're worth. I know that sounds obvious and cliche, but people (myself included) tend to forget that words are really powerful; that they sink into places we don't expect them to, and that they have a strong tendency to fulfill themselves. I am truly learning to believe that light and dark can be spoken into being, that the line between "good" and "bad" is sometimes as thin as a well-timed sentence.

I wear this to test your English!

"NEVER talk to the Ciao Bellas!" In Spain, they're the Hola Guapas, and I hated them more than anything, but somehow the Italian Ciao Bellas seemed more harmless. Maybe because I was too intrigued with everything else to really notice them. I just got back from a loooong vacation in Florence and Rome, visiting Shauna, Megan and Taniko, and I loved every second. I don't think I could fit a decent description of the bizarre characters I met so I will revert to the classic bullet point of events and people I thought were interesting:

• The first day I somehow found myself on the banks of the Arno, drinking white wine out of Dixie cups with a couple Italian-Tunisians. Learned some Arabic, finally went to Thanksgiving dinner at the girls' culinary-school neighbors'. At midnight. With a massive headache.



• We were having dinner at a little trattoria by the girls' apartment when we met an older guy who turned out to be a Prada exec in Florence on business. We kicked it for a while, he told us some jokes, and left. We sat there thinking, Did we just make friends with a Prada exec? I think so!



• Megan turned 22. A night for the record books including: an excess of free shots, a Montanan wearing a cowboy hat and a disgusting t-shirt, and of course, Giacomo, an Italian who spoke Spanish, inspiring the girls to overuse the word "Spaniard."



• Saw Michaelangelo's David (17 feet of amazingness). A few days later, I was at the Palazzo Pitti when I saw an old guy in a UW hat so I started talking to him, only to hear a rousing critique of Michaelangelo's sculpting ability (who does that?!), topped off by a graphic and disdainful description of David's manhood. He even went so far as to bust out his guidebook and point out how poorly depicted David's pubes were. This is a true story, unfortunately.



• The four of us watched the world's most beautiful sunset from the Boboli Gardens on the city wall. This is an instance in which a picture is worth a thousand words, but the sun setting over the Tuscan hills was a moment I will never ever forget!



• Was standing in the SMN train station when a middle-aged guy came up and started talking to me, ignoring the fact that I don't speak Italian, and proceeded to carry my bags for me and sit next to me on the train. After two hours of hilarious conversation (we knew NONE of the same words), he got off, and I thought, 'I could not possibly meet another randomer on this trip. My quota is definitely met.' But I was wrong, enter:



• Angelo. The most attractive Italian man I had seen my entire time there sat in the compartment next to mine. I took a nap so as not to stare. But he eventually moved over and started talking to me, in ENGLISH, so I was forced to look at him (life's rough sometimes). Angelo, as it turns out, is an Italian TV star. Angelo also owns a Vespa and was willing to carry my bags. Long story short, I saw a bit of the Eternal City on the back of his bike, and all I can say about Rome is SHOCK AND AWE. I can't wait to get back next summer. Angelo turned out to be less than awesome, but the point is... well, there really isn't a point to this story, actually.



• For various reasons, I found myself on the opposite end of the city than I'd intended the day I left, and I was trying to get the metro back to Termini. I checked out of my hotel and the manager tried to tell me something... but unfortunately, all I know in Italian is 'Non capisco,' 'Molto grazie,' and 'Me dice dov'e devo scendere per Castello Medici?' and that wasn't getting me anywhere. All I have to say is THANK GOD FOR THE PERUVIAN MAID, who translated the manager's bad news into Spanish: "No hay Metro por razon de la huelga!" Huelga...huelga... STRIKE. Yes, my only means of making my flight was closed due to strike, and since all the taxis were full, my only option was a 50 euro private car to the airport. Do they have any idea what an intern's budget is? Eventually I got a taxi and made it to my plane at the last minute, but the last morning in Rome was NOT a fun one. On the plus side, the taxi driver was funny, and despite the fact that I kept trying to pass Spanish off as Italian, we had a good time on the way to Ciampino.

