What I learned through my travels and lack thereof this semester,

I never feel like I've spent too much money when it involves books or plane tickets.

Even the biggest airlines lose luggage.

It is possible to feel more at home sleeping on the cold floor in a foreign country than in my own bed, if I'm surrounded by the right people.

Crappy internet and international calling rates are just minor inconveniences in communication.

Apparently I am the reason I skip class and don't do my work.

I did, despite what I may have thought going in, survive this semester. On to Africa.

No plans,

I haven't thought out this post. I have no grand statements to make. Just observations and documentations.

It rained the day we left California. Caitlin said that the skies were long overdue for a weeping. The sky here in London is always weeping, but I would like to imagine it felt a bit more sorrow yesterday. We walked through Hyde Park to have you're last meal in Kensington Palace and our ankles were all chilled from the puddles we stomped through.

We said goodbye in a tube station and I rode back by myself and listened to music and stared at my reflection in the window. I wondered how much of my story is visible to people who see me. It seems strange that people can look at me and not also see my friends.

I am far away this semester. There are events taking place without me in Houghton, NY. But this new form of friendship that I have been exposed to seems to stretch across farther distances than I thought possible. When we are younger, bonds are broken over summers apart. Now, the Atlantic doesn't seem to stand in our way.

I miss people, but it is a feeling I have become used to. Its insignificant now, in face of how thankful I am.

Why yes, there are more people than just Lindsay in London.

I didn't realize how thorough an updater Lindsay has been, but I suppose when I found this out, I figured that meant I didn't have to write. Others don't agree with this logic and are forcing me to write.

The excitement and adventure paired with traveling often blinds us from the obstacles. I feel as if I'm having the greatest semester of my college career, and yet when I look back at things that have happened, I've been through a lot of shit. My camera broke within the first two weeks, my identity was stolen because I'm an anxious poor fool, a fever drove me to delirium, and other more painful, personal experiences have followed; however, I could not be happier about any of these things happening. In fact, my semester would not be as incredible as it is if one of these stretching times did not occur.

I have 15 days left in London, and I haven't figured out how I'm going to say good-bye. How will Houghton's route 19 ever satiate my need to take bus 19 down to Tottenham Court? Will Big Als ever make me as happy as our regular Hope and Anchor? Damnit, Houghton, why can't you be a lot a bit more like London? Actually, the one thing Houghton has on London (besides the people) is milkshakes. I can't wait to have a good ol' American milkshake! Speaking of good ol' American...

Star Spotting: Kid Rock in South Ken with nasty white trashy hos. He wore a Detroit leather jacket. God bless America.

Also, yeah I went to Paris,

I went with my grandmother and my Gagi. We got on the Eurostar and I met my new friend Anna. We went from the train to a bus. From the bus to a boat. From the boat to a bus.

I feel like I saw Paris through a window. Gagi and Grandma exclaimed throughout the day that, "this is the way to see a country!" but I don't think it is.

At one point, we took an elevator to the first floor of the Eiffel tower. I spun around in a circle taking pictures while they bought me a key chain in the gift shop. My camera died.

They wanted to take the elevator back down but I told them I was going to take the stairs. As I climbed down, I felt like I could breathe for the first time all day. I felt like I was in France, not in some Disney world version of it. I was walking and I was breathing and my new passport stamp was practically burning a hole in my bag.

I love when cities live up to their reputations, and Paris most certainly did. But I want to go back one day, and I don't want to get on a tour bus once.

So in conclusion, try not to see Europe through a window.

Crossing paths,

Her name was Anna and she was eleven. She was on my train to Paris and she had red hair that reached down to her elbows. She also had a black hat on with her navy blue sweat shirt. Her parents both grew up in Ireland, but they had lived in Illinois since she was a baby.

She was sitting across the table from me and staring at her lap. Her mother was stretched across the aisle chatting with the women there. She told him how Anna hadn't been able to sleep the night before because she had been so excited for Paris.

"No mom," Anna told her, "it was because I didn't have a book to read."

So Anna and I got to talking. She told me how her father had died the year before. Her mother had taken her out of school to go on this trip because she wanted to distract her from it. She told me she was writing a book and she was in the sixth chapter. She told me that in a few days they were visiting Scotland so she could visit the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter.

Then we talked about books, and her mother came into the conversation. She told me Anna had been a reader for as long as she could remember and she didn't understand it. Why, the woman asked me, would a girl prefer to stay inside with a book then play outside? Why did Anna insist on wearing that hat all the time? She told Anna not to bother me but I assured her it wasn't a problem.

Anna and her mother told me a lot of things, but I couldn't say so many things I wanted to.

This afternoon I stood outside Christ Church in Oxford in order to catch the merest glimpse of the field where the first Harry Potter movie was filmed and I was just as excited about it as I would have been when I was eleven. There are parts of me which are very much still eleven. Except that now I am not the same person when I was eleven because I have company.

So the things I wanted to say to Anna were this - That one day reading is going to be the cool thing for her to do. That she should never stop writing her book. That one day she will meet people just like her and finally get to talk about things with someone. Things that she cares about.

