The City of Angels and a Little Advice

This past weekend, I flew out west to tear up LA with MJ 2.0. Schedules being what they are, these four days were the longest uninterrupted stretch of time we've spent together since we met o so long ago. We didn't let it go to waste. MJ gave me a regular tour d' force of the local attractions, including such famous and phenomenal sites as the Griffith Observatory (by night and by day), the Getty Villa, and Sid Grauman's Chinese Theater. We indulged ourselves in an incredible, magical, mystical array of food and drinks -- Thai, vegan, and sushi; french dip sandwiches at Phillipe, hot dogs at Pink's, and tacos from a street vendor; mojitos at Ciudad and cocktails in MJ's tenth-floor downtown studio. We cruised everywhere from Skid Row to Rodeo Drive, and one night we caught The Taking of Pelham 123 in the Arclight dome.

Of course, the highlights of any trip are the adventures you don't plan. This worked well since both of us hate planning. Other men have accused me of fearing commitment, but MJ brings out my roll-with-the-punches spontaneity to the nth degree. In fact, we were wandering around Union Station and nearly jumped on a random train -- definitely would have if we didn't have dinner reservations with a friend. (MJ: "I hate having reservations. It's too much commitment." A man after my own heart.) The unplanned adventures we had sometimes rose from the ashes of plans that fell through, like the afternoon it was too cold to go body-boarding so we instead strolled on the beach and hunted for starfish and crabs in the rocks. Sometimes we just stumbled on things, like a fancy cocktail party in the ballroom of the Roosevelt where we were sneaking around looking for Marilyn Monroe's ghost. (Didn't find her, by the way, but did suddenly feel tragically under-dressed.)



We also got quite a thrill just cruising around one day. My esteemed tour guide's commentary went something like this: "On the right up here there's this awesome Brazili... THAT'S A BUGATTI VEYRON!!" The most expensive and (arguably) the fastest car in the world. Definitely not something you'll spot buzzing around my little Nowhereville, Michigan. Pretty amazing to see it "in the wild" like that, just chillin' like a villain outside a restaurant.

This trip, like all the best trips I've taken, started with the urge to go catch up with an old friend, and it only reinforced what I already knew -- the absolute, hands-down, best way to travel is by visiting friends. The last time I was in LA, I was with a couple deadbeats who took me to Universal Studios and Six Flags, and beyond that we saw almost nothing of the city itself. This go around couldn't have been in sharper contrast. I'm thoroughly flattered by the way MJ cleared his schedule and devoted himself to my entertainment 24 hours a day, making even the drabbest and darkest corners of LA enjoyable and adventurous. His energy, his humor, and his passion for the City of Angels made the trip for me.



I caution you, dear reader, to choose your travel companions wisely. A good rule of thumb is this: If someone bores you at home, he will have you clawing your eyes out on the road. If someone annoys you at home, you will murder him on the road. At the very least, you'll bicker like an old married couple, using that tone you swore you'd never take with each other. It may be tempting to travel with your flavor of the week/month/year -- whoever's currently making you all starry-eyed and stupid -- but you're likely to regret it. Even a relationship that works well at home can develop an ugly side under the many stresses of being out of your element.

Instead, travel with people who are tested and true, and people whose idea of a good time aligns with yours. I, for example, have to travel without an itinerary. I like a generous block of time, a diverse list of possibilities, and the freedom to move in whatever direction the moment lends itself to. For that reason, I travel with my friends who are energetic, spontaneous, and not wound too tightly. Furthermore, I travel with friends with whom I have such a firm and weighty history that any adventures or misadventures that occur couldn't possibly jeopardize our friendship (and we certainly have had some misadventures). Traveling with boyfriends, on the other hand, goes quickly sour according to how hectic the traffic was, the state and cost of the hotel, the delay of a flight, illness or sheer exhaustion, and a million other variables.

In short, your trip will be smoother, more peaceful, and more pleasant if you keep in mind what Byatt wrote: "Friendship is rarer, more idiosyncratic, more individual and in every way more durable than this [poetic] Love."

Well, Hello There

Isn't it amazing how quickly we fall in and out of our little habits? This blog fluctuates for me, from ritual to chore to dusty shadow of a pastime and back again. I haven't been especially busy, but blogging has simply slipped steadily down the priority list.

Instead, over the past few months I've been occupying myself with winding down the school year, which included teaching Life of Pi to my advanced seniors -- officially my most rewarding teaching experience thus far. School ended last week, and now I'm free to do my usual summer routine of bouncing around irresponsibly, visiting all my friends, and spending all my money.



In family news, we've had a pretty interesting year. I got a new little brother. Steven, a sixteen-year-old German exchange student, has been living with my family to finish out his last year of high school. He'll be returning to Mannheim indefinitely in July, but we're hoping he'll be back here eventually for at least a year of university. I completely adore him. I have two older brothers and a younger sister, but having a baby brother is an entirely new experience for me -- one which has involved a lot of teasing and a lot of side-splitting laughter.



As we're winding down to the end of his stay, we've naturally been spoiling Steven a bit, which included taking spring break in Florida at our uncle's and enjoying quite a bit of time on that beauty of a boat. We've also taken him to Holland (Michigan, that is) to see the lake and the tulips, and last week, I took him down to Cedar Point.