But the most surprising thing that came out of my trip? So I met a guy Chris on the airport bus when I first landed in Rome. We got along really well, he's just a nice little Belfast boy, but we parted ways in Rome and I was just glad I didn't have to talk to a weirdo for that half hour... I didn't really think more about it, but I was so surprised when he walked into my office today with a note and a card... filled with W.B. Yeats and his phone number! I was so floored to see him that I forgot to ask questions... later Desi told me that apparently he'd gone to the Drennan's house to try to find me before heading to the church! I forgot I even told him where I worked... and getting surprise poetry was definitely a first. Deborah freaked out and said my life was too much like a movie... and based on the past week I'm inclined to agree! It is so good to be back in Belfast right now, though, even if I did have to trade sunny days for wind and rain :) But wandering the streets of Firenze, enjoying the art and architecture and FOOD and people and my friends, was unbelievable! I'm so lucky!

What It Is!

Sometimes all it really takes to feel like a normal person again is a really long laugh with someone you love... and since I am so lucky to have had Schlosser visit over the weekend, I am reminded of who I am and what it's about. I was a bit nervous to have her come to my little corner of Northern Ireland after she had spent so much time seeing all the glamorous places in Europe, partying in Italy and drinking beer in Munich. To come to a place like this was going to be a shock to her system, and I didn’t really know how to explain everything, let alone justify it. But Aimee showed up, nearly a month into her European adventure, with a totally expanded worldview and willingness to become a part of wherever she was. She really impressed me, actually. I am reminded of how much I love her heart.
Schlossmo showed up late from Dublin and we headed straight to the Crown Saloon, her huge backpack in tow, and had Stella in hand within ten minutes of her arrival. When in Rome, we say. Before I had even gotten back from the bar, which took a bit longer because I had to bitch to the bartender about how they didn't pour Harp (this is BELFAST... what do you mean, NO HARP?), Aim had discovered the two guys in the bar who were under the age of thirty. So Madrileno Faro and Salzburgite (not a word) Thomas became our partners in crime for the night, which was an interesting choice to say the least. On the plus side, I got to speak Spanish, we got free passes to a "trendy" club, and despite lacking a bit in the English department Thomas completely got us and actually thought we were funny so of course we loved him. On the down side, there was some really ugly dancing at said club and Aim and I were unsuccessful at explaining the meaning of "that girl," which apparently doesn't translate (side note: after a long discussion on the meaning, Aim and I decided to be walking examples and in fact became "those girls").

Throughout our lovefest of a weekend, I spent a lot of my time translating for her, especially at YF when she was surrounded with “the craziest bunch of teenagers” she had ever met in her life. I had to laugh when they informed me I must be losing my American edge because her accent was so strong. She did really well though, for being thrown to the wolves, and they loved her. But I can’t wait to see their faces next week when we tell them she’s Catholic… for being so world-wise, they really are sheltered in so many ways. Alison mentioned to Aim that they all think I’m crazy because I walk to work through Ardoyne, because I get coffee at the Toasted Soda, and now to have Catholic friends who they actually LIKE… it’s going to blow their minds! It’d be funnier if it weren’t so sad!
On Sunday, as Aimee and I tooled around Belfast looking at murals on both sides of the peace line, I think it all became real when we spotted a massive Home Depot-type building that was completely collapsed and charred from a firebomb a couple weeks ago. Apparently it’s the work of the Real IRA, a radical offshoot of the Provos (Provisional IRA, which from what I can tell is getting increasingly united with Sinn Féin, its political wing, and naturally has become much less violent in the process). So members of the RIRA don’t agree with the talks that are going on in Stormont right now to create some kind of workable power-sharing Northern Irish government, because they don’t think the Sinn Féin (via Gerry Adams) should be trying to cooperate with Protestant leaders. So instead of peaceful demonstrations against the negotiations, they’d prefer to firebomb buildings. Not surprisingly, the US has the RIRA categorized as a Foreign Terrorist Organization. Since the Good Friday Agreement, they have supposedly agreed to ceasefire, but still are pretty into planting car bombs, bombing rail stations in England, etc., including a couple places in Belfast in the last few weeks. Kathryn, who was driving, told us that that particular shop most likely had 50 or more Catholics working there, ie. the RIRA just put dozens of their own “people” out of work in the name of revolution, in an attempt to spur Catholics toward a more hard-line stance against what they consider political acquiescence. The logic is so absent it’s astounding.
Seeing Belfast through Aimee’s eyes revived my fascination with the history, the personality, and the people of the north and west ends of the city, and I remember why I wanted to be here in the first place. Everywhere you go you are walking on ground steeped in historical conflict and potential turbulence. There’s an edge to it, and it’s unreal sometimes. It was amazing to have someone to remind me of what a dork I am and laugh at nothing for way too long! I waved goodbye as her bus pulled away, we both tried not to cry, and I realized that it’s much easier to be the one leaving than to be the one left…