But I knew I couldn't stop her from feeling lonely. Plus, by this time we were in Paris and Anna was following her mother down the aisle and off the train.

I walked through a field full of sheep poo,

World conquerors.

Blenheim Palace

Oh, that's just my future house.















With an incredibly spacious backyard.

Done with Dublin,

Thursday, I boarded a plane decorated in blue and yellow. The flight was cheap so they could try and sell me things and every seat contained a young person. Together, we fidget and fiddle, pretending we're comfortable and that we've done this all before.

In customs, I am ready to beg the man behind the glass to concede. To grant me my badge of honor, but as he pulls the bulky metal contraption from underneath the counter I relax and breathe. With a bang he tells the world, "Yes, she has been to Ireland."

My jacket is buttoned high on my neck as the far too icy wind beats against my face. I check my watch again but it still says, "No, your bus is late." The man next to me, in his Scooby Doo head scarf, doesn't seem concerned, and I had peeked at his passport a few minutes before. He is Irish and would know to be concerned. Plus, I am too proud to admit this could be the wrong bus and my knowledge of transit systems is not universal.

The man at the hostel was the wrench in the machanics. He tries to be kind as he tells me that no, there wasn't a reservation made. There was a reservation made for Monday night. I try to keep my patience as I say that we are here today with no place to sleep. They are full and nothing can be done.

Another hostel is found with different lounges and different lumpy mattresses. I am grateful and sleep well in my room with twenty other girls.

In the morning I ate watery porridge and strong hot coffee and thought about learning German. When can one know they are a traveller and not a tourist, I wonder.

Lessons of the Afternoon

There was an Asian woman this afternoon. She had set up the usual speaker with a guitar and microphone. Into this microphone she was singing How Great Thou Art. But she was singing it in the strange full way a person who has never known English would.

And I thought, "interesting."

Walking around Westminster Abbey this afternoon Kat and I crossed the path of some middle aged women wearing Victoria's Secret Pink Sweatpants. I wish I could state that their sweat pants were what bothered me the most, but that would be the fact that despite the signs telling you not to, they were eating as they walked.

And I thought, "Interesting."

I'm not good with the words right now,

I thought it intelligent to spend some time just being here before I tried to organize my experiences. Now I have been here five days, and I have seen many of my childhood dreams come true. But now I still don't know what to write.

In this age of cell phones and the internet London could be just another borough of New York City. Except that its like the ferry stopped floating and my parents can't come visit on a whim.

There are a lot of things I could say about London, many of which are way too poetic and mostly crap. But I will tell you this - The food is just as bad as everyone has told me, and trying to find better food gives me a headache because I realize that I am twice as poor as I think I am.

The First Weekend

Camp Poconos

Act I
Monday

Arrivals.


Act II
Tuesday

Matt and Nate commune with the woods while girls sit on warm rocks and Whoredan falls into water.
Travel to pool.
Boys complain. Girls read anyway.
"But if pandas as extinct, they'll have to stop making stuffed pandas." -Emily
"But they still make stuffed dinosaurs." -Sonja

Act III
Wednesday

Sad attempts at volleyball.
More pool. More reading.
Kat and Justin arrive.
Campfire.
"90% of women are vegetarians." -Justin
"NO! I'M NOT A BABY HO!" -Caitlin

Act IV
Thursday

Romping through water and woods. We jump from things. We climb things. We scrape our elbows and bruise our legs.
We starve.
"Yeah like that Spanish sandwich you wrote about." -Heather

Act V
Friday

Kat and Sonja explore New Jersey.
Emilio and Whoredan go on a rescue mission.
Others go on a hike. And starve.
Distracted by possible outcome of rescue mission by Wii.
Lindsay arrives unexpectedly.
Embraces.
Campfire.
We opt for cinematic genius with The Hottie and the Nottie.
"A life without orgasms is like a world without flowers." -Paris Hilton as the Hottie

Act VI
Saturday

Reunion ends.

My Trip To China

Ok, its not as cool as JD and Justin's but this is a trip to China we can all take by heading over to Amazon and buying a copy. I read about "20 Fragments of a Ravenous Youth" in BookPage two weeks ago and decided that I should pick up a copy and see what the hype is about. The book is less than 200 pages so though I haven't got my copy yet (it gets to NH tomorrow and I am in ME) I hope to have it done by the time I get off the train in PA on the 17th.

Anyway, you should head over to BookPage and read the review and I'll tell you what I think in a few weeks.

Question: Other than Art of War and Confucius what Chinese Lit have you read? Sort of sad since a third of the world is from China right?

NYC

So I just want you all to know that before I refused to write on the blog because I wasn't traveling...now, after traveling, I'm not writing on the blog because I am just too lazy.

