Pow-Pow-Pow

This photo is not of my neice, it's some baby off the internet. My neice is apparently not this calm in the womb, as her mother, my sister, has begun describing her antics as "pow-pow-powing."

She kicks and punches all at once. She does this at appropriate times, such as during Christmas mass while everyone singing "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" or whatever that song is named. (Oddly, she didn't dig any other song, remaining relatively chill throughout the rest of mass.) She also kicks and punches at inappropriate times, like when my poor sister gets up in the middle of the night to pee and the little one is like "ooh, cool! time to get up!" and then she has to relax so fully back in bed to trick the baby into going back to sleep.

She also has a move called "the wave" wherein she puts a hand (or foot or head, we don't really know) pushed up against the front of my sister's belly and then she drags it along, pushing out all the while.

One morning this past weekend, I was lying in the stupid twin bed in my mother's guest room and my sister snuck in and climbed in with me. "Feel now," she said. "She's kicking a lot." So I lay there for 20 minutes or so with my hand on my sister's bare belly and felt my neice going crazy. I got to name yet another move, which I dubbed "Pilates" where she stretches way out and part of her just sticks straight out making a bump on my sister's bump! So after she finishes her aerobic routine (pow-pow-pow!) she flows right into pilates. Quite the energetic baby we got here.

I think that this baby is already brilliant and is having these thoughts: "Wait a minute. I keep getting bigger, and this place seems pretty small. That means that soon I'm gonna be really squished in here. I better really stretch out and push around while I can!" Thus all the craziness.

In other baby news, she has a name and she hates beef. Everytime my sister eats it, she is very sick and full of gas for hours afterwards. So she's off the red meat for a while. On Christmas Eve, after getting all swollen in church, we realized she hadn't drunk any water all day. The baby apparently needs water or she gets her revenge by making my sister swell up.

My almost-sister-in-law showed up with a gift for "Baby Chili" a nickname derived from my sister's husband's last name. Hilarious and while I'm not sure it will stick, we appreciate the creativity required to have come up with it.

At only 23 weeks, with 17 left to go, my sister's belly button is almost gone and she is starting to look really pregnant, which is super exciting. She is struggling with the weight gain, having never gained more than a couple of pounds ever in her life before (unlike me, who could probably carry a baby and not even notice the weight gain since I've been so up and down my whole life!). From the back, she doesn't look pregnant at all, which is an amazing skinny-woman-ninja-trick that makes me jealous.

Although my sister, her husband, their Pomeranian, cat, 4 cars and my unborn neice are moving to Texas this week, I will see her again in late January and in February too. And I'm going there in March before she's born and again in early May after she's here. So I won't miss too much of this amazing first pregnancy in my family. Thank god. I'm not sure I could deal if I missed this. It's amazing and beautiful and a little bit weird that my neice is growing inside my sister.

Only 17 weeks till I get to meet her and then do what all good aunts do -- feed her cookies, take her on adventures, and listen when she bitches about her mom. I can't wait!

Social Capital

What is it? This site has a lot say, including: "the central thesis of social capital theory is that 'relationships matter'. The central idea is that 'social networks are a valuable asset'. Interaction enables people to build communities, to commit themselves to each other, and to knit the social fabric. A sense of belonging and the concrete experience of social networks (and the relationships of trust and tolerance that can be involved) can, it is argued, bring great benefits to people."

Yup. I've been talking for a few years now about this idea and how I've often felt a lack of "social capital" in my life. In the past 10 months, though, since I moved back to Jamaica Plain, I've purposely focused on building up my account -- so while I'm saving dollars each month and building a savings account, I'm also building my social capital. It's a pretty amazing feeling.

I became a part of JP's Neighbors for Neighbors, first attending events and then working with the founder on recruiting volunteers. I joined the Women's Book Club and tried to revitalize the Spanish Dinner Group. I have attended major events in JP such as the World's Fair and the Latern Parade and I've met people while doing it.

I attended my street's Labor Day Block Party and met even more people. I helped keep the connection we had made and included another set of roommate-friends from down the street who I'd met at an NfN event into that group. I hosted a get together at my house one night. That has led to a Progressive Dinner on Columbus Day and that flowed into a Pumpkin Carving party and a Thanksgiving Potluck (which, to be fair, was a tradition of Ana and Tom's when they lived in NC and they just carried on here, but we thank them for it!) and then, just this week, a Gingerbread Village Making Party which quickly, due to our creative (and sick) minds, turned into the creation of the "Ginga'hood".

In the interim, there's been random nights of "want to come for dinner?" or going out for a beer or two or the night that Katie met me outside my house when I drove up with a butcher block in my car and helped me carry it up the 5 stories to my apartment. That's friendship right there.

This morning, Chris, Katie's partner, met me out front at 7 and together we dug out my car and then I helped a bit with theirs. He offered and I took him up on it, because the idea of actually having support and not having to do everything on my own is just so unbelievably huge. It's at the center of social capital. Knowing that you have people to call on.

It's tempting, for a lot of people, to just hunker down in their lives. Go to work, be cordial with the people they work with but don't reveal too much personal information, go home, make dinner, see a friend maybe or talk to their mom on the phone or go on a date, go to bed and do it all again the next day. Others, in relationships, do this same thing, but with one other person involved. Okay. That's fine. If people don't want to know their neighbors, nobody should make them. But the idea of the guy across the street snowplowing your driveway for you because you happened to make cookies last weekend and brought some over is tempting too. Or knowing that you can let your kids out on the street to play because you know all 10 families/people that live in either direction from your house is also tempting.

All I know is that with a little effort on my part this fall, I have 6 new friends, all of whom live within 5 minutes walking distance of my house. I believe that all 6 would wake up and get out of bed and arrive at my house at 3 a.m. if there was an emergency, as I would do for any of them. I know that yesterday, in the first major snowstorm of the season, instead of going home to my house alone at 4 p.m., I instead knocked on Chris and Katie's door and had a couple of beers and made dinner with them.

Social Capital is not easy to build. It requires putting yourself out there, being a joiner, and caring about your community. But so far, it seems completely worth it!

An Ode to Chick Lit

When I am tired,
(not, "oh, what a rough day!" tired,
but "this month, i just cannot think" tired),
you are there.

You lure me with your bright covers,
your high heeled shoe motifs,
your titles ending in "-aholic",
your heroines who are strong and oh-so-stupid
(stupider than I am, which is the key, really).

A special thank you to the publishers,
who keep producing enough to fill an entire section
of the bookstore-
and to provide an occasional "Chick Lit 101" sidebar box
in my Entertainment Weekly.

Meg Cabot, thank you for the Queen of Babble.
Jen Weiner, you may have risen above, but you still walk In Her Shoes.
Helen Fielding, did you start it all with the Bridget's Diary?
I don't care. Just keep it coming.

Because when I'm tired,
I still want to read.
Because when I'm 34 and single,
I still want to believe I could fall in love with the hardware store owner's son on my block who I thought was dating my subletter but was really her brother all along.
Because I may only listen to NPR,
but I'm not above carrying a pink book
with an engagment ring on the cover and
unabashedly reading it on the T.

Amen.

What will they think of next?

CLICK HERE.

Hilarious!

*In case you don't know, this is me, my sister Susan, her husband Suneel, my brother Stephen, and his fiance Kim. It was made for us by our pseudo-sister Kathleen!

Book Lanterns

I go to visit my pregnant sister and her husband and we stop by his office. After we raid the samples closet for Aveno and Aquafor, we notice a weird looking book on the counter.

"What is that?" we ask.



It is a three-quarters of the way completed lantern, folded from a book. An elderly patient of my brother-in-law's apparently passes the time waiting for her doctor appointments by making them.

I, being more crafty than is good for me, unfold a couple of pages to see how it's done.

"Take it," brother-in-law says. "She said you could have it when I said my wife is crafty and would like it."

So I complete it. My sister doesn't want it, so I take it home, glue a ribbon into the binding, and now it hangs in my room.

But now I'm obsessed. I thought to myself, "I wonder how a little book would work?" and so I plucked a little book that someone gave me once upon a time off my shelf where it's been sitting since 10 minutes after whoever gave it to me. I begin to fold. It's color. It looks cool.

So I go to the dollar store and find mini books in abundance for only $.69. And now I have the most original Christmas ornaments ever made to give away to folks this holiday season.



Being crafty has its rewards. (Oh, and it also gets you some pretty weird looks on the T when you spend your commute folding little books into lanterns!)