Innocent Intern and the Series of Events (Unfortunate and Otherwise)

Alright, I am going to come right out and make a confession here. I made it through the third grade epidemic without getting lice but I didn’t make it through age 22. That’s right, since I last wrote, a major event has been the unwelcome acquisition of nits. As I write this, I realize that a lot of my friends hate kids, always thought it was annoying that I loved them, and they are probably getting the last laugh right now at the thought of me paying the price for hanging around grubby primary schoolers all the time. (They’re gone now, by the way. The lice, not the kids.)
Other inconveniences include the arson of our church minibus, which, along with a few other cars in the neighborhood, got torched down to a piece of charred scrap metal last weekend. When the church copy machine broke the same morning, I honestly felt like we’d been left with just our four walls! Since there is no way we can afford to buy new stuff, I’ve started to devote my energy to researching and applying for grants for just about everything, because we are totally broke.
But Belfast is, bit by bit, becoming home. I have thankfully been hanging out with Mark and Steve a bit (the male half of the Woodvale Four from Deputation) and they are the kind of friends where, even though it’s been two years, it’s like nothing has changed. There aren’t many people who make me laugh as much as they do, and it’s really nice to have people you don’t have to start from scratch with. I also started my course at Union Theological College, which is AMAZING and it really makes me happy to still be in school in some way.
The old people at Crumlin Road continue to impress me. They all call me “That Big Girl” until they learn my name (I am seriously considered a giant here), and the language barrier apparently is still a problem: “I overheard Laura talking with Jean and Marjorie yesterday and it literally sounded like Chinese. But they just kept nodding their heads like they understood her!” --Direct quote from an elder in the church. I think I should have gone to some kind of manners school that teaches you how to speak properly, because even my own family tends to struggle to understand me, which would indicate that I have created my own strange little dialect. Other harassment includes abuse such as “Hey Star Spangled Banner, what’s up with Americans coming over here and eating all our cheese?” (This kind of thing is usually said within ear shot, but not directly to me, so as to up the humor ante, which usually I think is quite clever of those wee old men).
There are a few funny stories that stand out to me from the past weeks:
1. I am doing a literacy program at a primary school and working with a homework club as well (Mathilde, who runs the program, says that most of the kids are just plopped in front of a TV everyday, and their imaginations and communication skills are really stunted—one kid knew the word for machine gun, but not butterfly!). Today I was handing out fruit for snack time and telling the kids, “You better eat these apples, you don’t want to get scurvy. You know what scurvy is? Pirates get it when they’ve been at sea and don’t eat any Vitamin C. You’ll start talking like one. Eat the apples.” So this one kid absolutely refused to take an apple and kept saying, “No thanks! I want to talk like a pirate! ARRGHH!” And then all the boys started squinting one eye and walking around talking like Blackbeard. So much for my nutrition lesson.

2. Again, don’t judge me for this, but I hate coming home to an empty house, and since Peter and I live in a terraced house that’s three stories, I always hear noises from the neighbors and think they’re coming from upstairs. I wish I could say this next part is a joke, but it’s not. I was so scared one night that I grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen and tromped around the entire house, peeking in every corner and ready to clobber anyone who would dare come into my place uninvited. This is why I don’t watch scary movies- my imagination is already active enough. Anyway, even though it’s always the girl who opens the closet who gets killed in scary movies, I’m not blonde and I’m not running through sprinklers in my underwear so I figure I’m ok. And I’d rather go find the robbers than let them come find me. Thinking I may have a future in home security. Just me and my knife, going into business.