Kosova Revisited

And so I awoke to the unfamiliar way the emerging sun lights my house, to a sore throat, a complaining stomach, an inexpressible fatigue, and to thoughts and reflections as unorganized as the pile of dirty clothes now strewn across my floor.
The first time I left Kosova it was with a sense of awe and admiration. I witnessed the presence and working of God in a place filled with love and hope for humanity (and all its distorted past). I left Kosova the first time with a clarity--questions answered and visions of the future set in my mind. I left knowing that I would return, and knowing that the course of my life had been altered in both hidden and recognizable ways. It was from that first time that I knew I would later have an Albanian word permanently stamped on my wrist--lavderoj. What I didn't know was that five years later I would be sitting on a beach in Albania with seven precious students surrounding me, and that I would be telling them about my belief in God's voice and his unmistakable plan for my life and my passion for Kosovars. I told it in words that were not my own. I think I ended by explaining just why the word glorify had to be in Albanian. Not finding the adequate words, I said "and I really like you guys," and patted Rufat's knee. They smiled. And so did I. I think Lynn was crying. My love for Kosovars had been exposed and expressed. There it was, frighteningly dangling in the silence. But it was not left unreciprocated. The hearts of Kosovars are generous and willing. They have loved me genuinely. They have shattered my shell.

As the Americans stood around a van at 2:45 in the morning on the day of our departure (the abashed sadness apparent in the smiles) Besarta, one of our students and a believer, squeezed me hard. She released me, grabbed my hand and turned it skyward. "Don't forget this," she said with a point to my wrist. "Don't forget this". She may have said it more. I was too baffled to notice.

Shengjin, Albania

It began to rain as I walked down the street this afternoon. The mountains press closely against the ocean. The ocean is warm, like the air. Along the street are shitets with generous displays of Fanta orange.

I'll map it out:
The day begins early. And not to a shower nor to a cup of coffee (though I manage to sneak in cappuccinos before class). After our morning devotionals is breakfast, which is usually bread, eggs, and weird stuff (repeat above parentheses). Then class begins! I am teaching level three students, so for instance when they talk about their families they say "we are 12", or they say "he is going to learn me to swim". There are seven students in the class. It is stifling in the classrooms, but the time goes quickly and they are gracious and willing students.
Lunch!
And then the afternoons are spent playing games in the ocean or lounging on the beach. After dinner is a group discussion time when we discuss the reading from the Bible done in class.
Then, at night, is DANCING!!
And then we fall into our beds with the humidity of the night pressing upon us and the next day's lesson plans running though our heads.

Goodbye, Kosova.

I now face the Adriatic.

Because We Don't Want to Write

Two Weeks..

Quandary

http://starthereny.com/product.php

This has become my newest fascination. Stackable notebooks! $14!

However, here are my reservations:

1) My life thus far has been contained in three moleskines, or what I like to call, Volumes I, II, and III. And this is just from the past three or four years. To think what future years might bring! My life, should I prove to be just as/more prolific, could be organized on my bookshelves as some people would organize…say….the Encyclopedia Britannica. However, should the stackable notebook take the place of my moleskine’s, my life very well may end up in a much less epic state. Instead of volumes it will be one long and decidedly un-epic tome. Like Bleak House.

2) I have been trying to decide for the past week what to do with the 20 dollars in tips I have accumulated and now have in my possession, just sitting in my checking account, clearly needing to be spent. However, the amount proves to be a little puzzling. With 20 dollars I could buy used books, three of them, in fact. They sit in my Amazon.com shopping cart. All I have to do is click “proceed to checkout”. But……..with 20 dollars I could also buy four coffees at Starbucks PLUS a Starbucks compilation CD. And there are a few right now that look pretty tempting. OR I could SAVE the twenty dollars until it magically becomes 80 dollars and THEN I could online shop. And not just for books—for clothes. Or I could REAL shop. For lots of things.

And then, of course, the notebooks are an option. I do, however, already have a sizable collection of notebooks—most of them bought impulsively and because I thought they were pretty. Also, I’m only about 30 pages into my current moleskine (Volume III).

And so, I come to you for advice. If you tell me to save my money I probably won't listen. Also, I welcome any other purchasing suggestions....

the regular

please congratulate me, for yesterday i was officially inducted into "the regulars" of a coffee shop. it went down like this: on my one-hour breaks from my nine-to-five life, i go to a close-by coffee shop and recharge by caffeination and reading. so i pulled up to my favorite parking spot and entered through the front door, and instead of a "what can i get ya'" from the barista, there waiting for me at the register was my triple-shot iced americano (a true testament to working with kids full time) and a "we saw you pull up - we were waiting for you." to this i replied, "am i officially a regular?" and my darling barista answered, "this is your induction." and there are perks to being a regular besides air-conditioned smalltalk and a sweet predictability associated with your entering. today a fourth shot was added to my drink without charge "just because it's me."

since then i've had the "cheers" theme song in my head.

A Spanish Sandwich

I just walked for three hours with a Nicaraguan lady. She is my only Spanish speaking contact in the great town of Sandwich but she speaks so fast that most of what I did was nod and laugh and continue on. By the end of our long walk my Spanish was moving well enough again that I led a bunch of the conversation, but wow, how rusty I am.

We talked about how her grandkids don’t like to speak Spanish to her. She was sad in a comical kind of way.

Anyhow, I just thought I’d let you all know that though I live in the middle of no where I have found the only person nearby who speaks Spanish.

Because we wanted to take pictures...