Kings

Twenty years ago this fall, I began an intense, deep, and eventually fucked-up friendship with an intense, deep, and eventually fucked-up boy. We went from adolescent simplicity to the death of a parent to kissing on the hood of a car to rejection in the form of lack of commitment. We lasted this way for 9 years. The death of his mother scarred him and taught me, the kissing progressed to twice-in-a-lifetime sex, and the rejection was completed in his would-be wife requiring his severing our relationship.

We, like those in the high school generations before us and surely the generations that followed, were somewhat obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye by Salinger. I hung on the beauty of Holden’s hesitation, his exterior confidence so deeply intertwined with his inner self-doubt, as it reminded me so much of myself. J fixated on his risk-taking, his cavalier attitude towards his own safety, and his complete rejection of authority. He spoke of the Rye, of being the Catcher, and identified with Holden in a way that both enamored me and scared me.

J began calling me Jane. Remember Jane? She is the next door neighbor-girl who appears for only a page or so, the one with whom Holden played checkers. We know from clues in the context that she’s suffered some trauma at the hands of an adult male. We know that she would watch her checkers kinged, and would then leave them in the back row, where they would be protected – not risking their capture.

It turned into something of a nickname, although nobody else invoked it or understood it when he did. He kept it in his back pocket to use when he was attempting to goad me into doing something I didn’t want to do. He would yell it out the car window while driving off to do whatever thing I’d refused to accompany him in doing.

We bought each other books with ridiculous frequency. He often inscribed them to me as Jane. In 1994, for Christmas, he bought me Sailor Song by Ken Kesey, having moved on from the comfort of Catcher to the more college-like Kerouac and Kesey. He wrote, in part, “…have the courage that is truly within you to move your kings from the back row, Jane…”

I reveled in it. I was needy enough, especially of his attention, to enjoy that he noticed my nuances enough to liken them to a literary character and then take the time to dub me with her name. I felt special. I was a little bothered that he saw me as someone so cautious, so unwilling to take risks. He saw all my kings; in fact, I set them out for him to see, and he extrapolated that they were in the back row. I think, actually, he helped to keep them there, in a non-malignant, yet still manipulative way.

For a long time now, I’ve not had even one king remain in my back row. My kings were set free, slowly at first and then in a great rush seemingly all at once, as I refused to retake the GREs, moved across the country to Los Angeles by myself, quit my job, travelled across the planet, learned a new trade, lived barefoot in a bungalow, boarded buses on mountain tops, arrived back home in the US without any money or anywhere to live. I was a ski-bum, have had only $4.20 in my checking account, prayed a job would come through in time for the next school year. I’ve cut up vegetables, slung pizza, supervised six people, balanced a half-million dollar budget when I had no real idea what I was doing, left my field for another. I am always organized and usually know where my kings are, but they most certainly are not in the back row.

Occasionally, one has been captured. I moved one king to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and it was promptly jumped; this set me on my ass, wondering what to do now that I was living somewhere I hated in a job that was a bad fit. Another was hauled in by my formidable sometimes-opponent, the Universe, when I found myself in Paraguay, more miserable than I’d ever been and admitting I’d made a rather large mistake in entering the Peace Corps. I’ve missed those kings as they’ve gone, but after the fact, hardly noticed, because when your kings are moving around, you always know you’ve got another move to make.

J? Not sure. Last I saw him in 2004 at a mutual friend’s wedding, he was married to his wife and they had three kids. They live one town over from where we grew up and he teaches at our high school. If there was a map to the back row, I think that might be it.

Just today, driving down the highway on a blue-skied, yellow-leaved, unbelievable gift of a chilly fall day, I made this connection. I’ve not considered, ever before, that my kings are running about willy-nilly. I know what the years have felt like, how wonderfully rich and full they’ve been, and how much I enjoy each new adventure that presents itself as an opportunity to me. I know how little I hesitate before I say yes – to myself and others – in essence risking another king each time. But I’d never thought of it in the context of J. I think of him so infrequently these days that it surprised me to have the thought at all.

I don’t give him any credit for my kings hitting the red and black road. I actually think, after all this time, they weren’t ever relegated to the back row to begin with. He just wanted me, for whatever immature, semi-controlling reason, to think they were.

'nuff said...*

*except the Red Sox

ALCS/WS Reflections

Let me open by saying I have no idea how I'll top Robin, who was relegated to her house while I was at the ALCS Game 7 which afforded her the ability to be witty and timely and brillant as always.

But I digress. Here I am, in front of my stupid little 27" TV, which, for the record, isn't even mine, having never paid the woman who used to live here her 30 bucks for it. It's the bottom of the 5th and we're up 2 to 1. This has been a far more engaging game than last night, when we walked up to the Rockies in their stupid black and purple tunics, kicked them in the head and stole their lunch money. (I mean really, how could we not? They were wearing TUNICS!)

The Top 5 Reasons I'm Grateful I was at Game 7 Last Sunday Night
5. Didn't have to listen to Joe Buck call the game. What a loser that guy is.
4. Got to tell people how tired I was on Monday because I was AT the game last night.
3. Saw the glory of the Boston Police up close, and to give them their due, it was phenomenal.
2. Saw, on the jumbotron, and in real life, albeit it from the Siberia of the bleachers, Papelbon's dance.
1. I never thought I'd ever attend a post-season ball game, let alone in Fenway, ever in my life. And then I got to.

Big shout out here to the Notini family. To Butch, who has always been good to us and to Kathleen, who has been my friend for only about 3 years now, having moved to friend from "that girl I grew up with". They made it all possible.

The two jackasses (and may I repeat: JACKASSES) behind us talked at the top of their voices about everything OTHER than baseball. I found out all about Joe's stepkids, some dude in the hospital and everything wrong with him, amongst other such shit. We wanted to kill them. Everyone around us wanted to kill them. When they left to get snacks and beers, we all sighed an audible sigh of relief and talked about how crappy they were. They never stopped, for the whole game. GO HOME. Why are you here? Why didn't you sell your tickets for a grand?

The two cutiehead college boys in front of us got progressively drunk throughout the evening. One was trying, at one point, to drink his beer and text someone at the same time, and the added swaying made it quite the challenge. Kath finally had to ask the other one to pick a spot to stand and stop swaying all over the place. That was around the time that they high fived us and said "you guys must be Boston college girls! you totally look like it!" We were flattered, let me tell you.

This game was the first time I ever managed to pay attention to a game from the bleachers. I was so pleased. It was easy, even. Everyone stood at the right time. Nobody was all that drunk. There wasn't too much chatting (other than the aforementioned jackasses).

We left the park at 12:30. When we left, about 2/3 of the park was still full. We left by Ted Williams and cut through the hood towards the Fens. I didn't think going through the Fens would be a good idea, which it isn't at night on a regular night, but when we arrived at Park Drive to loop around back toward WIT where we'd been granted parking priveleges, the Fens was lit up like a Christmas tree. Every cop car in the tri-state area (what three states I'm referring to is irrelevant, I just love the term "the tri-state area") was parked there. It was cool! So we waltzed right through and were at the car by 12:45, which included a stop at the 7-11 for water.

So Game 7 was the bomb and now here we are. They wear purple. I can't really respect a team that is the same color as Barney. Jacoby won us all a taco! There's nothing better than shameless advertising actually built into the game! We do love Ellsbury, though, enough to make a petition for him. (Shout out here to Robbie, who alerted me to this little phenomenon.)

Schilling just tipped his hat for what might be his last time at Fenway. We love ya, dude. Thanks for taking us to the 6th! Thanks for bleeding half to death in 04 for us. Thanks for being a good guy. Hello Hideki, we love you too! (But not more than Tek, who I'm sorry, is truly beautiful, and a nice guy and kick-ass Captain who everyone loves.)

Peace out, peeps. Vegas has us with 2-1 odds. Here's to no sleep and faithful watching! (And to everyone on the West Coast, sleep an extra hour for me this week!)

Actun Tunachil Mukhnal

I went on an amazing adventure yesterday. THE thing to see here in Western Belize, other than crossing over to Guatemala for Tikal, is ATM, which stands for Actun Tunachil Mukhnal. It is a cave system and a cavern containing clay pots and skeletal remains of Mayans. It was found in the 70s and fully excavated by a Belizean archeologist in the 90s. It was CRAZY.

Come with me, as I recount what I did yesterday.

I arrived at 8:30 at the Mayawalk Tour Office in San Ignacio. I was loaded onto a bus (supposedly air conditioned, but not) with 25 other people. All but 4 of us were on a tour, led by either Tucan or Intrepid, both Aussie companies. Many of the other people were older, in their 60s or 70s, which surprised me, considering what I knew of this tour. I was with Sarah, a British woman who is travelling for the year on her own (she's 33) and who was staying at my guesthouse.