3. Let’s talk about Olive, an old lady from around the corner who always yells at me for living in such a ghetto house (sample conversation: Me: Morning, Olive! How are you? Olive: Get those windows clean!). I think she likes me because I am willing to commiserate with her (“I know Olive, the place sucks. TELL me about it!”) Northern Irish people love when people will bitch with them, so I humor her! Anyway I am getting a serious history of the neighborhood from this woman, most of which I don’t want to hear, like how the club on the next block is owned by the UVF (big paramilitary in North Belfast), how some guy got both his arms broken in the alley I walk through to the grocery store (ten years ago, but you’d think it was last week the way she talks about it), and every minor flaw in the pastors in the area. I can only imagine what this woman says about me to my neighbors. If you come to visit, Olive is a must-meet.
(Side note for Dad: I did some research and Belfast has one of the lowest crime rates in the industrialized world. So don’t worry, really I’m much better off now…)

4. My bike. A hand-me-down from Alison, this bike is older than Belfast itself and the tires require pumping if I’ve ridden it for more than twenty minutes. It’s missing its kickstand, has a makeshift left pedal from when the old one fell off, and let’s just say it’s not NOT rusty. True story: Malia and I saw a homeless guy riding his bike downtown and it’s an understatement to say it was much nicer than mine. Rock bottom, or a great conversation starter? On the up side, when kids laugh at me and want to try to ride it, it’s the easiest thing in the world to make friends with them (“We thought all Americans had pools and three-car garages! What the hell is she doing with scrap metal!?”)

5. I tried to type out the story of how our neighbor Mark exploded a raw egg into Peter’s car after squeezing it “all morning” trying to break it, but it just makes no sense in real life, let alone written down. Moral of the story: my neighbors apparently spend entire mornings trying to break eggs in unconventional ways, but don’t succeed until the egg’s trajectory is aimed at a car interior. Such is life for your average strapping male citizen of North Belfast, and one of the reasons we need social workers STAT!

Life is interesting.

Words I swore I'd never use

which are now staples in my vocabulary:
any derogatory nicknames that generally mean douchebag, ie; tosser, header, wanker
And their opposite, "love," which is one of my favorite pet names that applies to everyone:
"You alright, love?"
"Your man"- UK equivalent to "whatshisface"
wee- use this word in reference to anything, at any time. seriously. throw it in a sentence and it'll probably work. "Your wee man's a tosser."
sussed- figured out. "Don't worry, it's all been sussed out."
Other quirks include:
adding "like," "just" or "but" to the end of sentences rather than beginnings:
"It's a nice house but." "I'll have two just." "It's two o'clock like."
"That's me"/"I'm away"- I'm leaving. Peace.
Do your head in- drive you crazy
"What about you?"- this means what's up, but it comes out "Boutchee?" and did my head in for a long time
Aye- yes. This one sounds a lot better than "yeah" to me and I started saying, "Oh aye" without even realizing it. People probably think I'm a total tosser.

Can't tell you how many times I've heard that Gig Harbor kids have an accent and vocab all our own, well here in the UK, "As soon as you open your mouth and say even two or three words people know where you are from, what you do for a living, who you know, how much you earn and who you vote for." That's like someone from Fremont picking out a Belltown resident after the first sentence. I'm getting there, but the cards are stacked against me; not only do I work in North Belfast where the accent is super thick, but I work with teenagers who won't slow down or say a sentence without 50% obscure slang. Once I get downtown (not much more than a mile away) the language becomes crystal clear to me. Still, they put the emPHAsis on the wrong syllABle, add vowels which completely change a word (aluminium, anyone?), and refuse to open their mouths when they talk (don't hate me for my blatant generalizing). Rumor has it the people here in Norn Arn speak English... but I'm gonna need more evidence.