Here are some from San Francisco, Sequoia National Park, LA, and San Diego. There were 600 pictures, so I tried to choose carefully.

Because someone made me take pictures...

"Is a fool on the throne relieved of all responsibility merely because he is a fool?"

"Oedipus did not know he was sleeping with his own mother, yet when he realized what had happened, he did not feel innocent. Unable to stand the sight of the misfortunes he had wrought by 'not knowing', he put out his eyes and wandered blind away from Thebes.
When Tomas heard Communists shouting in defense of their inner purity, he said to himself, As a result of your 'not knowing', this country has lost its freedom, lost it for centuries, perhaps, and you shout that you feel no guilt? How can you stand the sight of what you've done? How is it you aren't horrified? Have you no eyes to see? If you had eyes, you would have to put them out and wander away from Thebes!"
--Milan Kundera

I can't think of a concise heading,

"The highest treason in the USA is to say Americans are not loved, no matter where they are, no matter what they are doing."

-Kurt Vonnegut

So uh,

Has anyone heard from the Zaner's?

I Make FNFC proud

MURDER has reached new ground: Alaska. I give thanks to Emily for suggesting the idea.

No lie, someone was just murdered before my eyes.

Shrimp is the Fruit of the Sea

I ripped the heads off dozens of living shrimp this morning. Most of you would be surprised with how long it took for me to get the gumption to kill a living thing larger than a dust bunny with my bare hands. Truthfully, it was disgusting. Even more honestly, I can't wait to eat them jumbo babies for dinner tonight.

On tourism,

So today before touring Rome, the cruise activities director told us all to "be travelers, not tourists," and then proceeded to give us all big, obnoxious stickers identifying us as members of Norwegian Cruise Line Group 16 and large radios with ear pieces to hang around our necks. I don't think it's necessary to say I was a little confused.

My conclusion: Cruising isn't exactly traveling for fun.

Ultimate Creekwalking Adventure!!

My sweet shoes...

Hiking the Utah Narrows...or schooling my parents in the art of creekwalking...

God, How I Love Dominicans

Of all the cultural traits of Latin America it is their hospitality that I love the most.

I spent that last half of my day hanging out with a bunch of Dominicans, joking, laughing and frankly just having a good time. When we left (after bowling, going to the boardwalk and speaking lots of Spanglish) Kelsey, one of my sisters, turned to me and said: “All those people are nicer than any of the missionary interns I met with earlier today.” Why is this? How can someone so easily say that a bunch of random (unsaved) Dominicans are nicer in everyway than a bunch of people doing God work?

-MCW

I must add another...

Long After Midnight at the Niño Bien

You all should go to Amazon and buy this book and read it. Brain Winter (the author) lived in Argentina from 2000 to 2004 during one of the most instable times in the countries history. So he talks about that and gives a rather interesting look into the history of the Tango and how if one can understand the odd mix of joy and sorrow found in the Tango one can truly understand the Argentine soul.

Proof

God is Good

I just want to say how relieved I am that my network in Alaska doesn't block Travel for Fun like it does facebook. That's all.

Exploring Coelho, Sleeping in Leax Woods

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
-Henry David Thoreau

First, let me say I did not go to the woods as Thoreau did in "Walden", I have no fear of realizing at the end of my life that I have not lived. In fact that is where I think Thoreau was stupid, going to the woods was not "living", it was being a moron. So this isn't about "Walden" this is about Maine,"The Maine Woods", I might have gone up into "Leax Woods" To explore that quest of Thoreau.

Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?
-Henry David Thoreau

But really, I went because I respect Paulo Coelho thoughts and he seems to think that in the spaces in normal lives, in the time when we don't know what is going on, we can find what is wrong with us.

Anyway, here is what I wrote during my last night in the woods. To see pictures from my time in Leax Woods, click here.

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I remembered a pen tonight, which is good as I think this is my last night. Really, I'm not sure what to think about the woods anymore, or better, myself. I slept well last night, but I slept in fear not solace, I slept as I write now, trying to distract my emotions from the cracks of twigs all around me. How did the citizens of European cities stand this wilderness? After these night out here I am starting to think that walled cities weren't first built to keep foreign armies out, but rather to keep at bay the fear of a "beast".

As I write this I am starting to see, it is more my own inability to control my imagination than the honest prospect of death by "beast" that puts fear in me. The chance a bear is going to attack this tent right now is so slim but still my mind is playing out great tragedies time and time again. I can see headlines with each branch crack, I can hear morning prayers with each acorn tossed louse by the breeze. I am so...

A horse just whinnied and I almost wet my pants.

I am the"Beast" behind the headlines. It is my soul which lends me fear, my soul not reality, my soul is causing me to feel weak and yellow and stupid... there is no bear, no wolf, no demon except me.

I will leave the woods, tomorrow at sunrise. I hope its nice like yesterday...

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I think Coelho is right, and I'm not sure what to do about it now.