We arrived after an hour's drive (mostly down very bumpy dirt roads) at the parking area. We parked, and packed up our cameras, water, lunches (provided to us) and our Petzel helmets (the kind you use to rockclimb). We then set off to walk 45 minutes into the jungle. It was an easy walk along a path and we had to cross the same river three times (water up to our knees).

A word about clothing. I was wearing lightweight capris, my Keens (those water sandal thingys with the closed toes), and a tanktop. I had my bikini bottoms on, but a bra on top.

Then, we arrived at the picnic area. We were split into three groups of 8 and ate lunch. Then, staggered, we entered the cave. The opening is amazing. Huge, and the first thing is a 20ft deep pool, about 30 feet across. You jump in and swim to the other side. At this point, I was wearing my helmet and a headlamp and my camera had been put into a drybag which the guide was carrying on his back. On the otherside, you climb onto a rock embankment.

We then set off. We trekked 1/3 of a mile INTO the cave. Through waist high water, knee deep water, chest high water, running rapids, little waterfalls, and dry sections. It was totally, completely pitch dark except for our headlamps. The cave ceiling above us was between 100 and 200 feet high. Only a couple of times we saw bats, and occasionally a little fish in the very clear, very clean, refreshingly clear water.

Two of the ladies in my group who were at least 70 (but hearty Australians) could not swim. This did not stop them. Nor did the climbing across rocks, climbing up rocks, between rocks and down steep inclines stop them. This, perhaps, was more amazing to me, a wimpy American, than even the cave.

We finally, after an hour or so, got to a place where we stopped. We then climbed up about 20 feet up a huge rock and onto a shelf above it. From there, we went up, up, up. When we got to the entrance to the actual thing we came to see, they handed out cameras and we all had to take off our shoes and put on socks if we hadn't already. (You have to wear socks inside the sacred cave b/c the oils on our feet would cause damage as would our shoes.)

We went in and looked at all the clay pot remains, the skulls and bones remains and the cavern around us. It was pretty cool. The guide had a huge powerful light in order to show us the cavern we were in, b/c our headlights weren't enough at all.

We walked through the grand cavern, which was the size of a football field (lower ceilings here) and then up a ladder to another smaller cavern where the full remains of a skeleton are. She is lying out on the floor. I have amazing photos. It was super cool.

The guide kind of sucked. He didn't give us much history or anything about Mayan culture. He just kind of talked in philosophical circles, but it didn't really matter (except when he really got going for 10 minutes or more and I wanted him to just shut up and move us along -- really, I have no patience).

After we were done, we went back the exact way we came, it took about an hour to get out of the cave and another 45 minutes to walk back to the van. For those of you who know how much I hate being wet, it was a little bit torturous to walk that far soaking wet, but it helped with the heat and dry clothes awaited me at the van, so it wasn't too bad. We changed and were back in San Ignacio Town by 6.

The entire experience was very very cool. I've never been caving, let alone that far into a cave. I love to do things like that, since it reminds me that I am in fact still young and fit and able to do just about anything. And the older people helped me imagine still doing things like it when I'm 70.

A few last notes, as this is my last post from abroad before I make my way home tomorrow.

-- This little guesthouse I'm staying in, the Hi-Et, is awesome. It's a family's house. There's some rooms with private bathrooms, but I'm in one of four with a shared bath. It's a cute little room with french doors (wooden french doors like storm shutters, but french doors nonetheless) that lead out to my own private little balcony. The balconies on my floor are all made from the dormers at the top of the house. It's awesome.

-- Hanna's, the Belizean gift to food. This restuarant is amazing. Huge portions for a good price and the only curries I've found in Belize.

-- Cafe del Sol, where I sat for almost 4 hours today, drinking coffee, eating breakfast and reading my book.

-- I just found out that it is going to cost me $37.50 US to get out of Belize. That's the departure tax to fly out. The most expensive I've ever seen! And, I also found out that after I ride the bus from here to the bus station in Belize City, it will be $50 BZ or $25 US to get the 8 miles from the bus station to the Int'l Airport. Apparently it used to be $30BZ until all the taxis got together and decided to rip off the tourists. So to get out of here will cost me $62.50US. CRAZY. Glad I planned on taking the T home when I get back, because that taxi ride would be another $25US.

-- I am over budget on this trip. I can't believe what I've spent. Oh well, I guess. Each trip is once-in-a-lifetime and I only do this once a year, right?

-- My trip back from Guatemala was great, and uneventful. Since I had bought cash there and had to take it back across the border and turn it into Belizean money, I was paranoid about having that much cash on me. I hadn't brought my money belt across the border, thinking I was only staying one night and all...So, I stuffed the 1300Q (Quetzales, Guatemalan money) in my bra for the trip from Flores to Santa Elena's bus station and then the 2.5 hour trip to the border. I went to the little bank on the Guatemalan side of the border and asked to change my quetzales into Belizean dollars. They said they didn't do that and directed me to the dudes with the little black bags, the black market...crazy. They gave me an excellent rate and I then stuffed my Belizean dollars down my bra and made my way across the border. It was a super-easy border crossing.

--Oh, and when someone boards a Belizean bus carrying a machete or other large knife, the driver takes it and keeps it up front until the person gets off. I thought this a very wise and safe policy that I saw universally inforced!

I guess that's it. I'll be back in the US (Miami) tomorrow early afternoon!

Another great trip, over and done. I can hardly believe it's over.

Mas sobre Guatemala

This is a photo of Isla de Flores, Guatemala. It's pretty cool. Right across the bridge is Santa Elena. Flores is sort of an annex. It doesn't have a bus station or a proper bank, one has to find those in Santa Elena.

What this place does have is lots of very cute hotels and restaurants/bars. I had breakfast in a great little coffeeshop. Many of the places that are around the perimeter road have doors that open directly off the street (a la everywhere i've been in central/south america) and then they are very deep, going all the way back to the lakeside. We had dinner last night in a place like that, with lakeside seating.

I contacted the tour place in San Ignacio last night via email to confirm that I could stay here until Thursday and then still do the two tours in Belize before I head home. All is well. So I will stay here tonight and then make my way across the border tomorrow back to Belize.

My dilemma about not having enough cash is solved. First of all let me say I have absolutely no idea what the hell I was thinking leaving the U.S. with only $500 cash and no means to get more. I left my ATM card at home. Why? Not sure. I planned ahead for this trip. I could picture both the Belize and Guatemala map in my head. I knew the name of currency in both countries. I had a rough idea how much things would cost (although Belize, as I've already mentioned, is more expensive than I'd anticipated). I've travelled a ton. Then, why, oh why did I not have enough money? No se.

This morning, I set out to try to get money somehow. First I went to San Juan Travel, which, according to the 2005 Lonely Planet Central America book (which Robin has) gives cash advances against credit cards. No such luck. They looked at me like I was insane and then told me to use the ATM. When I said "No tengo PIN para me carta de credito" they looked at me like I was even more insane. They were justified. They sent me to the Banco Rural here in Flores.

I hiked up the hill to the bank and waited in line with two hombres to gain entrance when it opened at 8:30. I went up to the girl at the caja and said "Quiero usar me carta de credito para consiguir dinero. Este es possible?" Nope. She said, not here. You have to go to Banco Industrial en Santa Elena. I asked if she was sure that there I could get money even though I do not have a PIN for my credit card. Yes, she assured me with a smile.

Okay. Sounds good. So I flag down a tuk-tuk. SIDE NOTE: There are tuk-tuks here! Seriously. Tuk-tuks, just like in Thailand. It's been 5 years since I had the pleasure of seeing or riding in a tuk-tuk. So great. I love them. They are a little different here than in Thailand, but just as cute. And they only cost Q5 (about $.60) to get over to Santa Elena from here.

I share the tuk-tuk with another guy. The driver is very chatty. But it is very hard to carry on a conversation over the noise of the tuk-tuk itself as well as the surrounding traffic, especially in another language. The result is that the guy thinks I'm a moron. Ah, well. People often do.

I get out at the bank, but I only have Q3 in coins or Q100 note. He doesn't have any change. So I ask "Quieres esperar para mi?" Do you want to wait for me? Sure, he says. I go in the bank and lo and behold, you can totally buy cash against a credit card, as long as it's a Visa. ANOTHER SIDE NOTE: I have no idea why I packed my Visa. I only use my Mastercard at home, ever. I don't even know why I keep the Chase Visa. I haven't used it in ages. I think I packed it in case my other card got stolen or something. Thank god for small favors of fate.

She asks me how much I want, I tell her, she calls someone, gets authorization, and gives me cash. It took all of 10 minutes. So easy. I wonder if I could do that in the States?