http://members.tripod.com/~Shinann/article.htm

Casualty Count: 0

I thought that maybe moving over here seemed a bit simple, so it was only natural that I have a rough week at some point! The last couple weeks have involved more than a few tears, a bit of realism, and an afternoon in the ER.
Vocab lessons to follow, but my "wee" lesson of the day was the discovery that the ER is referred to here as the "casualty." Excuse me? To me this word can only refer, in some way, to me not being alive anymore, and I wanted nothing to do with it! But I couldn't avoid it any longer after what I thought was a bruised rib turned into something that made every heartbeat and deep breath HURT! (Cut to me, sitting all alone in a massive Belfast hospital, thinking I am about to die- cue tears and me practicing my "big brave girl" face). But after cardiac tests and a failed blood exam (during which I almost passed out before the doctor could even get any blood), his best guess was an inflamed lung, and he sent me on my way. A whole depressing afternoon of watching babies with bonked heads, broken limbs, drugged up men and crying girls run through the hospital and all I got was a prescription for ibuprofen?
But the inflamed lung was only the clincher of the rough week I think of as my adjustment phase. Just three weeks into it and I think a lot of things hit me at once: how difficult my job actually is, how isolated and lonely I feel so much of the time, and the total lack of structure my year has. In a lot of ways I am starting everything from scratch. After so long in the Greek system/INN safety net, I have to be much more intentional with my relationships. I don't have 40 girls living on the same floor. I don't have church services with hundreds of people to talk to. I have to seek out and take advantage of every opportunity to meet people and spend time with them that I possibly can, and I am realizing that I just have a really hard time being alone for extended periods of time. On one hand I appreciate the fact that I can take lots of time for myself- to read, to study a bit, to think, to ask questions. On the other hand, I miss having people around constantly!
So I have been working really hard on creating my own community again. I met one of the elders at Crumlin Road, and when I found out his visitation schedule, I just invited myself along. Let me tell you, there is nothing I love more than sitting around drinking tea and eating shortbread while listening to old people tell stories, and somehow I have a job that EXPECTS me to do that. Anyway, I am quickly discovering how weighty the stories from this area can be. After a morning of hearing tales of talented girls who committed suicide, boys who get beat up for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and other sad stories collected after lifetimes in north Belfast, I came back to the Drennans on the verge of tears (not an unusual state for me lately). All my normal questions that I run past people failed me. All I could think of to ask Jack was, "Does it ever stop striking you as glaringly painful and unjust? When does someone stop seeing this entire situation as individual faces and stories that will break you down and start seeing the entire situation as a fact of life?" He told me that at some point, you have to harden yourself up to it. You just can't let your heart be torn open every time you see or hear something that really is heartbreaking-- you have to let it bounce off you, to some extent, for your own survival. And finding the balance between hardening yourself to the situation and still letting yourself be sensitive to it enough to change it is the struggle.
So I've been struggling. But I've been learning how to be satisfied with life as it comes at me, whether it's a day when the teenagers almost kill each other or a day when I get to hang out at Fisherwick with Yonkers, Eli, Malia and Peter and get some down time. There are plenty of things to be joyful about, it's whether or not I'm willing to look for them, and I am adjusting to living for the little pictures as well as the big one.

No Me Comas, Te Amo! : Alicante, Nov. 2005

So it's been another month and I will sum up what's been going on:
Nights are usually pretty interesting, but one of my favorites was when we went out for my friend Brent’s birthday and somehow ended up at a botellon with half of Latin America. Botellons are Spaniards’ favorite tradition, after bullfighting that is, and are basically a bunch of people drinking together somewhere in public. In Alicante they are usually near the beach or on the side of the mountain, where hundreds of high schoolers through 30-year-olds get together and basically demolish this entire street. Overall it is a really accepted part of Spanish culture and as long as you aren’t playing music extremely loudly in residential areas past 4am, the Policia don’t care. We were minding our own business in the Barrio and all of a sudden there I was, salsa dancing with some Ecuadorian in a back alley. The night could only topped by the Halloween party my roommates and I had a couple weeks later, which could accurately be described as a mini-meeting of the UN, minus all the serious discussion.
The botellon night also included the discovery of the Spanish boyfriend Carlos, a little gem of a boy who doesn’t smoke, drink, or really have any vices whatsoever. I was pretty excited when I survived my first date conducted entirely in Spanish (even managing to get in a discussion on Spanish vs. US immigration policy… in the words of Shauna Sperry, ‘not to toot my own horn but TOOT TOOT!’); however, Carlos thinks it appropriate to send me texts that include poetic references to stopping time, keeping memories in his heart forever, etc. The first time this happened, I used my most polite Spanish vocab to explain that a Shakespearean sonnet was better suited to a Golden Anniversary than a coffee date. Now he has toned them down to saying things like, “the time change is tonight, that means we have one more hour to be together.” I am chalking this up to cultural differences and getting excited to come back to the States wherethe guys act like they don’t care.
But the Spaniard who brings the most joy to my heart is my intercambio partner Vicente (described my roommates as having “an endearing rabid-dog quality about him”). Vicente likes to go on adventures so a few weeks ago we went to this park across the street from the university because they have giant ducks that are UA legends. Apparently the rumor is that the ducks eat meat, because there has to be some reason they are so freaking big. I was like, ok ok, I'm sure they're decent sized ducks. Well, we went over to the lake and I almost crapped myself... these ducks are literally the size of a golden retriever. Vicente was like, hey, go ahead and show them your hand, it's fine! I was like, get me the hell away from those ducks!! Is there a nuclear plant around here somewhere? So I am trying to muster up the courage to go back and take pictures to prove the freakiness of it all. Another highlight of the last month was getting compared to the pig face that I got tricked into eating by a 60 year old man at the market. Luckily he meant itin a complimentary way (the word for beautiful and the word for delicious are the same, but I tell you… getting compared to a hairy snout is kind of iffy).
Well I love you all and I hope that this included enough use of the word“Spaniard” for those of you who requested to hear it more often. You guys are the gems in the crown of life. I just blacked out and tried to make up a profound statement, but you get the idea. Os echo de menos, nos vemos pronto!
Besos,
Laura