Sahara

Awoke to the cold, to the ugly hour of 4:30 am, and to the darkness of a vast desert.
Climbed (struggled) to crawl my way along the crest of the largest dune around.
Thirty minutes later I sat, still heaving, and watched as the dim light turned to brilliance when the sun came over the horizon.
I felt the particles of sand between my fingers.
I thought: I am a grain of sand.
We sang.
Our voices faltered.
Someone prayed: may we feel a sunrise in our own hearts.
I smiled the entire way down the dune.
We climbed back atop our camels, wrapped our heads in scarves, and crawled slowly back through the sand.

Ahh, Arabia...

Why I Keep Thinking About Pinecones

For about a year now I have been going back, in my mind, to this one day I spent in Honduras. It was during my home stay with a family from Tegucigalpa, a nice family, loving, caring, and all that jazz. The mother called me “hijo” (son) and the son (12 years old) would try to speak English with me when his mother was not around. But Mama (the mother) wanted me to learn Spanish so much that she continually would yell (nicely) “Mateo, mi hijo, no ingles aquí, no ingles.” (Matthew, my son, no English here, no English) and though I loved Sebastian (the son) for trying to help me out, Mama’s orders for me to stop speaking English came as a great relief because Sebastian’s English was more confusing than his Spanish most of the time.

So, about this one day that I keep going back to. It was one of the many days where I had no clue what was going on from Sunrise to Sunset. I woke up (as I did most days in Honduras) with the sun at something like 4am and sat in my room (falling in and out of sleep) longing to know what time it really was while understanding that the only clock in the house (which worked) was Mama’s cell-phone, and that her cell-phone was in her room, and thus in a place where I could not see it.

It was my third day at home stay, and I had learned to accept that there was no way for me to know what time it was. Plus Candy (the maid like lady whose room I had taken over) and I had by then developed a sort of routine where she would knock on my door and ask me questions which (I hope) were intend to check if I was up and nothing more because there was no chance I was going to understand what she asked but, as I had to answer to tell her I was still alive, I would say “si” followed by a “gracias” that I prayed to God informed her that it was all right if “si” made no sense and that I was getting up and that if she asked me in fifteen minutes I might be able to understand her more.

I’m not sure if the “gracias” did this for her, for as I said I had no clue what Candy asked me each morning while I lie in bed, and thus I don’t know if when I stumbled into the kitchen five minutes later Candy was asking me a new question or the same thing she had asked though the door. Either way Candy found our routine funny in some way and she would laugh and laugh each morning and I would smile while praying (yes I prayed a lot) that her laughter was a sign that she understood how confused I was and not a awkward giggle to cover-up how I was breaking some great cultural phopa.

So this in that way this day I keep going back to was like every day during homestay. Candy knocked on my door, said something, I replied “si… gracias”, got dressed and brushed my teeth before yawning my way into the kitchen where Candy asked me something I didn’t understand. Confused I walked into my room (she followed me) to grab my dictionary so I could ask her to repeat herself. She beat me to it though, and grabbed my church shirt off my bag and told me something which I understood to mean “do you want me to iron this?” and so I said “si” and followed her back to the kitchen where I found Mama and Sebastian (as dog-tired as I was) eating breakfast.

I ate breakfast slow that day. Laughing to myself about how Mama had asked me if I wanted the milk in my cereal hot or cold on the first day and that though I had said “frío” I had been severed hot milk each morning after that. To be honest I got used to eating Corn Flakes with Hot Milk by the end of the weak but as this day was still only day 3 I was very happy to have my watermelon juice to help wash down the newly odd taste.

The day then continued as most days in my home stay did. Mama told me the plane, I made sure she thought I understood by saying it back to her and then went into my room and looked up the words I didn’t know. I would then get dressed and wait for the family to be ready.

Eventually the whole family was ready so we grabbed a taxi and went to church. I expected to go to Mass while I was in Honduras (if it any church at all) but my family was highly involved in a large Assembles of God church so, lucky for me, I understood a good deal of what was going on during the serves since I spent most of my pre and early teens in a AOG church back home.

It was after church that everything went crazy. Mama had told me we were doing some things with Johnny (her boyfriend) after church but what I did not understand is what “some things” meant to her.

Here is a list of the things we than did with Johnny.

We went and picked up more family
We bought Chinese food to eat later
We drove across the city and got soda
We drove for an hour (I loved that drive as I was in the bed of the pick-up) out of the city and into the mountains.
We stopped by this little town and looked around
We got in a paddle boat and paddled around
We meat more family
We went to Johnny’s parents house and I met them
His parent tried to talk to me
We went to where Johnny was building his new home
We drove for another half-hour higher into the mountains
We stopped, in the middle of this dirt road with a great view, and ate.

It was here, sitting on the top of one of Honduras many mountains, that I first started to think about Pine tress and it is here, after Chinese food on paper plates in the middle of a dirt road with 10 Hondurans, which I go back to again and again. See, when Johnny’s son (Juanito), Sebastian and I finished our food we started to run around the mountain. At first we kicked a ball around but when Sebastian almost sent it down the mountain we turned our attention to a grove of tall pine tress.

I had never seen pine tress like these before going to Honduras. They dwarfed the largest trees I had seen in the woods around my house and (as I soon discovered) these pine trees didn’t only seed via the brown pinecones I had learned to collect and turn into birdfeeders as a child (apply peanut butter sprinkle with bird seed) they also produced a soft hive shaped cone that was filled with sap and covered in something that looked like orange pollen.

