I wrote an early post while traveling at high speeds in the first class car of a train heading from Rosendaal, Netherlands through Brussels to Paris. I was impressed by the complimentary Internet and spent the majority of the train ride blogging, writing in my journal, and reading articles about Micheal Jackson's death twelve hours earlier.
And here I am, only a year and a half later, appreciating a new achievement in wireless technologies; I am sitting in seat 30A of a Delta flight, at a cruising height of 33,000 feet, accessing wifi via my iPod. Which is currently free thanks to Google Chrome during the holiday season.
I was told to prepare for stricter screening measures during this holiday season, yet I managed to get through security without any problems. At least MSP doesn't do the crazy and totally incomprehensible screening featured at YHZ. But as D told me today, I come across as quite inoccent so it's not surprising that I had no problems.
Last fall, as Thanksgiving approached, my HC professor told our class - which consisted mainly of first years - that freshman year Thanksgiving was something to be prized; not only does one get to come home after what has, most likely, been the longest extended absence yet experienced, but there is a shared excitement as all one's peers attempt to outdo one another with outrageous college stories. Relationships, trysts, drunken nights, tests bombed, friends made, friends forgotten, all of it is discussed, shared, marveled at and laughed about.
I will be arriving in Massachusetts after four months divided between Canada and the Midwest. It will be strange, yet because I so greatly rely on stuff and things to make me feel comfortable and grounded, I already feel a deep fracturing between the life - what I have grown used to - that I'm leaving (albeit temporary) in the 12th largest state - and the one I will attempt to pick up where I left off in July.
Well, here goes - bananagrams, laughing, snuggling, giggling, fighting, and old jealousies, rivalries, and chemistry all await the landing of this plane. And don't forget that a beautiful bicycle, just begging for me to take her out to the river (not the Mississippi anymore!) for a breathless sprint.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
What A Quote
Just a quick anecdote:
Sitting in my Asian Religions class in an exhausted stupor at 8:45 AM on Friday morning, my professor was discussing celibacy within the Tai Ping (God Worshipers) forces in 19th century China. As a conclusion to his philosophy on the perils of celibacy, he informed us, "Humans are only good at three things: being born, having sex, and dying."
I don't know if I was inspired, but it certainly got me pondering the differences between instinct, innate skills, and the skills one learns from a young age.
I will write more when I finally return to Massachusetts after 4 months elsewhere (longest continuous amount of time I've ever spent outside of Massachusetts. Ever.)
Sitting in my Asian Religions class in an exhausted stupor at 8:45 AM on Friday morning, my professor was discussing celibacy within the Tai Ping (God Worshipers) forces in 19th century China. As a conclusion to his philosophy on the perils of celibacy, he informed us, "Humans are only good at three things: being born, having sex, and dying."
I don't know if I was inspired, but it certainly got me pondering the differences between instinct, innate skills, and the skills one learns from a young age.
I will write more when I finally return to Massachusetts after 4 months elsewhere (longest continuous amount of time I've ever spent outside of Massachusetts. Ever.)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A Real College Student
College life has been fabulous, to say the least. This week, my 6th week here at Macalester is also going to be my busiest and most hectic week yet. I have a 7-9 page paper due for my first year course on Thursday (Anthropology: Global Health & Emerging Infectious Diseases), I have a 600 word French essay due on Friday, and a 5-6 page paper for International Studies due next week. In addition to that, our cross country coach told us yesterday that this week is going to be the most intense week (with the highest mileage) of the season.
But what I really wanted to include is that it's 70 degrees right now, there's not a cloud in the sky, and I'm sitting outside at the wire tables outside of the campus center, attempting to type my Anthro paper. It's beautiful, there are students everywhere - lounging in tank tops at the wire tables, tossing a disc on the green grass, or lying down on blankets dotting the lawns.
I'm done with class for the day and am hoping to spend these nearly two hours before practice finishing my paper.
Tomorrow night is a workshop that's being run through the Health & Wellness Center for females only where we'll be making molds of our busts and decorating them to spread awareness of breast cancer. It overlaps with "SEXY training" for my floor - health class in an hour - but after surviving through five years of health class (5th-9th grades), I don't think I'll suffer too much if I miss it.
As soon as the work level dies down, I'll post some pictures of this gorgeous area before the snow comes.
But what I really wanted to include is that it's 70 degrees right now, there's not a cloud in the sky, and I'm sitting outside at the wire tables outside of the campus center, attempting to type my Anthro paper. It's beautiful, there are students everywhere - lounging in tank tops at the wire tables, tossing a disc on the green grass, or lying down on blankets dotting the lawns.
I'm done with class for the day and am hoping to spend these nearly two hours before practice finishing my paper.