Got Kitsch?
I so love Holland.





I will pit CP against your finest theme park any day. The impressive-looking ride shown below is the Top Thrill Dragster -- 420 feet tall; 0 to 120 mph in 4 seconds. Yeah, that is a schweet ride. Definitely a thriller. Maverick -- which they wisely put in the place of that stupid canoe ride -- is awesome as well. Fast, unpredictable, and very smooth. Loved it.





My other big adventure this spring has been moving. A huge arigato to craigslist for helping me unload my apartment! Once free there, I moved in with a couple of my coworkers in what has quickly become known as the "teacher frat house." We don't have a sofa on the deck, but we're planning on throwing keggers every weekend and putting up some big Greek letters. Jury's still out on how the neighbors will respond, but our male roommate explained our Three's Company set-up to the mailwoman by telling her he was running a brothel. That went over well, as I'm sure you can imagine, and is only the tip of the iceberg.


Sayonara, apartment living!

Headed to LA in the morning to catch up with MJ 2.0, then just have a brief return home to wash laundry and repack before heading to Japan with a group of six students. Wild rides ahead, folks. Hold on to your hats!

London, Day 5 Brighton

When I first started planning this trip to London, I thought, "Yay! I'll get to see British people!" Just the first indication that I didn't really know anything about London.

If you don't know anything about London either, you may be surprised to learn that there aren't actually very many British people there. Especially during tourist season. London's one of the most diverse cities in the world, which is awesome, and it's full of incredible and interesting people, but if you really want to see British people, you're barking up the wrong tree.

S and I brought this dilemmna up with Our Rob, and on his advice, we took a day trip to Brighton to see the sea and the British people.

On Thursday morning, our brand new set of roommates woke up about 4:45 and started getting dressed. All four of them slunk around like ninjas so as not to disturb us. They eased their suitcases out from under their beds and sifted stealthily through them. They gently coaxed the door latch open and closed on their way to the shower. When speaking was absolutely necessary, they kept their voices so low and hushed that I could just barely make out that they were speaking Mandarin. They even pulled the curtain shut to keep the sun from coming in. I was, of course, already wide-awake, but I appreciated the courtesy. Asians are fantastic that way – aware of others and conscientious not to offend.

Then one of them started blow-drying his hair.

S was already awake too, so it didn’t really bother either of us, but we laughed about it all day and teased him relentlessly when they got home that evening.

We actually got out of bed at a more reasonable hour and took an epic bus coach ride to Brighton. The trip was damn bloody long but well worth it.

Brighton Pier is a Victorian era vacation spot, a relic of a time when doctors used to prescribe a “trip to the sea” as treatment for a wide variety of ailments. We needed a little reprieve from urbana, and Brighton promised a relaxing afternoon.



When we arrived, we headed straight for the pier. The sky was a bit cloudy but not gloomy enough to threaten rain, and the crowd of merry-makers was thin enough to be comfortable but steady enough to be interesting.

We crossed paths with a few particularly note-worthy folks in Brighton. As soon as we got to the beach, a random old guy approached us and insisted we take a picture with him. Okay, crazy Uncle Walter. Whatever you say. On the pier itself, we spotted a fellow who appeared very average from his head to his waistline... and then was sporting the shortest pair of short-shorts any man has ever worn. So short, in fact, that his undergarments were visible beneath. That’s what the Japanese call “sekushi.”

The pigeons were just as entertaining as the people. Of course, London pigeons are world-renown, and we’d been enjoying them all week, but the pigeons were out in full force in Brighton as well. Some of them were probably local Brighton pigeons, but a few were clearly Londoners on holiday. There was a pigeon waiting at the bus station in London, first in line for the coach to Brighton. Perhaps his doctor prescribed a day by the sea. The big city must have been giving him headaches. They wouldn’t let him get on though. Something about his ticket... and him not being a person. Then there were pigeons shopping along the beach, browsing water shoes, plastic lobsters, and other holiday essentials. A pigeon even came into a cafe on the pier and ordered a latte. The barista threw him out. Racist.



In the evening, we returned to London and walked over to the British Museum. This time, we had checked the guidebook, which said the museum would be open until 11 p.m. Unfortunately, we failed to realize that only the Great Court was open that late; all the actual galleries closed at 5:30. While you can still go in the museum until 11, you can’t actually see any of the exhibits. Ah! Foiled again!

To cheer ourselves up, we found a red phone booth full of stripper flyers and sang selections from “The Phantom of the Opera” in it. That helped.

London, Day 3 -- Harrod's, Hyde Park, and Our Rob

Before I start on Day 3, I have to briefly wrap up Day 2 for you. We did the tourist game during the afternoon, but that night (Monday night), we met up with a real Englishman and did some real English things. The Englishman was Rob, or "Our Rob" as we would soon come to call him.

I met Rob online. Now kids, I do not recommend meeting strangers in foreign countries on the internet and then flying around the world to meet them in person. It's foolhardy, imprudent, and downright peligroso. But hey, what can I say? I walk on the wild side.