I go back out, fully expecting my tuk-tuk to be there, and prepared to pay him Q5 for the trip to the bank, Q5 for the trip back and Q5 for waiting for me. He wasn't there. He didn't even come in looking for me or to at least collect the Q3 I had that he knew I had. So weird. I keep thinking he'll stop me on the street in Flores and ask me for his money. I sort of hope he does, as I feel badly about stiffing him.

So now my money worries are over and I can enjoy the last 4 days of my trip. :)

Every day an adventure, even if it is of my own making, due to incredible stupidity.

Besos.

Estoy en Guatemala

I am in Guatemala.

I spent the day on a Tikal tour. It was truly awesome. Click the link to see what I'm talking about.

Then, instead of going back to Belize with my tour, I got off in Las Cruces and jumped a collectivo (minivanbusthing) with Robin, from my group. She's Aussie and was headed to Flores. So I came with her. (I was maybe going to say in Tikal, but I was done with it by 4 p.m. I had left my big bag in Belize, and figured, why not?)

So we are sharing a double room, my share is $5 (ah to be be back in a country where the US dollar actually goes far!). I will stay either one or two nights and then head back to Belize.

It's gorgeous here. It's actually Isla de Flores, since it's in the middle of a lake. Our hotel room is on the 3rd floor and we look out over the lake.

Wonderful. Gotta go explore before I lose the sun!

I (thought I) Love Bus Travel

I climbed onto the 8 a.m. bus in Punta Gorda this morning along with about 8 Belizeans. I was all set to travel all day to get to San Ignacio, in the north. I thought to myself: "I love bus travel. It's great. You get a real feel for the country, the people, the culture." 6 hours later, I wasn't so sure. I think I'm old.

Belizeans travel mostly by bus. Before we even left Punta Gorda, we'd driven all around town and the 8 people turned into more like 30. Few people outside the cities own cars and air travel, while relatively economical, is still expensive. Buses here are ALL, I repeat, ALL, old school buses from the United States. Have you ever travelled 6 hours on a school bus? Maybe. I don't really remember. I might have when I was 10. But not full-sized, and not in 95 degree heat and not when there's a billion people on the bus with me. I'm a wus. I'm an American, spoiled wus.

My knees hurt, my legs hurt, I was hot. When it started to rain, I almost cried when the bus attendant guy came around and closed all the windows, in an attempt to suffocate us all. When I changed buses in Bamlopen (the capital of Belize), I didn't get a seat and stood in the back where I had stuck my pack in the crack between the back seat and the window. Every times someone opened the back door (which was a lot to load stuff and people), my bag almost fell out. Luckily, that ride was only about an hour of the total trip and I got to sit down for the second half.

The buses are painted bright colors. They actually look pretty cool. All along the highways, there are dead buses parked in lots, in people's yards, all over. If you ever wondered where all the school buses in the U.S. go to die, the answer is apparently Belize. Use that in your next Trivial Pursuit game and get your final pie!

On the bus. Women travel more than men on the bus. They are often in pairs or groups and often have 2 or 4 or 6 kids with them. One woman today, I kid you not, had an infant in a piece of cloth. It was lying down sleeping and she had gathered the cloth at the top like a bag and was carrying it. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. I wasn't the only one staring, and I was the only non-Belizean on the bus.

The bus stops every 2.5 feet to pick up whoever wants to be picked up on the side of the road (a la Paraguay). This, my friends, is why it takes 5 hours to go what should have taken 3. Not only that, but if you remember, school buses do not stop on a dime, so often, we would overshoot the person on the road and then BACK UP to go get them!

Belizeans speak English, pretty much universally. They speak it with different fluency, depending on where they are from, how much education they have received and how much they come in contact with tourists.

They also speak Kriol. This was, for a long time, sconsidered a form of bastardized English, but has recently been linguistically proven to be it's own own unique language. If you listen really closely, you can kind of figure out what people are saying. It sort of sounds like reggae-talk. There's "mans" a lot and "das" a lot. It's interesting.

Some people speak Spanish. It depends on the region. In San Pedro lots of people did. Down south in Punta Gorda, not so much. Here in San Ignacio, more.

Then there are Mayan languages. The only one I've come in contact with so far is Kertach (no clue how to spell it or say it). There's also Mopan and probably a million others.

There are black people, brown people, Mayan people (who clearly look Mayan) and there were lots of blond headed little kids with Belizeans in San Pedro. It's quite a mixture of people here. It's lovely, actually.

Last night, I spent the night in Laguna, a village about 10 miles outside Punta Gorda. It is part of the Toledo Ecotourism Association (TEA). They have a guesthouse. I took the bus from Punta Gorda at 6 a.m., got off a the "Laguna Junction" (not a real place, just where the road to Laguna meets the main road) and prepared to walk in the 3 miles to get there. It was pouring. Luckily, a car came along, driven by Vicente Sakul, who happens to be the President of the TEA! (I'd been told about him ahead of time.) He took me to the guesthouse and then Rosa came by. The families in the village who are working with the program rotate being the "attendant" when visitors arrive. It was Rosa's turn.

I got settled in the guesthouse, which was lovely! It had two rooms with bunk platforms and she made me a bed. There was a back patio and then a side building with a toilet and sink/shower with running water.

I had breakfast at Rosa's house with Seffina her daughter. Tortillas, beans, and eggs with a sweet kind of hot tea to drink. Then I had a village tour, which really amounted to just a walk around the circle of "road" that makes up the village. Rosa pointed out flora of interest and the buildings (school, church, health center, shop). 300 people live in the village, 85 of whom are children. Rosa has 8. Justina, who fed me lunch and gave me a "craft lesson", is 29 years old and has 6 kids. She goes every three months to Punta Gorda for a Depo shot for birth control. She's heard rumors that Depo gives you cancer in the long run, so she's worried, but she's trying to balance that with the idea of yet another child. She was obviously worried enough to share the whole story with me.

At lunch, John showed up. He did the same deal as me, but 4 hours later. He's Australian, but lives and works in East Africa. Just finished a temp job (enviornment stuff) in Hondurus, and is traveling around. It was great to have someone to hang with all afternoon. We went on a walk through the jungle up the "Farm road" which led to no where, talked for 2 hours about the US, Iraq, Bush, Michael Moore, privelege, travel, diving, and more and then ate a very weird dinner at Patricia's house. It was beans, fry jacks (which are flour tortillas, but fried and puffy and delicious), and hard boiled eggs. The house had dirt floors and only hammocks for sleeping and it was Patricia, her very old husband (I think), her son and then two young girls showed up. I have no idea the family make up and no English was really spoken. I was sort of glad to have John there.

Then we showered (well, bucket bathed) and went to bed at 7:45 because there wasn't electricity in the guesthouse. It was a good thing, though, because we were up at 5:30a to catch the "market bus" back to PG. All in all, it was a great experience and the entire $55BZ ($27.50US) I spent went directly to the folks in the village. No middle man. Oh, and I bought a hand made caxtal (bag) from Rosa and a gift for my dad from Justina, each for $10BZ, so that helps them too.

I have now apparently arrived in the northwest having left my good sense and frugal ways on the school bus. I just booked a trip to Tikal in Guatemala for $85US (which I had planned on doing from the start). I also booked Caracol, which is a Mayan ruin here in Belize which was recently featured in Nat'l Geo Travel magazine. I ALSO booked a trip to ATM (which stands for some long Mayan name I can't remember right now) but is essentially a living museum that was discovered not too long ago with human remains, Mayan artifacts, etc and is supposed to be the coolest thing ever. All together, the three will run me $245US, which, I supposed, for 3 full days of tours which include transport, guides and lunch, is a bargain. (That was the price for a one-day, three-dive trip to the Blue Hole.)

I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to stay over in Tikal for a night. The trip doesn't stay over, but I could do the whole thing and then just not go back with them, and stay overnight and make my own way back on the bus the next day. That's prolly what I'll do so I can have a sunset at Tikal. Since I've had it in my head for DAYS that I fly out of Belize City on Saturday and just realized at about 3 p.m. today that I don't actaully fly out till SUNDAY, I just found a whole extra day! Yippee.

So all is well in Central America. More later.

Cesna 280s

i am in punta gorda, via maya island airlines, pictured here. this is the furthest southern town in all of belize.

the flight was harrowing. that's actually a lie as it was a totally calm flight without even any turbulance. we landed in three places during the flight. it's like a bus-plane. :) three take offs and three landings on airstrips that are as long as a typical american driveway and surrounded on three sides by water. i'll never be afraid to land at boston's logan aiport (surrounded by water as well) again. if i never fly in a tuna-can-airplane again it will be too soon. the older i get the more scared i am of flying. it sucks.

i am headed out tomorrow a.m. at 6am to the village of laguna. the dude here at nature's way guest house (who is older and american and has been in belize for i think 30 years plus) was one of the founder's of the ecotourism program. he recommended laguna specifically. i'll be back here on monday and then i'm headed north.

off to enjoy the sea breeze even though it's gotta be 100 degrees here and then to eat something. i haven't eaten since my scrambled eggs, tortilla and sausage breakfast on the beach this morning. life is tough.