Juanito and Sebastian got really excited when they sighted an orange pinecone and began grabbing rocks off the road to throw it. Juanito (who was a bit older than Sebastian and much stronger) hit it once or twice before Johnny came over and told Sebastian to climb the tree and shake it down for us. When the orange pinecone hit the dirt road it cracked open and a bunch of the orange powder rose into the air.

“Ven a me, Mateo” Johnny said, crouched beside the spilt pinecone and ushering me closer with his hand. “Mateo” he said picking up the split pinecone with his left hand and a normal brown pinecone with his right. “Mateo, esta es como vida.” (Matthew this is like life) he said shaking the two pinecones. “Un Pino” he said pointing at the pine tree with his lips “y dos frutas” (one tree and two fruits). He asked if I understood I told him yes and than asked why, “porque?”

His words:

“Las frutas de el pino son como hijos. Un pino y dos frutas son como un padre and dos hijos. Estan desde una cosa, pero las frutas estan muy differente?”

My Translation:

The fruits of the pine tree are like sons. One pine tree and two pinecones are like a father and two sons. They are from one thing, but the fruits are very different, yes?

“Si” I told him, puzzled now by the meaning of his words and not the definition and though I wanted to understand more I did not know what to ask. I wish I had asked, “Porque?” (as in why do you tell me this) but before I had much time to think Sebastian was out of the tree and had run over to get his orange pinecone from Johnny.

We soon left. The eleven of us all loaded back into the pickup, and we drove back down the mountain, Sebastian in the cab with Johnny, Mama and his Pinecone while Juanito and I sat in the truck bed (with the other six Hondurans) and watched the pine grove fade away, then the mountains, the small towns, until we were thrust back into the city. When we got back into the city Juanito slide over beside me and asked how to say “Dios te bendiga” in English. I told him, happy to be the one teaching for once.

When we got back home (after dropping family members at their houses) Juanito and I kicked a ball around while Sebastian, Johnny and Mama talked inside the house. Juanito and I did not talk much that evening as we kicked the ball around. I wonder if he was thinking about what his father had told me, I wonder if he understood why Johnny had told me this, if he understood the “why” behind the interesting metaphor. What little we said was in jest. I called him Juanito-ito-ito (ito means little) while he chased down the ball and because he was bigger than me (stronger, not taller) he called me “Ito” as I struggled to dribble the ball passed him.

When Johnny emerged from the house he called Juanito and I over to him. “Buenos-Noches, Mateo” he said pulling me into a hug. “Buesnos-Noches.” I said glade to understand both what and why he was saying this. When Johnny let me go Juanito smiled at me and said “God bless you, ito” before pulling me into a hug. “Dios te bendiga, también” I told him, laughing as he hit my back with all his strength.

Mama came out of the house and Johnny and Juanito got into the pickup. We waved goodbye, and as Johnny rolled away he said, as if he thought I might forget.

Como dos hijos, Mateo (Like two brother, Matthew)

I laughed hard for the first time during home stay when he said that, I can’t explain why. He didn’t say it to be funny, he said it to teach me something, to pass on wisdom, but when I laughed he didn’t look confused, or hurt, he smiled and gave me a thumbs up, so I repeated what he told me back on the mountain as he rolled to far away to hear me, before anything else, I walked to my room and I wrote it down, word for word, in my journal.

“Las frutas de el pino son como hijos. Un pino y dos frutas son como un padre and dos hijos. Estan desde una cosa, pero las frutas estan muy differente!”

I am still not sure what Johnny meant by his lesson with the pinecones. I wish I knew if he meant padre like father or Padre like God, but then I am glade I don’t understand because if I did than I guess I wouldn’t still be thinking about that orange pinecone which sat in our sink for the rest of the week, dripping sap.

Part 4: Road to Nausea

Apparently the one thing everyone must do in Maui is drive the Road to Hana, 37 miles of narrow lanes, constant hairpin turns, a scenic ocean view, and touristy stops all along the way. Another highly recommended stop is at the Haleakala Crater, a 31 mile winding drive up a mountain to see volcanic craters and such. Do you notice the similarity between these two Must-Sees? Well, we did them both in one day, all day. Not fun.

Being the only one over 25, my mom had to do all of the driving. We weren’t satisfied with her abrupt breaking and unnecessary acceleration, and we let her know it. She also doesn't have much common sense on the road; my brothers and I agreed that she would have done the Michael Scott and driven into a lake if a GPS system told her to. Haleakala was incredbile, but the road to Hana wasn't terribly worth it, except for a stop we made at the Black Sand Beach; that was sick nasty awesome. We discovered off the path hiking that led to high cliffs and deep caves (you’ll see pictures one day). My mom couldn’t handle watching us do such dangerous things, so she went back to the car, and my brothers and I continued on our adventurous way.

Today we swam in the 7 deadly pools of sin. That’s not what they’re really called, but I can’t remember the real name since I always think of the 7 deadly sins. We jumped waterfalls and cliffs, the highest was about 30 feet. Tomorrow we leave for Kaua'i, and I can't tell you how anxious I am to leave Maui for the excitement waiting for me on Kaua'i.