So I met Rob online, and when we were planning the trip and our living arrangements in London fell through, he was kind enough to offer his place. I didn't take him up on it -- even I am not that injudicious -- but I did get his number and arrange to meet up so he could show us around. This ranks in the top three best decisions I made on the entire trip (with staying at the Astor Victoria and buying an Oyster card). Monday night, he took us to The Sussex, a cozy pub near Leicester Square, taught us how to say "Leicester," got us fish 'n chips from Rock & Sole, and gave us the nickel 5p tour of Covent Garden and the surrounding area.

The tourist attractions were fun, but we didn't really start enjoying London until we met Rob, not only because he spoke British to us and loaned us his A to Z (/zed/), but because he is an awesome person who went way out of his way to make us feel welcome. Rob, thank you so much! Couldn't have done without you. Your friendship is my favorite favourite souvenir from the whole trip. Even better than the bendy Buckingham Palace guard (and I am pretty damn fond of him).



So Day 3, Tuesday, was a major shopping day. By "shopping", I mostly mean browsing and not actually spending money, but S and I did pass the entire morning in Harrod's. A disproportionate amount of that time was spent in the chocolate department, shown above. I didn't actually buy any chocolates, but I drooled over a lot of them. S bought Turkish Delight for her Narnia-enamored sister, and I purchased a substantial quantity of tea. I may pass some of this along to my sister. If she asks nicely.

After Harrod's, we walked down to the ginormous Whole Foods on High Street Kensington and met Rob on his lunch break. He gets an hour for lunch every day. I get 24 minutes. *seething with jealousy*

Of course, I also get three months off in the summer...

Anyway, we picked up sandwiches and went to Hyde Park to eat. Half the west side of London had the same idea. Everywhere you looked, people were sprinkled in pairs and trios all over the grass, with the occasional loner napping under a tree. The sun was shining, the pigeons were... well, not really singing, but they were there hanging out, too. Glorious day! Londoners may get more than their fair share of rain, but they have a fervent appreciation for the sunshine. When they get it, they drink up every drop!



After lunch, Rob went back beneath the corporate lash, and S and I went to Madame Tussaud's. If you're on your way to London, I suggest you carve a little niche in your itinerary for this famous (yet bizarre) landmark. For those who don't know, Madame Tussaud's claim to fame was making wax likenesses of important people. She started by making death masks during the French Revolution, including those of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, or so the story goes. In the museum in London, they actually have a diorama of her searching through a pile of decapitated bodies, looking for the queen's head. Charming, eh?

Most of Madame Tussaud's isn't that gruesome. They have wax sculptures of a wide variety of celebrities -- actors, athletes, musicians, politicians, royalty -- and the whole purpose of the place is to let tourists pose with them. Seems a little cheesy, but with the proper sense of humor, hours of entertainment ensue. Among my favorites were Tom Cruise -- who looked incredibly lifelike, minus the insanity and hysterical outbursts of laughter -- and Bob Marley. I typically avoid posting pictures of myself on this blog, but Bob and I look so into it here, I can't resist.



Red, red wiii-iiii-iiiine... Stay close to me--ee-eee...

*ahem*

That night we went out with a couple of the roommates -- Canadian Anna and Australian Dave. Relaxed in a little Soho pub for a while, then found a club and danced the night away. Our table happened to be in front of a mirror that rose the whole height of the wall, so when we weren't on the dance floor, we got to watch people watching themselves in the mirror. Great fun! The self-proclaimed star of the night was the guy in the green t shown below. He ruled the dance floor with his fair-to-middling looks, his corny dance moves, and his massive ego. Anna couldn't resist the hypnotic spell of his white-clad butt, as documented below.



Green T guy didn't really do it for me, but I had a marvelous time chatting up David. Not to encourage cultural stereotypes, but I really do adore Australians.

London, Day 1 -- The Astor Victoria

Some people collect snow globes, some stamps, and some shot glasses. My grandmother collects those little engraved spoons. I don’t know why.

I collect places.

I collect significant places – places I call “home,” even if only for a short while. My newest place is the Astor Victoria Hostel in London. 71 Belgrave. Room 12. Home.

I’d never stayed in a hostel before this one, and kind of like the first doll I ever had or the first boy I ever kissed, I find it strangely irreplaceable.



When S and I arrived, we were struck by how gorgeous the neighborhood was – a long strip of soaring, white columned buildings, mostly hotels and obviously frequented by tourists. Our hostel – number 71 – had a bright red door, a well-polished gold address plaque, and a printout of Fidel Castro on the door declaring “I stay at the Astor Victoria every time I come to London!” We schlepped our luggage up six narrow flights of stairs to get to our third-floor room and claimed the two empty beds opposite the window.

Of course, it is never the place itself that makes a home. Homes are made up of the people we encounter there, the connections we make with each other, the moments that color a place in our memory. We spent that first afternoon in London exploring the nearby parks and shops and returned home in the evening to meet our roommates, a motley crew of global nomads.