Into the Jungle

I'm blowing this golf-cart filled, flip-flop wearing, dive-junkie town and heading south into the jungle tomorrow. Who knows what that will bring?

Hoping the rest of Belize is cheaper. Realizing I didn't bring enough cash. :)

Tan, tan, tan. I'll be brown till Thanksgiving!

Will post as soon as I'm able.

Lata.

Prices in San Pedro

This island is much more expensive than I'd planned on. The first day, I was shocked at the prices. Even though the Belize dollar is pegged to the U.S. dollar 2 to 1, prices seem to be inflated so they are roughly the same as what you'd pay in the U.S. for things.

Examples:
- t-shirt: $22 Belize dollars
- lobster: $54 Belize dollars
- coffee: $4 Belize dollars
- internet: $5 Belize dollars for 20 minutes

Thus, I've been eating very cheaply for breakfast and lunch and then eating a real dinner. Breakfast: a baked good at the bakery for $2BD and a cup of crappy coffee for $1.25BD. Lunch: rice and beans with stewed chicken (THE meal of Belize) for $7 or $8BD.

I've had some great dinners. Grouper, fish burritos, garlic shrimp potato, snapper, lobster fritters. And last night, my diving friends Susan and Brock who are from Denver and are aeronautical engineers for Lockheed Martin treated me to dinner. Very nice.

So, here's hopin' that once I hit the mainland and go into the jungle, prices drop. :) Hee hee.

Beer Prayer

Painted on the wall of Fido's (pronounced feed-doze -- get it?) in San Pedro, Ambergris Caye, Belize, Central America.

Our Lager
Who art in Barrels
Hallowed be thy Drink.

Thy will be drunk
(I will be drunk)
At home as in the Tavern.

Give us this day our foamy head
and forgive us our spillages
as we forgive those who spill
against us.

And lead us not into incarceration
but deliver us from hangovers.

For thine is the beer
the bitter and the lager
Forever and ever.
Barmen.

(read the post below this one, which is the real post for today!)

The Privelege of Diving

I was laying on a huge boat today, for 2 and a half hours, heading out to the Blue Hole, in the middle of the ocean. And I had a great day. I mean really really great. One of those days that you chalk up and say "Well, I can die happy now."

It started with dolphins entertaining the boat and a captain willing to slow down and chill so we could check them out. Tons of them.

The Blue Hole is incredible. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. First of all, you can't see it. It just looks like the rest of the ocean. Then, you drop down onto a sandy ledge at about 40 feet and then go over the edge and drop down into the abyss. At 130 feet (30m), there's still another 350 feet below you (350 feet! that is so deep) and huge, amazing stalagtites (or stalagmites, I don't know, the kind that hang DOWN, not point UP) all around. They are HUGE. The DiveMaster next to them showed us perspective. They are about 30-50 feet long. Just hanging down there underwater. The water was really clear, too.

I got bad narcosis/vertigo. I got this a few times when I lived in Thailand, and the result is, instead of the usual narcosis-euphoria, a quick on-set paranoia. I got nervous, my heart pounded out of my chest, I breathed heavy and I started having icky thoughts (panicky ones). So I ascended a few feet (literally about 4 or 5 feet) and it went away, just as it is supposed to.

The DM took us out away from the wall for a about 25 feet into the blue and there were the Caribbean Grey Reef Sharks. Tons of them. Seriously. About 10. Swimming all around us. It was super cool and sort of scary. A few were about 8 feet long and others were only about 5 feet. When we got back on the boat later, because it was low season and there weren't any other divers still in the water, the DMs fed them some fish off the side, and let me tell you, I'm glad nobody did that while we were still in the water, or I wouldn't be writing this right now.

Then we went to a World Heritage Site, the home of the Boobies (birds, all you dirty folks out there) and dropped off our snorkelers and went to the second dive. Very very cool. Amazing reef life. I've never seen anything like it. Some Muppet Show divers, but the fish knew exactly what they were doing. :)

Went back to the island, Half Moon Caye is its name, and ate a wicked lunch with coconut pie for dessert. Then we did the final dive at The Aquarium. That's the name of the site. With good reason. More fish than I've ever seen anywhere. Starfish, shrimp, conch, turtle at the end. It was absolutely glorious.

The staff were amazing. All Belizean. All really good. And so back to the privelege of diving, the title of this post.

I'm fine with the fact that diving is for the priveleged. It's expensive. Some things are. And I guess that's just a fact. Not everything is accessible to everyone. But what struck me when I got back to my room and showered and was sitting and thinking is this: all the staff of the diveshops here are Belizean. The DMs, the owners, the equipment folks, the boat captains. Everyone.

Then why did I convince myself for years that Thailand needed me to bring diving to their country and help their tourist industry? Because they did. I don't think your average (or even your relatively priveleged) Thai could afford the fees to learn to dive and learn to be a DM. So they are priced out of running their own diving industry. And PADI or NAUI certainly aren't going to drop fees to help locals, I don't think.

Belizeans, from what I can tell, can make this happen for themselves. The experience is better for the diver I think. Germans came to Thailand and learned to dive from a German. Americans could seek out another American to teach them. I learned a lot today about Belize and hurricanes and marine life and names of fish and how the barrier reef protects the islands; from someone who has lived here his entire life.

Not that heavy of a thought at the end of my amazing day. Just some awareness I've never had before. Glad it found me today.

Buceando

Diving!



By the numbers:

- 6 divers
- 2 nurse sharks
- 1 very nice Belizian Divemaster
- 1 very nice Belizian boat captain
- 80 feet deep
- 3 stingrays (2 of which were very big)
- 1 brown-spotted moray eel
- 1 baby boxfish (so cute!)
- 20+ huge-ass brown spotted grouper
- 2 fish who came along on the whole dive with us
- tons of awesome canyons and rocks covered in coral and fans
- 5 little bags of water (Crystal, the Belizian water company makes these little 10 oz bags of water. you bite the corner off and suck the water out. We decided they should make beer like that. In strips like bandaids. Then you just rip off a little bag of beer and go!)
- 10 more dives to look forward to! (Including 2 at the Blue Hole, pictured at the top of this post.) Woot!

Estoy aqui!

I'm here. Tiny little island. Looks and feels a lot like Koh Tao (where I lived in Thailand, for those of you joining the Karen Show in season 2 or 3 or whatever).

Flew on a tiny, itty-bitty little prop plane to get here. I hate flying, even in big, giant, reliable planes, so it was a test (especially after that little one recently crashed in Thailand).

The "airport" here on Ambergris Caye is an airstrip with a bunch of little huts clustered on one end. You get off the plane and walk to whatever hut belongs to the airline you flew in on. Yes, there is more than one airline...capitalism! Then, there's a little porch and a little wooden sign out in the "yard" off the porch that has"Baggage Claim" painted on it. The guys take the bags out of the plane (which I can only hope were strategic in their stowing to balance weight) and pull them over manually on a cart to the area between the sign and the porch. Then they unload the bags, handing them to you over the porch railing. This part I believe was due to the rain. I think that when it's not raining, you just go get them off the cart. They even had a tarp to cover them for the trip from the plane to the porch.

So yeah, it's raining, but the locals tell me that it just started today and it's been raining at night, but not during the day. Diving doesn't need sun, so I'm cool. Just talked to the dive school and I'm good to go for tomorrow a.m. I have to be there at 8:30. Woot!

According to the taxi driver, everyone speaks English and Spanish here. So that's good. After I asked, he said that he tries to speak English, but...and he faltered. So I finished his sentence, "Tu preferencia es espanol?" And he smiled and then the rest of our conversation was in Spanish. Very nice.

Once I actually have something interesting to report, I'll back. For now, I'm going wandering.

Besos.

Independencia

It is 9:05 p.m. The Sox are up 3 to 1 in the bottom of the 4th. I just parked my car in my new neighbor-friends' driveway two doors down. The taxi is coming at 4 a.m. I have traveller's checks, a full pack ready to go, reservations at a dive operator for a week, and no plans for my second week. I'm off!