Un Buen Rollo: Alicante, Oct. 2005

Hey lovers,
Well, it is has been a month and a half since I began my torrid love affair with Spain. If we are being completely honest, it is more like a warm friendship, but you know, poetic license and everything. Sorry I haven’t written something sooner, but I have been really busy listening to Shakira and watching trashy Spanish Love Connection shows. So getting here was basically the scariest thing I have ever experienced. I hung out in London for a night with a bunch of Australians from my hostel, but that was the only good part, because I learned firsthand the hell that is RyanAir getting from London to Alicante. For brevity’s sake, I will put the highlights in bullet form:
• Learned mid-flight that Murcia, the city we were landing in, was nowhere near Alicante, and had no bus system or train from the airport, which is an abandoned airforce base. Further learned that RyanAir has been sued a number of times for misleading the public about its destinations.
• Met a Spanish guy on the walk in from the flight, who proceeded to dismantle his bike and cram all my luggage into his brother’s car, drop me off downtown and help me find a hostel. Yes, I realize it could have been an Unsolved Mysteries kind of thing, but I was pretty desperate.
• Spent a day braving the elements between the time I got kicked out of my hostel and when I could move into my apartment (which, until the day after I got here, had a landlord with a disconnected number, ie. possibly didn't exist), during which creepy Spanish men invited me back to their places without understanding the phrase HELL NO (I thought it translated fairly directly, I was wrong).
So the university here is gorgeous; I have to frolic through palm trees to get to class. My profesoras are hilarious, and we spend most of the class time discussing important things, like how European toilets are better than American toilets and how obnoxious Spaniards are. One of my profs is from Spain but takes every opportunity to make fun of it; she also teaches us the crucial phrases (Tengo ni puta idea= I have no f-ing idea). That one comes in handy frequently. The best thing about my class is the Japanese boys in it who are so lost, but when I mentioned Seattle one of them was like, “OH! ICHIRO!” Yeah buddy! We’re on the map!
One of my favorite things here is the market every Saturday, which has TONS of clothes, shoes, fruit and veggies, etc. They have huge barrels of a million kinds of olives, pickles, every kind of nut possible, and other random foods that you could never find at home. Everything is so yummy and so cheap, and I can eat kiwi and avocado and almonds all day long. My apartment is amazing, it is one block from the beach and is right in the middle of the Barrio, the area with all the bars and clubs and restaurants. Nothing starts until midnight here, so people eat dinner at about 11, go to the bars from 12-3, and then head to El Puerto, this peninsula on the water that has about 10 clubs in a 3 block radius, until like 6 or 7 am. There are literally thousands of people from all over the world crammed in the Barrio and Puerto on any given night, so it is an awesome place to live. I have one Finnish roommate, two Irish, one Canadian and one British lady who never leaves her room. I love having the Irish girls around so I can finally use the phrase “that’s good craic” again, and Eija, the Finnish girl, is my best friend in Spain. Most of our time is spent drinking sangria, figuring out how to get Europe to take a shower, and wondering what food we just ordered when we go out. We have a pretty interesting group of friends… including Lebo, a Botswanan girl studying in Canada; Angelo, an Italian guy who doesn’t speak English OR Spanish but seems to always show up no matter where we are; Ariel, an ex-pro soccer player from Argentina who is dying to learn English and tells me I get more beautiful every time he sees me (who WOULDN’T be friends with a guy like that?); Andrea, an Italian guy studying in Sweden who wants to marry me for Green Card purposes only; Nelson, a Lenny Kravitz lookalike from Brazil; and Randy, an MBA from Houston who owns a promotions company in Alicante and knows every bartender in the province, ie. I haven’t paid for a drink since I got here.