First we met the Frenchman, Victor, a dark, curly-headed fellow who spoke little English and went about with a generally haunted air. He probably would have been handsome if he hadn’t given such a strong impression of a startled rabbit. He blushed and twitched awkwardly at our frequent outbursts of laughter, though they were never at his expense. Attempts to stifle the giggles or explain the jokes only exacerbated his discomfort. He quickly gave up, went out, got drunk, and stumbled back in long after the rest of us had gone to bed. The drink must have helped him feel more comfortable around us; when we woke the next morning, he was stretched out on his bed naked as he came from the womb.

Apart from S and I, another American girl – Lauren – was in our room the first night. She was freshly out of college and had been traveling for three months with a few friends. Her body was going home in two days, but her brain had already shipped out. She sat vacantly on her bed while the rest of us got acquainted. She introduced herself but then barely said a word, evidently uninterested in meeting anyone new or having anything like fun. She must have been exhausted.



Anna had the lower bunk by the window, and she was at the beginning of her adventure, traveling abroad alone for the first time. She had no real plan – just a few vague ideas of places she wanted to go, people she wanted to see. When I first started chatting with her, she talked entirely too fast, giggled too much, and was so clearly in over her head that I thought I might drown just sitting next to her. I know the feeling of diving headfirst into the unknown, so I felt for Anna, but I knew too that once she started meeting people, she’d settle in. Over the course of the week, she got her feet on the ground and her head on straight, and by the time we parted ways, she at least gave the impression of being travel-savvy, even if she still had a lot to learn.

Above Anna was David, an Aussie surfer on a working holiday. Like Anna, he was on his own and anxious to meet people and have adventures, though considerably calmer and more confident than she. He was the sort of person who has obviously grown up in the sun – like guys from Florida or Southern California – the perfect roast marshmallow golden brown with sun-bleached blonde curls. And he smelled like sun-burnt skin and salt water and Linx, as all good Australian men should. That first night, he split his gut laughing when S asked him if meat pies really had meat in them. He then tried to convince her that as a child, he had jumped on the backs of wild kangaroos and ridden them to school. She finally realized he was joking when he said you can steer them with the ears and I couldn’t keep a straight face. We call this “cultural exchange”.

Astor Victoria

In a move I can only describe as "rash", I Googled the hostel where S and I will be staying in London. I got this:



Let's hope these folks have moved on by the time we get there...

:-)

Being a Busy Beaver

Just a quick look at all the adventures my Mac is "counting down" to at the moment. Should be a pretty wild summer this year, and next year is shaping up well, too -- I've already got a trip planned to return to Japan at the end of June '09.

Ask My Kids I: Conflict Resolution

Some days I just can't find words to express how much I love my kids. They make me laugh 'til my sides hurt.

I was having a little trouble last week with my plans for traveling to the UK. First off, as you know, our housing arrangement in London fell through. S & I decided we're going to stay in a hostel. I told my kids. They think I'm insane. They insist I'm going to be robbed, raped, and strangled with my own intestines. They are genuinely concerned for my health and well-being. Of course, this all stems from the movie "Hostel" which they have seen and take to be Gospel truth.

A few days later, S emailed me and said her roommate, Tara, wanted to come on the trip with us. The more, the merrier, I always say, so Tara bought a ticket. The following day, we had a three-way conference call to discuss our plans. S and I had already decided we'd stay for a week in London, then spend a week in Dublin. We're both seasoned travelers and prefer spending more time in fewer places to rushing all around the countryside, so two weeks, two cities suited both of us fine.

Well, five minutes into our phone call, Tag-a-Long (which shall henceforth be the roommate's pseudonym) starts to whine about wanting to go to Paris. I've already been to Paris, and to be frank, I wouldn't cry if I never went back, but what bothered me about Tag-a-Long's little Detour de France was that it would add well over $500 to our expenses (each) and take time away from our stays in England and Ireland. Even that didn't annoy me nearly as much as her basic violation of vacation etiquette -- when you invite yourself on a trip and people are gracious enough to take you on, you do not whine about the itinerary. As a final straw, she insisted that she wanted to go to Paris because she'd never been there before. Unfortunately for her, that doesn't hold much water when you've never been anywhere before! I firmly believe everyone should travel, no matter who they are or what their station is in life. That doesn't mean I like traveling with rookies.

I tried to be diplomatic with her, but by the time we got off the phone I was seething mad. Naturally, the next day I told my kids. I asked them what conflict resolution suggestions they had. Their responses were as follows:

• "Aw, man, Miss G. You shoulda callt me! I'da come ovah there 'n busted her in'a face straight up!"
  
  
• "Naw, look, doh. Here's whatcha do, doh. She all like 'I wanna goda Paris" and you go "Fine. We goda Paris witchou. Da's coo. Butchou payin'.'"
  
  
• "She can't come 'round like that bustin' up y'all's trip! Tell her she can stay the f*ck home! She ain't invited!"
  
  
• "No, mira, Miss G, she ain't been like nowhere, right? So she don't know. So you jus' get to London and go like 'Wow, isn't Paris great? It's like so beautiful here in Paris.' And she won't wanna look, ya know, stupid, so she'll be like 'O yeah, it's so cool.' And she'll never know. Maybe pay somebody to like come up and pretend to speak French to her. That's what I would do."
  
  
• "No, see, here we go. I got 'is, doh. You tell ya friend 'Okay, since you bringin' somebody on 'a trip, Imma bring somebody too.' And 'en we all go witchou!"