I haven't been on a true travelling trip in a few years. Actually, I haven't just gone and figured it out when I got there since I came home from Asia in 2002. In early '04 I went on a Caribbean cruise. In Fall '04, Alaska. In Summer '05, Bolivia, and that was 2 weeks of homestay and Spanish school, totally organized. In early '06, Barcelona (didn't have solid plans for that one, but no plans to go anywhere other than that one city). Then Paraguay, which since it was Peace Corps, was obviously organized. Finally, Puerto Rico in January '06 for only 4 nights, one town, with a friend.

So the nervousness I felt this morning as I was getting all the last minute details ready to go is normal. Even though everyone thinks I'm all adventurous and risk-taking and bestows upon me all the bravery that goes with that, I'm not really.

I'm pretty psyched, though. I can't wait to dive and am holding my breath while still on land that I will get to dive! (Weather may still, in the end, work against me and everyone knows that you should never hold your breath while diving!) I am still up in the air about whether I'm going to Guatemala or not. It depends what the traveller so'o (gossip line) tells me about the election activity there. No matter what, though, I'll foray across the border to Tikal on a tour from San Ignacio in Belize. Then I can at least say I went. (BTW, San Ignacio was the name of the biggest town close to my site in Paraguay. Interesante, no?)

I also just read in my Lonely Planet and saw again in my National Geographic Traveller magazine about this cool ecotourism company in Belize where you go to a town, wait for the bus to a series of villages and then go stay in a small Mayan village for a night or two. 80% of the money goes directly to the village and only 20% to the overhead costs of the company. Very cool. I might be VERY up for that.

I will purchase the prize for the winner of the pool in my office regarding how many emails I will have on my work email when I return. After 10 work days, 6 weekend days and one holiday day away, the guesses range from 397 to 540 and one savvy person went with "1" since the rule is "closest without going over." I will take care to choose a very good prize for the winner.

I love to travel. The signature quote on my email is from Eat Pray Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. It says:

"I am loyal and constant in my love for travel, as I have not always been loyal and constant in my other loves. I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn baby - I just don't care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it's mine. Because it looks exactly like me. It can barf all over me if it wants to - I just don't care."

Yup. And that's why I go. There is nothing like independent travel. Nothing.

Are you .... than a 5th Grader?

Fifth Graders in the U.S. are 10. Approximately. We have all been treated to Jeff Foxworthy on Fox since February on this show where adult contestants have to answer questions that any American 5th Grader knows. It's annoying. (And amazingly enough, has already been replicated in Australia, beginning this month.)

The question I ask myself is not if I am smarter than your average 5th Grader, but whether I can compete with them in other ways. I am inspired to write this post given what just happened to me at the Government Center Plaza farmer's market. Read on.

1. Am I a Better Flirter than a 5th Grader?
I'd venture to say "no" to this one. 10-year-olds are notoriously interested in the world around them and willing to talk to people to learn more about whatever's going on. Not only that, but they are still young enough to be cute and charming and old enough to know how to manipulate the person they are talking to into giving them what they want. Further, they are full of confidence. They haven't crossed over to the "am I good enough, cute enough, blah blah crap" that hinders our ability to organically interact with other people. Now, I realize it probably isn't all that appropriate to call this flirting, especially when the participants are one 10-year-old and one adult, but fast forward it 20 years and it's flirting. And they'd kick my ass. Boys and girls.

2. Am I in Better Control of my Body than a 5th Grader?
A dead tie. I fall down. Regularly. When I'm just walking down the street, sometimes. I trip over things that aren't there. I walk into poles, corners, and doors. I bump my head. I hit things with my bag when I'm carrying one. I drop stuff. I had this problem when I was young, as many 10-year-olds do. They aren't totally aware of their size or their surroundings, they don't pay enough attention, and they are usually growing so fast, that as soon as they get used to their body, it changes again. Most people grow out of it. I apparently haven't. I fell today on nothing on the sidewalk at the aforementioned farmer's market. I don't even really get that embarrassed anymore, I'm so used to it. So now, I can add "totally scraped up knee" to the long list of injuries and scars I've added to my body just in the past year. It's amazing.

3. Do I Need Less Sleep than a 5th Grader?
Not really. I am a bit of a disaster when I don't get my 8 hours. Most 5th graders need tons of sleep -- you know the whole growing, learning thing is tiring. I haven't really gotten the reprieve that was supposed to come with age.

4. Do I Rely Less on my Parents than a 5th Grader?
Well, obviously, yes. But not really. I think some 5th Graders, if given the choice and the ability to earn their own money to feed and house themselves, might do better than I at this one. I really dig my parents. I like spending time with them, like talking to them, and feel like it's my duty to help them out when they need it. I talk to my mother almost every day. Pretty sure most 5th graders would rather die than admit what I just wrote.

5. Can I Do my Hair and Makeup Better than a 5th Grader?
No. And this one is even more humiliating given the fact that most 5th Graders number 1, don't wear makeup (I hope.) and number 2, don't usually do their own hair. But, I'd venture to guess that if they did, they would do it better than I. My makeup is usually either gone or all over my face my noon. More than half the time, I pull my hair up because I can't deal with actually doing it. I'm too old to lose this one, but I think I would.

6. Do I Get Along with my Siblings better than a 5th Grader?
Yes. Big yes. Most 5th Graders are usually trying to kill a sibling while their parents aren't looking. This is the game show for me. I'd win this one. I love my siblings and they love me. We fight, sure, but they are adult fights (with an occasional carry-over from childhood thrown in). We don't give each other noogies or wedgies and we don't pour stuff in each others' beds. We know better than to run to a parent to rat out another. We understand how sacred our relationships are.

So there you go. I'd win one stand off against a bunch of 5th Graders, and that one is largely due to perspective. I've always harbored a secret desire to go back to being 8 or 10. Apparently, I've maintained enough characteristics of someone this age that I don't have to go back. I'll just carry on!

Summer 2007

the "Karen B", a lobster-boat at Spectacle Island in Boston Harbor









What I did this summer...

- planted a garden - had a visit from a Peace Corps friend - celebrated 5 cousins' and friends' graduations - helped save gay marriage in MA - hosted brunch for my family at my new apartment - celebrated my sister's 10 year college reunion with her and her friends - got involved with Jamaica Plain's neighborhood group, Neighbors for Neighbors - went to LA to visit - published an article on a dating blog, and got paid! - hired 5 new staff members at work - saw the author of two of my favorite non-fiction books (Shadow Divers and Crashing Through) speak - got drunk in Nashua - went canoeing with my brother, his girlfriend and her Pug - had dinner at new friends' apartment and then hosted them for dinner - did laundry in a laundromat for the first time in years - visited Martha's Vineyard overnight and stayed at the hostel - saw an amazing show at ImprovBoston - was published twice in the new BostonNOW free daily paper - saw three Sox games at Fenway - participated in the 2-mile road race before the Chelmsford 4th of July Parade - froze to death on the 4th in the wind and rain that night - saw the 16 Tiffany's windows in Arlington Street Church, which I didn't even know were there - was interviewed on Armchair Traveller, my friend's radio show in Worcester - saw the Hopper exhibit at the MFA - went to three WBOS concerts on Copley - started volunteering at the Friday Night Supper Program - went to the sand castle festival at Revere Beach - volunteered at the Nametag Project event at Fenway Park - visited NYC to visit my sister and her husband with my brother and his girlfriend and then met up with her brother who lives in the city - had an ultrasound - went on a moonlight canoe trip on the Charles - made my signature guacamole twice for parties -found a financial planner - kayaked on Squam Lake in NH - spent the day on Block Island - went to a concert in Christopher Columbus Park downtown - was one of the artists for First Thursdays art exhibits in JP - went to Atlanta for a training - went Ziplining in NH - learned how to transfer a photocopy to canvas using an acrylic medium - had dinner with a high school friend who I haven't seen since 2001 - babysat for my best friend's children - mowed my parents lawn for three weeks after goading them into firing their slacker high school mower-kid - stopped using the JP Library and moved over to the other JP branch, Connolly because the women at the JP branch are rude - went on a tour of Fenway Park - spent an entire weekend at my great-grandparents' (now my aunt and uncle's) cottage at Cobbett's Pond in NH - joined the board of directors of a small nonprofit organization - spent 8 hours out exploring the Boston Harbor Islands - participated in my street's Labor Day block party - read a lot of books - harvested more green beans than I can count, about 20 radishes, 4 cucumbers and a handful of tomatoes, all grown on my deck! - ate fried clams at Brown's in Seabrook - had a great summer!

A Letter to the T

Dear Tina,

I really want you to know what happened tonight on the 39. I was on the 39 bus and the back of the bus had number 1021 on it at 7:15 p.m. I got on at Copley Square, headed outbound for Forest Hills.