Until then, peace.

Part 3: No More Glitz

(This entry was actually written on May 21st, 2008)

The time has come when the perks of 5-star resorts are no longer to my advantage; I have no more pools, no more fancy dinners, no more maid service, and no more gifts every night upon return to the room. However, my trip does continue into a much more fun chapter: family adventures.

Right now I am writing to you while sitting in the Aloha Cottage #79. The book Maui Revealed describes this “hotel” as following, “Cheap and dreary units with a kitchen or kitchenette. Don’t expect much here—no phone, no internet, and not much aloha. Some rooms have a TV.” (None of ours do.) Contrary to this review, we believe it to be a pretty nice place. Perhaps that is only in comparison with where we stayed last night—Banana Bungalow, a youth hostel.
Please imagine staying at a youth hostel with your mother. Upon arrival, I left my family and sat in the common room where I met 2 guys from Germany, one from Switzerland, one from Brazil, another from Russia, a girl from Canada, one from Ireland, one from Scotland, and 3 from Norway. Everyone was under 30 and traveling through Hawaii on their own (or in small groups), and they were candidly surprised that my mom was checked in to this run-down bungalow. My mom, however, thought this was the coolest thing ever; It reminded her of her hippie days when she traveled, staying in only tents and youth hostels.

After going to dinner with my new friends at Rosa’s, a Mexican restaurant very much like Don Lorenzos (hopefully minus the illegal immigrants) we came back to the hostel and hung around a bit more. I decided to get to bed at around midnight. Let me tell you, it was a good thing I did. On my way back to the room, I see a 54 year-old woman in pink satin pajamas wandering half-asleep down the path to the common room, where everyone was having drinks, smoking, etc. (No, despite what all of you think, I was neither smoking nor drinking!) “Mom, what are you doing?" I ask, refusing to believe she was doing as I suspected. “I didn’t know where you were, and I realized I hadn’t seen you in several hours; I don’t know who you’re with, and I couldn’t sleep.” Yep, that’s what I thought. Now, if you were talking with a bunch of world travelers who were half-way around the world from their country, on their own, and out comes your mother in pink satin pajamas worried about where her baby was, wouldn 't you be pretty embarrassed? Yeah, me too, and I am very difficult to embarrass. I tell her this through laughter, because I was relieved I met her on the path, stopping her short from making her appearance, and her response was, “You would have been embarrassed? I’m sorry.” Then she decided that if I’m going to London on my own and traveling around Europe, staying in youth hostels, I can probably do without her midnight check-ups.

Since being in Buffalo,

I have:

• frozen, since I failed to pack sufficiently for the balmy 45-degree May temperatures.
• explored the West Seneca shopping district, which includes the Catholic Shop, JC Penney, and a thrift store that (sadly) only sells clothes from A&F and Aeropostale.
• discovered the glory of Redbox movie rentals.
• found all free or discounted food within a one-mile radius of campus (free iced coffee day at Dunkin Donuts, half-priced appetizers at Applebee's, $1 ice cream scoop Tuesdays at Baskin Robbins, free iced tea at Tim Horton's).
• watched a fairly substantial amount of South Park.
• become quite knowledgeable on current ghetto culture.
• been asked several times daily why I do not have a boyfriend, a husband, or children.
• been forced to explain (multiple times) to skeptical fourth graders that yes, I am only 19.
• gone on two field trips.
• regularly been called homie.
  
• crossed the streets of downtown Buffalo without looking first (without consequence).

I have not:

• gone to bed past midnight during the week (except for one time).
• slept past 6:15 AM during the week.
• decided to become an education major.
• been able to make the fourth graders in my class understand why being unmarried and 19 are adequate reasons for not having children.
• made it to Canada, even though I pass the Peace Bridge two times a day and am tempted every time.

What to look forward to: a weekend in Webster with the Miller family...

A Day in Fes:

It took this long, I am ashamed to say, to finally realize the weight of where I am and what I am doing here. Last night, toothbrush clutched between my fingers, I stepped from my small rooftop room and onto the veranda, and it revealed to me infinity. I saw the moon low in the sky, and the bright, roundness of it contrast with the ancient square rooftops it illuminated. I think I gasped. I realized I was in Arabia.

(the moon rises)

We met Sanna at four, she took us to her home, served us tea, and sat us before the television. We watched Arabic music videos. We also watched Usher.
She took us to her small embroidery shop just beyond the meat market. It lies, tucked away with other shops, some with quiet and ancient shopkeepers, others no better than mountebanks.
We sat.
We watched the Moroccans pass instead of the minutes.
Sanna then rose, beckoning us to follow, checking over her shoulder to make certain we had not been lost to the sea of shoulders. We followed through this labyrinth of a city, through alleys I knew I would soon forget, into another Dar where two women and a young girl had already sat down to tea. The television was on, and, for our benefit, they turned the channel to an American movie. Gigli.