Remarkably, their advice actually helped me a great deal. I didn't take any of it, but I did have a chance to cool off and see the humor in the situation. The actual way I'm solving this conflict is thus: If Tag-a-Long really wants to go to Paris, she can go ahead, and I'll just hang back in London on my own. S can do whatever she wants too. We're all big girls.

Spring Break Phase II: The Photo Recap

Even on vacations, I still seek to expand my mind. This time, I learned the difference between herons and egrets: there is no difference between herons and egrets. Just as I suspected! Here's a great white heron (also called a great egret) perched near our boat at Burnt Store Marina.




I will never get over sailboats. I love them. And true love lasts a lifetime.




This osprey had to be my favorite of the thousands of birds I saw this week. He literally sat on this branch for over an hour making funny faces and letting me as close to him as the terrain would allow.




"The Little Fisherman" -- another shot to add to my "Strangers' Kids" collection.




Heading to the beach at Boca Grande to play in the sun and people-watch.

Click any pic for a link to my Flickr page.

A Recent Development

So, as fate would have it, the bloke who S and I were going to crash with for two weeks in London a) doesn't (and won't) have a place of his own and is therefore unable to put us up, and b) won't even be in London for more than a couple days while we're there. That was a right good spot of planning, wasn't it?

No need to panic, but as the plane tickets have already been purchased, we can't simply reschedule. Instead, we'll be hoboing it in hostels and on park benches and such. Not a total disaster, but it does mean that I'll be attempting to survive for two weeks with only the contents of a small backpack.

Who knows? Maybe this will open doors to as yet unforeseen adventures. Wish me luck!

(I'm glad I still have a couple months to sort out exactly what not to pack. If you happen to be one of my faithful UK readers, please don't hesitate to offer suggestions. Thanks Ta!)

El Tacuacin

Inquiring minds often ask me if I was frightened by the prospect of moving to Japan by myself. I had never been there before and spoke the language about as well as your average house cat ties a shoelace. I admit I was overwhelmed -- and for the first few days, I suspected I'd made a pretty terrible mistake -- but I would never describe myself as "afraid" of any of it. Only somewhat jittery, and that was as much excitement as nerves.

The reason for this uncommon boldness probably stems from the myriad of bizarre travel ordeals I had been through long before I went to Asia. Occasionally, when my high school students are being particularly well-behaved, I regale them with the tales of my exotic adventures. Yesterday, we got to talking about the summer I spent working at an orphanage in Honduras when I was seventeen. That inspired me to flip through some of my old journals -- an enlightening experience, to say the least.

Officially, this blog is centered on issues of culture between the US and Japan, but actually, it's about my journey as a Citizen of the World, and therefore an excerpt from one of my first major stays abroad seems appropriate. Enjoy!

***********************

Honduras, 2000

Carlitos has a pet chicken that he named Santa Teresa Marquez de la Mer. He calls her “la Santa” for short. When he first adopted her out of the henhouse, Sister Yolanda protested, but since la Santa continues laying eggs without fail, Sister has given up scolding Carlitos and resorted to simply shooing him out of the buildings whenever he has the dusty bird in his arms.

Early one afternoon, Sister Yoyo shoos Carlitos and la Santa out of the dining hall, and he wanders over to where I am sitting in the shade of the building, bouncing Moises on my lap. The day is so sweltering that Moises has long since wiggled out of his rompers. I chirrup the "William Tell Overture" while I bob him up and down. He throws his head back and laughs the toothless laugh of a child in pure ecstacy.

The heat makes Carlitos sluggish and fussy, and he plops down next to me with a dramatic sigh. La Santa squawks and flits out of his grasp, but once free, she settles herself down in the dust by his feet. My leg is growing sore anyway, so I plop my little vaquero onto the ground next to me, pick up a stray chip of blue chalk, and start scratching on the sidewalk. Carlitos perks up instantly at the sign of his favorite game and eagerly snatches the chalk when I offer it. Underneath where I’ve written, “¿Como estas, Carlitos?” he slowly etches a frowning face with a v-shaped furrowed brow. He’s aching to tell me why, so I ask obligingly. In his quick childish Spanish he complains that la Santa is hot but Sister Yoyo won’t let him bring her inside where it’s cool. ¡Ay, que lastima! I sympathize. Poor Santa.

At that moment, a shout comes up from the back corner of the yard where some of the men are tearing down a rickety old shed. “Ah! Mira!” “What was that?!” They call to each other in mingled Spanish and English, and there is a general commotion around one corner of the shed as they gather to peer into a gaping hole in the wall. For several months now, Sister Yolanda had been pulling her hair out over a pest of some kind – she suspected a rat – that had been breaking into the orphanage pantry and stealing food. Apparently, the men had found the culprit’s lair. From across the yard, we can hear an argument rising. Carlitos is halfway to the shed before I’ve collected Moises and gotten up to follow.

“That’s the biggest frickin’ rat I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s not a rat!”

“It looked like a rat! A huge one!”

“Mira, just because you’re in Honduras doesn’t mean there are giant rats. It’s not a rat. It’s a tacuacin.” This insight comes from Melena, who has stepped back from the others to survey the scene with a general air of calm rationality.