We stopped at the stop right before the Stop & Shop. The corner of Exeter Street and Huntington Ave. I was way in the back of the bus, and there was a long delay. I got up to see what was happening and saw the driver on her cell phone on the sidewalk. Outside the bus, there was a woman in a mechanical/electric wheelchair. I asked her what was going on. She told me the driver wouldn't pull the bus out a bit to lower the lift to let her on.

That corner has Huntington, and then a little side road that also cuts in there. The driver kept saying that she couldn't pull out into traffic. She told the woman she would have to go to the next stop, all the way down on the other end of the Pru where the duck boats load. The woman kept telling her that cars are always parked there and it's worse. The driver kept talking on her phone and refusing to lower the lift. The driver got back on the bus and got ready to drive away. The woman in the wheelchair began heading across the street and then came back and knocked on the door. I said to the driver "WHere do you want her to go, I'll walk with her." The driver ignored me and then left the bus again, and entered a yelling match with the woman, who was insisting that she could be picked up here and the driver telling her no.

At this point, I decided to get off and walk. I didn't want to be on a bus with a driver who didn't think it was her responsibility to pick up a disabled passenger at whatever stop they were at. A photographer came up at that point and took photos of the woman and the driver having words and then claimed he was from the Herald. When I walked away, he was kneeling down talking to the woman. God knows what'll be in the Herald.

It is bad enough that the T is so inaccessible to those who are disabled already. There are many many subway stations that are not accessible. It takes a lot longer for someone in a wheelchair to get somewhere in this city. And, fine. I know you are making improvements. But, people in wheelchairs should ALWAYS be able to enter a bus that is equipped with a lift. I don't see what anything (cut in the sidewalk, etc.) has to do with it. And they should not be asked to put themselves in harms way crossing streets or whatever to get on the bus. Bus stops should be RE-ASSESSED to ensure they are accessible.

That bus driver was ill equipped to deal with the situation. She blocked traffic, held up passengers and did not handle the situation well. She needs some sensitivity training, because not once did she apologize to the woman or try to explain the shortcomings of accessibility to her. She only said that she was trying to help her and that it wasn't going to happen, as if the woman's disability was an inconvienence to her and something to be fixed rather than her responsibility as a T employee to be accessible to all.

Thank you for listening.

Karen
Monthly pass holder

The Idiot Box

I've almost completely stopped watching TV. I never thought it possible. After years as a junkie, I've gone almost completely off the juice.

I am dedicated to only three shows, two of which won't start up again until January 2008 (Lost and The Amazing Race). The third begins in September (Grey's Anatomy). I am considering adding a fourth (Private Practice, the Grey's spin-off Kate Walsh vehicle), but we'll see how that goes.

Not having cable has partly precipitated this and it being summer and light out till 8 is responsible for the other part. I wish daylight savings would just get on the fast train outta here so we can have sun and no reason to turn on the tube.

Right now, I'm watching the end of Two and a Half Men, which is a stupid show that is actually funny. This is how they get us. Even when it's stupid, it's usually somewhat funny. This is the first time I've turned on the set in about 3 weeks or so. I'm turning it off.

Don't think I'm all high and mighty (like, you watch too much TV and I'm better because I don't engage in all that crappy stuff) since I paid $14 including parking to watch an extra-long Simpsons episode masquerading as a movie on Friday night.

So there you go.

This feeling I get....

Ever since I was small, when someone had come to visit and then left, I felt really sad (most of the time it was my Auntie Patti, since she was really the only person in my life that lived far away when I was small and would come to visit and then leave again). I remember distinctly, all through school, not being sure what the feeling was. I remember telling my mother I felt "weird" or "funny". I think it was a lack of understanding about what sadness felt like, since I lived a particularly charmed life and rarely felt sad.

This sadness has always manifested itself physically for me. It sits in my chest and rumbles in my belly. It makes my heart beat faster and it feels sort of like low-level flu. No wonder I never knew how to describe it to my mother. How does an 11-year-old describe an emotion that is rearing it's head physically?

As I got older, the feeling continued. Usually far worse when someone had been to visit me as opposed to the other way around. For whatever reason, when I visited others and then left to go back home (or visited home and left to go back to wherever I was living), the feeling was never as strong. I did that a lot in my 20s, since I lived far away from most family and friends for the better part of a decade. I think it was because I was going back, to where my life was, which I missed, and that made the sadness of leaving people I loved less pointed; less strong.

I begun have the feeling when I leave a place, too. Every weekend, when we, as a family, would travel to Vermont to ski, and then on Sundays head back home, I would have a twinge of that ever-growing-more-familiar feeling of sadness. I hated leaving Vermont and the friends and famiy who we spent time with there. Nobody lived there; everyone lived back where we did, so it wasn't the people I was mourning. I was sad about leaving Vermont and the snow and the relaxation. The sadness I feel driving home on Sundays from Vermont has strengthened as I've gotten older. My friend Kathleen understands this feeling because she gets it too. We will often say "I have that leaving-Vermont feeling" and each of us knows explicitly what that means.

I still hate this feeling - this sadness that pulls at me. My sister visited this weekend and stayed at my house in Boston. Since she lived with my parents close by Boston for 3 years leading up to getting married and has been in NJ this past year, I think this is the first time she's stayed over with me in a long long while. We've slept in the same place in that time, but not in my house. It was really nice. And when I left her off at the bus station at mid-day, the icky feeling enveloped me as I drove away. It's silly, since I will see her again next weekend when she and her husband come up for the weekend. I tried to talk myself out of it; I stopped at the SOWA Artisan fair to distract myself; but as I sit here and write this about 2 hours later, I still have the feeling in my gut.

I suppose I should be grateful. This feeling is a wonderful indicator for me of what is really important to me - of what I really love. It has given me information over time. I used to sign my emails home when I lived abroad "Love and Missing" because for me, loving someone in a closing is nice, but missing them is much more of a compliment.

I really enjoy having people come to visit. I welcome them with open arms, but I still have to prepare myself for when they leave and the bitter-sweet sadness that will come with it. When I forget to prepare, like this morning, it's harder to shake. I'm off myself today, on a trip to Atlanta for a training. Hopefully the hustle and bustle of that trip will distract me. I think it will.

Sicko

I went to see Michael Moore's latest installment, Sicko, on Friday night. True to form, at the Coolidge Corner Theatre (a non-profit theatre) at 10 p.m., the theatre was almost full.

Let me first say that I am a pretty big Moore fan. I have liked all his films, from Roger & Me to Bowling for Columbine to Farenheit 9/11. I haven't seen his two earlier films.

I understand that his "documentaries" are really commentaries. Those who say he is one-sided are, I believe, missing the point. He intends to be one-sided. He sets out to tell a story, using facts, from the side of the story he believes needs telling. On his website, he provides factual back up for the claims in his films and he has challenged others to find factual errors in his films. Occasionally, someone says they found a fact error and a whole brouhaha ensues. Whatever. We are fed misinformation every day in various forms. I think that those who complain that his films are one-sided just don't really want to see the side he is showing. They would prefer to not have to think about "it" (whatever the it is in each case).

I went to see Sicko the same way I see all Moore's films. I walk in assuming that I will agree with him and that I will cheer for his pokes at our government and that I will enjoy comradarie with those in the theatre with me (since most people who go are somewhat like-minded, even more so at the non-profit theatre in Brookline where I tend to see a lot of things). I also walked in assuming that I would be angry during the film and afterwards, as I usually am. Moore is not the only one who does this to me. Super Size Me and Walmart: The High Cost of Low Price both did it to me as well. I get all worked up over the injustice in the world and the things that our regulatory boards allow, etc. etc.

Usually I'm fine. Bowling for Columbine was hard to watch in parts, obviously, as was Farenheit 9/11. But this one made me cry. A lot. I think that my state of mind is different this time around because I feel such dispair about the war and the Bush Administration. Every time I turn around, some other atrocity is happening (Bush pardons Libby, he vetos yet another effort to end this "war", some Republican yells on the floor at all the Democrats who are "only trying to end the 'war' in an effort to make a political statement" (what?), and another teen is killed in Boston in a senseless homicide). I've been overwhelmed for a while now, counting the days until this Administration is gone (wearing my 01.20.09 button proudly on my bag), thinking that once it's out, all our troubles will be fixed. This, of course, is the delusion that we Democrats have created to help us deal with the delusions that are being baraged at us daily. We are probably in for a lot of surprise and frustration come '09 and '10 and more.