Tomorrow night is a workshop that's being run through the Health & Wellness Center for females only where we'll be making molds of our busts and decorating them to spread awareness of breast cancer. It overlaps with "SEXY training" for my floor - health class in an hour - but after surviving through five years of health class (5th-9th grades), I don't think I'll suffer too much if I miss it.
As soon as the work level dies down, I'll post some pictures of this gorgeous area before the snow comes.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Hostelling and Biking in Québec
I didn't want any access to the outside world during this trip, but I figured a blog post typedBon my iPod touch while sitting in the Quebec City hostel wold be kind of fun. I'm absolutely exhausted and my sit bones are beyond sore. B and I are convince that we must have black and blues on our bottoms - the pain is so bad.
We left Montreal on Monday and have enjoyed a beautiful three days biking, eating, and voyaging. We have had only a few problems with wind and the route but other than that the weather has been just magnificent. The scenery is beyond belief; B and I joked today that it's Luke biking on Route 47 but never leaving Hadley. The land stays flat and is replete with picturesque farms, humongous skies, and....... French!
While taking a respite with banana and peanut butter this morning on the edge of an empty corn field, another biker stopped and began chatting with me in his twangy Quebecois French. After discussing the landscape, our route, the weather, and what we were eating, I - feeling awkward and fully aware of my lack of talent in carrying on chatty conversations in French that aren't bout myself, loaded with questions, or about something we had already covered - went for the first route and Tod him we were Americans, specifically that we were from Masachusetts. He told me he was surprised; he had assumed I was French because of my accent. That about made my day, but in case I wasn't feeling proud of myself enough--after we entered Quebec, we headed to the Tourist Information Center in order to better figure out our route for exiting the city tomorrow morning. After conveniently being asked to wait in the line for the cutest of them all, I aske him
- in English, as I felt I wouldn't be pinned as an ugly American considering I was in a tourist office, didn't have a backpack on, wasn't overweight, and wasn't taking loudly - and when we began discussing the route, I used the Fench pronunciation for the place names. He told me I had a good accent and so I told him that I spoke Frnch and because my mind ahd already gone to the Fench side, I began speaking in Frnch. He asked why I hadn't started speaking Fench with him earlier since it was easier for him. I got everything set for Thursday's route (which may or may no be in the rain) and he told me, "Ton accent est jaw-dropping." I didn't understand the English word throw in amongst the French at first, but once I got it my face turned redder than my sunglasses burn and j thanked him profusely, now even more sue that they were only impresed with my accent because the Quebecois accent appears to be the French equivalent of sloppy, often unpleasant-sounding Texan English.
B and I are going to had out to dinner. We had absolutely magnificent crepes at around 5:45 so dinner is happening quite late tonight. Encouraged by our British Columbia-native roommates, we may have a glass of wine in the hostel bar after dinner. We pray that it doesn't rain tomorrow as we attempt to ride the 76+ miles to Trois-Rivieres. Friday wil be our last and hardest day - 90+miles from Trois-Rivieres to Montreal. Allez-y!!!!
We left Montreal on Monday and have enjoyed a beautiful three days biking, eating, and voyaging. We have had only a few problems with wind and the route but other than that the weather has been just magnificent. The scenery is beyond belief; B and I joked today that it's Luke biking on Route 47 but never leaving Hadley. The land stays flat and is replete with picturesque farms, humongous skies, and....... French!
While taking a respite with banana and peanut butter this morning on the edge of an empty corn field, another biker stopped and began chatting with me in his twangy Quebecois French. After discussing the landscape, our route, the weather, and what we were eating, I - feeling awkward and fully aware of my lack of talent in carrying on chatty conversations in French that aren't bout myself, loaded with questions, or about something we had already covered - went for the first route and Tod him we were Americans, specifically that we were from Masachusetts. He told me he was surprised; he had assumed I was French because of my accent. That about made my day, but in case I wasn't feeling proud of myself enough--after we entered Quebec, we headed to the Tourist Information Center in order to better figure out our route for exiting the city tomorrow morning. After conveniently being asked to wait in the line for the cutest of them all, I aske him
- in English, as I felt I wouldn't be pinned as an ugly American considering I was in a tourist office, didn't have a backpack on, wasn't overweight, and wasn't taking loudly - and when we began discussing the route, I used the Fench pronunciation for the place names. He told me I had a good accent and so I told him that I spoke Frnch and because my mind ahd already gone to the Fench side, I began speaking in Frnch. He asked why I hadn't started speaking Fench with him earlier since it was easier for him. I got everything set for Thursday's route (which may or may no be in the rain) and he told me, "Ton accent est jaw-dropping." I didn't understand the English word throw in amongst the French at first, but once I got it my face turned redder than my sunglasses burn and j thanked him profusely, now even more sue that they were only impresed with my accent because the Quebecois accent appears to be the French equivalent of sloppy, often unpleasant-sounding Texan English.