“Mele, what’s a tacuacin?” I join in as I approach them, bending down to snag Carlitos by the hand before he gets too close to the tangle of shattered boards and rusted nails.

Mele screws her mouth into a little knot while she searches for the word. “I think it’s a... possum?” She turns to me and quickly describes the creature in Spanish. It has a long, bare tail like a rat, but it’s bigger, it has a long nose, and it climbs trees. I assure her that “possum” is the right word. Mele is from Acapulco, so whatever language she is speaking has that little Mexican lilt to it, like she’s reciting something she learned deep in her childhood. This is how I learned to speak Spanish – in the singsong rhythms of Mexico – and I understand Mele at least ten times more easily than any of the Hondurans we’ve been working with.

The men fold their arms over their chests solemnly and begin contemplating aloud what’s to be done with the thing. Josh picks up a thick stick and starts sharpening the tip on a nearby cinderblock. Manuel picks up a hammer. The others arm themselves with similar implements, and I attempt in vain to convince Carlitos that we should go back to our chalk-drawing game. He stands stalwart, hypnotized by the way the men gather their weapons and plot battle in low voices. I can’t persuade him to look away. Moises is gurgling to himself and fiddling happily with a curl of my hair, oblivious to the impending violence.

There is a smash of splintering wood, shouting, and in a moment, the beast is hemmed in along the garden wall and the struggle ends quickly.

Daniel skewers the corpse with a makeshift spear and moves to toss it into the great stone incinerator with the rest of the scrap from the dilapidated shed. Suddenly, he starts and stares awestruck at the thing. Through the bloodied fur, a tiny pink nose makes its way apprehensively into the world. It’s followed by a miniscule pair of eyes, still covered in a thin, pink veil. Two ears, two delicate front feet, and the infant creature tumbles from its mother. Before it hits the ground, another nose emerges, and another, and another. A half dozen of them are in a wriggling pile and more on the way when Daniel blinks, looks at the incinerator, and tosses the whole gruesome spectacle in. His fellows hesitate only a moment before they go after los tacuacinitos on the ground with sticks, hammers, boots. Melena looks ill and turns away.

The bit of blue chalk is lying forgotten on the ground next to Carlitos. He watches the men with his mouth hanging open slightly, his bottom lip trembling. He doesn’t resist when I gather him up with my free arm and begin walking back toward the house. Before we get there, the ordeal is over and the men are back to work on the shed, but Carlitos’s eyes remain riveted on the flames in the incinerator.

I set him down on the sidewalk where his hen is still sitting patiently. Moises is quiet and frowns down at Carlitos, understanding that he has missed something but unsure what. Without taking his eyes off the red glow on the other side of the yard, Carlitos scoops la Santa Teresa Marquez de la Mer up into his lap. He stares silently for a moment longer, then drops his face into her dusty feathers, and weeps.

あ、い、う、え、お。。。

I've been home from Japan for a year and a half now. I can count on one hand the foreigners I know who still live there. The company I taught for there has gone bankrupt. The guy I lived with there is engaged to somebody else. None of this should make me too fussed, since I'm still in touch with the people I like, the company was shite, and as for the ex... well, more power to him.

Still, it's weird.

For months after I got home, I was convinced things in Japan were just as I had left them. My friends would talk about people coming and going, but in my head every aspect of life there looked just the same. I often toyed with the idea of going back, imagining I would find my opal earrings on the corner of the coffee table, just where I had forgotten them on the day I flew home.

Enough time has gone by now that I am thoroughly over these delusions.

My work here keeps me constantly on my toes in a way that is only a pain in the ass 7% of the time and pretty entertaining the other 93%. The Boyfriend is a superstar who keeps me entertained and out of trouble. And if the almighty Admissions Board wills it, I’ll be starting work on my MFA in the fall. Far from settling down as I may be, I finally feel settled in my own life -- the American version of it.


Boyfriend on our epic PCH adventure

Of course, it is in this moment that Japan has come strolling back into my life in full force.

Just before Christmas I received an email from a colleague at school. Unlike me and all of our coworkers, she actually reads our union's monthly newsletter, and in it she’d seen something she thought might interest me – a tiny ad seeking chaperons for an American/Japanese exchange program. My interest piqued, I checked out the website. In short, it was perfect.

I stayed awake until three o'clock that morning writing my application essay.

Not three days later, my mother called me from a dinner party and insisted I come over. The hostess, who has recently moved here from the Philippines, had invited a couple of friends from her English class. As fortune would have it, they were Japanese and delighted to learn that I had been to the fair Nippon.

What's more, they wanted to do an infamous "language exchange" -- a very popular pastime in Japan, but not something you hear about that often on this side. Still, I decided it was a good idea. My 日本語　is downright rusty, and if I have any intention of going back to Japan, もとべんきょうが　ひつようです (I need more practice). To that end, I've been hanging out with them regularly and getting back to the basics of Japanese. I am astounded by how much I've forgotten so quickly, but piece by piece it's slowly coming back.