But I digress. I am someone who has stated, in public, often, that I would gladly pay much higher taxes a la Sweden or France if I knew that everyone was getting health care and everyone was getting college paid for and everyone was getting support. I am a Democratic Socialist and have been as long as I can remember. So, watching Moore talk to Canadians, and French, and British folks about their socialized medicine and education was tough. Then he talked to ex-pat Americans in France and that was even harder. It made me want to defect. To leave. To go live in one of those places where I can participate in this kind of system.

Moore, in a very Moore-like move, gathers a bunch of people who are suffering from ailments and can't get their insurance to cover what they need, and takes them on a boat from Miami to Cuba. He tries to get them into Guantanamo, where detainees get better health care than your average HMO covered American does, and when that fails, ends up in a Cuban hospital. Since three of his bretheren are 9/11 volunteers suffering from ailments caused by the smoke and rubble, the emotional capital is clear. But the care these folks received in Cuba, that's what made me cry. I don't care if the whole thing was staged for the movie. I don't care if they paid off the doctors there to see these folks to make a point. What I care about is that Cuba has fine medical equipment, fine doctors who know what they are doing, physician training programs (there were 4 young Paraguayans from my town in Py who were studying in Cuba for free and then were coming home to Py to be doctors), and one of the lowest instances of HIV infection (.1%) in the world.

Go ahead, make your points about Fidel and how Cubans' lives are run by the Government and goddamn it, I'd rather be free! Go ahead. I won't try to stop you. But I will point out that I'd take it. Who cares if the government has control over some things? They already control enough. If it meant that I knew that even if I left my job I'd still have healthcare and that the family down the street whose Dad just got laid off doesn't have to worry about losing their house because Billy just broke his arm, I'd take it.

Go ahead, talk crap about the French. Talk about how they don't like us. Got anything else? I didn't think so.

Go ahead, talk about how our privatized medicine means that we have a longer life expectancy. I'd say: France, Sweden, Canada, Australia, and the United Kingdom all have higher life expectancies than we do and they all have socialized medicine.

Go ahead, say how we innovate more than other people. That we invent more. That our education system is amazing. That we can earn more money and live easier, cusher lives than anyone else on the planet. Okay. Then tell me who gets to do those things. The rich and sometimes the middle-class. Nobody else. The split between the rich and poor in this country is getting bigger and bigger each year. The cycle of poverty is reaching unbreakable proportions. Privelege is a requirement to get anywhere in this country, increasingly.

Wow. I think I'll step down off my soapbox now (even though it is a borrowed soapbox since even I, with my two degrees and middle-class upbringing, can't afford my own) and finish up.

Watch Sicko. Read A Thousand Splendid Suns (to learn about civilians in Afganistan and why bombing the hell out of a country for their government's policies isn't always a good and fair and just idea). Stop watching Fox News. Listen to the BBC on your local National Public Radio (NPR) station. Let's stop letting the government scare us. And as Moore said in the film, "Why aren't we taking care of each other?" Let's take care of each other in whatever way we can each day.

Let the Wonder Never Cease

I have been talking non-stop about my green beans. They are growing like crazy. Here are some highlights of what silliness has ensued from them. One wouldn't think green beans could illicit silliness, but then one would be wrong.

1. My parents had a discussion they then told me about about how great it is to have a daughter who is so amazed by small things. Great, I said, you had a discussion about how I'm small minded and possible mentally retarded?

2. My first harvest was 6 green beans. I told people about that. I hadn't continued to bore them with the harvest numbers for each day after that, so my brother-in-law at one point said "She's excited about 6 green beans." He thought I was an idiot for being so excited about only growing 6 green beans.

3. I brought a few in a baggie to share with family. My sister asked if they'd been washed (she's particular about these things). I lied and said yes. She found out the next day I lied. I figure nobody is spraying pesticides on my deck.

4. My dad said "I don't like raw green beans." I made him have a bite anyway. He then said "It would be great if it was cooked."

5. My brother's girlfriend took a bite and said "It tastes like dirt. Can we cook them?"

6. My mother found a sign (a gorgeous wooden, painted sign made in Minnesota) in a store in Perkins Cove, Maine that said "Let the Wonder Never Cease" and insisted on buying it for me as a housewarming gift. I moved in February and she bought me a coffee maker then. (She often makes up reasons to buy me things because she knows I can't allow her to buy me a $28 sign for no reason. She clearly needs to brush up on her bag of reasons to buy me presents if she's reaching back 5 months to my last apartment move.) I refused to let her buy it. She asked the guy who owned the store to get it down because I wouldn't help her and she is too short to have reached it. Long story long, it's hanging in my living room. It's great. I love it.

7. I had given my aunt a dinner together for Mother's Day. We were meant to do it while she was visiting over the 4th of July. Scheduling prevented the dinner. I couldn't figure out what to give her. So I gathered some beans, tied them with a ribbon, shellacked the hell out of it and told her it was a little bit of wonder. She loved it.

I hope everyone finds something as simple and beautiful as green beans to get excited about this summer.

Mantra: (Sanskrit) literally a 'sacred utterance'

Back in LA, in another life, eons ago, I and my friends developed a yearly mantra in lieu of resolutions to welcome the New Year. The one I remember best? "No Shame No Apologies" 1999's mantra. Since leaving LA, travelling the world, living in another country and recreating a life stateside, I have fallen, quite thoroughly, out of that habit. So thoroughly, in fact, that I had entirely forgotten about it until recently.

I've been thinking a lot lately about where I am in my life (as any reader of this blog knows) and have just owned the fact that I am often guilty of fighting the universe, fate, God, whatever you wish to call it. I often choose to invoke "the Universe" in these types of discussions, such as "I'm putting it out into the Universe," or in giving advice: "The Universe will help you in whatever way it can," or in my reasoning in making decisions, "The Universe will look out for me." This is simply a way of my invoking something bigger than I.

I adopted this wording back in 1997 or so when I first discovered The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. In this fantastic fable, the Brazilian author centers the boy's story around the idea that if you really want something, the Universe will conspire to help you get it in whatever way it can and that following your dreams and listening to your heart is important above all else.

I have made an effort to live a life based on this principle, and have succeeded in many ways. I have quit jobs, packed my bags, left unhappiness behind, bought plane tickets to Bolivia, pursued learning Spanish as an adult, been honest, spent time with children, emailed even when I was tired, and shared my life with many. I make good, mature decisions and I have had fantastic jobs, fulfilling experiences, and I am creative and alive.

I have also failed. I worry a lot, I don't have enough money to be truly free, I have negative message tapes that play regularly in my head telling me I am not good enough, thin enough, and my personality is too strong for anyone to truly love or tolerate me. I am careful in my interactions with other people to ensure I don't say or do anything to offend them. I hold back from acting as my real true self in front of new people in case they won't like me. I am told sometimes that I should do something different than I am doing by those who I'm sure mean well. I don't really feel like an adult some of the time because I am single and rent. I cannot maintain a romantic relationship -- or, in fact, even find one.

I recently placed myself on the DL, the disabled list, of dating. I was going to really spend the summer playing the game, walking the walk, dating anyone who wanted to go out. But when I assessed the first six or eight dates versus how I could be spending the summer playing outdoors, canoeing, travelling to NYC to visit my sister, visiting the Edward Hopper exhibit at the MFA, seeing Martha's Vineyard for the first time, Ziplining with friends and more it was a no-brainer. To say no to any of that and instead go on a date with a stranger wearing pants that are too short or who wants me to look at real estate on the first date would be stupid, I decided.

But then I beat myself up over that. How, I thought, will I find love and happiness without trying? Without controlling it? Without trolling two or three dating sites every day? How?

I took a moment to breathe and I thought of the Universe. It has gotten me everything else I've wanted. It's been there for me in Asia and seen me hired as a divemaster when they weren't really hiring. It was there to see me admitted into the best grad program in my field. It was there to find me a car in only 2 days after returning from the Peace Corps. It was there when I decided to enter the PC and when I decided to leave. It has rarely failed me. Why then, am I fighting it on this one? On the big one? On love? Perhaps there is a plan, larger than I, that I do not know about. Perhaps trusting more will serve me well.

And so, because I do not want to word a mantra negatively ("Don't fight the Universe") I have instead chosen to "Trust the Universe". Even though it isn't the New Year, it isn't the beginning of 2007, this will be my 2007 Mantra. When the negative tapes start playing, I will remind myself to Trust the Universe. When I am panicking because I haven't been on a date in a few weeks, I will remind myself to Trust the Universe. I will try not to control it so much. I will try to only look in my planner a couple times a day instead of every hour. I will not worry about who is sleeping at my house after the Red Sox game with cousins who are visiting because it just really doesn't matter. I will Trust the Universe.

This is not going to be easy. I might fail. As always, though, it's about the trying and if I really want it, I trust that the Universe will conspire to help me get it in whatever way it can.