Again, we sat. The two older women chatted, and Sanna dissappeared with her friend, leaving the two of us to the sounds of Arabic palaver and poorly scripted dialogue. Soon, the girls returned, and the older woman departed, coming to kiss me. I, however, was not aware of the right-right-left cheek kissing method. It ended awkwardly, but it ended in laughter.
We returned to the shop.

Around 9, the mother, whose name I forget, took us through the market to buy some ingredients for dinner. Chicken. As we waited for it to be cut, a small cat nibbled on intestines at my feet. And, displayed on the counter was a tray of brains. I was thankful for the chicken. We crossed back and forth through the market. The crowd swelled. I tried to remember to keep my gaze down. The sun was now gone, and more men began to ask, "how are you, my flower?"

We pushed our way back through the labyrinth, back to the house. We begged to help prepare dinner. I cut an onion. The jellabas and headscarves came off. Sanna became playful. She told us the Arabic names of each ingredient. We soon forgot.
We ate. We grew tired. We climbed our way to the rooftop, laughed through the unsophistication we now faced, laughed through the unfamiliarity with turkish toilets, and managed to arrive at this moment.
I am in Fes.
I am in Morocco.
I am incapable of comprehension.

Ok, so I didn't actually travel,

True, my May 17th was spent in a park, in Brooklyn, with people I spend most of my days with. However, it was indeed a cultural experience. Because the 17th of May is Norwegian Independence day and every year a parade is held in Leif Erikson park.


Norwegian independence Day is kind of like Norwegian Christmas for me. I get to hang out with all of my Norwegian friends (which is basically what they all are anyway) and eat Norwegian food and practice my rough language skills.

This year it kind of rained, but we Norske's don't let that bring down our good time. Mary-Ellen and I went on a top secret mission to steal some St. Olaf flags and then looked through a travel brochure. We cheered for Hannah as she carried a banner and they we found this troll to take a picture with.

The day inspired me to write this in my moleskine-


When I think about it all I get so sad. I love it there more than one should love a place. More than Captain VonTrapp loved Austria, and certainly more than Carrie Bradshaw loves Manhattan.
The very thought that at this moment I could be sitting by the pier in Oslo drinking coffee with a sugar cube in my mouth is enough to make me cry.
Sometimes, when I find myself just a bit too full of emotion and simply need to leak a few tears, I think I must be crying for Norway.

Back To My Whole Explosion Over Hamburgers Not Tasting Right

I told you all that I thought I was eating this:

or this:

but not this, this is plastic:

and that when I bit into my nice tasty "burger", I found my taste buds saying it was something more like this:

well I have now realized that there is no glaze of death stuck to my fingers because I've spent a good amount of time in discussion/thought about what Fr. Phil was handing me to put into my mouth. I found it to be more sloppy joe than burger. But, really, a sloppy joe is still made from burger and bread not like that Krispy Kreme burger this of death. So, yea, I freaked out and called this:

this:

I told you all that this:

was this:

a spawn of the KKK (and yes, the KKK and Krispy Kreme and related just read some poetry and you will see what I mean)

so anyway, I am here , avoiding the sleep I've sought for hours and hours to tell you why Catholic Theology is a Sloppy Joe not a Hamburger and defiantly not a KKK burger.

A Hamburger is all compartmentalized right? You got the patty, the bun, the other crap we do or do not use so that the Father, the Son, the Holy Sprit and Mary can all be moved about in some sort of "this is how it all works" kind of way. Do you see that? If Mary can be the lettuce of this concoction for a moment than I'd like to point out that protestants would or would not add her to the hamburger goodness of faith. In fact, all Protestants need, to be who they are, is two slices of bread and a patty. Boom! There, they have themselves a burger. Father (top bun), Son (patty) and Sprit (bottom bun) put together to please, just pull up to the second window and hand the nice worker-person-thing-bot a dollar plus tax. See, my point is that, in the protestant tradition figures such as Paul, Peter, John (the beloved) and Mary may or may not play a roll, just like tomato and mustard, catsup and lettuce may or may not play a roll in a burger while everyone is needed for Catholics.

And that is why Catholics like their Sloppy Joes. They understand that the Father can't work without the Mother and the Mother has no work without the Father. They see that the Son is meaningless if he can't leave the Holy Spirit and that the Holy Spirit would not be receivable by many if it was not for the Son. Plus, they understand that without the Son's willingness to die and raise from the dead and all the other stuff her does, the Father's work throughout all of history is meaningless and... really it goes on forever and though I am now starting to get a grip on the idea I will admit, with a sloppy joe in hand, that I still don't have a clue what is really going on. I mean, I understand how to make the Sloppy Joe, add mix to meat and heat it up, but I am only starting to learn the depths a can of sloppy joe mix adds to that meat while simmering over the heat. But I am still of the camp that I have things to learn from Catholics (and others) so I am going to get some rest, let you all look at my lovely pictures, and talk to you next time I find myself so confused by a different world view that I feel the need to simplify 1000's of years of thought into a quarter pound of death between bread...

Isn't there something to do with bread and life in the bible? Hmm... maybe a Hamburger is a Ying-Yang? But that would really confuse things wouldn't it... later.

-Chase