Last Saturday I interviewed for the exchange program position, and it went swimmingly. I had the interview committee on the edges of their seats -- laughing at my jokes, nodding in pensive agreement at my profound statements about cultural education, and so on. They were eating out of my hand. As soon as I hear back from them, I'll update you.

I'm not sure where all these new endeavors will take me, but I promise I'll bring you along for the ride.


Hikone Castle, April '06

********

On a side note, if you follow my adventures regularly, here are some upcoming travels to look forward to: I have a shamelessly wealthy aunt and uncle whom I'll be visiting in Florida in early April. Look for photos of their private chateau & yacht and stories about fancy food right here. In July, I'm attending a convention in Seattle. This'll be my first time in the infamous insomniac city, so expect late-night posts and a detailed description of my trip to the original Starbucks. Also, since I already told you how perfect The Boyfriend is, I might as well throw in the fact that he's taking me to Hawaii in August. Jealous? I knew you would be.

Rigor Bortis -- The Mono Chronicles II

most people would consider two paid weeks off of work a real treat, but this is only my second day of being stranded at home with mono, and i'm already bored silly. i can't do anything but stay in bed and watch old episodes of "the office". about 11 o'clock this morning, i couldn't stand lying around anymore, so i got up and shaved my legs. immediately afterwards i had to lie back down because i felt light-headed and shakey. quite a removal from the daily six-hour long stand-up routine that is my job.

at any rate, being sick at home reminded me of the time i got sick in japan. everybody gets sick in japan at some point. our gaijin blood just can't handle those ninja bacteria, and we all spend too much time drinking and working and not enough time sleeping or eating. most foreigners have only themselves to blame when they come down with some strange asian malady, but i have someone else to blame. i blame dom.

samurai bar in kyoto, where we did lots of drinking and only a little sleeping.

it all started when one of dom's childhood mates came to visit. they decided to live on the wild side a bit, so they took off to thailand for a few days of drinking booze, getting cheap massages, and playing "penis or no penis?" with the locals.

when they returned, dom called me at work and in his most pitiful voice told me that they'd gotten food poisoning from some dodgey restaurant and had both been heaving since they got on the plane. they were back at his place, but they were both exhausted, dehydrated, and feeling very ill.

well, i'm a good friend, so when i finished my shift, i stopped at the 99 shop and picked up some crackers and soda for the little travellers. i hung out at dom's for a while, listened to all their tales of misadventure, and made sure they were comfortably tucked in for the night.

next morning at work, dom was out sick. strange, i thought, since food poisoning is usually pretty short-lived.

a few hours later, i was sitting in a lesson with a ten-year old girl going over all the things you can do at the fair. "i want to ride the merry-go-round. what do you want to do at the fair?" "i want to eat cotton candy." etc. suddenly, i started feeling sort of... not right. sort of clammy and sweaty and... yucky. i stood up and excused myself in my shit japanese, then i made a beeline for the teachers' lounge. a couple of my esteemed colleagues were on their lunch break. i made some kind of gesture towards the door and said something like "kid... lesson... room 10..." before i high-tailed it to the women's room where i spewed and started to topple over. thank god for mikey, who is gay and therefore unafraid of following friends into the women's room to make sure they don't topple over into their own spew.

as you already know, food poisoning is not contagious. however, the wicked thai flu those boys brought home certainly was. i was a train-wreck for three days, and i can't begin to adequately describe the awkward technical difficulties involved in spewing into a japanese toilet. they simply were not designed for it. and unlike the boys, who got to enjoy their vacation before they got sick, i didn't even get a massage to balance the karma.

dom did bring me a box of chocolates shaped like orchids though. that helped a little.

dom and his mate doing celebratory shots of tequila once their stomachs had settled (several days later!)

The PCH, Loads of Adventure, and Overdraft Fees

it's all sandra's fault, really.

well... some of it is k.c.'s fault.

it occurred to me months ago that i needed to go to california and run around with sandra. she was by far my best girl bud in japan, and i'd been missing her and her shenanigans like crazy. all school year, i'd been promising myself that i would make good use of my summer holiday, and a trip to california sounded like the perfect way.

enter k.c. we met several months ago and have been getting on wonderfully ever since. when i started making noises about going out west, he started waxing nostalgic about the two years he'd spent living in san diego. the weather is so perfect, the people are so great, there's so much to do, etc. he would just really love to show me around san diego.

the only little problem is that san diego is a mere ten hour drive from where i was planning to go in california.

after a great deal of discussing, debating, and counting the pennies in our piggy-banks, we decided we would indeed fly to sandra's... then make an epic journey down the pacific coast. and that is what we did. we saw everything from tahoe to the governator to pandas at the zoo, not to mention the drive down the pch (pacific coast highway) -- the most glorious ten hours i've ever spent in a car. courtesy of a good contact, we even spent a night at bacara, which was clearly way out of our income bracket.

here are some photos to make you jealous...

sandra and k.c. hiking at lake tahoe. tahoe was absolutely gorgeous -- bright blue and clean, tucked way up in the mountains -- and freezing cold. we had a blast hiking around emerald bay and climbing all over rocks like these.