B and I are going to had out to dinner. We had absolutely magnificent crepes at around 5:45 so dinner is happening quite late tonight. Encouraged by our British Columbia-native roommates, we may have a glass of wine in the hostel bar after dinner. We pray that it doesn't rain tomorrow as we attempt to ride the 76+ miles to Trois-Rivieres. Friday wil be our last and hardest day - 90+miles from Trois-Rivieres to Montreal. Allez-y!!!!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Departures
This one was a slow departure. When I look back, I can't pinpoint when he left. Was it when he stopped giving me piggy-back rides? When he lost interest in us? Or did we lose interest in him? When I grew old enough to be able to perceive his characteristics through my own eyes? No matter when it happened, it did happen. And as he lies in the ICU, in a coma, I feel nothing.
When he ceases to be present, will there be a difference? He has been in the past for a long time. Eighty-six years of existence. Of affecting others' lives. Some for the better, most for the worst. I look at her, at her fear, her constant worries, her inability to speak up, and I blame him. She describes herself as feeling cold after their first date. And yet her father advocated for him, and so it was. He was successful once. A lawyer, accountant, tax attorney. A seven-room office, regal furniture. And yet no bills were sent out. That should have been the first warning sign. But it continued. The situation growing exponentially out of control. Until we end up here - the older son expatriated (though not willingly), the younger son liable to leap out of control at a moment's notice. The middle son tries to hold the pieces together. But it is hard. There is a lot to hold together.
The white-haired man is lying there. Does he think? I would like to think so, but they don't know. Too long without breathing before they inserted the respirator. We will wait.
I feel nothing because I blame him. Blame him for a disjointed, miscommunication-replete family. I should be sad, understand that it's the appropriate emotion. Yet if the emotions are not there, I cannot force them. The nothing I feel is a calm lake - no ripples, peacefulness. Perhaps it is his wake. A boat's wake is full of turmoil. Most people's are upon their departure. Yet his ride caused so many ripples, his wake will be smooth. A handful of contradictions surround him. Poor yet rich, successful yet destitute, intelligent yet short-sighted, religious yet narcissistic.
It will happen. The official departure. Yet I said good-bye years ago. As I grew, the distance grew, the connection stretched thin. It is too thin now. No chance for reparations. Only hazy stories. From when I was young. They will be told some day. And I will leave out the second half - the craziness, the irrationality, the narcissism, the criticisms, the misguided intent.
Everyone will leave physically, yet I am ready for him to leave wholly. To take all, leave nothing behind. Am I selfish for thinking like that? I will learn to forgive. But the time is not now.
When he ceases to be present, will there be a difference? He has been in the past for a long time. Eighty-six years of existence. Of affecting others' lives. Some for the better, most for the worst. I look at her, at her fear, her constant worries, her inability to speak up, and I blame him. She describes herself as feeling cold after their first date. And yet her father advocated for him, and so it was. He was successful once. A lawyer, accountant, tax attorney. A seven-room office, regal furniture. And yet no bills were sent out. That should have been the first warning sign. But it continued. The situation growing exponentially out of control. Until we end up here - the older son expatriated (though not willingly), the younger son liable to leap out of control at a moment's notice. The middle son tries to hold the pieces together. But it is hard. There is a lot to hold together.
The white-haired man is lying there. Does he think? I would like to think so, but they don't know. Too long without breathing before they inserted the respirator. We will wait.
I feel nothing because I blame him. Blame him for a disjointed, miscommunication-replete family. I should be sad, understand that it's the appropriate emotion. Yet if the emotions are not there, I cannot force them. The nothing I feel is a calm lake - no ripples, peacefulness. Perhaps it is his wake. A boat's wake is full of turmoil. Most people's are upon their departure. Yet his ride caused so many ripples, his wake will be smooth. A handful of contradictions surround him. Poor yet rich, successful yet destitute, intelligent yet short-sighted, religious yet narcissistic.
It will happen. The official departure. Yet I said good-bye years ago. As I grew, the distance grew, the connection stretched thin. It is too thin now. No chance for reparations. Only hazy stories. From when I was young. They will be told some day. And I will leave out the second half - the craziness, the irrationality, the narcissism, the criticisms, the misguided intent.
Everyone will leave physically, yet I am ready for him to leave wholly. To take all, leave nothing behind. Am I selfish for thinking like that? I will learn to forgive. But the time is not now.
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