So I was kind of starting to freak out because I kept seeing all these adorable little Spanish kids and couldn’t hang out with any of them, so I found a job working with these two AMAZING little boys from Muchamiel (the little town about40 minutes out of Alicante). Javier is 7 and Fernando is 5, and I think they are karma payback for putting up with the little punks I nannied this summer, because they could not be more perfect. Pilar, their mom, wants me to speak English with them and just hang out at the park and read and play. Humbling Spain Moment #578: the 7 year old I tutor speaks better English than I do and translates when his mom and I can’t figure out what we are trying to say to each other (she doesn’t speak any English, and is just about the sweetest thing ever). I call them my little Guapisimos and get to hang out with them every day. It is especially cool to get out of the city and into a little town that is, in my humble opinion, real Spain. Pilar grew up there, the boys’grandparents live just around the corner, and she has friends from childhood all over the place and has never left or lived anywhere else.
So despite being broker than one of Schlossmo’s appendages after a night out, I have been able to travel a little too. Sometimes we just hop on the train and see where it ends up and have adventures in a random city on the coast, but we also spent a weekend in Valencia and a couple days in Granada. Valencia is amazing, we got a map and just spent the weekend running around and looking at as many museums, cathedrals, and parks as humanly possible. We are going to try to head back in a couple weeks for a UEFA Champions League game and a bullfight. Granada was quite possible the most wonderful city I have seen since leaving home, and I got to spend some time with Haley Beach (for those of you who don’t know, she’s my long-time lover and is studying in Granada). It physically pained me to leave that place, but at least Alicante is warm.
Ok I am willing to bet that half of you aren’t even reading this anymore, but I am going to throw in a bonus story about Juan, the owner of the hostel I was in the first few days. Juan is a crazy old guy from Murcia who doesn’t know a word of English, and I decided I loved him, and went to his place to say hi. He was eating dinner, and told me to sit down and ran into his kitchen. A few minutes later he plopped a plate in front of me with a fish on it. A whole fish, with just its head chopped off. And a piece of bread with hard cheese, a bowl ofvegetables in vinegar, and a bottle of Spanish wine. I wasn’t sure what protocol is with eating whole fish, and asked him how to start, and he was like,“ehh, eat it however you want.” Then he poured me a glass of wine into a cup that had obviously been used, as it had some interesting backwash in it, but who am I to be rude? But every time he left the room I poured some of it back into the bottle or into his glass. The problem with this was that every time he noticed I had an empty glass, he refilled it and made a toast. As sneaky as I tried to be, my host was a step ahead of me. So Juan was starting to get a bit looped, and kept talking and talking and talking… for an hour and a half. Hecovered a number of topics during his monologue, including Hurricane Katrina, religion, sex, and his illustrious career as a ¬¬___ (fill in the blank. I’m still not sure what he did, but I have a feeling it was the Mafia, based on thenumerous pictures of him with random men and copious amounts of wine. Oh wait, that just means he’s Spanish). I could tell when he was done with one topic and moving on to another when he would pause and give me the hugest, goofiest smileI have ever seen, which made me laugh, and then made him laugh, and now Juan andI are best friends, and every time I peek my head in to say hi he says, “Heyyy, it’s the model from Madrid!” This nickname indicates to me that Juan is drunk ALL THE TIME, but he sure made life interesting my first few days in Alicante.
Love you guys, miss you so much
-Laura
PS. Though my stance is still firmly anti-European boy, I saw firsthand how weaker souls might fall for their charms when this Parisian waiter at Havana pulled my tank top strap down with his teeth and kissed my shoulder… how do you react to such a situation when you are a naïve American girl, is my question to you?!?