we stayed at sandra's for three days of eating japanese food, randomly bursting into song, and hearing sandra's childhood tales of jew camp. then we took off at four o'clock in the morning to beat the rush hour chaos between sac and s.f. it's a good thing k.c. is a morning person because i'm really not fit to drive until at least nine.

random stop along the pch -- driving down highway 1 (also known as the pacific coast highway) redefined the term "scenic drive" for me. the only thing we had determined when we left home was when we would fly back. this left everything in between a blissful blur of spontaneity, which we took full advantage of, particularly during this drive. we stopped often and very randomly whenever the notion struck us.

getting our toes wet at carmel -- we stopped at carmel because we saw a sign on the highway for the "historic mission" and thought it might yield some good photos. we never found the mission, but we did find a beach and decided that was good enough. this is the first picture of me in the pacific ocean. (my toes are the pretty ones; k.c.'s are the big man toes.)

rose gardens at hearst castle, san simeon... thank you, i thought it was a great shot too.

funny story about hearst castle: the castle's on the side of a mountain in the middle of a huge piece of land that used to be the hearst ranch. when you get to the visitors' center, they put you on a bus to ride up the mountain and on the way, you listen to a recording about the history of the place. part of this is a little blurb about hearst's menagerie, which included thirty types of exotic grazing animals that roamed free on the ranch. a few ancestors of these animals are still living wild on the property around the castle. (this is the part where i got excited.) some of them are zebras. can you imagine how frickin' cool it would be to see a zebra just hanging out in california? so i decided to spend the rest of the day keeping an eye out for the zebras...

well, if you've followed my adventures in the past, you'll know that i'm not very lucky with spotting creatures of the woodland realm. in a scenerio sadly reminiscent of my moose-tracking expedition in the adirondacks, i didn't see any zebras.

but i could feel their presence.

admiring the ocean view at bacara -- as mentioned earlier, we went to the fabulous bacara resort & spa near goletta, ca. the resort was everything they promised and so much more. the room was wonderfully luxurious, the views were breath-taking, and the staff were downright cool. the food, though shockingly over-priced, was pretty scrumptious. the spa itself, however, was a bit of a let down. not to sound like a spa slut, but i've had better.

the national cemetery at point loma -- when we arrived in san diego, k.c. was thrilled to be back on his home turf and our entire stay was high-lighted by his always comical and unpredictable "this one time..." stories. as we drove up to point loma, he told the story of the one time that he took his scooter up the same very long and steep hill at about five o'clock in the morning. the story mostly went "so i was pushing and pushing" on the uphill parts and "here i was coasting" on the downhill parts with a few interjections of things like "here's where the navy guys passed me in their jeep and told me to go home..."

we also went to the san diego zoo, which was very cool. and here i did see zebras, but it wasn't the same.

and my very own photograph of one of the most photographed spots in america. i don't really like l.a., but we stayed here in hollywood for several days and had a pretty good time, in spite of the pollution, the traffic, and the general over-population.

so now i'm home. i have no money and some overdraft fees to pay, so it's a good thing that school starts up again next week.

until next time...

- g

I Do Mountains

There's just no keeping me at home anymore. As soon as I have any money or leisure, I take off somewhere, which is just as irresponsible as it sounds. I spent this past week in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York.

Maybe it's my roots in the tragically flat Midwest, maybe something deeper, but I've always been drawn to mountains. They're intoxicating for me -- wild, exotic, overwhelmingly beautiful.

After a week of residency, I now consider myself an Adirondack expert. Here are some useful things to do if you're headed this way:

1) Go to Lake Placid. For starters, Lake Placid is one of very few cities in the world that have hosted the Olympic Games more than once -- 1932 and 1980. The 1932 games were only the third time the modern games had been held and the first time they were held in the US. The 1980 games were, of course, the site of that famously "miraculous" hockey game.

Just outside of Lake Placid lies Whiteface Mountain, the fifth highest peak in the Adirondacks and the highest that is accessible by car. Go. It's fantastic. And don't take the elevator to the top, you pansy. climb. My mom did it; you can do it too.

2) Go white-water rafting down the Hudson. Be extremely careful if you're going in the early spring -- they open the river the first of April -- because the standing waves can be up to twenty-five feet high. For you metric system readers, that's, um... well, it's really high.

Our go wasn't quite that intense, but it was pretty fun. We had one especially exciting moment when we nearly capsized going over a rapid -- my aunt went overboard and we had to haul her back in by her life jacket. At another point, the boat behind us got hung up on a boulder. Our guide ordered us over to the bank so we could wait and make sure they got free. When we got to the edge of the river, he yelled that one of us had to hop out and hang on to keep us from rushing further downstream. When it became apparent that the three grown men on board had checked their balls at the front desk with their car keys, I jumped out, crawled up on a rock, and held the raft. Once the other raft was on their way, I lept, with the dexterity of a gazelle, back into my place and we were off again. Quite an thrill, I must say.

One note of caution: If you do go, bring your balls with you so that the little girl behind you doesn't write sh*t about you and publish it on the internet.

3) See a moose. I haven't managed this, even though I researched the best times & places to see them and how to make moose calls (which I'm getting pretty good at). Try coming in the fall. That's what I'll do next time.

If this sign were being honest, it would say "No moose for the next three months."